I was mute. He had just nailed everything I knew. “How’d you know?”
“Because that was the story we invented in case anything went south and certain operatives were captured.”
I knew my mouth was hanging open. I took a deep breath and the air slid over my dry lips. I reached into my suit pocket and pulled out my cigarettes. I lit one and offered the pack to Donnelly, who took one. I didn’t offer one to either the driver or the man riding shotgun.
I used the time to mull things over. Everyone in my case, the last week of my professional life, was a lie. Well, not entirely. Burman was his usual self. Maybe Lillian wasn’t who she said she was, but she still wanted whatever documents Rosenblatt had brought back from Europe. And the Army seemed to be in on it, too. Still, no matter their precautions, it seemed the Nazis also knew about it and had followed Rosenblatt all the way from Spain.
Either that or they had radioed ahead to operatives here in the States. The thought chilled my blood. We weren’t in the war, but was the war coming to us?
Finally, I said, “I see. So is Rosenblatt an Army officer?”
“No. He’s a private citizen, doing work for his country.”
“Did you send him there or did Miss Saxton?”
Before Donnelly could respond, the driver said, “Sir, I think we’re being followed.”
“Blast it.” Donnelly turned around to look out the rear window. “That was fast.”
I craned my neck to see what Donnelly saw. Dozens of headlights burned into my eyes. “How can you be sure?”
Donnelly gave me a scornful look. “Mr. Wade, we’re the United States Army. This is what we do. I trust Sergeant Gregson when he says we’re being followed.” He tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Don’t lose them yet, but be ready when I tell you. As far as they know, we’re out for a nice evening ride.”
He stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Back to your question, Wade. We have certain assets that we like to use in order to keep Uncle Sam’s name off the ledger. Some of those names help us because they’re on our payroll. Others help out from a sense of duty. You do know the war’s coming here, right?”
I squinted at him through my cigarette smoke. It’s the kind of truth you don’t like to admit even when you know it’s right. War meant a lot of things, mainly death, to a lot of guys. I liked the fact that Roosevelt had kept us out of the conflict. So far. I was two for two in voting for him and he hadn’t let me down yet.
But now agents of his own military were whisking civilians off the streets and we were being followed. This didn’t ring right to me. It wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen.
“What’s Rosenblatt got that everyone’s hot under the collar to get their hands on?”
Sitting half-turned to me, Donnelly considered his answer. “He learned important things that could shape how and when we enter the war. He wrote it all down and was to deliver it to us here in Houston.”
“Why here?”
“Because it’s not Washington. Our enemies expect us to make these kinds of exchanges in Washington or New York or Philly. Maybe even New Orleans, but not in Houston. You’ve got a nice little town here, Wade. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
This “little” town had nearly 400,000 folks living in it. I questioned his definition of “little.” Then, a piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “Except now, the Nazis know about Houston. It’s why the ship stopped in Galveston.”
Donnelly nodded. “That’s my assumption. Rosenblatt was a good reporter. He had picked up some skills in stealth during his time overseas. He sent us a coded message to waylay the ship in Galveston, but he didn’t tell us where he would be disembarking. He slipped through our net, and he also slipped through theirs.”
Gregson the driver spoke up. “Sir, there might be two vehicles now.”
Donnelly turned his head sharply. “Radio Lawson and tell him to merge up.” He turned to me and grinned. “We have a few chase cars that follow us to watch for anyone who might be tailing us. Here’s where the fun begins.”
I bit my lower lip, pondering the implication that Rosenblatt or someone else had the clout to stop the ocean liner at an unscheduled port and then somehow slip away. “So, what we’re looking for is Rosenblatt’s written report?”
Donnelly nodded.
“You searched the liner when it docked here in Houston?”
“Top to bottom. No trace.”
“So he kept it with him when he got off in Galveston.”
“Apparently so.” Donnelly fished out his own cigarette and put fire to it.
“But it wasn’t on Rosenblatt when the shooter cornered him. That’s why the Nazi had to return to Miss Saxton’s hotel room.” I gazed blankly out the window at the passing store fronts. “That means he hid it so well that we don’t know where it is. Neither do the Nazis.”
Donnelly exhaled his smoke in a ring. “That’s the big question: where’s the report? Where’s the evidence?”
I stared out the window, thinking. The storefronts blurred by, creating a mosaic of light and words. People milled about on the downtown streets, having only the normal cares of normal people. I, on the other hand, was stuck in this car with US Army officials being chased by Nazis in an American city. An image flashed in my head: a normal neighborhood, children playing in the yard, the sun beaming down, fathers mowing lawns, mothers tending gardens, the mailman being chased by a dog, the ice cream truck trundling down the street. It was normal. It was where I wanted to be.
Then a new thought occurred me. There was one place Rosenblatt could have hidden his notes. I turned to Donnelly. “Do you trust me?”
He scowled, more at the headlights behind us than my pointed question. “Mr. Wade, I barely know you. Why would I?”
“Because I think I know where Rosenblatt might have hidden the documents.”
