1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf

by James Hadley Chase

  I groaned.

  "Well, you know how it is, Dirk. In this racket you have to pay from time to time."

  "What did he come up with?"

  "This stripper came to him when she was a kid. He thought around eighteen. She had no experience, but he took a fancy to her. I guess she did a casting-couch job on him. He got her small jobs in the various sleazy night-spots. She learned her trade the hard way. She worked for him for the next ten years, by then she really knew her business. Bernie's best client was Edmundo Raiz who owns the Skin Club. He got her in there. This was a big jump up for her, according to Bernie. She worked for Raiz for the next eight or nine years, then a year ago, she came to Bernie and told him she was quitting. Bernie went along with that. By then, she was pushing forty and putting on weight. She just took off and he hasn't seen nor heard of her since."

  "Bernie didn't mention she had a child?"

  "Oh, sure. He said the child was a handicap. She wouldn't do afternoon shows because she had to look after her boy. Bernie went along with that. He has ten children of his own, but he said without the child she could have made a lot more money."

  I pushed the photograph towards him.

  "Take a close look at this woman. Never mind her tits. Concentrate on her face."

  He studied the photograph, then gave me a leer.

  "Hard not to concentrate on her tits, isn't it?"

  "If you can, throw what you call your mind back to those wedding photos of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Stobart Fan showed you. Do you see a resemblance between Mrs. Stobart and Stella Costa?"

  He gaped at me, then studied the photograph again.

  "Well, maybe. Yes, damn it, it's possible. You mean this stripper is Mrs. Stobart?"

  "I don't know. Is she?"

  "I wouldn't swear to it, but the likeness is remarkable now you point it out."

  I looked at my watch. The time was 18.08.

  "I've another job for you, Terry. Have dinner, then do a tour of the drag clubs in Secomb. Go first to Flossie Atkins' joint. He's been in the business now for years. If you draw blank there, try all the other clubs. I want you to ask if anyone knows, has met, has seen recently, a fair-haired boy in way-out gear, beads and bracelets, going around with a big coloured man. The boy calls himself Johnny Jackson. His father was a Medal of Honor hero. The boy could have boasted about this. Okay?"

  O'Brien grimaced.

  "If you say so. That's a job I could well do without."

  "That's the way the cookie crumbles. Don't spend any more money. Pass the word that Johnny Jackson has come into money and you want to find him."

  "Flossie Atkins first, huh?"

  "You could strike gold there? Keep at it, Terry. Work all night if have to. As soon as you have some solid information, telephone me."

  "I take it you'll be happily in bed."

  "Could be. Phone me at my place."

  "Okay," and he left.

  After some thought, I decided it was now time for me to take a long look at Mrs. Phyllis Stobart.

  Having returned to my apartment, taken a shower, changed into one of my better suits. I drove to a sea-food restaurant and fortified myself with king-sized prawns served in a green pepper sauce. I took my time. When the hands of my watch showed 19.30, I got in my car and drove to Broadhurst Boulevard.

  The Stobart residence was situated at the top end of the boulevard on a corner site. All the villas on the boulevard were lush and reeked of wealth. The Stobart residence was no exception. It was half concealed by high box hedges and had double wrought-iron gates that led to a short drive past flowerbeds, immaculate lawns, a big swimming-pool and all the other gimmicks the rich can't live without.

  I parked under the shade of trees, got out of the c it and wandered to the gates. From there I had a good view of the villa: two storeys, having probably six bedrooms, three garages and a living-room with big picture-windows stretching the entire length of the villa. In that room, one could entertain some hundred people without feeling crushed.

  The front door, oak and nail-studded, was lit by two carriage lanterns. Lights were on in the living-room. Lights were also on in two of the upper bedrooms. A cream and brown Rolls stood on the tarmac.

  As I watched, a shadow crossed one of the upper windows: a woman.

  A hard, cop voice said behind me, "What do you think you're up to?"

  If someone had goosed me with a hot iron, I couldn't have jumped higher. Cautiously, I turned my head. In the hard, white light of the moon, I saw a big thickset man, wearing a peaked cap. The moonlight glittering on his silver buttons. He had a gun in his hand and was standing a foot or so behind me.

