"No fair, pretty boy going around in beads and bracelets with a black buck?"
"You heard what I said. Johnny Jackson doesn't exist. If you don't believe me, go talk to Flossie. Can I go to bed now?"
"Sure, and thanks, Terry. Maybe he didn't visit the clubs."
"How many more times do I have to tell you?" O'Brien's voice rose in exasperation. "Flossie says there is no Johnny Jackson. All these goddamn fags, as soon as I told them this guy Jackson was coming into money, fell over themselves to help, but no one has ever heard of him. Does that satisfy you?"
"It has to, doesn't it?" I said and hung up.
chapter eight
I found two notes on my desk when I entered thy office the following morning.
The first read: Mr. Anderson, deputy sheriff, Searle, asks you to call him. Urgent The second read: Mr. Benbolt of Howard & Benbolt, Miami, asks you to call him.
I had had a restless night and finally slept late. After a lasts breakfast and feeling depressed, I had gone to the office. I was depressed by Terry O'Brien's report. This presented a puzzling problem. There had to be a Johnny Jackson. Thinking about this as I had driven to the office, I wondered if Be-Be Mansel and Phyllis Stobart had been lying to me. Why should they? Both of them had told the same story that Johnny Jackson was a homosexual and went around with a black buck. And yet Flossie Atkins had said he knew of no such pair and, from past experience, I knew Flossie was more than reliable. What possible reason could Be-Be Mansel and Phyllis Stobart have to lie to me? The evidence was there. Johnny was an obvious homosexual from what I had learned. All my informants in Searle had said he was 'soft' and didn't dig girls. If that didn't make him gay, what did?
Chick Barley was out so I had the office to myself. I put a call through to Bill Anderson.
"Dirk, I've got something for you," he said when he came on the line. He sounded efficient and excited.
"What is it?"
"I've traced the Beretta gun that killed old Jackson."
"How did you do that?"
"Well, as usual, I had nothing to do and I kept wondering about the gun so I called every cop house up the coast. I struck lucky at Jacksonville. They told me they had issued a licence for the gun six years ago.'"
"Who to?"
"Here's a surprise. Harry Weatherspoon."
"Nice work, Bill."
"They told me Weatherspoon, two years ago, had reported the gun had been stolen and would they cancel his permit."
"How was it stolen?"
"According to Weatherspoon, he had a break-in at the factory. Some money and the gun were stolen. He told the Jacksonville cops that Sheriff Mason was dealing with the break-in, but he wanted the permit cancelled."
"Was there a break-in, Bill?"
"No. I would have known about it. No break-in."
"How come Weatherspoon registered the gun with the Jacksonville cops?"
"I asked that. They told me he had rented an apartment there while he was looking around. He said he wanted the gun as protection. He explained to the cops that he was an ex-narcotic agent with plenty of enemies. They accepted that."
"You've done a great job, Bill! This will do you a lot of good with the colonel!"
"That's great! Do you think Weatherspoon murdered old Jackson?"
"That's my bet."
"But why for God's sake?"
"I'm working on it. When's Weatherspoon's inquest?"
"Today. The funeral will be the day after tomorrow."
"Dr. Steed is sticking to the accident death?"
"Sure." He breathed heavily over the line. "Isn't it?"
I ignored this.
"About the gun, Bill. Has Dr. Steed still got it?"
"I guess so. I don't know."
"Was it checked for fingerprints?"
"I wanted to do that but Dr. Steed said it wasn't necessary."
"Do you even know if it was the gun that killed old Jackson?"
"There was no ballistic check if that's what you mean."
"Man! What a fig-leaf job! Okay, Bill, I'll be seeing you," and I hung up.
I then called the offices of Howard & Benbolt. I got the fat old party who, as soon as I told her my name, turned snooty.
"Mr. Benbolt is out." Her voice rang with triumph.
"He asked me to call him," I said patiently, reminding myself to be kind to the old.
"I have a note here. He would like to see you this afternoon at three o'clock."
"I'll be there," I said and hung up.
