All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (2 page)

The
local branch of the Texas Animal
Health Commission (TAHC) in Houston was located in one of the more modern
buildings constructed with New Deal money. The light tan bricks and
green-tinted glass certainly gave off that Art Deco flavor so dearly loved by
scores of architects since about 1922. I didn’t mind it so much in movie
theaters or restaurants, but office buildings were a different animal.

The office was situated in the middle of a block of other
similarly built office buildings in the shadow of downtown. I had to circle the
block before I found a parking space. I walked past an all-night diner that was
making the transition from breakfast to lunch. Office workers and construction
guys were already milling about, smoking cigarettes, shooting the breeze, or
reading the paper bought from the nearby newsstand. Overhead, the latest
Doc
Savage
and
The Shadow
pulp magazines were hanging by strings. I
loved the pulps.
Dime Detective
sat on my night table back home.

I opened the door to the TAHC and went inside. It was quiet, with
only a couple of people waiting off to the side. Two receptionists sat behind
desks. One was a brunette, hair pulled back all neat and tidy. Her dress was an
off-green with a small string of pearls around her neck. The other was a
redhead, more the darker kind that only flashed red when the light hit her hair
just right. Her work attire consisted of a beige dress with a turquoise
necklace. There was something familiar about the redhead, but I couldn’t place
her.

The redhead was helping another customer, so I sauntered over to
the brunette.

“Can I help you?” Her blue eyes dazzled me.

“Yes, I’m here to see Brad Teague.”

“Can I ask in what regard you want to see Mr. Teague?”

“You can ask,” I said, giving levity to the comment. It didn’t
fly. I dropped the charm attack. “I’d like to talk with him about some
chickens. My name’s Wade.” I didn’t want to flash my credentials so soon in
case she might tip off her boss.

There was something in the way she looked at me that I didn’t
like. Nonetheless, she picked up the receiver and spoke into it. The
conversation went on longer that I expected. It was as if she was trying to
convince him to see me. In the end, she won.

“Mr. Teague will see you now.”

I thanked her, keeping eye contact a few seconds too long. She
looked away first.  She rose and led me back to a short hallway that ended
with a corner office. Gently rapping on the door, she opened the door and
walked in. “Mr. Teague, this is Mr. Wade. He’s here to talk about some
chickens.”

Brad Teague looked up from whatever he was writing. He peered at
us through thick lenses that made his eyes look as big as marbles. I felt the
sudden urge to extend two fingers and ask how many. I refrained. I didn’t think
he’d pass. His brown suit was rumpled and there was a ring of sweat around his
collar.

“Thank you, Clara.” Teague stood behind his desk and waited for
me to approach. I was more interested in the fact that I now knew the name of
the receptionist.

Clara lowered her eyes and head and scurried out of the room. I
walked over and shook Teague’s hand. Like the rest of him, his palm was sweaty
and clammy. I wanted to wipe my hand. Instead I sat in one of the chairs
opposite the desk which, naturally, gave me the chance to wipe my palm on my
trousers.

Teague sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers. “Mr. Wade,
how can I help you?”

I glanced around the room, taking in the sparse interior design.
File cabinets lined one wall, a map of Texas hung on another, a picture frame
faced Teague. Family?

“Morning, Mr. Teague. I was wondering what you can tell me about
Elmer Smith.” I liked starting off interviews with a bang. It gave me a chance
to assess the other person.

Teague didn’t disappoint. He cleared his throat and discovered
new meaning in his desk pad. “Elmer Smith,” he said, delaying his answer. “I
may have to look that one up. We get so many requests every week.”

I hooked a thumb over my shoulder to the lobby. “You aren’t busy
now. I waltzed right in like I owned the place.”

Teague grinned nervously, pulling his cuffs from under his
blazer. “Right. It’s an off day.”

“Off day versus your usual hectic schedule?”

“Why do you want to know about”—he paused as if he had forgotten
the name; he was a bad actor—”Elmer Smith?”

Sometimes it pays to be up front with a person of interest. I did
that all the time when I was a cop. Granted, in those days, I had the badge to
back me up. Nowadays, when people learn I’m a private investigator, they tend
to clam up and stop talking to me. Teague was already close to that, so I
invented a story on the spot.

