1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (13 page)

"If I did, black man," I said. "I wouldn't want it from you."

He flexed his impressive muscles that made his shirt strain at the buttons.

"Take the air, white man," He snarled. "Move with the hoofs!"

I undid the middle button of my jacket and slightly opened e jacket, revealing the .38 snug in its holster.

He stared at the gun, then at me, then he gave a weak smile.

"Why didn't you say you were a cop, boss?" he said and moved away, then he set off at a fast pace, shoving his way through the crowd like a bull-dozer shifting heavy soil.

I rebuttoned my jacket, flicked my cigarette butt over the heads of the passing crowd and continued to wait. Another twenty minutes of patience brought its reward. Be-Be appeared, looked to right and left, then set off down the street. I expected her to be carrying a suitcase, but she was carrying only a sling bag.

I gave her room, then walked after her. She certainly didn't look like someone leaving town.

I had trouble keeping her in sight, weaving my way through the crowd, then abruptly she turned right and for a moment I lost her. I shoved my way past a group of Mexicans who were arguing as only Mexicans can, rounded the corner in time to see her at the far end of the street. She was about to get into a TR7. The car surprised me. It looked new, glittering paintwork: pale blue, an open top. I twisted around a fat woman, ladened with shopping-bags, as I heard the link car start up. It shot away, but I was close enough to get the number on the license plate before she whipped the car around a corner and was gone.

I scribbled the number in my notebook, then walked back to her apartment block. I pushed open the door, walked down the sleazy passage to her door. I expected it to be lucked, but it swung open at my touch.

I spent five minutes searching and came up with nothing. The portable wardrobe was empty. The bed-sheets were dirty. The shower-room, with three fat roaches having fun, looked as if it hadn't been used in months. I came to the conclusion Be-Be had conned me. This sordid room was certainly not her home.

I drove to the office and visited Charles Edwards, the vulture who presided over the expense accounts of all operators. After a short, sharp argument with him, I replenished my wallet, promising to give him a detail statement of how I was spending the Agency's money.

Chick Barley was out. Shutting myself in my office, I called the Traffic Control officer at police headquarters. I had already made my number with him and, as the Agency helped the police, the police helped the Agency.

"Lew," I said when he came on the line. "I want to trace a car registration number: PC400008."

"Hold it."

While I waited, I doodled on a scratch-pad thinking of Be-Be. Why had she taken me to that sordid room? Did she really mean she was quitting the Skin Club? How was it she owned an expensive sports car when she had bitten me for a hundred dollars? May be she didn't own the car: borrowed or stolen?

"Dirk?" The traffic controller came on the line. "The car is registered to Mrs. Phyllis Stobart. The address is 48, Broadhurst Boulevard. P.C."

"Thanks, Lew," I said and hung up.

I pulled the portable typewriter towards me and typed out my expense statement for Edwards. I hoped it would satisfy him.

The door opened and Chick Barley breezed in.

"You again?" He sat at his desk. "I've something for you."

He opened his desk drawer and took out a brief report. "No record of Mitch Jackson getting married, but his son John Jackson's birth was registered by Stella Jackson. Could be the wife, but more likely not."

He handed over a photocopy of the birth certificate. It told me no more than what he had already told me.

Father: Mitch Jackson. Mother: Stella Jackson. Place-of birth: 22, Grove Lane, Miami.

"Well, thanks, Chick. Tell me did you ever come across Captain Harry Weatherspoon, an Army narcotic agent?"

"You still nosing into drugs?"

"Did you?"

"I met him once. He was researching the boys, sorting the goats from the sheep." Chick pulled a face. "I didn't take to him."

"Why was that?

Chick shrugged.

"Envy, I guess. He seemed to have too much money. One of these guys with rich parents. He threw his weight around. You either like a guy or you don't. I didn't."

"Chick, could you get another little job done for me? I want to get back to Searle. I'd like to get the background of a Mrs. Phyllis Stobart of 46, Broadhurst Boulevard."

He gaped at me.

"What's she to do with Johnny Jackson?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing, but I want to know about her just in case."

"Well, Terry hasn't a thing to do right now. I'll get him to dig. How deep?"

"As deep as he can dig."