I got out the carbon copies of my report to the colonel that Glenda was holding and read through them. Then I added my telephone conversation with Anderson. I sat for a little while thinking. More jigsaw puzzle pieces were falling into place. Weatherspoon, decided to pull out of the drug racket, knowing old Jackson had a hidden hoard of money, had gone to the cabin and murdered old Jackson but someone had already got old Jackson's hoard. I did some more thinking. I had interviewed all the various people connected directly or indirectly with Johnny Jackson, except one: Herbert Stobart. Maybe he had never heard of Johnny Jackson, but I had a strong urge to take a long look at Stobart. I had nothing to do until my date with Benbolt, so I went along to Glenda's office and gave her the report of Anderson's telephone call, asking her to keep it along with the rest of the stuff she was holding.
"Are you writing a novel?" she asked sarcastically.
"It's an idea," I grinned at her. "I hadn't thought of it, but it’s an idea," and I left her.
I drove to the Country Club, parked the car and climbed the steps to the lobby. The time was 11.10.
The rich and the idle were already on the terrace: the women yakking together, the men nibbling at their first drinks of the day and talking cars, sport, the Dow Jones and their money.
I found Sammy Johnson, the porter, sorting letters. He gave me a kindly smile. Colonel Parnell also looked after him at Christmas and Thanksgiving. He was a man with an ear to the ground and worth keeping sweet.
"Hi, Sammy," I said. "You're looking younger every day."
"Well, Mr. Wallace," He said, smiling, "I guess that's right. I feel younger every day."
"Mr. Stobart around?"
"He's playing golf, Mr. Wallace." Johnson sorted more letters, then said, "I guess he'll he on the 17th by now."
"I haven't met him," I said. "How will I know him?"
"He always comes up to the lower terrace after his game. He's a little gentleman and wears a red and white striped baseball cap. You can't miss him."
"Thanks, Sammy."
"If you want to talk business with him, Mr. Wallace, now's not the time. He's playing business golf with a gentleman, and Mr. Stobart isn't easy."
“Thanks again, Sammy."
I went down to the lower terrace, found an isolated table, pulled the chair around so I was half screened by dwarf palms and sat down to wait.
Twenty minutes later, I saw a man, wearing a red and white baseball cap, a white T-shirt and dark blue slacks coming up the steps, talking to a short, heavily built man who I immediately recognized as Edmundo Raiz. I hurriedly shifted back my chair to conceal myself further. They came towards me and sat down three tables from where I was sitting.
Stobart sat with his back to me. Raiz sat by his side. Neither of them looked in my direction.
Stobart flicked his fingers at a waiter and called "Beer.” Then leaning forward, he began to talk to Watching, I could see Raiz kept bobbing his head as if receiving instructions. I was frustrated that I couldn't see Stobart's face, but I waited patiently.
The waiter brought beers. Stobart signed and tipped and the waiter went away.
Then I saw Stobart take something from his hip pocket and then produced a pen. Standing up, peering over the palm-leaves, I saw he was writing a check. He waved it in the air, then gave it to Raiz who put it in his wallet.
Raising his voice, Stobart said, "Okay, Ed. Get off, get cash and get the deal settled."
"Yes, Mr. Stobart," Raiz said and hasti
ly swallowed his beer. He stood up. "I'll call you as soon as I have news."
"Don't foul this up, Ed." The snap in Stobart's voice made Raiz flinch.
"You can leave this to me, Mr. Stobart," and he hurries across the terrace and up the steps and out of I sat down and waited.
Stobart took his time drinking his beer. He sat still, drumming thick, short fingers on the table, and I could image his brain was active. Then abruptly he stood up and walked with quick strides to the steps.
I went after him, keeping well back. I still only had the back view of him.
In the lobby, he went to the news-stand and bought a Paradise City Herald. I positioned myself near the revolving doors that led to the front terrace.
Below, I saw the cream and brown Rolls. A big, powerfully built negro in a brown uniform and a brow n peaked cap stood waiting. I recognized him as the negro who had threatened me when I had left Hank Smith: the gorilla. Startled, I stepped back and cannoned into Stobart who was heading for the exit.
"You drunk?" he snarled, glaring at me.
We looked straight at each other and I felt a shock run through me.