  With relief, I recognized the uniform and the man. He was Jay Wilbur of the Alert Security guards with whom we often worked. They had the thankless task of patrolling the districts where the rich resided.

  "Jesus, Jay!" I exclaimed. "You nearly made me lay an egg!"

  He peered at me, then put away his gun and grinned.

  "Oh, you. What's going on?"

  "I'm taking a leak at the Stobart setup. Nice, huh?"

  "You can say that. What's with it, with the Stobarts?"

  "We are interested in Mrs. Stobart. I want to talk to her."

  "What's the interest?"

  I gave him a long, hard stare. "Do you want to know?"

  As he always received a Christmas turkey from the colonel and a bottle of Scotch at Thanksgiving, he widened his grin.

  "I guess not."

  "You know the lady?"

  "I've seen her often enough. She's snooty. I wouldn't want to know her."

  "I want to talk to her without her husband. Any ideas?"

  "As regular as clockwork, she'll leave with rum in half an hour to go to the Country club. Mr. Stobart drops her there and goes on to a poker club. He spends most of the night making or losing money. He picks her up at the club around one o'clock, then bed."

  "Sounds as if they didn't get along together."

  "You haven't seen him? No one could get along with Herbie Stobart. He's the original sonofabitch."

  "Who else lives up there, Jay?"

  "They have a biggish staff. There's a black buck who drives Stobart: a bodyguard type. Then there's a girl who drops in from time to time anti borrows Mrs. Stobart's car."

  "Who is she?"

  "I wouldn't know. She looks sexy: black hair, good tits. She and Mrs. Stobart seem friends."

  "Okay, Jay, and thanks." Knowing him, I produced a twenty-dollar bill which changed ownership as we shook hands.

  All operators of the Parnell Detective Agency were members of the Country Club, the Yacht Club, the Casino and all the lush nightclubs. All operators carried the Parnell credit card which entitled them free meals, free drinks, you-name-it-you-have-it in all these clubs. It must have cost Parnell a bomb, but it paid off. There was always Charles Edwards, our accountant, to check any excessive spending and you had to have a water-tight explanation when your expense sheet was checked every month.

  I was installed in a lounging-chair on the big terrace of the club, nursing a Scotch and soda when I saw the cream and brown Rolls pull up at the entrance. A woman slid out, waved and came up the steps. I had hoped to have had a look at Herbert Stobart, but the Rolls drove away before I could get to my feet.

  The woman was elegantly dressed in a black and white low cut gown. Diamonds glittered around her neck and wrists. Her blonde hair was swept up in a knot on the top of her head.

  She moved leisurely as if she had all the time in the world. She looked around and waved to a fat man and a fatter woman who were nibbling at cocktails. They gave her a languid wave back. She went into the lobby. Hastily finishing my drink, I followed her in.

  She was talking to Johnson, the club's porter, an ageing black man with white frizzy hair who was listening respectfully. Then she gave him a curt nod and went through the main lounge and out onto the rear terrace where dinner was being served. She looked around as if hoping to find someone she knew, but the big
crowd was busy eating and talking as if they all were stone-deaf. She gave a little shrug and walked down to the lower terrace, found a table and sat down. She flicked impatiently at a waiter, spoke to him, then, opening her handbag, she took out a solid gold cigarette-case and selected a cigarette. Her movements were slow as if she had in mind the night ahead of her would be long. She lit the cigarette, then leaned back and surveyed the moonlit sea, the rustling palms and the headlights of the passing cars, a bored expression on her face.

  I moved closer. Regarding her, I could see, at one time, she must have been sensationally beautiful.

  She had the right bone structure, but now her face was a little puffy from too many pre-lunch cocktails and too many after-dinner Scotches. I had no doubt that this woman I was regarding was Stella Costa, ex-stripper and ex-hooker.

  I hung around until the waiter served her a dry martini, then, seeing no one was showing any interest in her, I decided to try my luck.

  "It's Mrs. Stobart?" I said as I reached her table.

  She looked sharply at me, then she smiled. Her hard face changed with the smile.

