1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf

by James Hadley Chase

  "Thank you." He looked happy. "Kitty kept a high standard. She really loved this place and she kept it as I am keeping it." He regarded me. "I wouldn't want her to be unhappy." He took the drink. "I believe dear ones keep close." He lifted his glass in a salute. We drank a little. "So you're looking for Johnny Jackson?"

  "Yes. Did you ever meet him?"

  "Of course. He was a nice kid: smart. When I say smart, I mean he was good at school, and he was a hell of a worker. Make no mistake about that. Kids, these days, don't know the meaning of work: it's pop and fooling, but Johnny used to ride his cycle five miles to school, work, then cycle back, do Fred's laundry, cook his supper, help with the frogs and keep the place clean. He loved Fred. From what I know, I'll say he even worshipped Fred."

  "Then why did he take off?"

  Wally stroked his beard and shook his head.

  "That's what I keep asking myself. Why did Johnny suddenly vanish?"

  "Mr. Watkins, do you imagine something happened to him? I mean he got ill and died or had an accident and died and old Jackson didn't report it?"

  Wally slopped a little of his drink, muttered to himself, then, taking out a handkerchief, he mopped up the slight spill on his trousers.

  "Died? Oh, no. Fred would have reported it. Nothing like that. No, something happened up at that cabin that made Johnny run away. That's what I think."

  "What could have happened that bad?"

  He rocked in his chair.

  "That's what I keep asking myself."

  "Suppose, as Johnny grew up, he got tired of living rough. Suppose he decided to quit."

  "I told you. He worshipped Fred. He wouldn't have left him.”

  "But he did."

  "That's right."

  "You knew Fred pretty well?"

  "More than well. At one time we were close friends. When the a'gator got his legs, I used to drive up there with groceries. Mitch was there then. He was a good son to Fred, but g real young hellion to everyone else. When he got drafted, he came to see me. He told me to look after his father—as if I wouldn't have! So I continued to drive up there with groceries, but it wasn't the same. Fred turned nasty. He hated anyone seeing him stumping around on his thighs. I guess that's natural, but it grieved me. Then Johnny arrived. Johnny used to come to my store after school and buy stuff. He said Fred didn't welcome visitors, so I kept away. Both Kitty and I felt the kid would look after Fred, so we left him to it."

  "Was Fred married?"

  "I think so, I'm talking now of some thirty-five or so years ago. That was when I was just starting my grocery store and Fred was working for a frog-farmer . . . before he bought land and started up for himself. Anyway, he quit Searle and was away a couple of years. When he returned, he had made a bit of money and brought Mitch back with him. Mitch was around two years old. Fred told me in confidence the mother had died, giving birth to Mitch. Fred liked boys. He was very proud of Mitch. Although both Kitty and I told him he would have a tough time rearing the baby, he just laughed and said Mitch would have to take his chances, and he certainly did. I remember Fred telling me that if it had been a baby girl he would have got it adopted, but having a son meant a lot to him."

  "Did Fred save his money?"

  Wally looked surprised.

  "I don't know, but I've wondered about that. He was getting well paid for his frogs. I guess he must have saved."

  "That's why I want to find Johnny. He seems to be Fred's only heir. There's talk about buying the farm."

  Wally nodded.

  "Weatherspoon?"

  "Yes."

  "You've met him?"

  "I've met him."

  "He came to this town around ten years ago and has been buying property ever since. He bought the frog-factory. He bought my grocery-store. As soon as poor Bob Wyatt passes on, and it won't be long, the story goes, Weatherspoon will buy the hotel."

  "The money comes from the frog-factory?"

  "I wouldn't know. The factory does well, but it doesn't make that kind of money."

  "There's talk, Mr. Watkins, that a young girl worked for Fred after Johnny disappeared."

  He nodded.

  "That'll be old Abe Levi. He claims to have seen her, but Abe drinks too much. There are too many stories floating around in Searle. I don't go along with that one."

  "Abe thinks Johnny was still there and the girl was shacking up with him."