I looked at this man's face confronting me: close-set eyes, an almost lipless mouth, a short nose and a thin white scar running from his right eye down to his chin.
He shoved by me and walked down the steps. The gorilla held the door open and Stobart got in. The Rolls drove away.
I watched the car out of sight. I knew for sure this man who called himself Herbert Stobart was Mitch Jackson's thieving buddy. The man who stood on the sidelines, in the past, while Mitch Jackson fought battles: the man who the citizens of Searle had said was the brains while Mitch Jackson supplied the brawn: Syd Watkins!
I found Edward Benbolt sitting behind his 'desk, looking flushed and, as usual, overfed.
He shook hands and waved me to a chair.
"I have just returned from Searle," he said. "In view of this offer for the frog-factory, I thought it was time to talk to Miss Peggy Wyatt." He gave me a roguish smile. "Nice little girl . . . lucky little girl."
"What offer?" I asked.
"Ah, Mr. Wallace, things have been happening. There will be no problem concerning Mr. Weatherspoon's will. Probate will be through very quickly. Mr. Seigler of Seigler & Seigler came to me with a handsome offer for the factory. It was an offer I had to consider in the interest of Miss Wyatt. So, this morning, I saw her and put the proposition to her and she has agreed to sell."
"What's the offer?"
He massaged his double chin
"Handsome."
"Look, don't go professional with me," I said in my cop voice. "I told you the buyer will be a drug-pusher. What's the offer?"
"You told me that," Benbolt said, his little eyes going hard, "but I have only your word for it."
"You'll have the Drug Enforcement toughies breathing down your neck. What's the offer?”
"If I have to Mr. Wallace; I will deal directly with them and not you."
"Who's the buyer?"
He leaned back in his chair, his fat, florid face looking hostile.
"Your business, Mr. Wallace, is to find Johnny Jackson. Shall we leave it at that?"
I stared at him.
"Are you saying you are no longer cooperative?"
"There is no reason for me to cooperate with a private inquiry agent." He looked more hostile. "Your insinuations that the frog-factory handles drugs I now consider reckless and absurd. I have inspected the factory and there is absolutely no evidence that it isn't what it claims to be a flourishing business, supplying luxury hotels with frog saddles. By delaying the sale, many hotels will be deprived and will probably look elsewhere for supplies. Also a number of skilled workers would be thrown out of work. All this because you claim, without any evidence, that this factory is connected with drugs." He looked at his watch. "Please don't bother me again. I do not wish to waste further time with you."
I got to my feet.
"How much did they pay you, Benbolt?"
His fat face turned into an ugly mask of controlled fury. "Get out of my office!"
"Man! What you finks will do for money," I said. "See you going down in the elevator.” I decided I had to contact Peggy Wyatt fast. There was a row of call-booths in the lobby. I hunted up The Jumping Frog hotel's telephone number. Old Abraham answered.
"Is Miss Peggy there, Abraham?" I asked. "This is Mr. Wallace."
"No, Mr. Wallace, she ain't."
"Where is she?"
"I guess up at the frog-factory. You heard the wonderful news? Miss Peggy owns that factory now."
"I heard. Thanks," and I hung up. I looked up Morgan & Weatherspoon, got the number, dialled, but got the out-of-order signal. Feeling suddenly uneasy. I hung up.
It would take me a good two hours driving to reach Searle from where I was. A lot could happen in two hours. I was possibly getting worked up for nothing. Since Benbolt had told Peggy that she had inherited the factory it would be normal for her to go and look at it, but, all the same, my unease was there and when I got that feeling I acted on it. I called the sheriff s office at Searle.
Bill Anderson came on the line.
"Bill, I want you to do something," I said. "I want you to go right away to the frog-factory. I want you to make sure Peggy's there, and is all right."
"All right?" He sounded puzzled. "What do you mean? You've heard the news? She's an heiress! Weatherspoon . . ."
"I know all that. Get over to the factory and see what she's doing. I'm calling from a call-booth. Here's the number." I read it to him. "Got it?"
"Sure, but what's all this about?"
"Get over there! Chat her up. Congratulate her, see if she's all right, then telephone me. I'll be waiting."