Chapter Nine
Donnelly snapped his head toward me. “Where?”
I jerked my thumb out the rear window. “With those clowns chasing us, we’ll never have a chance to find out if I’m right.” I gave him a mischievous grin. “But if I can get out without being seen, you can lead them on a wild goose chase while I follow up my hunch.”
Donnelly considered it for a moment. “Where’s the car?”
Gregson replied, “He’s moved a few car lengths closer.”
Donnelly tapped the shoulder of the other soldier. “Give me the radio.”
He complied. Donnelly gave the chase car instructions to move up and temporarily block the Nazis’ car from us. He checked his watch and timed it.
He pointed. “You’d better be right. Where do you want to meet?”
I thought it over. “Where are your offices?”
He gave me the address and phone number. I committed them to memory.
Behind us came the sounds of screeching tires. A pick up truck had tried to turn and had clogged the street.
I frowned. “When did the Army start issuing pick up trucks?”
Donnelly grinned. “We don’t always use just what the government gives us. Turn here,” he said to the driver.
Gregson took a right turn onto Elgin and slowed. I opened the door and dove onto the street, taking cover behind a few parked cars. Donnelly closed the door behind me and the car sped off.
Less than a minute later, another car turned right. Keeping my head low, I caught the silhouettes of two men in a black car speeding to catch up with Donnelly’s car.
Holy cow, I thought, it worked.
I doubled back onto Main and hailed a taxi. It took me back to the Rice Hotel. My car was still where I had parked it. I climbed in and threaded my way through Houston traffic back to the house on Oak Street. I took a roundabout route, turning and doubling back, trying to see if I had a tail and, if so, trying to lose it. Finally, sure I wasn’t followed, I entered the neighborhood. I drove down Oak Street, giving the house the once over. A few other cars were parked on the street. I couldn’t tell if any of them held Donn
elly’s men or the police. I assumed Burman didn’t know about Donnelly.
I parked on the next street and crept up the driveway of the house directly behind the one where Rosenblatt died. No dogs barked as I passed the living room window of the rear neighbor. It was around 8:30. I heard the distinctive opening monologue of the Superman radio show muffled through the walls. Since nearly getting shot today, I couldn’t help envying Superman’s invulnerability to bullets.
Opening the gate of the chain link fence between the two houses, I quickly found myself at the back door. I loosened the police tape, letting it hang on the wall. I would replace it when I left. Taking out my small pocket tools, I easily picked the lock and entered the quiet room.
I took out my lighter and snapped on the flame. The small light was all I needed. I could easily keep it from being seen from the front of the house on the off chance there was surveillance. It wasn’t like I was going to make a long canvas of the house. I knew exactly what I needed and exactly where it was.
The pile of debris was right where gravity had left it. I crouched down and held the lighter close to the floor, sifting through the stamps and other paraphernalia of this little home post office. I found what my eyes had seen earlier today but my brain hadn’t registered at the time: receipts for a post office box.
My assumption was that if Rosenblatt knew he was being followed by the Nazis, he needed to get the documents into an easily accessible location. It stood to reason that mailing his notes to his own box or that of a trusted ally was a perfectly safe way to accomplish this. I thought myself pretty smart at that moment.
Until the voice from the shadows said, “What is so special that made you come back here and break into a crime scene?”
Chapter Ten
I froze. Since the police tape was in place, it never occurred to me that someone else might be here. I didn’t know if he had a gun. But I recognized the German accent and knew he was a Nazi.
My back was to the man, shielding the little pile of debris. In a second, I made a decision: I held the receipts over the lighter. They flashed with fire. I angled the paper, creating a larger flame, then tossed it onto the pile of envelopes.
The odor of the burning paper tipped off my assailant. “Hey,” he yelled, striding forward.
I kicked out my leg, catching him in the shins. He tumbled on top of me, but I still had one knee under me. I rolled him up and over, keeping his falling momentum going. He landed next to the burning pile of paper. The whoosh of his air sent sparks into the air. Some landed on his face. He frantically brushed them off, cursing as he did so.
I stood and made to kick him. He caught my foot before it struck his face. Turning his grip savagely, he twisted. I crashed to the ground, smacking my face on the floor. I kicked out with my other foot and managed to connect with something. His grip loosened and I scrambled away from him, trying to turn in time to intercept whatever he was about to dish out.
From outside the front window, headlights came on. The light beamed straight into the kitchen window on the side of the house. I heard the sound of a car door opening and closing.
Damn.
My assailant’s back was to the light, leaving his face in shadow. But I could easily see his size as he stood and raised his mitts. He had me by at least five inches and fifty pounds. I’m not a pip-squeak, but compared to him, I was a lightweight.
He advanced. I grabbed a chair and swung it at him. He blocked it with a forearm, splintering the wood and jarring my skeleton from the inside out. I tried yanking it back for another blow but the thug held it in his iron grip. He shoved it and I tumbled backwards, falling on my ass and into the sideboard. Bottles and glasses tinkled and fell over. A bottle of whiskey crashed and broke, its distinctive odor wafting in the room.