“I run a chicken farm down in Fort Bend County and I heard
through the grapevine that Smith got in some hot water with y’all. There’s a
part of me that wants to gloat, but there’s another part of me that wants to
make sure my flock doesn’t fall prey to what he’s into. Can you let me know why
he’s on your slaughter list?”

Teague’s face twitched. He reached to the pack of Camels sitting
on his desk and inched one out. He put fire to it and I got to see his shaking
fingers. I think I hit a nerve.

I pressed him. “I got a livelihood to consider. I was in town to
see a banker and thought I’d swing by, have a little meeting with you.” I took
out my notebook, wondering if a real farmer would do such a thing. “So, what is
it?”

The string of Latin-sounding names that came out of his mouth
seemed to be one of those times when a mark starts piling on highfaluting words
to hide the truth. I did the phonic spelling thing and wrote down words that
sounded like the words he spoke. I’d have to check them later for any grain of
truth.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but my Latin or whatever language you just
spoke is rusty. Can you say it again, in English?”

Teague cleared his throat. “Mr. Smith’s chickens all are
suffering from an ailment that has only one guarantee of success: kill all the
chickens.”

“When’s this going to take place?”

Teague checked his calendar. “It was already supposed to have
happened last week, but the court issued a temporary halt and we’re waiting.”

I help up a finger. “If his chickens posed an imminent threat to
his life and those of the chickens in the area, what judge would grant that
kind of order?”

Holding up his cigarette, Teague shrugged.

“Who talked to the court?”

“Smith himself and his no-good lawyer.”

“Why’s his lawyer trying to stop it?”

“The chickens are Smith’s livelihood, same as you. Wouldn’t you
try to stop the wholesale slaughter of your entire flock?”

I tilted my head in affirmation. “That I would. And I’d use all
available means at my disposal. You know which judge granted the injunction?”

“Fellow by the name of Briscoe. He’s one of them judges who
thinks everything FDR does is a gift from heaven. The man’s just the president.
He ain’t Jesus or anything.”

I decided to keep him talking. “What do you think about the war?
Think we’ll stay out of it?”

“I damn sure hope so,” Teague said. “France’ll pull through fine.
They got themselves a damn good army. And that Maginot Line will stop the
Germans in their tracks. This thing’ll be over way before they need us in
there. Just as well, too. We ain’t ready.”

“Ready for war, you mean?”

“Of course. We ain’t ready. Don’t mean we can’t get ready.”

“What about Roosevelt? Think he’ll run for a third term?”

“Probably. Who do the Democrats have in reserve?”

“No one good enough, that’s for sure. So, this Judge Briscoe,
he’s a New Dealer?”

“Yup.” In the course of the conversation, he started to talk more
freely and some of his trepidation left him.

“Who was the one who reported the contamination?”

“Beg pardon?”

“The disease or whatever’s afflicting the chickens over at
Smith’s farm, who brought it to y’all’s attention?”

Whatever joviality Teague had let into his system vanished
without a trace. “Why is that important to your chickens and farm?”

I shrugged. “Just want to know. In case it’s one of those
vegetarians who think killing all animals is bad. I’d hate to think one of them
got you to declare his chickens bad. Y’all got science to back that up?”

“Of course we have science,” Teague snapped. He stubbed out his
cigarette in the glass ashtray. He narrowed his eyes. “You said you live in
Fort Bend County. I didn’t catch your name.”

I stood. “It’s Wade. Thanks for your time. I’ll see myself out.”

I
ducked out of Teague’s office and closed
the door. From inside, I heard the sound of his chair scraping on wood. To my
left was the lobby. To the right was the back door, I hoped. I went right.

A couple of more turns and I found myself in the break room. The
smell of old coffee filled the air. There was a woman standing next to the
coffee pot pouring herself a cup. It took me a moment to realize it was the
receptionist who I had spoken to when I first got here. What was her name?
Clara.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” Clara said.

“I know. I’m just finding my way out without having your boss
finding me.”

“Why?” She put the coffee pot back on the burner.

“I’m not in the mood to answer any of his questions about me.”

“Aren’t you just a farmer?” The slight smile turned her lips up
and a certain levity came into her eyes.