"Well, okay. You'll have to wait."
"I'll wait," I said. "Get on with it!"
I expected to wait at least an hour, but trained operators are used to waiting. I took a seat in the lobby near the call-booths, lit a cigarette and thought about Benbolt.
I was sure he had been got at. I was sure Seigler of Seigler & Seigler had cut him in on the frog-factory sale. I should have known better than to have confided in a fat shyster like Benbolt. I should have remembered that he was Weatherspoon's client. Could he have known what was going on at the factory? I didn't think that was likely, but it was possible. No, I decided, Benbolt was the kind who couldn't refuse big money and the money offered for him to influence Peggy to sell could have been considerable. This was a three million dollar a year take. Money to oil Benbolt would be no hardship. So I waited.
Finally, forty minutes and six cigarettes later, I heard the bell in the call-booth ringing.
I snatched up the receiver
"Dirk?"
"Yeah. What's happening?"
"What's all the uproar about?" Anderson sounded irritated. "I walked to the factory. Peggy was there. She looked wild with excitement. I started my stuff about being pleased about her luck, but she cut me short. I'll tell you exactly what she said. 'Not now, Bill. Some other time. I'm busy completing a deal.' and she shut the door in my face."
"That all?"
"That's it. She looked happy and excited. Did you think something was wrong?"
"A deal? Someone was with her?"
"That's correct. I saw him through the office window as I went up the steps: a little guy, dark, looked like a Mexican."
"Shit!" I said and hung up.
I ran to my car.
As I approached, I saw a fair-haired boy around twelve years old, staring at the front of my car. He looked at me and gave me a wide smile.
"You gotta flat, mister," he said. "I saw the guy. He stuck a knife in your tyre."
I looked at the off-side front tyre. It couldn't have been flatter.
"What did he look like?" I asked the kid.
"A spade. Big black hat. Plenty of beads and he smelt like garbage."
Sombrero!
I got the spare wheel out and began the chore of changing wh
eels. I hadn't changed a wheel in years arid, after minutes of fumbling, the kid said, "You haven't the right idea, mister. Let me do it."
He did it in ten minutes. I couldn't have done it in half an hour.
"What's your name, son?" I asked as he put the flat in the trunk.
"Wes Bridley."
"If ever you want to be a private eye, you come to the Parnell Detective Agency and I'll see you get employed." I gave him a five-dollar bill.
"Private eye? Who wants to be that!" He screwed up his nose. "I'm going to be a banker."
I got in the car, waved to him and headed for Searle.
I kept to the coast road, driving just within the speed limit until I reached Fort Pierce, then I turned onto highway 8. The run up to Fort Pierce had been frustrating as the coast traffic was heavy and I was sure Raiz had told Sombrero to use delaying tactics, but by careful and smart driving I kept to within forty and fifty miles an hour, not wanting more delay with a traffic cop. Once on highway 8, the traffic thinned and, taking a chance, I moved up into the sixties.
My mind was busy thinking about Peggy. I thought of Stobart giving Raiz a check and telling him to get cash. Raiz, by now, had probably talked Peggy into selling the factory, dazzling her with a pile of dollar bills.
It was when I was within five miles of Lake Placid that I became aware of a truck loaded with crates of oranges within fifteen feet of my rear bumper. Then I remember the truck had been following me for some time. There were always dozens of trucks carrying vegetables and fruit on the highway and I had thought nothing of it. But driving at sixty-three miles an hour and to find the truck so close to me brought me alert.
Ahead of me the road was straight, bordered by trees and jungle. The truck irritated me to be driving so close and well above the speed-limit for commercial vehicles. I decided to lose it and trod down hard on the gas. My car surged forward to seventy-five miles an hour. A quick check in my driving, mirror showed the truck had fallen back. I had gained some hundred yards, but I couldn't keep up this speed.
Oncoming trucks had appeared and, ahead of me, I saw a massive twenty-tonner, loaded with vegetables, crawling. I had to slam on my brakes and wait for a chance to overtake. As it happened the oncoming traffic thickened. Looking in my rear mirror I saw the orange-carrying truck was again within fifteen feet of me.
1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf Page 16