1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf

by James Hadley Chase

  I had driven fast from Searle, taking with me the carton containing one can of frog saddles.

  "Hi, there, Harry," I said as I breezed in. "I have something for you."

  He waved me away, not taking his eyes from the 'scope.

  "Harry! This is urgent and important!"

  He sighed, spun around on the stool and smiled at me.

  "You young people are always in a hurry. What is it?"

  I produced the sachet from my wallet and placed it on his bench.

  "Will you analyse this, Harry? It's supposed to be a quick sauce to go with frog legs."

  "Is that right? Nice idea, if the sauce is any good. I'm partial to frog legs. Where did you get it, Dirk?"

  "Could not be sauce, Harry." I moved to the door. "This is a rush job. I'll he in my office. Will you call me?"

  He nodded and picked up the sachet.

  In my office, I found chick Barley was out. All the way from Searle, I had put together, in my mind, the report I would submit to the colonel. Sitting down, I began to pound my typewriter. I was halfway through writing the report when Harry rang.

  "Come to me, Dirk," he said, his voice sharp.

  Leaving the report, I walked down the long corridor to the lab.

  "What's all this about?" Harry asked, regarding me, a stern expression in his eyes. "Where did you get this sachet?" I closed the door and came close to him.

  "What is it?"

  "Fifty per cent pure heroin: fifty per cent glucose."

  "I guessed it would be something like that. Would you know the market price?"

  "This sachet is worth three hundred dollars."

  I did some mental arithmetic. A sachet in a can, two cans in a carton, some five hundred cartons: The truck-load would be worth three hundred thousand dollars. If there was a delivery once a month—I couldn't be sure of that—but, if so. Weatherspoon's turnover would be three million, six hundred thousand a year.

  "Are you sure about the price, Harry?"

  He nodded.

  "This is the real stuff. I get figures from the Drug Enforcement people each month. This sachet is worth three hundred dollars."

  "Thanks, Harry. I'm writing a report for the colonel. I can't say more than that. Hold onto the sachet. It'll be evidence," and, leaving him, I rushed back to my office. It took me another half hour to finish the report, then, putting it in an envelope, I took the envelope and the carton containing the single can of frog saddles to Glenda Kerry.

  Glenda was the colonel's personal assistant. Tall, dark and good-looking, around thirty years of age, her hair immaculate, her dress severe, she looked what she was: one hundred per cent efficient and a go-getter.

  As I entered her office, she was leafing through a file.

  "Hi, Glenda!" I put the carton on her desk. "Will you put this in the safe? It's worth a lot of money, and would you add this envelope?"

  "What is this? Are you still working on the Jackson case?"

  "Of course I'm working on the Jackson case. The colonel told me to work on it, so I'm working on it."

  "You are spending a lot of money." Glenda always judged the results by costs. "How far have you got?"

  "It's all in the report, but it's for the Colonel's eyes only. Big deal, Glenda. Keep your sticky little fingers off it."

  She shrugged.

  "Where are you going now?"

  "All that will be revealed tomorrow when the colonel returns. He is returning tomorrow?"

  "So he said. I haven't heard from him since he left for Washington."

  "Okay. Just keep that carton and my report securely locked up."

  I left her and, as I was starting down the corridor, I saw Terry O'Brien come out of the elevator.

  "I've got something for you, Dirk," he said.

  We went together to my office.

  O'Brien looked as Irish as he was: powerfully built, below average height, a face that looked as if someone had tried to flatten his nose and nearly succeeded, a cheerful grin and sharp, blue eyes.

  "What have you got, Terry?"

  "Mrs. Phyllis Hobart: maiden name Phyllis Lowery, age forty-two," O'Brien told me as I took down on a pad what he was saying. "I called Tyson and he came up with some dope you might find interesting."

  Ritchie Tyson ran a small, efficient private detective business in Jacksonville and there were times when we used his services.

  I grimaced.

  "What did he charge?"

  "I beat him down to a hundred dollars." O'Brien looked questioningly at me. "That okay?"

  "Depends on what he gave you."