  "That the sort of rubbish Abe would think. If he saw anyone up there, it was Johnny. You think about it. No girl would want to stay with a smelly, legless old man who disliked the female sex, wash his clothes and live with frogs." Wally laughed. "Doesn't add up."

  I thought he could be right.

  "Well, Mr. Watkins, I won't keep you," I said. "What you have told me is interesting. I want to think about it, then, if I may, I'll be back with more questions."

  "Are you going to Fred's funeral, Mr. Wallace?"

  "I don't think so. When is it?"

  "Tomorrow at eleven. All the town will be there. Searle loves a funeral." He patted his knee. "I'll be there too, knee or not."

  "Would it help if I took you in my car?"

  "That's real kind. It's all right. Bob Wyatt promised to fetch me." He shook his head. "I guess, he'll be the next to go."

  I shook hands with him and drove back to Searle.

  Peggy Wyatt was behind the reception desk as I walked into the hotel lobby. She gave me a brilliant smile.

  "Want your key, Dirk?" she asked.

  "Thanks, Peggy, and can you give me an outside line to my room, please? I have some phoning to do."

  "Pa's out," she said as she handed me the key. I could smell the gin on her breath. "Suppose I come up in an hour and prove to you how comfortable your bed is?"

  I felt sorry for her. She was drunk and, for some reason I didn't know about, frustrated.

  "Look, Peggy, you're a little young for me," I said gently, "and lay off the gin."

  She flushed and glared.

  "You don't know what you're, passing up."

  "Just fix me an outside line," and, leaving her, I took the elevator to my room.

  Ten minutes later, I was talking to Chick Barley.

  "Got anything for me yet, Chick?" I asked.

  "Not yet. This is going to take a little time."

  I detected very faint breathing over the line that told me Peggy was listening in.

  "No details, Chick," I said curtly. "I have an audience. Just hurry it up, will you?" and I hung up.

  I spent the rest of the evening writing up a report covering my visit with Bill Anderson to Jackson's cabin, the hole under the bed, my talk with Harry Weatherspoon and Wally Watkins. This took me to dinner-time. I locked the report away, then went down to the restaurant. There were only four men, on their own, obviously travelling salesmen who ate and worked at the same time. None of them more than glanced at me.

  I ate a good steak with French fries, then returned to room, turned on the TV set and let it bore me until I was ready for bed.

  I locked my door, got into bed and went to sleep.

  Wally Watkins was right. Searle certainly loved a funeral. At 10.30, the church bell began to toll.

  This was the signal for the citizens to appear on Main Street.

  Having had a good breakfast, I had retired to my sitting-room and had sat down at the window to watch the proceedings. Every shop, business premises, the post-office, the filling station was closed. The only place open was the sheriff s office.

  From my window, I looked down at the mass of people, all wearing black and the kids wearing white. These mourning-clothes I guessed were stored away and brought out for anyone's funeral. It was an impressive sight.

  The hearse, containing an oak coffin with brass handles, which I assumed contained the remains of Frederick Jackson, headed the procession.

  Leading was Sheriff Mason who had obviously had taken a very heavy dose of his medicine as he lurched slightly as he walked and held a handkerchief to his eyes. A
step or two behind him was Dr. Steed, followed by Harry Weatherspoon, Bob Wyatt, Wally Watkins, leaning heavily on a cane, and Silas Wood.

  Among the crowd I spotted Abe Levi. There were no flowers. I guessed the citizens had considered it was enough to subscribe to this handsome coffin. Maybe they thought that a legless old frog-farmer wouldn't appreciate flowers.

  I watched the procession out of sight, then I went down to the hotel lounge.

  Peggy was behind the reception desk. She stared at me and this time there was no smile.

  "Well, they're putting him away in style," I said.

  "I'm not talking to you," she said.

  I moved to the counter and rested my elbows on it, looking straight at her.

  "You lied to me, Peggy, when you told me you and Johnny were close, didn't you?"

  She flushed and glared at me.

  "Oh, take off? You bore me!"

