Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery

by Scott Dennis Parker

  Why I didn’t just type my reports in my own office, I’ll never know. I think, honestly, I wanted to convey the impression that I did, indeed, have a secretary. I didn’t have one—yet—but I was actively looking for one. I had placed a classified ad in all the local papers and I had been interviewing many of the candidates over a few weeks. I found the decision to be extraordinarily difficult. I wanted the perfect combination of beauty and ability. To date, that type of woman hadn’t walked in my door.

  That didn’t stop other types of women from waltzing in and looking for a job. This was May 1940 and the effects of the Depression still permeated the economy. It made me feel a little bad when I had to turn away a few applicants because they were not quite the type I was looking for. If you had put a gun to my head, I’d have admitted that the way a woman looked was pretty important. I’m running a small business and the first thing clients see is the secretary. She needs to be a knockout.

  Martha Weber was sitting in the interview chair when Mr. Smith rang the front bell. I’d faced men with guns, but for some reason, that day I didn’t want to face a potential client without a secretary.

  “You want to make five bucks?” I said.

  Martha looked at me with wariness. “What do I have to do?”

  “Pretend to be my secretary.”

  She frowned. “So, I have the job?”

  “No, but I’d like you to pretend to be my secretary for that potential client out there.”

  “Why don’t I have the job?”

  I winced. That was an argument best discussed among other men. Only they could understand the importance of an attractive secretary for private-eye business. Martha had the typing skills in spades. But her looks were on the homely side. She looked like she belonged in a school or public library, not at the receptionist/typist for a private investigator firm.

  “I have a few other applicants, and I need to give them a chance, you know?”

  “I’m a great typist. I can even do some field work, if you need it. Did I tell you I’m pretty good with a gun?” She said the last with a bit more emphasis than was necessary.

  The doorbell rang again. Work wasn’t flowing as I would have liked. I was in a dire position of having to take almost everything that came through the door. I desperately didn’t want any potential clients to leave.

  I gave her a double take. “Double my offer. Ten dollars.”

  Martha looked at me sidelong. “You really got it?”

  Sure, I just won’t get any gas for a week. “I’ll get the client to make a down payment.”

  “You’d better.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll be right back, Mr. Wade.” She winked at me and sashayed out of my office. Seeing her from behind, I had second thoughts about doing this. What if she blew it?

  Through the closed door, I heard soft murmuring then Martha’s shape through the frosted glass door. Didn’t every private eye have doors with frosted glass?

  The door cracked and Martha stuck her head in. “Mr. Wade, there are two gentlemen here to see you.”

  Two gentlemen? I rarely got pairs of potential clients. “Please send them in…” I paused and my eyes raced across my desk until I found her file. “Miss Weber.”

  She narrowed her eyes. I shrugged. I cinched up my tie and sat up straighter in my chair.

  The first man who walked in I didn’t recognize. He wore, of all things, denim overalls. The hat he held in his hands looked nicer than his entire wardrobe, his pressed shirt notwithstanding. I pegged him for a farmer and quickly dreaded needing to take any job to pay the rent. I wasn’t up for some sort of cow theft.

  The second man, on the other hand, I knew. Burt Haldeman was a lawyer, a shyster if you ask me. He was the kind of man who used his size and bulk to get his way when his words failed him. Half the time, that’s what happened. His tie only reached halfway down his gut. Not flattering, but his looks were enough to land a semi-slob like me in Life magazine.

  I stood and came around my desk, extending my hand to the lawyer. “Burt, how you doing? What brings you in my door?”

  “Good to see you again, Wade,” Haldeman said. “I see you landed on your feet after that little incident.”

  I cleared my throat. “Sure did.” I pivoted and introduced myself to the farmer.

  He took my hand, his leathery, hard skin felt like some sort of moving beef jerky. “Elmer Smith.” He was looking around, clearly out of his element.

  “Please, gentlemen, have a seat.” I indicated the two chairs opposite my desk. To Martha, I said, “Thank you, Miss Weber. That will be all.” She rubbed her thumb and index finger together in the universal sign of money.

