Another twitch, this time along Honeywell’s eyebrows. Lillian had to admire a person like the colonel who could so easily contain his outward emotions. She made a note never to play the colonel in poker although that likelihood would probably never come to pass.
“So you would investigate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Undercover?”
“If necessary, yes.”
“What if you knew the person? Would that cloud your judgement?”
Another few heartbeats. “No, sir. This is the United States of America. All citizens, military or civilian, are assumed innocent until proven guilty. Same goes with someone suspected of treason. You investigate, gather evidence, and, if the evidence points to treason, you arrest the individual. You bring him to trial and, if he is found guilty, you inflict punishment.”
“Back to my second question: what if you knew the person? Would you hide evidence, alter testimony, or do anything to sway the arresting officer or jury?”
“No, sir. Treason is treason, and if the evidence indicates that, there is no other recourse.” She glanced to Donnelly, then back up to Honeywell. “I would, of course, be upset, but that’s a personal matter, not a military one.”
In the intervening silence, Donnelly spoke. “Well, Colonel, I think that should satisfy you.”
Honeywell narrowed his eyes. “I’ll let you know when I’m satisfied.”
“Of course.” To Lillian, Donnelly asked, “Have you contacted Wade to get his report on your brother?”
Donnelly was referring to the assignment recently completed. Samuel Saxton, Lillian’s brother, was lost in Europe. She feared the worst, especially with the Nazi army threatening to strike. A reporter, Wendell Rosenblatt, had information about Samuel. He was due to land in Houston, but vanished. Lillian hired private investigator Benjamin Wade to locate Rosenblatt. He did, but it was too late. Rosenblatt was dead, but Wade found the reporter’s notes complete with all the details about Samuel’s whereabouts.
Lillian had been waiting for Wade to deliver his report when Donnelly summoned her to his room in the Rice Hotel.
“No, sir.”
Donnelly gestured with his head to the next room. “Why don’t you give him a call?”
Lillian nodded once and left the room.
***
“I think she passes your muster, Colonel,” Donnelly said.
“You’re just too close to her and the rest of your little squad.” Honeywell walked over to a bureau where a single bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey rested. He poured himself a couple of fingers and downed half in one gulp. He held the glass in his hands and mulled over something in his head. “But the communique was to her personally. Do you think Monroe is trying to recruit her?”
“Don’t be silly,” Donnelly blurted. He realized he was addressing a senior officer and stood. He poured his own glass of whiskey. “As far as I know, Frank Monroe is only an investment banker. His job takes him all over the U.S. and Europe. He has contacts everywhere. Sure, he’s been over to Germany since they invaded Poland last year, but there’s no cause to think he’s turned traitor.”
“Why else would he insist on seeing her? You think he knows she works for the Army?”
“Lillian Saxton’s job is no secret. What she does for the Army is. Look, they’re old friends from back when they attended college in Europe in the ‘30s. He says he has vital information about the war, but will only talk to her. And the meet’s in D.C. They’re not even leaving American soil. What’s to lose?”
“I don’t trust anyone who has business dealings with the Nazis and then turns around and asks to meet with one of my soldiers.”
Donnelly did not have time to respond. The adjoining door opened and Lillian Saxton walked in the room. She must have tried to mask her emotions, but Donnelly noticed the red rimming her eyes.
“Is everything okay, Sergeant?” Donnelly asked.
Saxton merely nodded.
“You find out about your brother?”
“He’s dead.”
The two senior officers gave the revelation a few moments of silence. “I’m sorry,” Donnelly said. He reached into his pocket and held out a handkerchief. She walked over and took it.
“Thank you, sir.” She dabbed at her eyes. She stood straighter and pulled herself together. She handed the handkerchief back to the captain. “What’s the next assignment? It’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?”
Donnelly said, “Sergeant, this is Colonel Clive Honeywell. He will explain the situation.”
