1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (10 page)

I drank some of his excellent Scotch while I thought.

"This could still remain a fig-leaf job, sir," I said. "By that I mean a cover-up job, but I want to investigate further. Did you know Jackson married and had a son?"

He shook his head.

"According to our records, Jackson was a vicious thug before he joined the army. His past record was very bad, but when he became a soldier his record was excellent. He too did a great fig-leaf job—as you call it—none of the brass had an idea what he was up to. If it hadn't been for my assistant, Captain Harry Weatherspoon, who was tireless when hunting drug-pushers, Jackson would have got away with his very profitable racket."

I sat still, trying to keep my face expressionless.

"Captain Harry Weatherspoon? What happened to him?"

"He quit the army. I heard he had bought a partnership in some factory: something to do with frogs."

He shrugged. "Seemed to me an odd job for a smart narcotic agent." He looked at his watch. "I have to change. My wife flips her lovely lid if I'm late for a party." He got to his feet. "Before you go any further with your investigations, I suggest you talk to your boss. I don't know why it seems so important to find Jackson's son, but I do know raking up Jackson's past will cause disagreeable publicity and a reflection on Parnell's regiment. So . . . you talk to him."

We shook hands and I left.

The time was 18.40. I decided to go back to my apartment. On the way, I bought a "take-home" Chinese dinner. I wanted to sit and think, and felt no inclination to go out once I was home.

I had my .38 revolver in my hand as I unlocked my front door. No muggers waited for me. I shut and bolted the door, looked into my bedroom, then, putting the gun back in its holster, I made myself a drink and sat down to collate in my mind what had happened this day. It seemed I was making progress.

Tomorrow, I told myself, I would call on Howard & Benbolt, Weatherspoon's attorneys, then I would return to Searle. I wanted to talk to Wally Watkins again, then I wanted to talk to Josh, the mailman, and, of course, I wanted to talk to Harry Weatherspoon.

I had an uneasy, growing suspicion as I sat and sipped my drink that Colonel Parnell would take me off this case if I told him what I had discovered so far. I was glad he was in Washington.

After a late breakfast, I drove over to Miami and found the offices of Howard & Benbolt. They were located on the sixth floor of a smart office block on N.W. 36 street.

A fat, grey-haired woman sat behind the reception desk. She regarded me with cool; unfriendly eyes.

"Mr. Benbolt," I said, giving her a smile and my card. She stared at the card, then dropped it as if it would soil her fingers.

"You haven't an appointment, Mr. Wallace?"

I said I hadn't an appointment.

"Mr. Benbolt usually sees clients by appointment."

I said I wasn't a client. I just wanted a brief word with Mr. Benbolt unless, of course, he was heavily engaged.

"This is an inconvenient time, Mr. Wallace."

I was rapidly getting bored with this old has-been, but I kept my smile glued on and said I was sincerely sorry about the time. What was a convenient time?

She stared at me, not sure if I was conning her or not, then she switched on the squawk-box and announced: "There is a Mr. Wallace from Parnell's Detective Agency wanting to speak to you, Mr. Edward.”

A hearty voice boomed out of the speaker.

"Send him in, Miss Lacey. Send him in."

She flicked up the switch and pointed to a door. Her expression would have curdled milk.

“Through there, third door on the right."

I thanked her, entered a long corridor, rapped on the third door on the right and was told by the hearty booming voice to come in.

Edward Benbolt was a large, overweight specimen of wealth. He was just over forty years of age: immaculate in a dark business suit. Everything about him from his Cardin shirt, his gold cuff-links, his sleek black hair, his red jowls, the carnation in his button-hole reeked of wealth and confidence.

"Come in, Mr. Wallace," he said, rising from behind an enormous desk and reaching out a hand that felt, as I grasped it, to be made of dough. I decided the only exercise Mr. Benbolt took was with a knife and fork. "Sit down. Mr. Weatherspoon telephoned me. He said you would look in." He showed his expensively capped teeth in a wide smile. "You may be able to solve our little problem, he tells me. We know all about the Parnell Agency: the best."

I sat down.

"I take it Mr. Weatherspoon has told you we are acting for the late Frederick Jackson in the endeavour to find his grandson?" I said.