“Not really.” I wasn’t sure if I should tip her off to who I was.
For all I knew, she and Teague might’ve been an item. On the other hand, she
might be able to give me a little insight into why Teague was ordering the
slaughter.

I closed the door behind me. “The order to kill a flock of
chickens. How do y’all usually get the tip that something’s amiss?”

Clara looked at me with unreadable eyes. She pursed her lips,
trying to figure out something, probably like why I was asking a question like
that. “Why do you want to know?”

I put my ear to the door and heard movement down the hall. Time
to leave. I scanned the room for another door. Finding it, I made my way across
the break room. I put my hand on the knob and turned back to Clara.

I weighed again the possibility that she was actually working
with Teague to flush me out, but discarded that idea almost as soon as I
thought it. She just didn’t seem the type.

“My name’s Wade. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into
Teague and the animal commission to determine why Elmer Smith’s chickens are
scheduled for slaughter. You know anything about that?”

At the mention of my profession, her countenance changed
completely. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

“Can I talk to you?” she asked.

I nodded to the door. “No time for that now.”

“Somewhere else then?”

I pursed my lips. She wanted to spill something. Might as well
find out what. “Sure.”

“I have lunch at eleven thirty. Can you meet me at Jake’s Diner
on Washington?”

“Sure.” Now it was my turn to ask why and I did.

“Because I think someone is following me.”

Jake’s
Diner on Washington was one of
those places where a man can get just about anything his heart craves at pretty
much any time of day. I knew it well, but considered it an odd choice for Clara
to suggest until I reckoned she didn’t want to be seen. Taking a cue, I
homesteaded on a booth near the back with little access to the side windows. At
eleven forty, she breezed into the joint, looking a little nervous as she
scanned the room. I held up my hand and she found me.

She slid into the booth opposite. Again, she looked over her
shoulder and around the room.

“Who are you hiding from?”

“I wanted to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

I scanned the wall of windows behind her, seeing if there were
any loiterers around. Other than a newsstand and a crowded bus stop, no one was
watching for her.

I extended my hand. “Benjamin Wade.”

She shook my hand, her delicate fingers almost tickling my skin.
“Clara Milbanks.”

“What makes you think someone’s following you?”

Before she could answer, the waitress arrived. “What can I get
y’all?”

I had already reviewed the menu before Clara arrived, but I did
it again to give her time to look. “I’ll have the club sandwich and coffee.
Whatever she wants, it’s on me.”

Clara smiled and put the menu down. “I’ll have a chicken salad
sandwich and iced tea.”

The waitress put her pencil behind her ear and moved back to the
kitchen to place our order.

“Okay.” I leaned on my elbows and clasped my hands together.
“What happened?”

“Are you really a private investigator?”

I pulled out my license and showed her. “How much do you know
about the Smith case?”

“We get to know most cases that come through the office. I know
the Smith one because it’s the only one that has a court injunction against
it.”

“That doesn’t happen too often?”

“Almost never.”

“You know who contacted y’all, tipped off the commission about the
chickens?”

The waitress brought our drinks and food. You have to give it up
to diners like Jake’s: the service is quick and hearty if a little greasy.

Around a mouthful of chicken salad, Clara said, “That’s actually
why I wanted to meet you. I wasn’t sure where I could turn for help.”

“Help with what?”

“Help in determining why this guy is following me.”

I scowled. “Why would someone do that?”

“Because of what I heard about Mr. Smith.”

“What did you hear?”

“About a week ago, a man I had never seen came into the office. I
remembered him because he looked out of place by the way he dressed. Kinda like
you in a way, but he dressed nicer, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Not at all. I tend to dress medium most of the time. You ought
to see me when I’m playing ball.”

She leaned in closer to me. “Here’s the thing: I wasn’t supposed
to be there. It was Danny’s turn to stay late, but she couldn’t do it, so I
volunteered for her.”

“Who’s Danny?”

“Danielle Bowie. The other secretary you saw in the main office.”

I put that name with the image of the redhead. They seemed to go
together.

“Okay. Y’all staying late, that a regular thing?”