"Well, okay. And you want it yesterday, of course."

"Tonight will do. I'll phone you from Searle. 21.00 at your place . . . right?"

"Not right. At that hour, I hope to be helping a very promising piece of goods out of her dress." He scribbled on a pad, tore off the sheet. "Call Terry. He's still too young to make dates."

"I'll call him." I left the office and dropped my expense account on Edwards's desk. He was talking on the telephone, so I gave him a cheerful wave and bolted for the elevator before he could ask awkward questions.

I got in my car and headed back to Searle.

As I parked outside The jumping Frog hotel, the church clock struck the half hour to 20.00. The drive and my thoughts had made me hungry. I climbed the steps and entered the hotel lobby, expecting to see Peggy at the reception desk, but it was deserted. I crossed the lobby and entered the restaurant. Only five commercials were eating and working.

Abraham, the old coloured waiter, beamed as he saw me and pulled out the chair at my table.

"Evening, Mr. Wallace," he said as I sat down. "I can recommend the steak stuffed with oysters."

"Sounds fine with me," I said, "and a double Scotch on the rocks." As he noted my order on his pad, I asked, "Where's Miss Peggy?"

He looked at me, his eyes sad.

"Miss Peggy ain't well. She's taking a little rest," and he shuffled off towards the kitchen.

I sat back, lit a cigarette and told my stomach to be patient.

After a ten minute wait. Abraham came shuffling out of the kitchen, carrying a tray. He placed the dish before me and the Scotch on the rocks.

"How's that, Mr. Wallace?"

"Looks good enough to eat."

I saw his expression change and look of fear come into his old eyes. I glanced around.

Harry Weatherspoon was standing in the doorway. We looked at each other, then I gave him a wide smile and a wave. He hesitated for a moment, then came over to my table.

"Hello there, Mr. Weatherspoon," I said. "Have dinner on me."

"Thanks, but I've eaten," he said and stared hard at Abraham who ducked his head in a bow and shuffled off.

"We’ll have a coffee." I said. "I wanted a word with you."

Again he hesitated, then pulled out a chair and sat opposite me.

Abraham came shuffling back.

"Coffee and a brandy," Weatherspoon said curtly.

I ate some of the steak.

"Good food here," I said.

"Yes." He was regarding me thoughtfully, on the defensive.

"I hear you're buying the hotel when poor Wyatt passes on.

"There's nothing decided yet."

Abraham brought the coffee and the brandy.

"Put it on my check, Abraham," I said.

He nodded and shuffled away.

I ate some more while Weatherspoon sipped the brandy. He was still regarding me. I let him wait and I could see he was growing impatient.

"How's your investigation going?" he asked abruptly.

"Slow progress. I was talking to Colonel Jefferson Haverford." I looked up sharply, giving him my cop stare.

His eyes flickered, but his face remained expressionless.

"How's the colonel?" he asked.

"You did a snow job with me, didn't you, Mr. Weatherspoon? You told me you had never seen Mitch Jackson."

He suddenly relaxed and smiled.

"Well, you did a con job with me, didn't you? That makes us quits."

I reminded myself I was talking to an ex-narcotic agent. I would have to handle him with care if I was going to get worthwhile information from him.

“That's right." I returned his smile. "Colonel Haverford told me you got evidence that Jackson was a drug-pusher and you had a warrant for his arrest."

Weatherspoon, putting sugar in his coffee, shrugged.

"Correct. It was a delicate situation. I was just ready to arrest Jackson when he went into his hero's act. Colonel Haverford and I discussed what to do and he decided we should scrub the charge. We have kept this under the wraps for over six years, now you come along and dig it up."

"My job is to find Jackson's son. If I can find him without rattling Jackson's skeleton that's fine with me."

He stared at me, then nodded.

"The kid could be anywhere. I don't envy you your job."

"Your attorney is advertising. Could turn up something."

"I heard you talked to him."

"I'm talking to a lot of people, Mr. Weatherspoon. I don't have to tell you: an investigation like this takes time and talk."

He finished his coffee, then sipped the brandy.

"Seems a lot of work to find a kid."

"That's what I'm paid for. After all, you're interested, aren't you?"