"Exactly. We're trying to find him too. All rather mysterious, isn't it?" He gave a booming, laugh.

"Mr. Weatherspoon is interested in buying the frog-farm, but we can't negotiate without first finding old Jackson's heir."

"Are you satisfied that Johnny Jackson is Frederick Jackson's heir?"

"There's no doubt about that. I have seen a copy of the will."

"So there was a will?"

"Yes, indeed. Old Jackson left all his property and money to his son, Mitchell, and at his death to his male offspring."

"So that cuts out Mitch's wife?"

"If there was a wife, it certainly would. So far we have no evidence that Mitch married."

"If he didn't and Johnny was illegitimate, would that prevent him claiming old Jackson's estate?"

"No. By using the term 'male offspring' he is covered."

"Who holds the original will?"

"Mr. Willis Pollack. He is Searle's local lawyer." Benbolt looked patronizing. "I spoke to him on the telephone. He tells me old Jackson made the will when his son was drafted. Apart from the frog-farm, it appears old Jackson left no money. The farm isn't of great value. Mr. Weatherspoon would be prepared to pay five thousand dollars for it: not more."

I decided not to tell this fat, smiling attorney about the hole under old Jackson's bed. I was pretty sure there had been a considerable amount of money hidden there, but there was no point, until I investigated further, in telling Benbolt. I could be wrong.

"And you, Mr. Wallace. Are you making progress?"

"Not yet. Johnny went missing some time ago. The trail is cold, but I'm digging. I have only been on the job a few days. I just wanted to meet you and to make sure we don't waste time and money following the same avenues."

He seemed to like that for he nodded approvingly.

"We are advertising. We have contacted the Missing Persons Bureau. As you say it's early days." He glanced at his gold Omega. "Well, Mr. Wallace, suppose we keep in touch, huh?" He rose to his feet and offered his dough-like hand.

I shook his hand, said I would keep in touch and, if he had any answers from his advertisement, would he let me know, and I gave him my business card.

I left him, satisfied that I had got more information out of him than he had out of me.

Three hours later, I was in the restaurant of The Jumping Frog hotel. Bob Wyatt was behind the reception desk as I walked through the lobby. He gave me a friendly nod. I didn't pause to ask where his daughter was. I sat at my comer table, nodded and exchanged grins with the other diners and ate a good Maryland chicken. When I had finished eating, I asked the old coloured waiter, who told me his name was Abraham, where I could find Willis Pollack, Searle's lawyer. He gave me directions. After coffee, I walked across Main Street, aware I was being watched by curious eyes, to Willis Pollack's office, which was above a hardware store.

It was like entering a 1800 movie set. A little old lady with snow-white hair, wearing a black dress that a costume museum would he proud to exhibit, sat behind a tiny desk on which was probably one of the first Remington typewriters to come off the assembly line. The large room was lined with old-fashioned deed-boxes. By the window was a larger desk and behind it sat Willis Pollack.

I paused in the doorway and regarded him.

Willis Pollack was a tiny man, in his eighties, and he looked like a miniature Buffalo Bill. He had white moustaches, a neatly trimmed goatee, a long hawk-like nose and alert brown eyes. He wore a black frock coat, a white shirt and a gambler's string tie. He looked as if he had stepped out of the past century.

"Ah! It is Mr. Wallace," he said. "Come in, friend." He rose to his tiny height, a warm smile on his wrinkled, weather-beaten face. "That's my dear wife, Daisy," he went on. "She does all the work while I do the talking."

The little old lady simpered.

"Now, Willy." She looked at me. "My dear husband always exaggerates. I just don't know what the folks here would do without him."

A little dazed, I advanced into the dim room and shook Pollack's hand, then I went over to Daisy and shook her hand.

Pollack waved me to an old leather-padded chair by his desk.

"In what way can I be of service?" he asked.

I sat down.

"As you know, Mr. Pollack, I am trying to find Johnny Jackson," I said. I went on to tell him about the letter old Jackson had sent to my Agency and that Colonel Parnell had accepted the hundred-dollar retainer and, because Mitch Jackson was a national hero, he had instructed me to investigate. "I have talked to Mr. Benbolt who tells me Frederick Jackson made a will and you have it. I would like to know when and how the will was made."

Pollack looked over at his wife.

