All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery

by Scott Dennis Parker

  “This guy who’s following you. Same mystery man who came to the office late?”

  “No.” She clinked the ice cubes in the glass. “Last Friday night, Danny and I met up after work to go to a dance hall.”

  “Y’all often go out together?”

  “From time to time. It’s not odd, but the timing was. You see, we hadn’t gone out for a month or two. Then, suddenly, she suggests Friday night. I didn’t have anything to do so I agreed. There’s a dance hall down on Bell Avenue. You know the one?”

  I nodded. It had been a while since I took a lady out on the town, but I knew the place. Not only did traveling big bands come and play at the Travis Dance Hall, but a good number of Texas swing bands played there, too.

  “We were there an hour and this man shows up at our table.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  She shrugged. “He was taller than you by a few inches, dark hair, no mustache, dressed nicely. The thing I noticed about him was his hands. They were huge.”

  “‘Huge’ as in long or ‘huge’ as in thick?”

  “A little of both. He introduced himself as Amos Peete and he asked me to dance.” She stopped as if letting the gravity of that statement rest on me.

  I didn’t get the meaning so I asked her about it.

  “Mr. Wade, I know I’m not a looker, and Danny’s ten times the lady I am, so it was odd to have him come over and ask me to dance.”

  I smiled. “Maybe he saw your eyes. They’re quite radiant.”

  A blush crept across her face and I used the moment to signal the waitress for more drinks and the check. “All I’m saying,” I reassured her, “is that this Peete guy might’ve just found you more attractive than your friend. So, you dance with him. What makes you think he’s out to get you?”

  The waitress came and poured more coffee and tea. Clara stirred in sugar and gave me a stare. “While we danced, we made small talk like new couples always do. When the song was over, he insisted we dance again. It was a ballad so we had more time to talk. He went on and on about my looks and how beautiful I was.”

  I had to agree with this Peete guy. Clara Milbanks might not have ever landed on the cover of a fashion magazine but she was far from unattractive. In fact, the more I sat across from her, the more I saw the beauty of her face, her hands, and the way she carried herself. Sure, she was telling me about some guy who she thought was trying to get her, but she was easily someone I wouldn’t mind having on my arm.

  I kept that little tidbit to myself. “Miss Milbanks, what makes you think Peete is out to get you?”

  She sighed. “Two things. One was an offhand comment Mr. Teague made on Monday.”

  I frowned. “I thought we were talking about Peete.”

  “We are,” she said, just a little too rushed, “but Mr. Teague plays into it. Early Monday morning, Mr. Teague casually mentions that it would be in my best interests to forget what I heard, if I heard anything. He said he’d hate to have to replace me in case I got into an accident.”

  I looked at her evenly, weighing the words. It was certainly a plausible non-threat that was, in fact, a threat. If it came up in court, he could deny he said it or, at worst, come across as a boss who was just wondering what might happen if Clara got hit by a bus. On the other hand, Teague was clearly threatening Clara to stay silent.

  And just had just broken her silence. With me.

  “I see what you mean.” I shook out a cigarette from my pack of Camels and offered her one. She took one and I lit both with my Zippo. “Any comment like that since then?”

  “No.”

  “And where does Peete fit into this?”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes. “Maybe I’m just making too much of it.”

  “Tell me and I’ll tell you if you’re making too much of it.”

  “Well, I had never seen Mr. Peete at all until last Friday. Then, on Saturday, as I was at the grocery store, I bumped into him. We talked. One thing led to another and he asked me out that evening.”

  “And?”

  “And we went out. We saw this new movie, Road to Singapore, with Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and Dorothy Lamour. It was a gas. Afterwards, we went out for drinks. It was all very nice. He tried to kiss me as he dropped me off at home, but it was all awkward.”

  “I know you’re getting somewhere but I don’t see the problem.”

  “Well, I bumped into him again on Sunday. This time, at church.”

