Ulterior Objectives: A Lillian Saxton Thriller

by Scott Dennis Parker

  Hot rage flared within Lillian Saxton. She pointed at the man in the blue suit. “Stop that man!”

  He turned and slipped inside the kitchen.

  Lillian snatched her purse from the table. She opened it and jammed her hand inside. When she withdrew her gun, screams and more gasps erupted among the patrons. She ignored them all. She slung the purse across her shoulder and ran after Blue Suit.

  She got lucky. The diners, already shocked at the death of a fellow patron, remained riveted to their seats at the sight of the red-haired woman running with the gun in her hand. She had enough presence of mind to wipe her eyes to clear her vision. She knew one thing: when she caught up with Blue Suit, she was going to find out who he was working for and why he had poisoned them.

  And then she was going to kill him.

  She hit the swinging door to the kitchen with her shoulder and slowed long enough to ask, “Which way?”

  Almost as one, all the cooks pointed to the rear of the kitchen. It was spacious for a kitchen. The better to match the spaciousness of the Adelphi.

  “Call the police,” she called over her shoulder. It wasted her breath. No doubt they had already been alerted, but she felt compelled to follow standard protocol.

  She charged through the kitchen, heedless of turns and twists. If Blue Suit was a typical spy, he would choose flight over fight. When she caught up with him, he would no longer have a choice.

  Lillian glanced around every corner, but quickly found herself at the back door. It was unlocked. She stopped for a quick moment, steadied the purse on her shoulder, gripped the knob, and threw open the door. It swung completely open. No one behind the door.

  She continued her pursuit. The narrow alley behind the hotel was dirty and smelled of trash and rotting fish. Light bulbs hung over each door into the hotel, but the other side of the alley was dark. She reached another corner and halted. She listened.

  Up ahead and to the left were footsteps. They moved fast and the sound began to fade. Whoever it was—Blue Suit most likely—was running away. Having no mental view of the street layout, she estimated. She veered on the nearest alley leading to the left. It was a short one that ended on another alley leading right. She stopped and listened again.

  Sirens approached. And more footsteps. She examined her options and wondered how she could catch Blue Suit. The monotony of the running had enabled her to think past the blind hatred and be logical.

  Blue Suit was bound to hit an actual street soon. If he did, she would likely lose him completely. He knew the area. She didn’t. She was going to have to even the odds. Or catch a break.

  She got the break.

  A woman screamed. The sound came from straight ahead. Had Blue Suit doubled back?

  Lillian tore down the alley. Her purse slammed on her shoulder. Sweat coated the palm that held her gun. Nearing the edge of the alley, she saw a figure run across the opening. It was Blue Suit. Lillian poured on more speed.

  Emerging out of the alley, Lillian turned in the direction Blue Suit went. She laid eyes on him, half a block ahead. Their position was on the east side of the Adelphi. Blue and red lights bounced off the facade from the police cars parked haphazardly in front of the hotel.

  Blue Suit was running in that direction. Lillian couldn’t figure out why Frank’s killer would run to the police. It wouldn’t matter. She was gaining ground and would overtake him before he reached them.

  Blue Suit made a fatal error. He looked over his shoulder to see how close Lillian was to him. That slowed him down. She reached out to him with her empty hand and snagged the back of his collar. She brought the pistol down in a high swinging arc and slammed it down upon his head.

  Blue Suit stumbled upon the impact. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground. Lillian caromed over him. She had enough presence of mind to let go of his collar, but she was off balance. She pivoted on her heels, but they got tangled underneath her. She landed on her side. Her body met concrete and hot pain knifed through her. She grunted, but held onto her gun. She rolled with the momentum and quickly came to a halt. She got to her feet and brought her gun to bear.

  Blue Suit lay crumpled on the sidewalk. He lay still. Other people were moving. Bystanders looked on as Lillian approached Blue Suit’s body. She held the gun in a two-handed grip, elbows locked in place. She nudged the body with her shoe. Nothing.

  “Put the gun down, ma’am!”