  With their backs to her, Haldeman and Smith were unable to see Martha. I smiled and nodded once, then gestured her out.

  I sat and leaned my elbows on the desk. “What brings you into my office?”

  “Chickens,” Smith said.

  I looked to Haldeman for confirmation. He nodded in assent.

  “Chickens,” I said. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a case involving chickens.”

  “Judging from how long you’ve been doing this little job,” Haldeman said, “I’d have to agree with you. But, nonetheless, we are here on account of chickens.” He reached into his suit and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, put it between his lips, and lit up. “Tell him, Elmer.”

  The farmer cleared his throat. I got the impression he wasn’t used to speaking in public. “Well, you see, Mr. Wade, the agriculture man, the health inspector man, wants to condemn all my chickens and kill’em all.”

  I waited for additional details. Smith, his mouth a thin line with almost no upper lip, sat there as if he had just spoken a fact, like the color of the sky or the humidity level in town that day. Turning to Haldeman, I raised my eyebrows. “Burt?”

  Haldeman smiled. “It’s true. Mr. Smith’s entire brood of chickens has been declared unsanitary by the health inspector. They’re scheduled to be slaughtered in the next few days. I got Judge Briscoe to put a temporary injunction on the slaughter, but we’re running outta time.”

  “I’m still not seeing where I come in.”

  Smith frowned. “Ain’t it obvious? I need you to investigate that bastard inspector and figure out why he’s trying to kill my livelihood.”

  Now available at Amazon.

  THE PHANTOM AUTOMOBILES: A Gordon Gardner Investigation

  You met him as a co-star in Wading Into War. Now, Gordon Gardner stars in his first feature story.

  Gordon Gardner, Ace Reporter!

  There’s not a story he can’t crack. He’s got his finger on the pulse of his town. His dogged tenacity means no politician is safe. Even the U. S. Army keeps tabs on him to ensure he safely harbors national secrets. And he looks smashing in a tux.

  His latest assignment is a basic police blotter piece: a pedestrian struck dead by a car. As a reporter who is second to none, Gardner’s disappointed. How could a simple accident be worthy of his considerable talents when there are so many other more interesting stories to cover? Even his pairing with a beautiful photographer doesn’t lighten his mood.

  His editor wants the piece yesterday. The police already closed the case. But then Gardner asks a simple question: why would a seemingly normal person willingly dive in front of a speeding car? Witnesses said the man went crazy just moments before he leapt to his death. What he alleged made no sense: he said the cars on the street didn’t exist and there was only one way to prove it.

  He was wrong. Dead wrong.

  Now, Gordon Gardner, in defiance of his editor and the police, resolves to investigate the mysterious circumstances behind the dead man’s life and uncover the real truth behind the phantom automobiles.

  Excerpt:

  Chapter One

  “I’ve got two dead bodies," Elijah Levitz, the editor of the Houston Post-Dispatch, said, flipping two pieces of paper between the fingers of each hand, “and I’m gonna let one of my two junior ace reporters pick firs
t.”

  Gordon Gardner inwardly bristled at the word junior but knew that he'd one day be the senior ace reporter. He stood in the main newsroom with the other reporters and hoped he got first pick. Having successfully flirted with the editor's secretary long enough to get the gists of both stories, Gordon knew which one of the stories would have the privilege of bearing his personal “Gordon Gardner” stamp.

  But which one would he get?

  When the editor called a meeting, the news hounds had gathered liked sheep to a shepherd around Levitz. The portly man constantly had his necktie loosened, his open collar dirty around the inside ring, and a cigarette hanging from dried lips. The unlit stick bobbed up and down as he spoke and handed out assignments. Each assignment was on a slip of paper torn from a stack held together by an iron rod and a cast iron nut. Levitz claimed it was a piece of the Hindenburg but few believed him although no reporter, copy boy, or secretary ever said so to his face.