"Show him the will, dear daisy," he said.

She went to a deed-box and brought me a sheet of paper. There was nothing complicated in the simple statement.

I, Frederick Jackson, leave all my property and my money to my son, Mitchell Jackson. Should he not survive me, then all my property and money is to go to his male offspring whether they are born in wedlock or not. In the event of there being no male offsprings, then my money and property is to go to the Disabled Veterans Fund to help those who are as legless as I am.

Under the scrawling signature which was hard to decipher, Willis and Daisy Pollack had acted as witnesses.

"In wedlock or not?" I said, looking at Pollack. "An odd phrase."

He smoothed his moustache and smiled.

"Not really. Fred knew his son was not the marrying type. He foresaw the possibility that Mitch would have illegitimate sons. Fred had no time for girls. He was odd about this. He told me flatly that no girl would get his money, then when Johnny turned up, I believe for the first time since Mitch left, old Fred was happy."

"What happened about the will?"

"As soon as Mitch was drafted into the army, I got word from Fred asking me and Daisy to go up to his cabin as he wanted to make a will. We went up there." He shook his head. "For many years, Fred and I had been good friends. We played a lot of snooker together, but when he lost his legs he became a recluse. Daisy and I were dreadfully shocked to find how he was living. The squalor of it! Never mind, he told us exactly how he wanted the will worded. I asked him if he didn't want to make some provision for Mitch's wife, should he marry, and he turned unpleasant, telling me that was his will and that was how it was to be. I wrote it out, he signed it, and Daisy and I witnessed it, and that was that." He fingered his string tie. "I am sure Fred hadn't any money to leave, but only the land and the cabin which aren't worth much so I didn't press him to make a more comprehensive will."

"What makes you think he didn't have any money?" I asked.

Pollack looked a little startled.

"By the way he lived, Mr. Wallace. No one would live that rough unless he was short of money. He had no banking account and there was no money found in the cabin after his death."

"Who looked?" I asked.

"Dr. Steed and Mr. Weatherspoon went up there after Fred died. Dr. Steed told me they had a good look around and there were no papers nor money."

"Mr. Weatherspoon? Why did he go up there?"

"He wants to buy the property and he and Dr. Steed are good friends. Dr. Steed thought a witness was the correct procedure when he examined the cabin."

"Didn't they think it odd that old Jackson left no papers?"

"Yes, and so did I, but Dr. Steed said he thought that before Fred shot himself he had got rid of all letters and papers."

"Did it seem odd to you that old Jackson shot himself, Mr. Wallace?"

"Well, yes. It came as a great shock, but, as Dr. Steed said at the inquest, poor Fred led a lonely life and losing Johnny must have been a hard blow. At his age, with no legs, it may have seemed to him the best way out."

I got to my feet.

"So it now remains to find Johnny," I said. "Well, thank you, Mr. Pollack, for your time. I'll need further help, I hope I can bother you again."

"Don't hesitate, Mr. Wallace."

We shook hands, then I shook hands with Daisy and went down the rickety stairs and into the hot street.

This had begun as an unpromising jigsaw puzzle, I thought as I crossed Main Street and walked towards the post-office, but bit by bit pieces were falling into place. I was collecting information and that is the heart and guts of an investigation.

Entering the post-office, I found a young girl with an acne complexion and wearing pebble glasses, standing behind the wire mesh. She was yawning as I came to rest before her, then obviously recognizing me, she gave me a hopeful smile.

"Hi there, Mr. Wallace. Searle's post-office is at your service."

"Thanks," I said and, feeling sorry for her drab appearance, I gave her my sexy smile. "Is Josh around?"

"He's sorting the mail." She pointed to a door. "Have you found Johnny yet?"

"Not yet. You'll be the first to know when or if I do."

She giggled.

"I bet. It must be wonderful to be a private eye."

"You can say that again," I said and walked to the door, pushed it open and moved into a tiny sorting office.

A thickset man, balding, in his late fifties, stood at a counter, going through a pile of letters. He had a pipe in his mouth and spectacles at the end of his nose.

"Can you spare a minute?" I asked, closing the door. He glanced up, nodded and went back to sorting the letters.

"I'm Dirk Wallace. Bill Anderson may have mentioned me. I'm trying to find Johnny Jackson."