“Usually once a week, one of us stays late and works with some of
the inspectors on outstanding cases. You wouldn’t believe how far behind we get
when we’re neck-deep in all the inspections.”

“I can imagine. Most of those cases come into your office how?”

“Random inspections. Or regularly scheduled ones. We do both.”

“So, if a farmer knows you always come on the fifteenth of a
month, he can, I assume, always be ready for you?”

“Theoretically, yes. Which is why we do spot inspections. Catch
them off-guard if they are not keeping their farms and animals clean.”

“But what about tip offs? You get a lot of them?”

“We get some.”

“You obliged to follow them all up?”

“Usually, yes.”

“You always send out an investigator?”

“Yes.”

“Any advance warning?”

“Not usually, no.”

“Tip offs ever come from disgruntled rivals?”

“From time to time.”

“You write them off as frivolous or do you have to investigate?”

“We always investigate. It’s the law.”

“You ever get tip-offs you know are bogus?”

She paused, thinking. “Sometimes. The accused, just like in a
real court, gets to defend himself. He has to prove his innocence, however.
That’s a bit of a change over the typical court system.”

I sipped my coffee and took more bites out of my sandwich. The
bacon had just the right amount of crispy and chewy. Jake’s is one of the few
places that sprinkle brown sugar over cooking bacon. The flavor is sublime.

I couldn’t help noticing the way she ate her food and drank her
tea. It was all dainty. She wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
Again, I got the sudden realization she must be truly upset to show up in a
greasy spoon.

“Back to what you heard. Tell me about it.”

She drank off some of her tea and wiped her mouth. How’d she do
that and still keep her lipstick in place?

“So, last week, I was working in Danny’s place. She had to take
her elderly mother to the pharmacy and she needed to swap days with me. We did,
no big deal, and I saw her off.

I pulled out my notebook and opened to a blank page.

“It was just after closing time when the man I told you about
showed up in the office. He wore a very nice blue suit and a yellow tie. He had
one interesting thing: a tie clip in the shape of a sideways eight.”

“A sideways eight?”

“Yeah, you know, a figure eight but on its side. Give me your
pen.”

I did as instructed and she drew the image on a napkin.

“Oh, that’s the infinity symbol.”

“Maybe,” she said, “but it didn’t actually meet at the middle.
There was some space in there. Not sure why.”

“So this guy wearing an infinity tie clip comes to your office
and what?”

“He met with Mr. Teague. But before that, the new man gave me a
weird look. The first thing that was weird was when he saw me. He looked
surprised. It was like he was expecting someone else.”

“Who?”

“Danielle.”

I took my pen back and recorded that fact. “What did this guy do
when he found out you weren’t Danielle?”

She paused, thinking. “He gave me a weird look, like the look you
give someone who is in the wrong place. It was really strange.”

She finished off her sandwich and washed it down with the last of
her tea. I took the opportunity to send the last mouthful of my sandwich down
my gullet. I signaled the waitress for more coffee and tea, then folded my
hands and leaned on my elbows.

“So this man went into Mr. Teague’s office. They closed the door,
but the walls are thin and I was the only other person in the building. I could
hear my own breath if I wanted to. It was no big thing to hear when the heated
voices starting to yell at each other.”

“What did they say?”

“Now, even though the walls are thin, I couldn’t hear every word.
One thing the man kept saying was ‘It’s your obligation to do this.’ He said it
more than once.”

“Any clue what that meant?”

She shook her head. “Not at all, but Teague got pretty worked up
over it. He yelled back something like, ‘but that’s illegal. The government
will know what I’ve done if they investigate.’”

I wrote that down in my notebook. “Any idea what he was talking
about?”

“I’m not sure, but it was the next day when Mr. Teague ordered
the slaughter of Mr. Smith’s chickens.”

I gazed at her. Now we were getting somewhere. “Okay, so this
mystery man comes to your office after hours, has a fight with Teague, and the
next day, Teague orders the slaughter?

She nodded and looked out the window at the noontime sun beating
down on the pavement. The heat shimmered off the street. “Mr. Teague pulled me
aside two days after that and asked if I had heard anything. I was scared. Of
course I heard everything, or the stuff that mattered most. But I couldn’t say
anything or he’d fire me. Or worse.”

“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.