Honeywell stepped forward. “Sergeant, do you know a Frank Monroe?”
Donnelly watched the emotions cross Saxton’s face. He prided himself on not just being a commanding officer to his squad, but to know his officers as real people. Saxton had a circuitous route to the United States Army, but she had acquitted herself beyond even his expectations. The name “Frank Monroe” hit a nerve.
After a moment, Saxton said, “Yes, sir. He’s from a prominent family in Boston. He and I went to the university back in 1934. He’s some sort of banker now, I think.”
Honeywell narrowed his eyes. “You hesitated. Why?”
“The name came out of left field, Colonel. We haven’t even seen each other in years. It just wasn’t a name I expected you to say.”
Pursing his lips, Honeywell said, “He’s asked to meet you.”
For the second time, Donnelly noted Saxton’s surprise.
“Me?”
“Yes. Personally.”
“Where?”
“Washington.”
Saxton frowned. “Why?”
Honeywell raised his glass and pointed a finger at her. “That’s what you’re going to find out.”
The first Lillian Saxton novel will be published Spring 2016. Sign up for my mailing list to hear about this book and other exciting events from Quadrant Fiction Studio.
Triple Action Western
Triple Action Western is an imprint of Quadrant Fiction Studio focusing on short stories and novellas of the Old West.
The Box Maker
Emory Duvall practices his simple carpentry trade, knows everyone in town, and stays out of trouble. But when a young gunslinger pulls iron on him and makes an unusual request, trouble lands in Duvall’s lap. Now, the carpenter must figure out how to avoid getting shot…and how many coffins he will have to make.
The Agony of Love
John Hardwick loves his wife like a Shakespeare sonnet: full, complete, and without equal. Unfortunately, John now finds himself in the crucible of infidelity. He knows the other man’s name: Alton Raines, a professional gambler. John is a good man, not prone to violence, but the images in his mind’s eye—of his wife in Raines’s bed—puts murder in his heart and a gun in his hand.
The Tale of the Naked Man
It’s not every day that the passengers of a stagecoach in the Old West see a naked man hiding behind a rock. But the motley group of people on a stage bound for Uvalde, Texas, stop and question Finnegan McCall, naked as the day of his birth. He says he is the new manager at the bank in town and a thief stole all his clothes.
But if Finnegan McCall is telling the truth, then who is the stranger at the bank claiming he is the new bank manager? And why is this stranger asking the assistant manager to open the safe?
Anthologies
TALES FROM THE OTHERVERSE
Other times, other places, other stories than the ones we know...These are the Tales From the Otherverse, where anything is possible and things never work out quite the way you'd expect. Some of today's top talents in popular fiction turn their hands to tales of alternate history. Featuring new stories by bestselling, award-winning authors Bill Crider, Lou Antonelli, Scott A. Cupp, Robert E. Vardeman, James Reasoner, and more. Explore the Otherverse and see what might have been!
Excerpt from “The Great Steamer Riot of 1936” by Scott Dennis Parker
The trumpeter played a total of five minutes without taking a breath before the people
in the dance hall realized he was a steamer.
He was a tall, blonde, well-built man who looked like he had Kansas blood coursing through his veins. The nearest plant to Kansas was the steamer factory in Chicago, along the rail lines. He appeared a wholesome, good old American boy from the plains. That's probably how he got as far as he did.
No one knew how Leo Blake learned to play the trumpet. His was probably programmed him that way. He played it brilliantly. Louis Armstrong may have been the reigning king of the horn, but Leo Blake could've taken Uncle Louie for a ride. That's easy enough to realize considering Blake could literally blow for a full hour before for he'd have to blow off steam.
That was the real trick to being a steamer in the middle of a world full of humans: appearing human while simultaneously not being one of them. Later, when the federal officials swarmed into the local dance hall in North Texas interviewed all the patrons, they all said how normal Blake appeared. Even the dance hall owner, George Frank, believed Blake to be human.