  "You and the rest of the girls hated Johnny because he ignored you all," I went on. "But you, you wanted to be special so you spread it around among your silly little pals that Johnny was secretly in love with you. I suppose it gave you a status symbol. You even began to believe your lie, but you know, as well as I do, Johnny had as much use for you as he had for the rest of the girls. Grow up, Peggy, and cut out this drinking."

  She made a wild swing to slap my face, but I easily caught her wrist.

  "Come on, Peggy, grow up."

  She broke free, her face crumpled and tears spurted.

  "I hate you! Johnny was a sloppy little creep! I like real men! Go to hell!"

  She turned and ran into the back office and slammed the door.

  I was sorry for her, but I had to know, and now I knew. Leaving the hotel, I walked across to the sheriff s office where I found Bill Anderson sitting at his desk.

  "Hi, Dirk!" he exclaimed. "What did you think of our funeral?"

  "A big deal. Did you talk to the mailman?"

  "I saw him last night: Josh may look dim, but he's got a good memory. He tells me old Fred never got any mail until after Mitch died. The Army sent, by registered mail, Mitch's medal. That's the first thing old Fred ever got from the post-office. Then, after that, for the past six years, an envelope arrived for Fred. Josh, who is nosey, tells me it was from Miami. It turned up regularly the first of every month.”

  "The first of the month was five days ago," I said. "Did the envelope arrive?"

  "No. Whoever was writing to Fred must have known he had died."

  "Fred died three days ago, Bill," I said. "Whoever was writing to him knew he was going to die."

  I left him gaping and, as I was walking back to the hotel, the church bell stopped its dismal tolling. I guessed the funeral was over. There was no sign of Peggy as I took the elevator up to my room. I added to my report that she had been lying about her association with Johnny Jackson and also about the mail Fred Jackson had been receiving every month. I locked the repot' in my briefcase and went down to lunch.

  The restaurant was deserted. I ate cold cuts and a salad. The old coloured waiter told me that as soon as the folks returned from the burial the restaurant would be packed. I hurried over my meal and went up to my room to wait.

  I watched all the mourners come down Main Street and disappear into their various homes. I waited a while longer, then went down to my car. By then all the shops were open and all the mourning-clothes had vanished. It was business as usual in Searle.

  I drove to the cemetery. For a hick town like Searle, the cemetery was impressively large and well kept. I took me some time to find Frederick Jackson's grave. I found it in a far corner among shabby-looking tombstones: not ail expensive burial-lot.

  Lying on the fresh-turned earth was a bunch of red roses: there were two dozen of them: exhibition blooms and the kind of roses I would have liked someone to put or my grave when my time came.

  I moved closer and saw a card, attached to a bit of wire. I leaned forward and read what was typewritten on the card:

  Rest Now In Peace, Grandpa. Johnny.

  chapter four

  By driving fast, I arrived at Paradise City a few minutes before 18.00. I was lucky to catch Chick Barley as he was clearing his desk.

  "Oh, God!" he exclaimed as I walked into the office we shared. "Look, Dirk, I have a heavy date and she won't wait."

  "You have the wrong approach. The more you keep them waiting, the hotter they become. What have you got for me?"

  "What do you think we are . . . miracle-workers? I've got something, but it doesn't amount to much." He sat down, looked feverishly at his watch, then pulled open one of his desk drawers. "Here, you have it. A report on Syd Watkins. So far there is no evidence that Mitch Jackson ever married nor had a kid, but we're still digging at that. The Army says he was single, but the Army could be wrong."

  "Johnny Jackson's birth hasn't been registered?"

  "I don't know. We're still digging." He handed me a typewritten report. "That's it, old buddy, now I'm off."

  "Not yet. Chick, you were a cop, serving under Parnell. What was the drug-addiction situation like in the regiment?"

  "For God's sake! What's on your mind? You are supposed to be looking for Jackson's grandson, aren't you?"

  "'You're wasting time, Chick. What was the drug-addiction like in Parnell's regiment?"

  He hesitated, then shrugged.

  "That's old history, but it was pretty bad. Every regiment out there had this problem. It wasn't my business. We had a narcotic squad working on it: they were professionals."

  "Didn't they report about your regiment?"

  "I guess so, but it went direct to the colonel. I tell you, it wasn't my business."