  I shrugged. “So, if I got this right, you see him first on Friday, you see him again on Saturday and y’all go out on a date, then you see him again on Sunday morning. Could it be that he’s just smitten with you?”

  Another minor blush tinted her face. “I suppose. But after church, we had lunch. He started asking a lot more particular questions about my daily life, where I got my hair done, what I did for fun besides dance. It got creepy. So much so that I excused myself after the meal and went home. Late that afternoon, I took a stroll to my friend’s house for bridge”—she paused, as if for effect—”and I saw him again along the way.”

  “You sure it was him?”

  “Mr. Wade, I know what I saw. He was there, and he followed me. I’m sure of it.”

  “Was he there when you walked home?” I was beginning to see a pattern.

  “I think so. Maybe he was better at hiding from me, but I certainly got the feeling I was being watched.”

  “And has it continued since then?”

  She nodded. “I saw him getting his shoes shined just yesterday after work.”

  “He see you?”

  “Sure. He said ‘hello’ and ‘fancy meeting you here.’”

  I glanced out the windows at the shoe shine right outside the diner. There were two men sitting in the chairs and three standing in line waiting. Of the three men, two were reading the newspaper. The third appeared to be looking directly at me.

  I swept my eyes past him, hoping I appeared as nonchalant as possible. “Let me ask you a question. This Peete fellow, he wear a dark gray fedora? Have a face that’s long in the chin with a dimple?”

  The color that had pinked Clara’s face vanished. She stared at me and started to turn around.

  I reached out and clasped her hand. “Don’t turn around. You might tip him off.” I reached around and slipped my wallet from my pocket. I didn’t want Peete to see me doing this for fear he’d book it. I slid a five-dollar bill out and placed it on the table. “Look, I know this is going to be awkward, but I need to have you go and pay for our lunch.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want him watching you while I slip out the back. And don’t stare at him. Act like you’ve not seen him.”

  Clara swallowed. She nodded and gathered her purse.

  “I’ll call you later.”

  A partial smile returned to her face. “You’re too kind, Mr. Wade. I think the outlook on my fate just got better.”

  She rose, covering my view for a moment. When she breezed up to the counter, I watched his gaze follow her. I slipped out of the booth and backed into the kitchen.

  “Hey,” a man wearing a greasy apron said, “you’re not allowed back here.”

  I doffed my hat and smiled. “Just trying to avoid a jealous husband.” Mollified, the man pointed to the back door. I opened it, hurried around the east side and peered around the corner. I saw the men standing in line at the shoe shine and I watched as Clara exited the front door. Sure enough, the man who had to be Peete followed her with his head. I crept up close to him, avoiding the other passersby.

  His head did a double take back to the front door then to her walking toward her car.

  “Right here,” I said.

  He whirled. I’ll admit I wasn’t ready for the swinging fist. His right came at me high. I ducked, but the bulk of his hand got me behind the ear. I saw stars and fell to one knee. Then I heard his footsteps hurry away.

  “You okay, mister?” A man helped me up.

  I shook my head to clear i
t. “Which way?”

  The Good Samaritan and others pointed to a fleeing man. He was half a block away and seemed to be gaining speed. Even if I hadn’t been groggy, I couldn’t run that fast.

  The shoe shine man gave me a look. “Shine your shoes, sir? They got scuffed.”

  I looked down. So they did. I shrugged. “Might as well,” I muttered to myself. “Now I have two cases.”

  Chapter Six

  Even though I now had two cases, there was still the matter of the burglary near Smith’s house. If there was anyone who might have a line on the police activity that occurred the previous week, it was my good friend Gordon Gardner. The man was an ace reporter for the Houston Post-Dispatch who got his big break on the same case I got mine: the search for Lillian Saxton’s brother and the papers he smuggled out of Germany last month. I found the body. Gardner found the papers. He read them, but, under the influence of the Army and his editor, agreed never to utter a word about what he had read. Gardner kept to his word, even when he was writing at his big new desk as payment from his editor for his silence. Hey, silence has a price, right?