"He wore glasses. The same kind that Sigmund Freud wore. I couldn’t tell if the light was reflecting off the lenses or behind his pupils."
The dance hall sat at the edge of the town square in Denton, Texas, a small university town forty-five miles north of Dallas. It was homecoming and George Frank, alumnus of North Texas Teachers’ College, had arranged to bring Rip Howard's Fiery Fifteen big band to town for the big homecoming dance. Howard traveled the southern circuit of dance halls and was a big hit down in Houston and New Orleans.
The hall itself was modest: a two-story building, wood-paneled walls, and a small stage at the north end. The refreshment table sat in the rear of the hall, next to the kitchen. Chairs lined the walls and groups of youngsters, in twos and threes, huddled together. The sheriff was there, mostly as a father, since his daughter was a senior that year, the prettiest girl in the school. He didn't want any of the boys to manhandle her the way the crowd eventually manhandled the steamers.
WEIRD MENACE: Volume 1
The Weird Menace pulps flourished for less than a decade, from the mid-1930s to the early '40s, but while they were popular, they delivered adventure, excitement, and spine-tingling thrills in quantities rarely seen before or since. Mad scientists, deranged henchmen, damsels in distress, and stalwart heroes raced through their pages in breathless, over-the-top, never-ending action. A good Weird Menace yarn really is just one damned thing after another.
Rough Edges Press asked some of today's best authors of popular fiction to write Weird Menace stories, and they delivered. Settle back and let us spin a few yarns for you.
But keep an eye out behind you. You never know when something might be sneaking up on you.
Excerpt from “The Curse of the Monster Makers!”
Dexter Tremane slammed the stolen car into third gear and rounded a hairpin turn on the old country road. The rear caught gravel and fishtailed, threatening to send the machine into the nearby ditch. That wasn't what Dexter needed. What he needed was to get as far away as possible from the pursuing patrol cars.
He risked a glance back. Off in the distance, through thick woods and country brush, red and blue lights pierced the darkness. They were many. He was one. He had the advantage of speed and knowing where he was going. They had the overwhelming numbers. And, he reminded himself, he was woefully outgunned.
He pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal. There was no more he could do. He willed the car to go faster. It didn't comply.
The road was dirt. All the cops had to do was follow the dust that billowed up from the car's wheels. The lightning that streaked the sky threatened rain. Dexter turned his willpower to the heavens.
They laughed at him.
In a flash of lightning, he saw something up ahead. Was it the turnoff to the rendezvous? It was a small, thinner dirt road, nearly hidden by the sagebrush and mesquite trees.
He slowed and risked a quick illumination of his headlights. He threw the car into a sharp turn and something inside the engine gave way. The clanging sound deafened his ears and all but called out to the cops.
"Blast!" he cried. His fists were like iron grips on the steering wheel. He fought for control. The car skittered sideways then gained some more forward momentum. It didn't last. The car plunged into the shallow gorge next to the road. The headlights shattered as did Dexter's forehead on the steering wheel.
He must have blacked out for a few moments because the next thing he knew, he woke up coughing from all the dust. He fumbled in his jacket for the box of matches. He struck one and the small flame revealed his predicament. The car had crashed headlong into the gorge and now spanned the small trough. Behind him, the cops had turned their sirens back on. They were getting closer.
Dexter opened the glove compartment and rummaged around to see if there was anything he could use. The owner must have been a Spartan because the only thing inside was a map, a small Bible, and a blunt pencil and notepad. He would have killed for a flashlight.
He pulled the key out of the ignition, got out and opened the trunk. The starlight, while bright, didn't illuminate the interior of the trunk so he lit another match. A gust of wind blew it out almost immediately but not before he saw the tire iron. He closed his strong fingers around the cool metal and hefted it. If push came to shove, he wasn't going down without a fight.
Thing was, he wasn't going down.