  Lillian turned. Three police officers stood in the street, guns aimed at her. Another approached her from the sidewalk.

  She looked down at the man who had poisoned Frank. Sure, she was glad retribution had come to him and that she was the one who had delivered it, but she wanted—needed—answers to questions. Now, she wouldn’t get them. And it looked like she wasn’t going to do anything else for the time being.

  She noted the officers slowly walking to her. Remembering what Honeywell had told her—the Army would disavow her if anything happened since the U.S. Wasn’t at war—Lillian was pretty sure she couldn’t play that card. But she could still appeal to their sense of law and order.

  Lillian dropped her gun and raised her hands. To the first officer, she said, “This man killed my friend by poisoning him at the Adelphi Hotel. I pursued him. In the effort to stop him, it appears he needs medical attention. Call an ambulance.”

  “You shut your mouth.” The officer cuffed Lillian’s hands behind her.

  “Call an ambulance,” she repeated. “This man is likely a Nazi spy. He has answers I need.”

  The officer who had cuffed her brought his mouth right next to her ear. “Shut your mouth about Nazi spies,” he hissed, “or I’ll shut it for you.” He jerked the cuffs to make his point.

  “Contact Reginald Nevins, British intelligence. He’ll explain everything.” Lillian hoped he would.

  CHAPTER 11

  Twelve hours later, sitting in a jail cell, Lillian Saxton knew the officer had not made any effort to contact British intelligence. In the intervening hours, with time to think, she allowed herself time to cry for Frank Monroe. She remembered all the good memories in her head, the college years at Oxford and the late night talks that kept them up past midnight. Even the potential future she had imagined with him played in her mind. The more she thought of it, the more the anger burned within her about Blue Suit and the people who had ordered him to poison Frank.

  That led Lillian to mull over all the events of the previous night and week. Nazi agents knew about Frank enough to tail him back in Washington. In all likelihood, he had been followed longer than just in Washington. He was a banker, not a particularly notable one, so why was he being followed? The only answer that fit the events was that the Nazis thought Frank Monroe was a spy.

  But was Blue Suit a spy? Clearly yes, but for whom? He spoke perfect New York English, but so did the man in the brown suit back in America. Blue Suit, however, had an accent. A scary possibility crossed her mind: had she killed—she assumed he was dead—an American agent? Surely not. Americans don’t go around poisoning other Americans while abroad.

  On the other hand, could she be one hundred percent sure Blue Suit was the man responsible for the poisoning? After Frank died, he was the one she zeroed in on and called out. Even if he wasn’t involved, he might have felt compelled to slip out the kitchen to avoid all the eyes that turned his way. If it was a misunderstanding, a case of mistaken identity, he could have just explained it away.

  But he ran. No, Lillian reminded herself, he ran when you told the entire room he was the murderer. Wouldn’t you have run?

  Probably.

  The door to the cells opened and a man entered. The police station had six jail cells in this one room. Currently, Lillian was the only resident.

  The man stopped in front of her cell. She remained seated on the small bunk. He carried a cup of steaming coffee. The aroma reminded her that it had nearly been twelve hours since she had eaten anything, and then, it was only the roll. The roll that had saved her life.

&n
bsp; “Good morning, Miss Lillian Saxton.” The stripes on the man’s uniform indicated he was a captain. “My name is David Bratton. I am in command of this precinct. I understand you had quite an evening last night.”

  Lillian cleared her throat. She didn’t want her first impression to be that of a squeaky voice. “The man I pursued. Is he dead?”

  Bratton held up a finger. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask the questions and have you answer them. Sound good?”

  Lillian demurred. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He sipped the coffee. “First of all, what’s an American girl like you doing running around in my town with a gun in your hand?”

  Lillian weighed her options. Bratton seemed like a reasonable man, so he could probably understand her predicament. “My name is Lillian Saxton. I’m a sergeant in the U.S. Army. I’m on a...”

  “Wait. You’re military?”

  “I am.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m on a mission, undercover, on behalf of Reginald Nevins, a member of British intelligence. MI-5 I believe.”