The thug had the chair in his grip and raised it over his head to deck me. I was up against a wall with nowhere to go. I cursed myself for leaving my gun in the glove compartment. I jammed my hand into my jacket pocket for the only other weapon I had, but I needn’t have bothered.
From the darkness, two flashes of light lit up the room. The deafening sound of gunshots rang in my ears. The thug crumpled to the floor, the chair crashing down on his limp form.
I thought I heard someone screaming, then I realized it was me.
Facing the doorway from which the blasts had come, I saw a figure. Smoke from the gun was wafting up into the shaft of light from the blinds. As the person stepped forward, lowering the gun, I caught the red hair and the eyes.
Lillian Saxton.
“Most people say thanks when someone’s done them a favor,” she cooed, “especially if that favor is saving a life.”
I stood, my legs a bit wobbly. Forcing myself to breathe normally, I tried to regain some of my manly demeanor that had been ripped away by my girlie scream.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice not quite steady.
She smirked. “You might need to grow a backbone if you expect to last as a P.I.”
“As long as no one’s shooting at me,” I said, “I should be all right.”
“In this line of work, not likely.” She paused, looking out the window. “We’d better get out of here. That’s the second set of gunfire in this neighborhood in a day. The police won’t take long in coming.”
I cocked my head. “What do you mean ‘we’? I have something to do. Why are you here?”
She motioned with her head. “Think we’d better take this conversation outside. Someone’s coming.”
I spun around and peeked through the blinds. From down the streets, two men in suits were walking cautiously up to the house, the street lamps elongating their shadows.
“You’re not coming with me,” I said, putting the gun in my suit pocket. “But I’ll get you out of here. My car’s on the street out back.”
“I know where your car is. It’s where I got your gun.”
Her words puzzled me. My gun?
She continued. “And I’m coming with you or I might have to tell those plainclothes officers outside that you were the one who killed this man.”
Chapter Eleven
I pulled out the gun and held it to the light. Sure enough, it was my gun, or rather, my father’s gun that I had inherited. The corpse had bullets that matched my gun. Burman would run ballistics tests himself and then plaster the results on a billboard. He’d have way too much pleasure in bringing me down.
“You don’t play fair,” I growled, putting the gun back in my suit pocket. “C’mon.” We tiptoed toward the back of the house.
“Who said anything about fair?” she retorted, following close behind. “This is war, mister. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you can start doing something about it.”
“But we’re not at...”
“Yes,” she spat, “we are.”
Footsteps sounded on the front steps, the wood creaking under the weight. I held my finger to my lips. I opened the back door and the police tape fluttered in the breeze.
We hurried across the back yard and through the rear gate. We were just making our way along the driveway when the neighbor’s wife looked out the window and saw us. She let out a piercing scream.
I grabbed Lillian’s hand and we ran to my car. I didn’t have time to be a gentleman; she would have to open her own door. We climbed in and sped off.
After a few minutes of weaving in and around traffic and doubling back, I gave her a sidelong glance. “How’d you follow me?”
“I didn’t.” She fished a cigarette out of her purse and lit it. “I knew that if you had the chance, you’d probably return to the house. I didn’t have time to go inside before the police showed up. I just camped behind the garage and waited for you.” She blew smoke out of her nose. “Find anything?”
I paused a moment, debating what to say. Donnelly had pretty much implied Lillian was a spy. Could I trust her? I stayed silent.
“What did Donnelly tell you about me?”
I equivocated. “Not much, really. Said y
ou were helping him.”
“That’s true.” She blew smoke out of her mouth. “But it’s not the whole story.”
“What’s the whole story?”
“I’m not sure I want to tell you. The less you know, the less you’ll be able to hinder me. But I’ll say this: the part about my brother is true. He really is in Europe, probably running for his life.”
“You sent Rosenblatt to Europe? Or did Uncle Sam?”
“A bit of both. Our interests were aligned so we worked out an arrangement that was good for the government and for me.”
I scowled. “What happens if the interests no longer align? Which side do you choose?”
She blew a smoke ring that lassoed the rearview mirror. “You’re the detective. What do you think?”
I tried a new angle. “What are these documents Rosenblatt had? Why are they so important?”
She killed the cigarette in the ashtray and stared out the windshield. “That information is almost more important than my brother. And I’m definitely not going to tell you details about them because frankly, I haven’t seen any of them.”
“What?” I said. “You have no idea what they are?”
“Not really. I know Wendell considered them crucial to the war effort”—she held up a finger—“I know we’re not at war, but it’s coming. I think even the isolationists, deep in their hearts, know we can’t avoid it.”
I mulled that over for a minute. Whatever Rosenblatt had was worth his life, but it was also worth the efforts of both the US government and Nazi sympathizers here in America. And it seemed to me that Lillian was using whatever leverage she had to inject herself into this equation. And damned if I didn’t find myself in the middle of it, too.
Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery Page 3