  "I am Mrs. Stobart, and who are you?" She had a low, husky voice that oozed sex.

  "Dirk Wallace," I said. "Lovely women should never be on their own. Would it ruin your evening if I joined you or shall I fade away?"

  Again she regarded me, then her smile widened.

  "Don't do that. Everyone seems paired off this evening. I come here regularly. I don't remember seeing you before."

  I pulled up a chair and sat down, signalling to the waiter.

  "I look in from time to time. Business keeps me busy." I ordered a Scotch on the rocks as the waiter came up.

  "Busy? Even in the evening?" She looked quizzingly at me.

  "Yes, unfortunately." I gave her my wide, friendly smile.

  "Quite a crowd here."

  She shrugged.

  “There always is." She eyed me thoughtfully. "What is your business, Mr. Wallace?"

  "I am an investigator."

  Her smile slipped slightly.

  "How interesting! An investigator? What do you investigate?"

  "Oh, this and that: confidential work."

  The waiter brought my drink and I signed for it.

  By her slowly changing expression I saw that she was beginning to regret inviting me to join her.

  She looked around as if hoping to see someone she knew so she could get up and go, but she wasn't having any luck this evening.

  "I work for the Parnell Detective Agency," I went on, watching her.

  She was good, but not quite good enough. She flinched, but her hand was steady as she picked up her glass, sipped the martini, then set the glass down.

  "Are you telling me you are one of those horrible insects who pry into people's lives? A snooper?"

  Her voice had turned harsh and she looked what she was: a hooker who had struck it rich.

  "I guess that's as good a description as any." I gave her my candid smile.

  "Do you mean to tell me the club's committee would allow someone like you to become a member?"

  "So it seems. You know, Mrs. Stobart, it's surprising the people the committee do let into this club. It seems they even let in ex-hookers." Again my candid smile.

  That hit her. She looked away:

  "Leave me!" she said in a strangled voice. "I don't associate with people like you!"

  "My mother once warned me never to associate with hookers, Mrs. Stobart," I said, "but there comes a time when business is business and we both seem to be stuck with it, don't we?"

  "If you don't leave immediately, I will report you to the committee!" she snarled and she looked vicious.

  "Come off it, Stella," I said. "I could report you. Let's get pally. I'm not interested in you. I'm looking for your son, Johnny Jackson."

  She stared down at her clenched fists for a long moment, then her fists turned into hands. She drew in a long, deep breath and, with an effort, she forced herself to relax.

  "By the way," I said, wanting to keep her off-balance, "Bernie Isaacs sends his compliments."

  She forced a laugh.

  "So you really have been digging?"

  "It's part of the job." I sipped my drink, then went on, "Where do I find your son, Mrs. Stobart?"

  "Why do you want to find him?"

  Well, that was a step forward. At least, she wasn't denying she had a son.

  "Briefly, his grandfather, Frederick Jackson, hired us to find him: Now Fred is dead, his grandson— your son—inherits his grandfather's frog-farm and his money. To clear up the estate, we have to find your son."

  "The frog-farm's worth nothing. Old Jackson didn't have any money, so why the goddamn fuss?"

  "You have been misinformed, Mrs. Stobart. The frog-farm is worth at least twenty thousand. Old Jackson earned some two hundred dollars a week for the past forty years. I doubt if he spent more than fifty dollars a week, if that, the way he lived, so, at a very rough guess, he had saved some three hundred thousand dollars. Johnny Jackson could inherit close on a quarter of a million, death-duties and tax taken care of."

  "You're out of your mind! That dreadful old man never had money like that! So, suppose he did? Where is it? In a bank? In stocks? I don't believe it!"

  "He kept it in a hole under his bed. Someone found it and took it, but that doesn't mean your son isn't entitled to it."

  She thought' about this, staring at the moonlit sea.

  "Someone took it?" she said after a long pause. "Forget it! I can tell you who took it! Johnny took it! He was the only one who would know old Jackson kept his money in a hole. When old Jackson shot himself, Johnny helped himself. It was his money, wasn't it? Old Jackson left it to him, didn't he?"