  "Some forty years ago, so Tyson tells me, Mr. & Mrs. Charles Lowery, a childless couple, adopted a girl from the local adoption society. Lowery was highly respectable. He ran a prosperous travel agency. The adopted girl, Phyllis, came to them when she was four years old. There was no information about her parents. She had been dumped outside the adoption society offices. It seems the Lowerys picked a wrong tin. As the girl grew up, site became difficult: not working at school, always after the boys, then began to steal from the self-service stores, got into trouble with the cops and so on. According to Tyson, the Lowerys really tried, but they couldn't cope. The girl became a J.D. She had a spell in detention, escaped, was brought back, finally released. By then, she was seventeen years old. She hadn't been back with the Lowerys for more than a week, when she took off. The Lowerys reported her missing to the police and were thankful she had gone. The police went through the usual motions, but didn't find her. Then one night, some ten years ago, the girl turned up at the Lowery's home. They told Tyson, who was a friend of theirs and just starting his business, that the girl had altered beyond recognition. She was tough, hard, and scared the old couple. She demanded five hundred dollars. They got the idea she was on the run. They gave her the money and she immediately left. I haven't traced her after that. The Lowerys are dead. The next appearance is her marriage to Stobart a year ago."

  "So she had been out of circulation for some ten years?"

  "I guess that's right."

  “That's a hell of a time to drop out of sight." I thought about this. "Terry, I want you to go to Secomb and dig out an agency that supplies strippers for nightclubs. I want a photograph and history of Stella Costa who once worked at the Skin Club. Her address was 9 Macey Street. Your cover story is she has inherited a little money. That usually gets the business. One other thing, keep clear of the Skin Club. Right?"

  "Can do, will do," and he took off.

  I spent some minutes typing up O'Brien's report and took it along to Glenda.

  "More dope for the colonel." I said, "to go with the other stuff."

  She leaned back in her chair.

  "I've just heard the colonel is detained in Washington. He won't be back until Monday," she said, taking my report.

  I beamed at her.

  "That's great news. I have another five days," and leaving her, I hurried down to my car.

  I drove to Howard & Benbolt's offices. On my way, I stopped off to eat a hamburger and drink a beer. I reached the offices just after 14.30.

  The fat elderly woman regarded me suspiciously.

  "Mr. Benbolt," I said.

  "Have you an appointment? It's Mr. Wallace, isn't it?"

  "Yes to the name. No to the appointment. He'll see me."

  "Mr. Benbolt has only just come back from lunch."

  "I've only just had lunch." I smiled at her. "So that makes the two of us. Will you please tell him I'm here?"

  She glared, then switched on the squawk-box.

  "Mr. Wallace of the Parnell Agency is here, Mr. Edward," she announced.

  "Send him in," Benbolt's hearty voice boomed.

  She gave me a stare.

  "You know the way, I believe."

  "Sure: third door on the right, down the corridor."

  She didn't deign to answer and began looking at a legal document. I felt sorry for her. She was old, fat and probably unloved. The little power she had, protecting he
r boss, was dwindling. Soon, she would be sitting in a one-room walk-up with a cat for company.

  I found Edward Benbolt behind his desk, looking flushed and overfed. He gave me his professional smile, rose to shake hands, then waved me to a chair.

  "Well, now, Mr. Wallace," he said as we settled ourselves. "Have you any news?'

  "About what?" I asked.

  "The last time we met, weren't you looking for Frederick Jackson's grandson?" I could see his pre-lunch drinks had slightly clouded his mind. "That's right, isn't it?"

  "The last time we met, Mr. Benbolt, you were looking for Johnny Jackson. Did you get any answers to your advertisements?"

  He pushed a cigar-box towards me.

  "Ah, no. We have dropped the search on Mr. Weatherspoon's instructions. Out of curiosity, have you found the boy?" He opened the lid of the box. "Have a cigar?"

  "I haven't found him yet, but I'm still searching." I waved away the box. "Thank you, no."

  He selected a cigar, smelt it, cut the end and lit up.

  "A difficult task."

  I gave him a few show-off moments to blow rich, smelling smoke, then I said, "You've heard about Mr. Weatherspoon?"

  He put on an expression an undertaker would have envied.

