But I had had an idea. Surely I wasn’t the only one who had suspected Rosenblatt might have mailed the documents to himself or to someone else. Hell, I would probably do it, too, if I were in his shoes. And I had an angle on where they might be.
“I need to make a phone call and get a beer,” I said. “We’re going to a little diner that might be a bit lower than you’re used to.”
“I wasn’t always this wealthy,” she purred. “I was born poor and worked my way up.”
I didn’t ask her what kind of work she had done to advance her place in society.
Bubba’s BBQ was located south of downtown just off Fannin. It was one of the places to go for the best tasting BBQ this side of Austin. It barely qualified as a restaurant; it looked more like a rundown shack than a fine eatery. The air was pungent with smoke and meat, and Lillian visibly cringed when we walked in.
I nodded to Bubba. He was stationed behind the counter by a large cutting board wet with grease and fat. His dark skin shone in the overhead heating lamps, a sweat ring banding his chef’s hat.
“You want something?” I asked Lillian.
“To leave here.” Derision dripped from her voice.
I smiled and turned to Bubba. “One chopped beef sandwich and two Lone Stars.”
A few minutes later, I picked up the food and the cold bottles, sweating from the condensation, and paid for them. We got a table near the middle, to keep an eye on the front door while providing an easy escape out the back if necessary.
Leaving Lillian to wipe the table with a series of paper napkins, I moseyed back to the phone booth. I closed the door and pulled out all my coins, stacking them on the phone. Remembering the name of the post office store printed on the receipt I burned, I called to find out when they closed. They stayed open late during the week. Good. Next I dialed Gordon Gardner. He picked up on the first ring.
“Gordon,” I said, “it’s me. You busy?”
“Only covering your ass and mine trying to explain to the cops why I drove you over to get your car.” From behind him came the sounds of typewriters clanking away.
“You were just helping a friend.” I tried to soothe him before I dropped my request. If there was a tally sheet, my side would be full of debts owed to Gardner. Time to add another to the list.
“Listen,” I said, tracing my finger along the edge of the booth’s little glass window, “I need a favor.”
Gardner snorted. “Of course you do. What is it now? Lie to the police? You know I got put on a short leash after that thing with the horses.”
I grimaced. “Yeah, I know, but this one’s big.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“You have a point. But this one really is. It involves the war.”
“Yeah?” he said. I knew Gardner had just sat up straighter in his chair. He thought a lot like Lillian Saxton: war with Europe was inevitable. It was only a matter of time.
“Yeah,” I repeated.
“What do you want?”
“I need you to impersonate a dead man.”
Chapter Twelve
After giving Gardner his instructions, I eased myself out of the booth and walked back to the table. The smell of the beef and sausage was making my mouth water and I was eager to chomp into my sandwich.
As I neared the table, I stopped dead in my tracks. Lillian was still there, but Captain Oscar Burman was sitting next to her, hands clasped in front of him, his thumbs doing a little dance around each other.
For a second or two, I thought about exiting out the back door, but Burman’s gaze was fixed on mine. That ended that thought.
“Well,” he said, a thin smile playing on his lips that didn’t reach his eyes, “look what I found here. The elusive private dick. I introduced myself to the lady. She has to be your client because she’s way out of your league.”
“I’ll decide who’s in or out of my league, Captain,” Lillian snapped.
I appreciated her retort. He didn’t. He had lost some of his edge. The smile on his face faltered and vanished. Still, he had me. “Sit down.” The authority in his voice prompted me to pull out my chair and comply. We had a staring contest for a few seconds. I lost. “May I?” I said, indicating my sandwich.
The smile returned. “By all means. It’ll be the last good sandwich you’ll have for a long, long time.”
I lost my appetite as my stomach flipped. I thought I knew what he meant, but wanted him to say it. To appear nonchalant, I took a bite out of the sandwich. The usual hot and sweet tang of the sauce tasted bland.
“We found another body at the crime scene,” Burman said, leaning back in his chair. “Know anything about that?”
Something nagged at the back of my mind. How had Burman found me? I would have sworn I’d lost the tail when we fled the crime scene. I said nothing, just kept chomping on my sandwich.
“Must be a good sandwich,” he said. “I’ve had a few here myself. Bubba’s a friend of mine, helps me see things I don’t normally see.” He grinned, like a teacher who had just instructed the pupil. “Maybe I ought to order one. That one’s so good it made you lose your voice.” He arched an eyebrow.
I chewed and stared at him. “I haven’t lost my voice. Not much to say.” I didn’t risk a glance at Lillian.
“What?” Burman said. “I just accused you of murder.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said. “You asked if I knew anything about a dead body at one of your crime scenes. How many crimes have happened in this town over the past few days? I wasn’t sure which one you meant.”
He pursed his lips. “You’re being cute.”
“That’s what the ladies at all the dance halls call me. Glad you agree.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Lillian crack a smile. She reached out and slid her untouched bottle of beer over in front of Burman. “You might need this more than I do.”
He ignored her. Only half of Burman’s face smiled. “I see you’re a joker.” He stuck a finger at me. “You know damn well what crime scene I’m talking about. The one you were at today.”