  When Levitz called out a story and assigned a reporter, that man—they were all men—would plow through the throng and snatch a piece of paper Levitz handed out. Barbara Essary, the editor’s secretary, sat at a nearby desk and jotted notes. Sometimes the boys in the newsroom swapped stories. As a rule, Levitz didn’t mind the switching except in those times when he reminded his reporters that he was the editor and he assigned the stories as he saw fit.

  This was one of those times.

  “I think we all know which ones I'm talking about," Levitz continued. “There’s the crazy guy who jumped in front of a moving car and lost, and the mugging death of William Silber, local artist. The latter's more of a fancy obit, the former's just a basic crime blotter filler piece.”

  Gordon looked down a re-read the slip of paper listing the job he already had. A puff piece on the local nightclub owner, Bruno Clavell, who had recently built his first club in Houston after a successful string of similar nightclubs in Dallas, Ft. Worth, San Antonio, and Austin. It didn’t amount to much, but he’d certainly get to dust off his tux.

  In the stuffy room, not every reporter wore a jacket. Gordon ditched his long ago to the back of his chair next to his brand-new desk near the window. Next to him, Jack Hanson, an older man with three kids and a wife, needed more deodorant. His body odor wafted around him like a fog. Gordon eased away under a false pretense, all the while wondering how Hanson had three kids.

  “I’m gonna get that top story,” Johnny Flynn said to Gordon. Shorter than Gordon by at least four inches, Johnny nonetheless had an effortless aplomb that surrounded him. His charm and good looks opened a lot of doors and he nearly always had his tie cinched tight. “And I’ll get the next promotion by, you know, actually writing something that’s true.”

  Johnny, a rival reporter, still hadn’t accepted the fact that Gordon received a promotion for fabricating a news story. To him, you wrote and then you accepted the accolades. What made matters even worse for Gordon was that he couldn't say anything about the nature of the story. For all Johnny knew, Gordon’s story was about a bank robbery foiled by the police. The real story involved Nazis in Houston. As a result, he had to suffer Johnny’s tirades and oneupmanship.

  Gordon hated it. But he loved his desk next to the window so when Johnny got a little too full of himself, Gordon would just saunter over to his desk and stretch out while Johnny had to content himself with a small hovel in the middle of the newsroom.

  “Don’t talk about stuff you don’t know a damn thing about,” Gordon whispered. He nodded to their boss.

  “Y’all done?” Levitz asked. His cocked eyebrow spoke volumes.

  Both junior reporters nodded.

  Levitz sniggered. “There’ll be no switching. You get what you get and you won't throw a fit.”

  What was this, kindergarten?

  “Harry,” Levitz said, “got a dime.”

  Harry Vinson plunged his hand into his pocket and produced the coin.

  “Now, since Johnny here wrote the last big piece for us, I’m gonna let him call it. What’s it gonna be, Johnny?”

  “Heads,” Johnny called out.

  Harry flipped the dime in the air, catching it between his open palms. He uncovered and called out, “Tails.”

  The grin on Gordon’s face could’ve lit up the marquee at the Metropolitan movie house. “I’ll take…”

  “Not so fast, Gordie,” Levitz said, using the nickname Gordon didn’t particularly like. “You only get the right to choose the slip of paper. Left hand or right hand.”

  Again, Gordon thought, is this kindergarten? He wanted the story of the dead artist. Marie Gardner, his mother, taught art in school and was part of the committee that helped found and open Houston’s Museum of Fine Art. Gordon knew he could make William Silber’s obit shine.

  Being right handed, Gordon’s natural tendency was to pick right. But he had been under Levitz’s black cloud for a few weeks. Sure, Gordon had successfully bartered his silence for the new desk and promotion, something Levitz had agreed to under pressure. But the editor didn’t like his hand being forced and had rewarded Gordon with lesser stories. The last high-profile story Gordon got still only landed on page two. To date, the only page-one story Gordon had was the fake story he had written.

  “Left,” Gordon said.

