1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf

by James Hadley Chase

  It was a shabby truck with Miami number plates. It had a blue-tinted windshield so I couldn't see the driver. I saw my chance to overtake and trod down hard on the gas. I had a nasty heart-skipping moment as I got back to my right side. A car travelling much too fast had rounded the slight bend and we nearly smashed into each other. I heard the complaining sound of a horn as the car vanished from sight.

  I tried to relax, but warning bells were ringing in my mind and the bells became shrill as looking into my rear mirror I saw the orange-carrying truck had crept up and was again within fifteen feet of me. We were both now travelling at over seventy miles an hour. Then, for a brief moment, I saw a black arm resting on the open window of the truck.

  A black man!

  On my left was a deep ditch, then trees, then jungle. The ditch was there to syphon off water when the tropical rains came. I looked in the rear mirror. The truck had disappeared Sweating, I looked to my right. The goddamn truck was right beside me. It was too high for me to see the driver, but I knew what he was planning to do. He was going to sideswipe me and smash me and the car into the ditch.

  My instinct was to stand on the gas, but this was no ordinary truck. It could match my speed, so I trod down hard on the foot-brake, tightening my grip on the steering-wheel in case my back wheels went into a skid.

  My brakes were good. With a screaming of tortured tyres. I saw the truck flash by me, its rear fender just scraping my front fender. I had a struggle to keep my car from diving into the ditch, but with sheer strength I corrected the skid.

  But not the truck. The driver, had been so intent on smashing into me, he must have taken his eyes off the road. His onside s heels mounted the soft grass verge and the truck began to tilt. The load of oranges shifted, then the truck smashed down into the ditch. Crates of oranges tore loose, spilling fruit all over the jungle in a golden river. The sound of tearing metal filled the air.

  I stopped my cat and got out. The lumbering twenty-ton truck came on the scene and stopped. The oncoming traffic also stopped. Truckers and men in business suits got out of their vehicles. Joined by them, I walked to the upturned truck. We peered into the driving cabin.

  Both Sombrero and Goatskin had their heads half through the shattered windshield. They weren't a pretty sight. Apart from blood and mangled faces, all that was left of them was their smell of dirt.

  The hands of the clock on my dashboard showed 18.30 as I pulled up outside The Jumping Frog hotel. I had had to hang around until the State police arrived to tell them I had seen the orange-carrying truck lose control and smash into the ditch. They were more interested in getting the traffic started and the mess cleared up.

  “These blacks drive too fast," the cop in charge said in disgust. "These two had a reason. The truck was stolen."

  That I had guessed. I told him I was in a hurry. He said I might be called as witness, but he doubted it. Approaching Searle, I turned over in my mind what had happened. I had no doubt that an attempt I had been made on my life. From now on, I told myself, I had to be much more on my guard. I wondered if Benbolt had tipped off Raiz that I knew about the drug-ring. This was possible, depending on how much he had been paid to handle the frog factory deal.

  I thought with satisfaction of my report and the can of frog saddles that were waiting for the colonel's return. No matter what happened to me, the drug-ring would be smashed, but I was going to take care nothing did happen to me.

  I found old Abraham behind the reception desk. He gave me a wide, happy smile.

  "Where's Miss Peggy?" I asked.

  "Right there in the office, Mr. Wallace. She's with Mr. Willis Pollack, the lawyer gentleman. You heard the great news? Miss Peggy is rich."

  "Where's her father?"

  He lost his smile.

  "He's in bed. The poor, dear man. I guess he's not long for this life."

  I moved around the reception desk, knocked on the office door and entered.

  Pollack, looking more like Buffalo Bill than ever, was sitting in a lounging-chair. Peggy was behind the desk. They were splitting a bottle of champagne between them.

  "Hi, Dirk!" Peggy exclaimed with a wide smile of welcome. "Where have you been?" She produced a glass. "We are celebrating. Join us!"

  I moved in and closed the door.

  "Not for me, but thanks," I said. "What are you celebrating?"

  "I've sold the frog-factory! Harry left everything to me! I'm rich!"

  I pulled up a chair and sat astride it.

  “That's fast work. Weatherspoon isn't even buried."