My thoughts went back to the events of the last twelve hours and the number of crime scenes I had witnessed. Being shot at, being attacked, being kidnapped by American agents, being accosted by a man who was likely a Nazi sympathizer, being chased by those same folks, and, finally, getting a front-row seat for the death of a man who tried to kill me. Sure, I had been to many crime scenes today. I was ready to stop seeing them.
“Oh, that one.” I took another huge chomp out of the sandwich. My cool demeanor shattered when I realized that I had sauce dribbling down my chin. “I was there today. You know I was.”
“But did you go back?”
“Anyone see me go back?”
Burman shook his head. “I ain’t helping you with this. I can bring you in right now just on suspicion.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?”
I glanced at Lillian, then back at Burman. “Because I know who killed that man at the crime scene.”
Burman leaned back, not sure what to say next. “You see him in the mirror, right?”
I thought back to the image of the man’s face, half-covered in shadow, the look of pure hate in his eyes as I cowered with nowhere to run. Yes, I’d see him in the mirror from now on. Probably in my dreams, too.
“No,” I said, “I didn’t.”
Burman smirked. “Okay, wise guy. But know this: it’s only a matter of time before we dig out those slugs from the wall and the corpse. We’re going to run ballistics on them and then start seeing if we can find a match in the books. We might even ask some folks for samples of bullets fired from their guns.” He leaned on one elbow and gave me the stare that had withered so many criminals in the interrogation room. “If I asked for a sample from your gun, do you think it would match?”
I tried very hard to maintain my outwardly cool demeanor. I picked up the Lone Star and drank off a third. Burman’s reputation was legendary and came
with more than a grain of truth. His eyes, dark as ebony, bore into me. My stomach sank. I needed a few moments to think. The beer was already turning warm in the humid evening. I replaced the bottle on the exact same ring of condensation that had already formed on the table.
From the rear of the restaurant, the pay phone rang. I gave Burman another stare. I hoped it was hard. I waited to see if Bubba called my name. Sure enough, he did.
Burman said, “Expecting a call?”
I stood, picked up my beer by the neck, and let it dangle between my fingers. “Depending on what the caller has to say, we all might be getting some good news.”
Chapter Thirteen
I strolled to the rear of the joint and tried to give an air of someone in complete control. The phone was hanging on its cord. I put it to my ear. “This is Wade.”
Gardner’s voice crackled through the static. “Holy smokes, Wade, what the hell have you gotten me into?”
I slid into the booth and closed the door. Through the grimy little window, I watched as Burman and Lillian talked. I wanted to be in two places at once.
“Tell me what you found.”
Gardner strung a bunch of words together, among which were “Germany,” “Nazi bastards,” “camps,” and “murder.” That last one got me.
“Hold on, Gordon, slow down. Take it from the top. Tell me what you found. Did you have any trouble getting to the mailbox?”
I heard deep breathing on the other end of the line. “Not really. The owner looked at me funny, but I spoke all four of the Hebrew sentences I knew. Must’ve convinced him because he walked around to the rear of the mailbox and got the one thing that was in there: a manila envelope about an inch thick.”
Across the restaurant, Burman said something that made Lillian smile.
Gardner continued. “I opened it right then and there. Inside were pages and pages of notes, some typewritten, others handwritten.” He paused long enough that I thought the line was dead. “And there were photographs.” His voice changed when he said that.
“Of what?”
“Bodies,” he said, giving the word some weight. “Bodies of people murdered by the Germans. Murdered, I tell you.”
“Hey, Gordon, lemme ask you this: how do you know they were murdered?”
“Come on, Wade. I’m a reporter. I’ve seen my share of stiffs. I know what dead bodies look like. Especially when they’re piled together like logs for a fire.”
“The notes in the envelope. You read any of them?”
“Enough to know the gist. This Rosenblatt guy was on some sort of mission. He didn’t say for whom. There are lots of references to a Samuel Saxton, and much more. Seems like he was looking for this guy but then stumbled upon a campsite filled with murder and dead bodies.”
I pondering a moment. “So, I’ve got two people dead because...”
“Two?” he sputtered. “Who else?”
“Don’t know his name, but he nearly killed me.”
“You kill him?”
I gazed out at Lillian. “No, not me. A friend. Well, I think she’s a friend.”
“The ‘shes’ in your life are almost always your ‘friends,’” he said, a little more of his non-excitable nature returning to his voice.
“Funny. I’ve got two people dead because of this. Army guys picked me up earlier tonight and I’ve got Nazis chasing after me and Miss Saxton.”
“Oh, she has a name, does she?”
“Quiet. Tell me what’s so important that everyone’s after that envelope?”
His voice strained with incredulity. “Are you serious? Rosenblatt uncovered a war crime. And he has the evidence. What the Nazis are doing is illegal.”
“Gordon, the whole damn war is illegal. And might I remind you that we’re not in it?”
“Yet.” Over the line came the sound of rustling papers. “You remember the Zimmerman telegram?”
