"It happens," I said. "It's happening every minute."
"I guess." She shrugged. "I've got over it. Now, I'm glad. I saw him only once a month, but I still kept drinking."
"Why are you glad, Peggy?"
"There was something about Harry . . . it's hard to explain. I think he was in some kind of racket. There were times when we were in bed, the phone would ring and he would go down to the office. This was after the factory had closed. Several times, I heard film shouting as if he was angry and, when he came up, he looked so hard and . . . well, cruel. Those times, he would tell me to go. He said he had business, and once, when I protested, he looked horrible. He scared me."
"You can forget him," I said. "He's out of your life."
"That's why I am glad."
"You said you thought he was in some kind of racket. Why did you say that?"
"I'm not exactly an idiot. Why should he get telephone calls around two o'clock in the morning and throw me out, saying it was business? Besides, there was this truck that came around three o'clock in the morning."
"What truck was that, Peggy?" I asked as casually as I could.
She hesitated, then shrugged.
"Well, he's dead now . . . so what? It happened when I was crazy about him. I guess I was drinking too much. He came to the restaurant on the night we always dated and told me the date was off. Oh Dirk, I had been longing and dreaming of this night. I wanted him to hold me in his arms and screw me until I screamed. I was burning for him." She looked at me. "Why do I tell you this?"
"They say confession is good for the soul," I said and smiled at her.
"God! You'd get information out of an oyster."
From her sudden change of expression, I was scared I was going to lose her confidence.
"This is important to me, Peggy. Tell me about the truck."
She looked at the tatty flowers on the table and picked them up. She fingered the overblown roses and the Sweet Bay magnolias.
"No one has ever given me flowers before."
I controlled my impatience.
"They will," I said. "You're young."
She put the flowers down and began to finger the book.
"Peggy!" I said, sharpening my voice. "Tell me about the truck."
"Okay. When he had given me the night's brush-off, I guess I got good and drunk. Then, lying in bed, I thought, maybe he had found some other girl. I had to find out. I dressed and went over to the factory. It was after midnight. The gates were unlocked. There were lights on in his apartment. I don't expect you can understand, but what with burning up and the gin I was half out of my mind." She looked doubtfully at me.
"I understand."
She shrugged.
"I wonder if you do. It's easy to say that. Never mind . . ." She smiled at me. "I often wonder if people ever understand other people."
"They can try," was all I could think of to say.
"Anyway, I was sure he had some girl up there in his apartment. I had to see who she was. Drunk as I was, I hadn't the nerve to burst in on them. By now Harry was scaring me, although his love-making burned me up. I got behind a row of barrels, stinking of frogs, and I waited. I had a three-hour wait. I began to lose my high. I suddenly could see myself, squatting behind smelly barrels, jealously tearing me to bits, and as the gin died on me I began to realize what a stupid fool I was and how worthless Harry was. I was about: to go home, when this truck arrived. There was a tap on the horn and a man got out of the truck and opened the gates. The truck drove in and the man closed the gates. It was dark. I could only see his outline. Then the office door opened and Larry came out. Light streamed out of the office and I saw a second man get out of the truck." She gave a little shiver. "Those two really had me scared. They were niggers. One of them was wearing beads and a big wide black hat. The other had on a kind of goatskin jacket. They looked really weird. They followed Harry* into the office. For the next twenty minutes they carried out small cartons which they stacked into the truck. They worked fast, but there seemed to be hundreds of cartons. When there were no more cartons, these two went back into the office. From where I was hiding, I could see right into the office. Harry gave them money. Then they got in the truck and drove off. Harry went down to the gates, closed and locked them, then went up to his apartment. After a while all the lights went off." She picked up the flowers and smelt the magnolias. "I felt pretty stupid. There was no girl and I was locked in. After wandering around, I found a gate at the back. The lock was rusty. I got the gate open and went home."
"Quite a night out," I said.
"That's why I said he was in some kind of racket." She looked at me. "Does it make sense to you, Dirk?"
"Well, he's dead," I said. "Forget it, Peggy. Now, tell me more about yourself."
I spent the next half hour listening to the inevitable and usual doubts and hopes of a teenage girl. I have learned to become a sympathetic listener. I knew she needed to talk about herself and I said the right things at the right moment.
Finally she ran out of steam and she smiled at me.
"I've never talked to anyone the way I've been talking to you," she said. "If I've bored you, I'm sorry."
I grinned at her.
"You're going to be okay, Peggy. You will have trouble ahead of you, but you'll come through. Talk to old Willis Pollack. He'll find you a buyer for the hotel, but in the meantime get back there and help your dad."
"You're the most understanding man I've ever met," she said.
On that note, I left her, my mind full of the information she had given me.
Back at the hotel, I told Bob Wyatt that his daughter was fine and would be back with him the following morning. This news made him look five years younger.