  "Tell him, Mr. Pollack. I want him to know," Peggy said and poured champagne into the glass and pushed it towards me across the desk. "Come on, Dirk, you're in this celebration as much as I am."

  So I picked up the glass and saluted her, drank a little and set down the glass.

  "Well, Mr. Wallace, this is a good deal," Pollack said. "Peggy was very wise to consult me."

  "As soon as this Miami lawyer, Mr. Benbolt, told me about Harry's will and that he could sell the factory for me," Peggy broke in, "I rushed to Mr. Pollack, and he was with me when this man, Mr. Raiz, arrived."

  Pollack gave me his old-fashioned smile.

  "Frankly, Mr. Wallace, I didn't like the look of him, but he seemed business-like. He said he wanted to buy the factory, that any delay would mean laying off the staff and the loss of the restaurant business. That made good sense to me. He offered two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the factory. That seemed to me a good price. I pointed out that Mr. Weatherspoon's will hadn't been proved. He told me his lawyers were satisfied the factory belongs to Peggy, and there would be no problem about the probate. I then pointed out that legal transfer to him wasn't possible until the will was proved, so we must wait. He said, if he had to wait until the will was proved, the factory would lose value, and I accepted that. He proposed to pay fifty thousand dollars in cash. When the will was proved, he would pay a further two hundred thousand. If Peggy accepted the deposit, he could put a man in to run the factory tomorrow, keep the staff employed and continue to supply the restaurants. This was an acceptable offer, so I advised Peggy to sign and, from tomorrow, Mr. Raiz is the new owner of the factory unless Mr. Weatherspoon's will is disproved, which appears unlikely." He stroked his little beard and smiled. "However, after further discussion, I persuaded Mr. Raiz that the fifty thousand dollars would be non-returnable should the final deal fall through. There was a little argument about this." Again he smiled. "When someone in a deal appears overanxious for the deal to go through, the other party, with experience, knows when to turn the screw." He leaned forward and patted Peggy's hand. "So, whatever happens, this little girl has fifty thousand dollars now safe in the bank."

  I was tempted to tell them that the deal would not go through. I was tempted to tell them that within days the Drug Enforcement people would be swarming all over the factory and that Raiz and Stobart would be in the stammer, but why spoil their moment of happiness?

  I lifted my glass, saluted Peggy and drank.

  "Marvellous."

  "Isn't it? I now have enough to help Dad," she said, her eyes sparkling. "I've always longed to help him. He's going to a clinic in Miami. I'm hoping and praying they will be able to help him."

  I glanced at Pollack who sadly shook his head.

  "I've warned Peggy," he said. "There is no hope for poor Bob."

  "I don't give a damn! He's going to the clinic!" Peggy said. "What is money for except to help those one loves."

  "And the hotel?" I asked. "Is that going to be sold."

  She shook her head.

  "Not now. I've changed my mind. Dad wants me to keep the hotel running. With the money I'll get for the factory and the grocery-store, I plan to modernize the hotel. Mr. Pollack thinks I'm right."

  "What happened at the Weatherspoon inquest?" I asked Pollack.

  "That was quickly over: accidental death."

  I shrugged. Dr. Steed was certainly being loyal to his old, drunken friend.<
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  "Well, Peggy, congratulations again. I wish you the best of luck," and, leaving theta, I went to my room. Lying on the bed, still a little shaken by the attempt on my life, I took stock.

  I was on the verge of busting a drug-ring, but that hadn't been my assignment which was to find Johnny Jackson. So, following my father's advice: When you are stuck, son, go back to square A, and you might, if you use your brains, find an important fact that you may have overlooked. So I went back to square A and did some heavy thinking.

  I dismissed the drug-ring, Raiz, Stobart and Stella. They were diversions. I concentrated on Wally Watkins, the kindly old man who grew roses. I saw him clearly in my mind when I had asked him if he had seen Johnny Jackson recently and recalled his hesitation—the hesitation of a good, honest man about to tell a lie.

  I swung my legs off the bed and stood up. The time now was 19.20. I was hungry so I went down to the restaurant, nodded to the various salesmen who were eating and working and ordered the special: a T-bone steak.