I sighed. Gardner loved history. I only knew the history I lived. “No.” I pulled out my notebook, ready to jot down comments if they proved relevant. I sat on the little seat, turning my back to Burman and Lillian.
“The Zimmerman telegraph was intercepted by the British back in 1917. It was a message from Germany to Mexico asking the Mexicans to attack America if Uncle Sam went to war. The Kaiser promised the Mexicans he would help them reclaim all the territory lost during the Mexican-American War in 1848. It was one of the factors Wilson used to convince the public to go to war.”
I sighed again. “How does this pertain to now, in 1940?”
“Dammit, Wade, don’t you see? When I publish this stuff, the notes and the pictures, it’ll be like that. It’ll be one more notch we can use to stop the Nazis.”
“Wait a damn minute,” I said, my voice loud in the small compartment. “You can’t publish that information. All hell would break loose if that stuff saw the light of day.”
“It’s the light of justice that I want to shine. You know the Nazis are wrong, and FDR is just sitting by while Hitler carves up Europe. You want a world that’s safe for democracy? Pretty soon, if this keeps up, we’ll be the only democracy left.”
“That’s all well and good, Gordon, but you simply cannot publish that material, no matter what it is. There are some scary men looking for it—killing people over it.” In my frustration, I issued a threat. “If you publish it, they’ll come after you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. They’ve already tried to kill me. In fact, one would have succeeded if Miss Saxton hadn’t shot him.”
He paused. “What? What happened?”
“Never mind that. It’s done. In fact, I’ve got Burman right now trying to pin the shooting on me. But we’re talking about that evidence and the pictures. You simply can’t go to the press with it.”
Gardner said, “You forget something, Wade; I’m already the press.” He hung up.
Chapter Fourteen
Damn, I thought, if he goes through with this, we’d both be in serious trouble. Knowing Gardner, he was already on his way to the newsroom. I had to stop him.
I peered out the booth’s little window and saw Burman. Alone. Lillian was making her way toward the back. Since I hadn’t hung up the phone, I made like I was still talking and gave her a little nod. She passed me and slipped into the ladies’ room.
Making sure Burman never saw me. I hung up, exited the booth, and walked to the back of the joint. I gripped the handle of the back door and slipped out into the small alley.
“Good evening, Mr. Wade,” an icy voice cooed.
I had to admit that it was getting old to have people sneaking up on me. I took in the situation.
Among the rows of trash cans and the spattering of cars parked behind the restaurant, two men stood to one side of the alley. They weren’t the ones who had spoken. That one was behind me. I considered the options: three against one. The two goons were far enough away that I might be able to take out the one behind me before they reached me. Then, of course, there was always the option of running back into the restaurant.
The sound of a gun hammer being cocked eliminated all other options. “I would advise you not to try anything, Mr. Wade. Turn around.”
That wasn’t good. Anyone with a gun willing to let the victim see his face was destined to end up dead. I turned and my eyes widened in surprise. It was the original shooter, the one I had tussled with both at the crime scene earlier today and again at Lillian’s hotel room.
Something on my insides melted away, but I hoped my exterior hid it. I put my hands in the air. “I wasn’t planning on anything else, mister....”
A smile creased his face. I was happy to see the purplish splotch marring his face and knew I had put it there. “You can call me Dietrich.” Holding the gun aimed at my middle, he nodded to the two men. They walked up and flanked me. One of them reached into my pocket and withdrew my gun. He handed it to Dietrich who put away his own weapon and trained my gun on me.
“Where are they?”
>
I indicated the restaurant. “Inside. Want me to go get them? The woman didn’t order anything, but the police captain might be hungry now.”
Dietrich chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m not talking about them. I want the documents. You found them.” It wasn’t a question.
“Maybe.”
“The phone. Who were you talking to?”
“My lawyer. Seems the captain thinks I killed a man today. One of yours?”
This time, he snarled. “Of course. Hans was following you to see where you went, see if you knew where the documents were. Guess he was right. Good thing he reported to me before you killed him.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t kill him.”
“Never mind who killed him. You will answer for it nevertheless. Where are the documents?”
“What would you do with them anyway?”
“Destroy them, of course. Then find out how they got out of Germany and make the people responsible for their creation pay as well.”
Thinking of all the parties trying to find the packet--the Germans, the Army, Lillian, and me--maybe letting Gordon publish them wasn’t the end of the world. It might do some good.
“That’s what I thought. Sorry. No dice.”
The blow to my right ear came out of nowhere. The pain was white hot. I crumpled to the ground. One of the goons then kicked me for good measure, the hard leather of his shoe colliding with my kidneys. I doubled into a ball, bracing for more.
But none came. Instead, Dietrich said, “The only other person you have contacted today is the reporter.”
My mind was clear enough to marvel at how well these guys had tailed me. If I got out of this alive, I resolved to improve my ability to evade tails.
A new thought occurred to Dietrich. He looked down at me. “He’s not thinking of publishing those lies, is he?”
I took shaky breaths, trying to calm myself and put some force behind my words. “Maybe. If it means you don’t get the packet and all that valuable information, then good for him.”
Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery Page 4