  I strolled into the news room. The smell of ink, cigarette smoke, and coffee assaulted my nose. The click-clack of the typewriters made the room sound more like a huge machine than a place where men formed thoughts and wrote sentences. Perhaps it was only to keep pace with our rapidly moving world.

  A few of the reporters gave me waves or nods. I had known a few of them from my time as a beat cop. Back then, we were on opposite sides and the relationship was more antagonistic than necessary. Some of those reporters had forgiven me. Others, not so much.

  I started walking to the far corner where Gardner’s big desk sat, then halted. Another guy was in the seat. What was his name? Flynn, I think. He looked up and our gazes met. He sneered. I rolled my eyes and tried to remember where Gardner sat now that he was demoted down to the society page. He still averred it was a demotion but he got to spend his working days with photographer Lucy Barnes, a stunning example of womanhood.

  At the far corner, next to the window, sat Gardner. Stacks of papers lined the perimeter of his desk. A small pile of cigarettes moldered in the ashtray. The white coffee cup was stained inside and out. A cigarette hung from his lips, unlit. Perhaps he was just too busy to light it.

  “How’s it going?” I sat in the chair next to his desk.

  Gardner looked up and took a puff on his cigarette. He frowned at the non-smoke, then took it out of his mouth and looked at it like it was some sort of defective machine. I flicked my Zippo and held the flame at the ready for him to light up. He did, then leaned back in his chair.

  “How’s it going, Wade? It’s going blazes. The damn Nazis are invading western Europe, Norway’s being lost by the Brits and the Frogs. The Nazis already invaded Belgium, Holland, Luxembourg, and France.” He puffed and blew smoke out of his nose. “But the French should stop Hitler. It’s what they got the Maginot line for, right? We got news reports coming in from all over. We’re just trying to compile and get a handle on’em.”

  “So, not much. Anything local?”

  “War coverage edges out lots of local news. We still have cow reports and the weather and whatever the governor is doing, but not much else. And, to top it all off, I get to sit on my ass and report about bigwigs and their damn parties. You know how infuriating it is to sit over here while everyone out there”—he gestured to the news room at large—”gets to cover real events?”

  “You get to work with Lucy. Isn’t that a nice reward?”

  A smile cracked his face. “Yes, that is extremely nice. I’ve been to more highfalutin’ parties since I got this assignment than the rest of my life put together. Having her on my arm, even in a professional context, is well worth it. But you didn’t come here to chitchat about who’s who. Why are you here?”

  “I was wondering if your paper covered something from last week.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you read my paper?”

  “Every day.”

  “Then you should know if whatever you’re asking was in the paper.”

  “But that’s the thing: I don’t memorize everything I read, and I only got a new case this morning. Two actually.”

  Gardner sat up straighter. He enjoyed hearing the details of my cases. It helped him when he moonlighted as a writer of pulp stories. “Tell me.”

  “I got hired by a farmer to look into why the animal health department has scheduled his entire flock to be slaughtered.”

  Part of his enthusiasm vanished. “Really?”

  “Really. But there’s more.”

  “Hope so. Otherwise, you got the short end of the curiosity stick.”

  “Nice. The same night, there was some sort of police chase. The farmer, my client, says he saw the cops storm through his land looking for some sort of fugitive.”

  Gardner rubbed his hands together. “Now, we’re talking. What’d this fugitive do?”

  I held out my hands and shrugged. “That’s why I’m here. Figured I’d get the real story first before I head over to HPD for the official police report.”

  Gardner stood and slapped me on the back. “See, you’re finally thinking correctly. Not like you used to when you were a cop.”

  I shrugged again. “Who does your police beat?”

  “Lorenzo Barr. He’s a cub reporter, wet behind the ears, but he’s got a knack for reading between the official lines.”

  “He here?”

  “Let’s go see him.”