  He nodded.

  “We received a secret coded message that my friend and I were to travel to Belgium by way of England to meet an old friend who would deliver something that your government can use to help fight the Nazis.”

  Bratton raised an eyebrow at that. “Really? Sounds like one of your Hollywood movies.”

  “I assure you, it’s very real. And my traveling companion, another old friend of mine, is now dead. Poisoned.”

  “That he was.” Bratton stepped closer to the bars. “And the room you both shared was completely trashed.”

  “What?” Lillian now stood.

  Bratton nodded. “Any idea what someone might be looking for?” He took another sip of his coffee.

  “Yes. My book of poetry.”

  Bratton choked on his drink. “All of this disaster was on account of a book of poetry? I find that hard to believe. Sounds like a lover’s quarrel more than some secret mission.”

  “I assure you, it’s true. And I need to get out of here as soon as possible so I can continue my mission.” She grew quiet. “Although it’ll be more difficult without Frank.”

  Bratton tapped the bars. “You won’t be going anywhere for a while, Miss Saxton. Not until we figure out the truth.”

  Lillian lunged and grabbed the bars. “It is the truth. And I’m on a time schedule. Look, just contact Reginald Nevins. He’ll tell you everything.”

  Bratton turned on his heel and strolled to the exit.

  Lillian cried out, “The man I chased. Is he dead?”

  Stopping, Bratton rested a hand on the knob. He didn’t face her. “He is.” He opened the door and exited the room.

  Lillian slumped onto the bunk. At least that news brought some semblance of satisfaction. Now, she needed to get out of this jail.

  CHAPTER 12

  Another few hours found Lillian tired, famished, and not a little angry. She had tried yelling but the cement walls didn’t respond. Exhausted, she lay on the bunk and surprised herself by sleeping.

  Jangling keys woke her. She sat up and stared bleary eyed at the cell door.

  Two men stood outside the cell. Bratton had the keys jammed into the lock. He opened the door and beckoned her out.

  Lillian didn’t waste a moment. She stood, adjusted her balance and her dress, and walked out of the jail cell.

  The other man wore a dark suit with, of all things, a bow tie. His round spectacles reflected the dim light. He extended his hand. “Good morning, Sergeant Saxton. My name is George Ludlow. I work with Reggie Nevins.”

  Lillian grasped his hand and broke into a huge grin. “Mr. Ludlow, I’m so glad to meet you.” She threw a sharp glance at Bratton. He returned her gaze impassively.

  “And I, you.” He possessed a high voice, the kind that would be at home on the stage. “Forgive the incarceration, but, as you can imagine, we don’t get a lot of poisoning deaths or foot chases resulting in deaths.”

  “My apologies. Frank Monroe was an old friend. When he died, I wanted answers. I didn’t think I hit the man I was chasing that hard, but the captain tells me he died as well.”

  Ludlow nodded gravely. “The people I answer to need answers as well. Let’s discuss it over a meal.”

  The meal proved to be at a small restaurant down the street from the Adelphi. Overnight, while Lillian whiled away the hours in her jail cell, the local police had swarmed the hotel. They had confiscated all her belongings as well as Frank’s. Everything had been gone through. Damning evidence for Lillian was her gun kit. That had kept her locked up longer than necessary. What had turned the trick was Bratton’s hitting a wall, when he tried to explain away the incident to his superiors and the press. He had made some calls and, within a few short hours, Ludlow had arrived.

  One of the first things Lillian asked, her mouth full of toast and eggs, had to do with Frank’s body. Bratton told her it was at the morgue awaiting an inquest. She said she would contact his family and they would make arrangements to bring their son home. She hid the sting of her tears behind a steaming cup of hot tea.

  Next she asked about Blue Suit. Papers in his suit listed his name as Theodore Montgomery and an address across town. Bratton’s men raided the apartment, but it was empty. Now, they had begun to wonder if Montgomery was truly his name.

  “Probably isn’t,” Lillian muttered.