  “Good choice,” Levitz said. “You get the crazy man.”

  Gordon’s pained sigh brought chuckles from the guys around him.

  “Johnny, you get Silber,” Levitz said. “Alright, boys, let’s make some ink.”

  As the throng started to disperse, Gordon moved against the stream toward Levitz. “Wait, boss,” Gordon said, “I’m better for the artist profile. I know more than Johnny does.”

  Johnny, who remained in place as the reporters and photographers moved past him, just watched.

  “Don’t care,” Levitz said, turning to Barbara and motioning her to follow him. He threw the two pieces of paper in the trash can and sequestered himself in his office.

  She gave Gordon a sympathetic look. “Sorry, sweetie.” She straightened her skirt and joined Levitz, closing his door.

  Gordon shook his head, catching a glimpse of Johnny’s grin. Now his was the marque bright one. He turned and sauntered away.

  Looking down, Gordon caught a glimpse of the pieces of paper Levitz had just thrown away. Frowning, he fished them both out of the trash. He looked at each of them.

  Both pieces of paper were blank.

  Now available at Amazon.

  Coming Soon: Lillian Saxton #1

  You met her in Wading Into War when she hired Benjamin Wade to find a missing reporter with knowledge of her brother’s whereabouts in war-torn Europe. Now, Sergeant Lillian Saxton, U.S. Army, stars in her own mission.

  Out of the blue, an old friend reaches out to her via secret channels. He says he has information vital to the war effort. He’ll only give the information to her. In person. Her assignment: meet her old friend and determine what he has that’s so important, and whether or not he’s a traitor to America.

  Here is a special preview.

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday, 23 April 1940

  “Sergeant Saxton, what do you think of when you hear the word ‘treason’?”

  Lillian Saxton stood at attention and frowned. She wore her assigned brown uniform, belted at the waist, tie neatly knotted, with a skirt that hung just at the knees. Since she was inside Houston’s Rice Hotel, her garrison cap was folded over the belt. Her red hair was pulled up behind her ears.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t I understand what you mean.” Her voice was curious but deferential.

  “Treason, Sergeant. It’s a simple concept. What does it mean to you?”

  The man who snapped at her she didn’t know, but his brown uniform displayed the rank of colonel. He stood to the side of a table in one of the upper suites of the famous Rice Hotel. The man who sat at the table, littered with stacks of paper and a typewriter, she knew. He was Captain Ernest Donnelly, her commanding officer. She looke
d at him for clarification.

  “I’m the one speaking to you, Sergeant,” the colonel spat. “If there’s ever a situation where you think you need to look elsewhere for help, then we’ve got a bigger problem than I imagined.”

  Donnelly, dressed in his brown uniform but with the tie loosened around his collar, leaned back in his chair. “Honeywell, why don’t you just…”

  “Don’t tell me what I should so, Captain,” Honeywell blurted. “I’ve asked the sergeant a question. I expect an answer directly from her and not from her superior officer or anyone else she thinks can help her.”

  A little fire burst into existence deep within Lillian’s gut. She hated what many of the men in the United States Army thought of her: weak, not as good as a man, only good for typing up reports. She was none of that, and she strove every day to prove wrong that kind of thinking.

  “Treason,” Lillian began, speaking evenly but with force, “is the active betrayal of one’s country. In most cases, especially in war time, it is punishable by death.”

  Honeywell regarded her for a moment. His short cropped hair was receding across the top of his head. The gray flecks caught the lamp light and seemed to glow.

  “That is pretty much the letter of the law, Sergeant. Now, even though we’re not at war, what do you think should be done about someone who may commit treason?”

  “May commit, colonel?”

  A small twitch along the corner of his mouth might have grown into a smile, but Honeywell didn’t give it the chance. “Yes, Sergeant. Would you trust anyone whom you suspect of committing treason?”

  Lillian pondered the question for a few heartbeats. “It would depend on the circumstances, Colonel. If the person was only suspected, I would seek out additional information, either to clear the individual or convict him.”