  Lorenzo Barr was that squirrelly type of man who was too small in stature to match his likely vivid imagination. Around his desk were photos, cut from magazines and newspapers, of boxing greats, handsome actors, and the like. One look at Barr and you saw why he favored the arch-typical example of masculinity. I wasn’t one, either, but I think I had Barr beat.

  Barr was small and thin. He looked like he might break if a hurricane blew through town. Check that. A decent gale might do the trick. He styled his hair in the latest fashion made famous by Hollywood’s leading men, but the puffy top of his head wafted in the breeze of the nearby fan.

  He stood when Gardner and I approached. My friend made introductions. I gripped Barr’s little hand. “Wade here is a bona fide PI.”

  Barr’s eyes widened in awe. Still gripping my hand, he squeezed harder. It could have been your elderly aunt grasp. I had to restrain myself.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Barr.” I gave my hand a gentle tug. “Mind if I have that back?”

  “Oh, right, right, right,” Barr muttered, suddenly noticing his own cluttered desk. “I’m not usually this messy.”

  “Don’t care.” I placed a hand on his shoulder. I swear I felt his collar bone through his suit. “I need to ask you about the police beat from last week.”

  He stood straighter, as if President Roosevelt himself had just asked a favor. “What do you need to know?”

  Gardner hooked a thumb at Barr. “He hears a lot of things over the police band and forgets little.”

  “Good. Last week, there was a ruckus out west of town. Some sort of police chase and a fugitive running through some farm land and such.”

  Barr snapped his fingers. “I know what you’re talking about. It was a burglary in progress. Three units were called out. One was close to the house in question and got there before the others did. Two officers went up to the house and knocked. The burglar, hearing the cops show up, took off out back. They gave chase, but lost him.”

  Gardner gave me an admiring look. “See what I mean?”

  I nodded. “Excellent. What day did you publish that? I need it for the time line I’m making.”

  “Oh, it was last Tuesday, but we didn’t publish it.”

  “Didn’t publish it? But you seem to know all the details.”

  “It was on the police band, and I’ve got a friend down at the station, but it was one of the cases we didn’t publish.”

  Gardner asked, “Why not? Space considerations?”


  Barr thought for a moment. “No, not really. The boss reviews the stuff I write and makes decisions. Sometimes it’s for space, other times it’s just something the police don’t want published. It happens sometimes.”

  “Which was it this time?”

  Barr pursed his lips. “Don’t know.”

  I stepped forward and sat on the edge of his desk. “Just now, you gave a detailed rundown of what happened that night. From the way you described it, the chase was just a chase. But why was the man running?”

  “I’m not sure. The location seemed a bit out of the way, you know. It was west of here, out past downtown, out toward the country. It was that part of town where the farms come right up against the new ritzy neighborhood. I forgot the name of the area, Tanglewood maybe?”

  I thought about that area of town. It was relatively new, full of nice homes and well-manicured lawns. However, the poorer farmland jutted right up against it. I suspected, given a decade or two, the farms would be gone and new houses would occupy that land. “Did you happen to hear the address the cops gave each other? You know, where the other units had to get to?”

  Barr opened a drawer and pulled out a thick hardbound notebook. It looked more like a bank ledger than a journal, but he opened it and thumbed a few pages back from the end. Running a finger down the page, he stopped. “Here you go. It was 1888 Meadowlark Lane.”

  I pulled my own notebook and flipped a few pages until I found the address of my client. 1868 Blackbird Lane. Whoever built that land must have loved birds. “You got a city map?”

  We all went to one of the center walls of the news room and stood in front of a large map that showed the major and minor roads of Houston, including the train tracks and the path of Buffalo Bayou. I picked up the county atlas and found the grid where Meadowlark Lane was located. It was a north-south street in the northwest part of the county, outside the city limits. Sure enough, parallel to Meadowlark, was Blackbird.

  I turned and looked at the two of them. “Who lives at 1888 Meadowlark Lane?”

  “As background to my story, I had to find out. Oliver Aldridge lives there with his wife and two kids. He’s a banker at University Savings and Loan over near Rice Institute.”