"Not any longer, I did think of buying the frog-farm, but I've changed my mind." He gave me a shifty look. "I've told Benbolt. I don't want to be bothered and don't want to spend any more money."

"So finding Johnny Jackson now means nothing to you?" He finished his brandy.

"No." He got to his feet. "Well, I have to be getting along."

"A moment, Mr. Weatherspoon. Mitch Jackson must have made a lot of money, pushing drugs. Who supplied him?"

"I don't know." His expression had now turned wooden. "How did you get onto him? What evidence did you collect to warrant an arrest?"

"I don't discuss Army business with a private eye," he said curtly. "Good-night," and he walked across the restaurant, out into the lobby and out of my sight.

I signalled to Abraham for coffee. I sat over the coffee for some time, my mind busy, then, leaving a tip for Abraham, I went to the lobby, where there was a call-box.

Bob Wyatt was dozing behind the reception desk. He blinked awake as he saw me.

"You can make your call from your bedroom, Mr. Wallace."

Bearing in mind that the call would go through the switchboard, I smiled at him and shut myself in the call booth.

I dialled the number Chick had given me. Terry O'Brien answered as if he had been sitting, waiting for the call.

O'Brien was one of the young leg-men Colonel employed. He rail errands, did research, hummed like a bee with energy and was so full of ambition he was like to burst.

"Terry? Wallace," I said. "What have you got for me?"

"Hi, Dirk." There were sounds of rustling paper. "Phyllis Stobart? Right?"

"Right," I said, containing my impatience. "What have you got?"

"I've spent the past two hours digging in the Herald's morgue. Fan was a big help, but I haven't come up with much."

Fanny Batley, the coloured night clerk in charge of The Paradise City Herald's morgue, was always helpful. If the Parnell operators wanted to know anything about the citizens of the city, they automatically consulted her.

"So what did you find?"

"Phyllis Stobart, wife of Herbert Stobart. She's around forty, he's around forty-six, give or take. He bought a villa on Broadhurst Boulevard: high class: around a quarter to half a million. This was a year ago. They arrived out of the blue. He claims to have been an import & export merchant in the Far East: Saigon. Sold out before the Viets took over and picked up a bundle of loot. He and she moved in the lower rich strata. From the photos I've seen, he looks a real tough. One of these tycoons who've come up from nothing and throws his money around. She's got more class. I'm judging from the photographs. Their home, and again I'm judging from the photographs, is class. Three cars: a Rolls, and a Jag for him. She has a TR7. Staff of four. He's retired: plays golf and poker. She bridge." He paused, then asked hopefully, "How's that?"

"Fine so far," I said, "but I want to know much more about the woman. I want to know where she came from. Have they any children?"

He gave a suppressed moan.

"Okay. Tomorrow, I'll got onto it. The clippings didn't mention children. In fact, the clippings just gave out on their social life."

"Then get out your sharpest spade and goddamn dig," I said and hung up.

I left the call-box and, seeing Bob Wyatt staring into space, I walked over to him.

"Peggy not well?" I asked, coming to rest before him. He looked sadly at me.

"She's in hospital."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is she bad?"

"She has a problem." He shrugged in despair. "They tell me they can fix it." A twinge of pain crossed his pallid face, but he managed a gaunt smile. "Mr. Weatherspoon is buying the hotel." He gave another despairing shrug. "He strikes a hard bargain, but I can't manage here much longer. At least, Peggy won't starve."

The sight of this thin, sad-looking man in obvious pain depressed me.

"Mr. Weatherspoon plans to modernize the hotel," he went on. "The staff will go, except the cook. Well, it's the march of time."

"Mr. Weatherspoon seems to be a collector of property in Searle," I said.

He nodded, then reached for my key.

"Are you going to bed now, Mr. Wallace?"

I took the key, smiled at him and rode up in the elevator to my room.

I thought over the day, thought about what Terry O'Brien had told me, then, finding I wasn't getting anywhere, I took a shower, got into bed and went to sleep.

I found Wally Watkins cutting dead roses from the bushes that lined the path to his bungalow.

He straightened when he saw my car and came down to the gate to greet me: immaculate in a white suit and wearing a panama hat, he looked as if he had stepped straight out of the pages of Gone With The Wind.