  After eating, I left the hotel, got in my car and headed towards Wally Watkin's little home.

  The sun had set and the shadows were lengthening. I turned off the highway and within a couple of hundred yards of Watkin's home I parked the car off the road and walked the rest of the way. Turning the slight bend, I saw the little house. Lights showed in the living-room. The curtains were drawn. I could smell the roses.

  Moving silently, I skirted the house and got around to the back. The bedrooms were in darkness. I had brought with me my powerful flashlight. I paused to listen. Only the sound of the trucks roaring along the highway came to me.

  I found a little gate that led me into the back garden. I walked by the long-stemmed roses, those that had been cut to lie on Frederick Jackson's grave, and I reached the house. I could hear a voice from the TV set. The bedroom windows faced me. One of them was wide open. I threw the beam of my flashlight into the roam which belonged to Wally Watkins: a thoroughly male room with a double bed, closets, no frills. I moved to the next window and sent the beam of my flashlight through the glass. This was a smaller room, a single bed, a feminine room. There was a small dressing-table on which stood a bottle of perfume and things women use. What caught my attention was a wig of long blond hair on a headstand, its tresses finely combed and dropping nearly to the floor.

  I tried the window but it was locked, so I moved back to the open window, climbed silently into Wally Watkin's bedroom, opened the door carefully and moved into the dark passage.

  Wally was listening to the news. I heard the telecaster saying something about an earthquake. I moved to the second door, opened it and was in the feminine bedroom. Closing the door, I looked around, sweeping the beam of my flashlight. This was a young girl's room. There were dolls on shelves against the far wall. There was a poster of a pop-group pinned on another wall. There was a brown, well-worn looking cuddly bear on a chair. Swinging the beam of my flashlight around, I stiffened, seeing a wooden glassed frame above the head of the bed.

  I moved forward. The frame contained a medal. I moved further forward and stared at the Medal of Honor: Mitch Jackson's medal that I was sure had hung above Frederick Jackson's bed and which was now hanging above the bed . . . of who? Johnny Jackson? Was he such a raving queer that he had a woman's wig, a cuddly bear, dolls? It was possible, but I felt doubt.

  Moving away from the bed, I went to the closet and opened the doors. There were a few dresses hanging there: all for a young girl: cheap dresses you can buy at any store. There was a leather jacket and a couple of pairs of Levis. On a shelf, I found two brassieres and three white panties.

  I again looked at the Medal of Honor, then I turned to Wally Watkins's room, slid out of the window and went around to the front of the house. I pushed open the gate and walked up to the front door. I pressed the bell. I heard the TV snap off, then there was silence. I waited a few moments, then pressed the bell again. There was another long pause, then the front door opened and Wally Watkins regarded me.

  "Hello, there, Mr. Watkins," I said. "Dirk Wallace."

  "Yes," he said, standing squarely in the doorway. "I'm afraid, Mr. Wallace, your visit isn't convenient. Perhaps tomorrow?"

  "Sorry, but not tomorrow. I have to talk to you about your son."

  I saw him stiffen. The light from the passage was behind him and his face was in shadow.

  "Mr. Wallace," he said, hesitation in his voice, "I think I told you my son no longer interests me. If you have something to tell me, then it can wait until tomorrow. You must excuse me," and he began to shut the door.

  I moved forward.

  "Still sorry, Mr. Watkins, but this is a police matter. It is just possible you could be involved. We had better talk."

  "Police matter?" He gave ground and I moved into the passage and shut the front door.

  “That's right," I said. "I'm still sorry, but we have to talk."

  He hesitated, then lifted his shoulders in a defeated shrug. He opened the living-room door.

  "Then you had better come in, Mr. Wallace."

  I followed him into the comfortable, neat living-room. The table was set for dinner: two places laid.

  "I hope this won't take long, Mr. Wallace," he said. "I was about to have dinner." He hesitated, then his old-world courtesy forced him to ask, "Perhaps I can offer you a drink?"

  "Thanks, no." I went to a lounging-chair and sat down. "I'm sorry to tell you your son is in serious trouble. In a few days he will be arrested. He has been running a drug-ring right here in Searle." I was watching the old mart and saw him flinch.