After a good dinner of clam chowder, I went up to my room and watched a replay of a Western with plenty of action. When it finished, around 22.45, I equipped myself with a powerful flashlight, checked my gun and went down to the lobby.
Old Abraham was fast asleep behind the reception desk. There were two commercials discussing business. Neither of them looked up as I walked into the deserted street. Searle went to bed early.
The sheriff s office was in darkness. The few street-lights made pools of faded light; the rest of the street was dark.
Walking fast, and keeping in the shadows, I reached the frog-factory. I took a narrow lane around the high walls until I came upon the gate Peggy had told me about. I paused to listen. In the distance, I could hear the hum of traffic on the highway: no other sounds. The stink of frogs lay heavily on the hot, humid I leaned my weight against the gate and it yielded. I moved into the big courtyard. All the buildings, including the office block and Weatherspoon's apartment were in darkness.
The big moon lit the courtyard and made deep shadows.
I crossed over to the office block, mounted the steps and tried the door. I didn't expect it to swing open so I wasn't disappointed. Using my flashlight, I saw there were three locks, top, middle and bottom.
This wasn't door that could be forced open. Moving around the back of the building, I found another door. This too was securely locked.
I stepped back and surveyed the building. There was a sloping roof and a veranda, then the apartment windows, then another sloping roof. I returned to the courtyard. After searching around among the factory sheds, I found a short ladder, lying on its side in the grass. I carried it around to the back of the office block, set it up and got onto the sloping roof. From there, I climbed over the veranda rail. One of the windows was half open. I lifted the latch, paused to listen, then opened the window wide. Using my flashlight, I found myself in a big, well-furnished bedroom. The bed was big enough to accept three people comfortably. I imagined Peggy lying on it, offering her nice little body to Weatherspoon. I moved into the room, opened the door, stepped out into a dark corridor, opened another door and looked into a living-room, also well furnished, neat and orderly.
I wasn't interested in Weatherspoon's living-quarters. I wanted
to get down to his office.
There were stairs. I stood at the head of them and sent the beam of my flashlight down to a solid-looking door. I descended to the door to find it locked. Again this wasn't a door to be forced open. I knew if I could open it, I would walk into Weatherspoon's office.
Frustrated, I returned to the apartment. Going into the bedroom, I opened the door of the big closet, facing the bed. Weatherspoon's clothes hung in an orderly row. I spent some time going through the pockets of a number of suits, but came up with nothing. I went through the drawers: many shirts, underwear, socks, but nothing of interest to me.
Finally, after half an hour's patient search, I opened a small drawer in his bedside table. This contained a packet of condoms and a key. Hopefully, I went down to the locked door and tried the key.
The lock turned and I moved into the office. I went to the big desk behind which Weatherspoon had sat when I had first met him. Every drawer in the desk was locked. I sat in his chair and examined the locks.
It would take a professional to open them.
Leaving the desk, I prowled around the office, found a door, opened it and moved into a small room.
Facing me was a floor-to-ceiling steel door. Across the door was a steel bar with a padlock. The door had two locks. Short of blasting the door open, there was no hope of opening it without the keys.
I stood and stared at the door.
Well, I told myself, it was a try. There had just been the remote chance that Weatherspoon's security wasn't top-class.
There was no point in staying longer. I would have to approach from another angle: what angle for the moment defeated me. Then I heard the sound of an approaching car.
I snapped off the flashlight and moved to one of the big windows. I could hear voices. Then the gates to the factory swung open and a truck drove into the courtyard. It was followed by a car that came to rest beside the truck.
The moon was high now and I could see the truck and the car clearly.
From the car, a short, heavily built man got out. I recognized him: Edmundo Raiz. From the truck two men got out: Sombrero and Goatskin.
I moved fast, opening the door to Weatherspoon's apartment, closing it and locking it behind me, then I moved silently up the stairs. I left by the open window, pushed it to, climbed down the ladder and carried it to a clump of bushes where I hid it.
Easing my gun from its holster, I walked silently around the building, pausing as I approached the courtyard. I edged forward, peering around the wall.
Lights were on in the office. I could hear voices. The door to the office stood open. Light streamed into the courtyard. After a long pause, I satisfied myself the three men had entered the office. I moved forward, keeping to the shadows, then, seeing a pile of frog-barrels, I got behind them. This must have been the place where Peggy had hidden and, as she had told me, from there I could look directly into the office.
Sombrero was standing by the desk. Raiz and Goatskin had gone into the small inner room. There was a long pause, then Goatskin came into the office said something to Sombrero, who followed him into the small room.
Raiz came out and went to the desk. He was holding a bunch of keys. Sitting at the desk, he began unlocking the drawers.
Goatskin came out, carrying a number of small cartons. He went out to the truck and shoved the cartons in, then returned as Sombrero came out, also ladened with cartons, putting them in the truck.
I watched Raiz. He was going through a pile of papers he had taken from one of the drawers of the desk. His movements were hurried. Every now and then, he put a paper aside.