  "This narcotic squad: who was the boss man?"

  "Colonel Jefferson Haverford. He and Colonel Parnell are great buddies."

  "Where do I find him?"

  Chick started at me, frowning.

  "What's going on in that thing you call your mind? This is ancient history. The colonel wouldn't want it aired. He's proud of his regiment and he has every reason to be proud of it."

  "Where do I find Colonel Haverford?"

  Chick again looked at his watch.

  "He lives right here. You'll find him in the book, but listen, Dirk, watch your step. The colonel won't want you to start digging up ancient history." He got to his feet. "If I don't go now, my date will chop off my jewels," and he was gone.

  I lit a cigarette, gave myself a drink from the office bottle and read the brief report concerning the Army career of Sydney Watkins.

  From the report, I learned Syd Watkins was drafted. He became a bomb-handler: one of the crew who bombed up aircraft. He spent four years in Vietnam at base, handling bombs and nothing else. His work was satisfactory. He was discharged and was returned to the States with other dischargees. The last address the Army had was a lodging-house in East New York. Then he dropped out of sight. The report stopped there.

  The only fact in the report that was of interest was that Watkins and Mitch Jackson were out in Vietnam at the same time.

  I put the report in a file, then looked up Colonel Haverford's telephone number. He had an apartment in a condominium on Ocean Boulevard: one of the swank districts of the city.

  He answered my call himself.

  "Haverford," he said in a deep growling voice.

  "This is Dirk Wallace, Colonel," I said. "I work for Colonel Parnell."

  "Oh sure. You're the new man. The colonel told me about you. What is it?"

  "I have a problem, sir," I said. "Could you give me a few minutes?"

  "What do you mean . . . a problem?"

  "It's a job I'm working on. It seems hooked up with Army days. I believe you could steer me right."

  "You be here in ten minutes. I have a dinner date at eight," and he hung up.

  As Ocean Boulevard was three minutes from the office, I was ringing at Colonel Haverford's front door in seven minutes' time.

  A coloured maid led me through a big living-room, comfortably furnis
hed, and out onto the terrace that overlooked the boulevard with its palm-trees, the immaculate sand on which the playboys and play-girls frolicked and the glittering blue sea.

  Haverford was sitting in a sun lounging chair. He got to his feet as I advanced. He was a short, squat, red-faced military type with a close-clipped white moustache and a crew cut. He wore white shorts, a white shirt and sandals.

  "Wallace?" He extended his hand. Yes, sir," I said.

  "Okay, sit down. Scotch?"

  "Thank you, sir."

  He went to the terrace bar and poured two drinks, filled the tumblers with ice, gave me one and sat down. His steel-grey eyes regarded me.

  "What's the problem?"

  "I understand, sir, you were in charge of the drug problems in 'Nam," I said.

  "Correct."

  "The Agency has been hired to find the son of Mitch Jackson and, during the course of my inquiries, I have been told that Mitch Jackson was a drug-pusher."

  Haverford studied his drink, frowning, then he shrugged.

  "I have always thought that, sooner or later, this would happen," he said. "Have you talked to your boss?"

  "No, sir. The colonel is in Washington and not available, so I've come to you. Was there any real evidence that Jackson was a drug pusher?"

  "Now, look, young man. Mitch Jackson is regarded as a national hero. He won the Medal of Honor.

  We don't want to smear a man's reputation who saved seventeen young men's lives and died while doing it."

  "So he was a drug-pusher?"

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  "Yes. He was about to be arrested, as we had arrested a number of other pushers who are now serving long sentences. My assistant had obtained evidence against Jackson and we had a warrant for his arrest. Then this happened. He went into that jungle and got seventeen kids out and died horribly, burned to a cinder. So I decided to forget it. I hate pushers: they are the lowest scum on earth, but, with Jackson, he had guts. We needed men with guts out there. It would have been a real let-down to the public if we revealed that, before he died like a hero, he was the scum of the earth. Colonel Parnell wasn't told. This was a cover-up job and I don't regret it. That's it, young man. I'd advise you to forget it too."