LIVIN’ ON JACKS AND QUEENS
The brainchild of Amazon Kindle bestselling western writers Mike Stotter and Ben Bridges, PICCADILLY PUBLISHING is dedicated to issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
Legendary western writer and noted anthologist Robert J. Randisi offers up a winning hand with fourteen never-before-published tales of the Old West, each revolving around the central theme of gambling.
Excerpt from “The Mark of an Imposter: An Evelyn Page/Calvin Carter Adventure”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Evelyn Paige said.
“Relax,” Calvin Carter said, “it’ll all turn out fine.”
“Like the time-with-the-saloon-madame fine, the I’m-sorry-Evelyn-but-I-need-a-loan fine, or the I-just-stole-your-case fine?”
“Neither,” Carter said. “This is entirely different.”
“I swear, Carter, if I didn’t need your help with this case, I would never have agreed to this little facade of yours.”
“Listen, what we do is dangerous. What’s so wrong with doing it with a bit of flair?”
“Flair?” Evelyn said. “That’s what you call this?” She shook her head. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Quiet,” Carter said. “Time to talk French.”
***
The Alexandria Palace Casino in Austin, Texas, was one of the most famous gambling establishments in the west. Located just down the street from the capital, the Alexandria was a high-end casino in the vein of the Barbary Coast outside San Francisco or the fancier casinos in New Orleans. Built by Bernard Jameson and named after his wife, the Alexandria was a destination for gamblers, politicians, mercenaries, thieves, and cowboys, sometimes all in the same person. A gambler, it could be said, wasn’t truly a professional gambler until he won or lost money in the Alexandria.
The interior was wide, spacious, and gaudy. The namesake woman fancied herself a worldly woman so she insisted her husband decorate in any style that tickled her fancy. Naturally, that led to a hodge podge look and feel, but everything inside was of the highest price.
Perhaps the most famous event at the Alexandria was the all-region poker tournament held each year on the first weekend of May before the heat drove all but the most hardy citizens to the safety and coolness of Barton Springs. If you weren’t a true professional gambler if you hadn’t won at the Alexandria, you certainly weren’t worth your weight in salt if you hadn’t at least participated in the tournament.
The evening’s crowds were loud and boisterous. The men had dressed for the evening in their finest tuxedos despite the ebbing of the day’s h
eat. The ladies were adorned with the best dresses and jewelry that the city of Austin could afford, and more than a little that it could not. Imported jewelry lined the necks of many a woman, the ones accompanied by men and those looking for men.
It was into this atmosphere that a small gasp by the assembled throng was heard when Pierre Trudeau St. Bontaventure appeared at the top of the balcony overlooking the people on the ground floor. According to the papers, the French aristocrat was making his way across America, recreating and renewing the journey Alexis de Tocqueville made in the United States in the 1830s. He was hoping to find the heart of America after the War Between the States and wanted to find out how much the country had changed since the end of the conflict. Bontaventure had met with the President, the members of Congress, and many of the millionaires in New York and Boston. Now, in the spring, he was railroading across the South on his way to California for the summer.
A fan of games of chance, Bontaventure had picked up the basics of poker along the way and had made his intention known that he would like to join in the tournament. The Alexandria’s owner, Jameson, was more than delighted to have such a high-class entrant in his newly formed contest and jumped at the chance.
Half of the Texans in attendance were there not really to participate in the tournament but just to see Bontaventure. The rich and famous were rare in this part of the country, but the Frenchman made up for it just by his presence.
He stood at the railing, gazing at the people like a king to his subjects. He smiled down, loving the attention. The audience smiled up, loving being loved by him.
On his arm was his translator and confidant, Emmanuelle Gabrielle Leblanc. Resplendent in a white gown, her raven hair was pulled back to reveal her ears and the dangling gold earrings that sparkled in the lights. She had her hand through Bontaventure’s cocked arm, but she stood slightly behind him.
Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery Page 8