  "My son? Here? In Searle?" He moved to a chair and dropped heavily into it. "I don't understand. Syd here?"

  "Not in Searle. He has been living in Paradise City under the name of Herbert Stobart. He has a house worth at least half a million dollars and a Rolls Royce. He and Harry Weatherspoon organized a very profitable drug-ring. The yearly take is over three million dollars."

  "Weatherspoon?" The old man looked utterly dazed.

  "Let me explain, Mr. Watkins. Most of what I am going to tell you is based on guess-work, but I have strong evidence that my guesses are correct. It began in Vietnam. Weatherspoon was a narcotic agent, working with the army. The drug situation in the army was bad. Weatherspoon found out who was supplying drugs to the kids, serving in the army. This drug-pusher had to have a contact to supply the drugs. Weatherspoon found out the contact was your son. Before the drug-pusher, Mitch Jackson, could be arrested, he was killed in battle. Weatherspoon must have discovered how much money was passing hands. He was a man greedy for money, so he contacted your son and they did a deal. When they were demobilized, between them, they dreamed up an idea of using canned frogs to supply rich degenerates with heroin. The drug was in sachets, supposed to be a sauce to go with the frog saddles. It was a nice idea and a safe one. Your son developed an impressive mail-order list of names, sent heroin in the cans of frog saddles to these people once a month. Weatherspoon handled the canning end and your son handled the customers and supplied the heroin. Then something happened. I don't know what, but Weatherspoon decided to pull out. He had made half a million, so he decided to quit. Maybe he quarrelled with your son. I don't know. It doesn't matter. Like most drug-traffickers who decide to get out of the racket, he ended up dead. The frog-factory has just been bought by a Mexican, Edmundo Raiz, financed by your son. These two imagine .hey can continue their racket, but I have enough evidence to put them away for some fifteen years."

  Watkins sat motionless for some moments, then he looked at me.

  "I have told you I want nothing to do with my son. What you tell me is shocking, and I hope Syd gets what he deserves. I suppose I should thank you for telling me this, but I can't see it is any concern of mine. It is hurtful, of course, but Syd has always hurt Kitty and myself. You said something about rue being involved." Be looked directly at me. "Am I involved?"

  I ignored this, wanting to keep him off balance.

  "It is odd th
e way things happen, Mr. Watkins," I said. "Some ten days ago, the Agency received a request from the late Frederick Jackson to find his grandson. As Jackson sent us one hundred dollars as a retainer, we accepted the assignment, but only because Jackson reminded Colonel Parnell that his son, Mitch, who served in Vietnam under Parnell, had won the Medal of Honor. I got the job to find Johnny Jackson. While making inquiries, I uncovered this drug-ring. This happens to be a side issue, although an important one. I still haven't found Johnny Jackson. I asked you the other day if you had seen him recently, and you said you hadn't. I was under the impression then, and I am more sure now, you were not telling me the truth. So ask you again: have you seen Johnny Jackson recently?"

  He stared down at his hands and said nothing.

  "Have you seen Johnny Jackson recently?" I repeated.

  I say, by the pained expression on his face he was steeling himself to tell another lie, but at moment, the door jerked open and Be-Be Mansel came in.

  "Okay, you creep, on your way!" she snapped. "On your feet and beat it!"

  I regarded her. She was wearing a T-shirt that emphasized her small rounded breasts, and tight Levis. Her long black hair was silky and reached nearly to her waist. Her small white face was as hard as stone.

  "Sure," I said and stood up. I looked at Watkins, still sitting staring down at his hands. "Mr. Watkins, you haven't answered my question."

  Be-Be rushed up to me, grabbed my arm and swung me around. "Get out!" she screamed at me.

  I looked down at her, then the whole set-up jelled in my mind: the second bedroom, the cuddly bear, the clothes in the closet and the Medal of Honor on the wall.

  "Okay," I said. "I'm on my way."

  She went to the door and threw it wide open.

  "Get out of here!"

  As I moved by her, I caught hold of a handful of her silky black tresses and jerked the wig off her head. She screamed, then her hand lashed out, but I caught her wrist.