The other two, working fast, kept piling cartons into the truck. It was a quick, well organized operation.
Raiz opened another drawer. He took from it a folder, examined it, then laid it with the other papers he had put aside. After unlocking more drawers and taking a quick look, he slammed them shut. I decided he had found what he was looking for.
He got to his feet.
I heard him shout, "Come on! Come on! Haven't you finished yet?"
Goatskin mumbled something and went back to the small room again.
This seemed to me to be my one and only chance, as Sombrero followed him. Drawing my gun, I moved out from behind the shelter of the barrels, took six jumps to the back of the truck, snatched up one of the cartons, spun around and was back behind the barrels in less than three seconds. As I crouched down, Goatskin and Sombrero came out, staggering under another load of cartons.
Raiz spent a few moments relocking the desk drawers, then he took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped the drawers and the top of the desk.
Goatskin was closing the canvas back of the truck. Sombrero was already at the driving-wheel.
Picking up the folder and the other papers, Raiz turned off the office lights. He came out, closed and locked the door, then moved swiftly to his car.
"Okay, you two," he said. "Let's go."
He backed his car, spun it around and drove away through the gateway. Sombrero drove the truck beyond the gates and stopped. Goatskin closed the gates and I heard him lock them.
I sat behind the smelly frog-barrels, clutching the carton and waited. I didn't move until I heard both Raiz's car engine and the truck's engine die away.
Leaving by the small gate, I walked fast to The Jumping Frog hotel.
There was only one light on in the lobby. This was above the reception desk. The lobby was deserted. The two commercials had gone to bed. Old Abraham was sleeping peacefully. His hands folded in his lap. I gently shook the old man awake. He opened his heavy-lidded eve, and blinked at me. Then he stiffened to attention, his black face lighting up with a smile.
"Must have dozed off, Mr. Wallace. You need something?"
"I want a can-opener," I said.
He blinked.
"What was that again, sir?"
"A can-opener. Have you one?"
"A can-opener?"
"That's what I want." I spoke in a soothing voice. He must have been pushing eighty and had come awake from a heavy sleep, probably dreaming of his past and his grandchildren. "A can-opener."
He rubbed his forehead, closed and opened his eyes, then nodded.
"I'll get you one, Mr. Wallace. If you're hungry, I can fix you a meal."
"Just a can-opener."
He got stiffly to his feet, swayed for a moment, then shuffled off to the restaurant. I waited. It took him some five minutes before he returned.
"Cook won't like this, Mr. Wallace," he said, handing me a rusty can-opener. "Can you let me have it back breakfast-time?"
"You'll get it." I had a twenty-dollar bill ready. "Thanks, Abraham. When do you get to bed?"
"Mr. Wyatt likes to keep open all night. He says you never know. Someone might want a bed and that's what a hotel's for." He gaped as I dropped the twenty-dollar bill in front of him. "Why, Mr. Wallace, that ain't necessary."
"Good-night," I said, patted his shoulder and, leaving him, took the elevator to my room.
Putting on the light, I locked the door, then put the carton on the table. It was a solid box, measuring around eight inches square and four inches deep.
The label on the box read:
Mrs. Lucilla Banbury
1445, West Drive
Los Angeles, CA
Using my all-purpose pocket-knife, I carefully eased away the tape that sealed the top of the box and revered the top open. In two snug compartments were two shiny-topped cans. Lifting one of them out, I read the well-designed label.
A Product from Morgan & Weatherspoon, Searle, Florida: FROG SADDLES, A luxury meal in itself. Follow the directions for a delicious, satisfying quick meal for two.
The cooking directions were the same as those given me by Chloe Smith.
Using the can-opener, I removed the lid and regarded the neatly packed frog legs, golden in batter.
They certainly looked good to eat. Using the blade of my knife, I poked around and unearthed a two inch square plastic envel
ope containing white powder. I fished it out, then, crossing to the bathroom, I washed the envelope clean.
I guessed what the envelope contained, but I had to be sure. I put the envelope in my wallet, collected the can from the table and rather reluctantly emptied its contents into the toilet. I stripped the label and added that to the floating frog legs, then I flushed the lot down the drain.
Going to the window, I opened it, made sure the street was deserted, then threw the empty can far into the street. Resealing the carton, now containing only one can, I put the carton in my closet.
I may not have found Johnny Jackson, I told myself as I undressed, but at least my day had been far from unprofitable.
I took a shower and went to bed.
chapter seven
Harry Meadows, tall, lean and pushing seventy, had at one time been in charge of the Paradise City police laboratory. When the time had come for him to retire, Colonel Parnell had offered him the job of running the Agency's small, well equipped lab. Meadows had jumped at the offer. He had been considered the best pathologist in Florida and was still, in spite of his age, in the upper echelon, often being consulted by his successor at the police lab.
I found Meadows sitting on a high stool examining a slide under a microscope.
1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf Page 13