  "Yes, indeed. I heard this morning. Shocking! A man in his prime."

  "Well, no one lasts forever. They come and they go," I said, getting out my pack of cigarettes. "I take it you are handling Mr. Weatherspoon's estate."

  "Yes."

  I waited, but he seemed more interested in his cigar than Weatherspoon.

  "There's the frog-factory and the grocery-store," I said, "then Weatherspoon must have saved money."

  Benbolt regarded me.

  "I was under the impression you have been hired to find Frederick Jackson's grandson. Now, apparently, you are probing for information about Mr. Weatherspoon's estate which has nothing to do with your investigation." He glanced at his watch. "I can give you no more time."

  "Have you ever been to Searle, Mr. Benbolt?"

  "Searle? Certainly not."

  "Be patient with me." I gave him my frank, friendly smile. "I have been digging around in Searle, looking for Johnny Jackson, and I have come up with evidence that, if he were alive, could put Weatherspoon in the slammer for at least fifteen years."

  He gaped at me.

  "What evidence?" he asked.

  "Until I have completed the case, reported to Colonel Parnell, who will then hand the case over to the State police, I can't tell you, but I assure you, Mr. Benbolt, I am not fooling. I can find out the worth of Weatherspoon's estate will wait, but time is running short, so I am hoping you will be cooperative."

  "Are you telling me Mr. Weatherspoon was a criminal?"

  "He was the centre of a drug-ring: more than that I can't tell you."

  "Good God!" Benbolt let cigar-ash drop on his ample waistcoat. "Drugs?"

  "This is in confidence. What's Weatherspoon's estate worth?"

  "I'd say half a million. It depends what price the factory and the grocery-store fetch. He invested shrewdly through my brokers. Frankly, I was surprised at the amount of money he made from the factory." He put down his cigar. "Drugs! This is dreadful! I suppose you know what you are saying?"

  "I have enough evidence on him to have put him away, but there are others involved and I'm still investigating. Who will inherit his estate?"

  He picked up his cigar, found it had gone out and relit it. "I don't understand. How can a frog-factory possibly be connected with drugs?"

  "It was a clever fig-leaf operation."

  He stared.

  "What's that mean?"

  “The frog-factory was Weatherspoon's cover. Who inherits his estate?"

  He regarded his cigar for a long minute, hesitated, then shrugged.

  "In view of what you have told me, Mr. Wallace, and the fact that my client is dead, and to help you with your investigation, I don't think it would be a breach of confidence to tell you what occurred a week ago.”

  I waited. These attorneys! How they loved words!

  "Mr. Weatherspoon came to see me," Benbolt went on. "He was not his usual self. He looked ill. He looked like a man who hadn't had much, sleep. This was unusual as Mr. Weatherspoon always exuded confidence. He told me he was going to retire. This surprised me as he wasn't more than forty-eight, if that. He wanted me to sell all his stock holdings. I pointed out to him that the Dow Jones index was way, way down, but he said he wanted immediate cash. He also instructed me to sell the grocery-store at Searle for whatever I could get for it. I am susceptible to atmosphere and I felt my client was under some kind of heavy pressure. I asked him if he planned to put his frog-factory on the market. He said, very abruptly, he would handle that himself." Benbolt paused to blow smoke. "I then raised a point that had been on my mind since Mr. Weatherspoon had been my client. I reminded him that he hadn't made a will. He said he had no relations and didn't care a damn about making a will. I stressed that if one of my clients, worth half a million dollars, dies, not making a will. It could cause a lot of legal problems. He sat where you are sitting, staring at me, then he gave me an odd smile. I think I can describe it was more of a cynical smirk than a smile." Benbolt fussed with his cigar, carefully knocking off ash into his onyx ash-bowl. "He said he hadn't thought of that. Then he said he wanted all his money and the grocery-store to be left to a Miss Peggy Wyatt of Searle."

  I kept my face expressionless.

  "Did he give any reason for this?" I asked.

  "I asked who Miss Wyatt was. He said she had been his mistress and he had treated her badly. He had no one else to leave his money to, so why not her? He gave this cynical smirk again and said she wouldn't get it anyway as he had no intentions of dying, but, if he did, he wanted her to get the lot. I drew up the will while he waited, and my clerks witnessed his signature." Benbolt stubbed out his cigar. "So Miss Wyatt will inherit at least half a million dollars."

