Read Online Death Under the Lilacs by Richard; Forrest - Free Book Online

He moaned and ran his fingers down the long lists, mouthing each name to see if it struck a chord of familiarity.
    The FBI had compiled the lists and provided the state police and Lyon with duplicate copies. The agent named Dupress had been succinct: “We’ll run the names for possible MOs and Wanteds. We want you to see if you know anyone.”
    The lists were compiled from two sources: plane manifests of flights to London or other cities in Europe that might provide connector flights to London; and the subscription list of the American Philatelic Journal . He was to pick up names on the manifests and compare them to the other list.
    Lengthy groups of Williamses, Smiths, Browns, and Whites complicated the task.
    He dragged himself from sleep and blinked open his eyes. The list dream was still vivid. He moaned. Not only had all day yesterday been spent on the lists, and all of today was so destined, he had done it in his sleep. He rolled out of bed and staggered toward the shower.
    He sat in the breakfast nook with a mug of coffee in front of him, the lists to one side, and a yellow legal pad for notes on the other. Sun shone through the window and dappled the walls of the brightly lit room. It was a lovely day completely alien to his mood.
    He sipped coffee and said aloud, “The bastard probably used a forged passport.” He stared at the ceiling and reviewed the process of obtaining a passport. A birth certificate. You need only check the newspaper obits for the death of someone your own age and write to the Bureau of Vital Statistics with the proper fee in order to get a new copy. Passport photographs and an application under the assumed name, and in days you had a passport under a new identity.
    Too easy, but in this instance would it even be necessary? That was the slim hope they had to work on. He bent over the lists again.
    At ten o’clock he found an unmistakable name that was familiar. “R. Traxis,” he said aloud. Possibly it belonged to Robert Traxis of Connecticut. He picked up the subscription list for the stamp journal and hastily searched it for Traxis.
    It was there. His fingers trembled as he underlined it. Robert Traxis, 7 Overview Drive, Wessex, Connecticut. The coincidences were remarkable: Not only had R. Traxis flown to London on the Concorde several days ago, he was also a stamp collector. Most important of all, he was Bea’s most virulent and dedicated political opponent.
    Lyon spilled coffee as he rushed to the kitchen phone. He flipped the phone from its cradle and began to punch numbers.
    He stopped. Rocco was gone, and there wasn’t any evidence to present to the heavy-handed Captain Norbert. He would make the investigation himself. Where did Traxis work? He owned a medium-sized industrial concern of some sort down near the Connecticut shore. What was its name?
    He dialed information and then the number.
    â€œTraxis Machine Company,” an alert female voice answered.
    â€œCan you please tell me where Mr. Traxis can be reached in London? I have an urgent message for him.”
    â€œMr. Traxis returned from Europe last night. We expect him in the office later today. If you will leave your name?”
    Lyon felt numb. It was too early for him to have returned from England. It was too soon for the stamp delivery. Rocco would have called if any contact had been made.
    â€œHello. Are you there?” the voice from the machine company pressed.
    Lyon glanced at the Concorde’s flight manifest. Traxis, if he was presently at home, had been in Europe less than twenty-four hours. “Does Mr. Traxis fly to England often?”
    â€œOh yes, sir. Constantly. We have a plant near Birmingham.”
    â€œI see. Thank you. Oh, could I please have his home phone number?”
    â€œI am sorry, but that number is unlisted. If you will leave a message?”
    â€œThank you. I’ll call back.” Lyon slowly hung up. He tapped the wall impatiently.