  "It's a little more complicated than that. Old Jackson didn't shoot himself. He was murdered, and I think the killer got the money."

  She reacted to this as if I had slapped her face. She started back and caught her breath.

  "Murdered? You're crazy! What are you saying? The verdict was suicide!"

  "Unless Johnny Jackson murdered his grandfather," I said quietly, "he didn't get the money he should inherit."

  "That old bastard shot himself!"

  "Okay. Where do I find Johnny Jackson?"

  "I don't know! I've had enough of this! Get the hell away from me!" Her voice had turned strident.

  Fortunately, by now, the terrace was deserted, but I saw the waiter stare at us.

  "Mrs. Stobart, please calm down." I put a snap in my voice. "I want to find Johnny. You say you don't know where he is. Can't you give me some lead? Is it right he is homosexual and goes around with a black buck?"

  She hesitated, staring away from me, her hard face set.

  "Yes, he is a queer," she said finally. "He came once to me with this nigger and tried to borrow money from me. I haven't seen him since. He's probably dead. I don't know . . . I don't care! He was part of my miserable past."

  "Why should he be dead?"

  "I don't know! I've had enough of him! I just hope he is dead!"

  "You can give me no idea where I can find him?"

  "Oh, God!" She clenched her fists. "Can't you forget the little fag? Who cares?"

  "That's not answering my question, Mrs. Stobart. Have you no idea if he is around here?"

  She made the effort and pulled herself together.

  "I have no idea. All I hope is that he doesn't bother me ever again." She glared at me. "Do you understand? I've been through hell! Now, I have found a rich husband. My life from what it was has changed. I'm respectable!" She leaned forward, her big eyes glittering. "I've made it! Can't you understand what that means to me? I've made it, but still this ghastly little fag haunts me!"

  "Oh, sure. Was Mitch Jackson his father?"

  "Don't you ever stop prying? All right, if you must know; Mitch Jackson was his father. Now, are you satisfied?"

  "Did you marry Jackson?"

  "That bastard wasn't the marrying kind. Let m
e tell you, you snooping creep, like his goddamn father, Mitch only wanted a son! So I gave him a son: a homo mess! I thought Mitch would marry me when I told him he had a son, but he didn't. He got himself killed and won a medal! How's that for a laugh?"

  "Johnny ran away from you when he was around eight years old. Why did he do that?"

  "You want to know? Well, find out! You called me a hooker. Use what stupid brains you have." She got to her feet. "If you upset my life, Mr. Private Eye, you'll be sorry." She leaned forward, glaring at me. "I've told you what I know. If you must still search for that goddamn little fag, go ahead, but keep me out of it. Understand?"

  "Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Stobart." I got to my feet. "I hope I haven't spoilt your evening."

  "A turd like you couldn’t spoil my evening," she snarled and walked away.

  I watched her climb the steps to the restaurant terrace, then wave as someone claimed her.

  I lit a cigarette and wandered to the balustrade and stared down at the beach and the glittering sea. I watched the young frolicking and listened to their distant shouts: Paradise City at play.

  I thought about what she had told me.

  I still wasn't within grasping distance of the elusive Johnny Jackson.

  Back in my apartment, I switched on the TV and watched a blonde girl screaming into a mike. She jiggled her behind, clawed at the air and screamed: I love you. I love you! I love you! The back-up band of four coloured youths did their best to drown her squawking voice, but didn't succeed. I tried the other channels, but got more or less the same treatment so I switched off. I wondered how Terry O'Brien was making out.

  The shrill sound of my telephone bell brought me awake. Looking at my watch, I saw it was a few minutes after 03.00. I grabbed the receiver.

  "I hope I woke you up," O'Brien said.

  "Me? I've been sitting here waiting. What have you got?"

  "Look, Dirk, would you be conning me?"

  "About what?"

  "Johnny Jackson."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I've visited about ten drag clubs and I talked to Flossie. No one . . . repeat no one . . . has ever heard of Johnny Jackson and, let me tell you, Flossie knows them all. He keeps a directory. He knows who is who and who does what. No Johnny Jackson."