  "Does she know?"

  "Mr. Weatherspoon only died yesterday. The will has to be proved. I propose to go to Searle sometime next week and tell her."

  "And the frog-factory? If someone buys it, I take it the proceeds go to Weatherspoon's estate and Miss Wyatt will get the money?"

  "I imagine so." Benbolt looked doubtful. "Mr. Weatherspoon took from me all the documents relating to the factory. If the factory is sold, I will certainly claim for Miss Wyatt."

  "So, if Weatherspoon has already sold the factory, you wouldn't know?"

  "That is so, but, as soon as the will has been proved, I intend to visit the factory and find out what is happening."

  "The factory won't remain unsold for long. Keep tabs on it, Mr. Benbolt. You tell me Weatherspoon took all the documents referring to the factory so where are they?"

  "That I don't know. I could ask his bank."

  "Would you do that? Would you let me know?"

  "I suppose I could." He took another cigar from the box, stared at it, then put it back. "You really mean that Mr. Weatherspoon was dealing in drugs?"

  "Yes, and the factory was the linchpin, and the racket was so profitable; I am sure the next owner will carry on."

  He rubbed his double chin.

  "Shouldn't you consult the police, Mr. Wallace?"

  "I'm going to, then they'll come breathing down your neck. Just get your end of it ready for inspection as I'm trying to get my end ready." I got to my feet. "The Drug Enforcement people can get very tough."

  "I can only tell them what I've told you," he said, looking uneasy.

  "You are now representing Miss Wyatt. Someone will buy the frog-factory before long. You are in a better position to find out who the buyer is than I am. The buyer will be another drug-pusher. You find out who he is and the Drug Enforcement people will love you. Inquire around and let me know who buys the factory. Will you do that?"

  "I think we should talk to the police about this."

  "Not yet. I want to tie this up myself. Colonel Parnell has a
full report of what is happening. He'll be back from Washington in five days. Play along with me, Mr. Benbolt. Just find out who buys the factory."

  He thought about this, then nodded.

  "Well, the will's not proved yet. I'll make inquiries. Where can I contact you?"

  I gave him my business card.

  "Just leave a message and I'll' be with you. This is a big one, Mr. Benbolt. Don't let us make a balls of it. I have still to get proof. You call in the cops now and they could trample over what I have done and come up with nothing. Okay?"

  "I'll see what I can find out."

  We shook hands and I left him.

  I returned to my office, sat down and turned over in my mind what I had learned.

  It seemed to me that Weatherspoon had got sudden cold feet. He was about to run, plus his money, now converted into cash. He had gone to old Jackson's cabin and had searched with an axe. He was after Jackson's stash of money. Maybe he had found it. While searching, someone had arrived, sneaked up on him and clouted him. Whoever it was had dragged his body to the frog-pond. It was the usual method of disposing of drug-pushers who wanted out.

  I pulled my typewriter towards me and hammered out the latest developments for the colonel. He was getting quite a document. As I was putting the report in an envelope for Glenda, Terry O'Brien came "Man! Was I lucky!" he exclaimed, dropping into a chair. "I went to Bernie Isaacs who runs an agency for strippers. Just dead luck! He acted for a stripper who called herself Stella Costa."

  "Nice, quick work, Terry." I lifted my feet onto the desk. "So . . . ?"

  O'Brien flicked an envelope across my desk.

  "There she is."

  I took the half-plate glossy from the envelope. Stella Costa had on only a G-string. She was certainly a sex symbol. She was posed, her legs apart, her hands above her head, her face lit with sensual excitement. I took time, studying her, then dropping the photograph on my desk, I looked at O'Brien.

  "What else, Terry?"

  "This costed, Dirk. The fink asked a hundred, but I beat him down to fifty."

  I thought of Glenda. She would go out of her skull when I put in my expense account.

  "What did he tell you?"

  "For fifty, he gave me the photograph, but the sonofabitch then clammed up. I had to give him another fifty to get him talking.”