  Bratton smirked at her. “Of course not. There is one clue you can help us out with. Why did your friend Mr. Monroe ask for an outside line and call a local antique shop?”

  Lillian stopped chewing. “He didn’t. We were together the entire time. Well, the only time we were apart was when I showered. What time was the call?”

  “A little after nine forty five.”

  Lillian shook her head. “We were at the restaurant at that time.” She swallowed her food. “You don’t think it could have been Blue Suit, er, Montgomery?”

  Bratton shrugged. “It was probably him or someone who worked with him.”

  “He probably acted alone,” Ludlow stated. “Often, spies who only watch do their jobs alone and report in at regular intervals.”

  “Wait,” Lillian said. Her plate was empty so she put her fork and knife down. “Are you telling me someone made a call from our room to some antique store?”

  Both men nodded.

  She frowned, then realization slammed into her. “That’s where we need to go.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin and made to stand.

  “Why?” Bratton asked.

  “You said our room was tossed, right? Yes, well, Frank was a known person by these spies. I wasn’t. There’s a good chance they were looking for the book and for who I was. The book was with me.” She patted her purse that Bratton had reluctantly returned to her, including her gun and the book. “I carry my ID on my person.” She thought back to the past five days. The only other thing that would have her name on it that she didn’t keep was...

  “The ticket. Frank held onto the tickets. I’m not sure what he did with them. Were they on his person?”

  “There were train tickets,” Bratton said. “But Montgomery had your liner tickets in his pocket.”

  Lillian’s eyes widened in certainty. “He found out who I was. And the phone call was his report.” She set her jaw hard and stood. “C’mon. Let’s go see what’s at the other end of that call.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The other end of the call proved to be Buckley’s Antique Shop. A squat little building a few miles north of the Adelphi and the docks, Buckley’s sported two large paned windows behind which were Victorian furniture and china. The door was made of solid wood, painted green, with a shiny brass door handle.

  Upon a brief consultation among the three of them, it was agreed that Lillian and Ludlow would go into the antique shop together while Bratton and a few of his men stationed themselves at both corners and the block behind. The police captain didn’t particularly like it, but he wo
n a concession: both Ludlow and Lillian now carried whistles in their pockets.

  Lillian had retrieved her suitcase from police storage and changed her clothes. Now she wore a travel suit, khaki, belted at the waist. Her shoes were the same she wore last night during her pursuit of the man she now knew as Theodore Montgomery. She still carried her purse on her shoulder. Her pistol was comfortably inside.

  Together, Lillian and Ludlow strolled down the street, appearing to anyone watching to be window shopping. They arrived at Buckley’s and entered. The interior smelled musty, but all the collectibles showed no dust. Tight, close shelves housed small pieces of Victorian knickknacks. One wall displayed china, while another featured glassware.

  No other patron shopped at Buckley’s. Lillian and Ludlow had the place to themselves. Not optimal for a scouting mission since they would not have anything else with which to distract the shop owner.

  He was a blond-haired man who sat behind the counter reading a newspaper. He wore a tie, loosened, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows to help alleviate the stagnant heat. He lowered the paper when they walked in. “Can I help you find anything in particular?”

  Lillian put on her best deflect-the-annoying salesperson smile. “No thanks. We’re just browsing.” She affected a British accent. It occurred to her in the split second before she spoke. Depending on who was here, having an American walk into this shop would prove conspicuous.

  The shopkeeper didn’t return to his paper. He turned his attention to Ludlow. “Sir, what kinds of antiques do you prefer?”

  “Well, my boy, let me tell you. I’m partial to late Victorian clocks and glassware. Would you be so kind as to show me what you have?”

  The shopkeeper beckoned Lillian to join them, but Ludlow interrupted.

  “Don’t worry about her. She can’t stand glassware except to drink her martinis out of.” Ludlow chuckled. He slapped the shopkeeper on the arm and gave him a knowing wink, man to man.

  Lillian shrugged when the shopkeeper turned to confirm Ludlow’s story.