All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (12 page)
Read All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery Online
Authors: Scott Dennis Parker
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 looked 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.”
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.
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Triple Action Western is an imprint of Quadrant Fiction Studio
focusing on short stories and novellas of the Old West.
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.
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.
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?
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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.
The Weird Menace pulps flourished for less than a decade, from
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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.
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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
heat. 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.
In heavily accented English, Bontaventure said, “I want to thank
each and every one of you for your most gracious welcome. I have learned much
from your country. I have eaten well, I have met many fascinating people, and I
have learned how to lose money in poker.”
The audience chuckled appropriately. Bontaventure smiled even
more broadly than before.
“I look forward to the contest, and I hope not to lose too much
of my money.” More polite laughter filtered throughout the casino.
Bontaventure leaned over to Emmanuelle and whispered in perfect
English, “How was that?”
Without breaking her smile, Emmanuelle said, “Carter, next time,
I get the lead and you get the supporting role. I can’t stand being your little
woman.”
“Evelyn,” Carter muttered back, “you wound me. Take the dagger
from my heart.”
“That’s not where I’d put the dagger,” Evelyn said, raising her
eyebrows.
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Excerpt from “The Poker Payout”
Sitting at a poker table, Calvin Carter smiled. It took him
awhile, studying the movements of the dealer and the other men around the
table, but he finally figured out how they all were cheating. The deck was
marked. That much was clear. He, however, didn’t have time to figure out what
the markings were. Percy Johns was too busy winning another pile of chips.
“What are you smiling at, Carter?” the man across the table
asked.
Carter fingered his tie and made his smile bigger. “I just can’t
get over how lucky Johns here is.”
“It ain’t luck,” Johns growled, throwing a menacing look Carter’s
way. Johns’s suit was rumpled and his tie askew, owing to his constant fiddling
with it on his winning streak. “It’s all skill.”
“Oh, it’s skill alright.” Carter cocked eyebrows. “But I’m not
sure it’s yours.”
The man across the table paused in the act of raising his
highball glass to his lips. The light of the oil lamps overhead glistened on
his shiny cufflinks. Slowly, he lowered the glass, the whiskey still swilling
in the glass. “What are you implying, Mr. Carter?”
