1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (14 page)

"I was wondering when I was going to have the pleasure of seeing you again," he said, shaking hands. "Like some coffee?"

“Thanks, no. I've just had breakfast." The time was 10.05. "How's the knee?"

"It comes and it goes. When it goes, I do a bit of gardening."

I paused to admire the roses.

"Best roses I've seen," I said.

"Well, I talk to them." He laughed. "Flowers respond to talk. They appreciate gentle praise."

We sat in rockers in the shade. He lit a pipe and I a cigarette.

"Well, young fella, have you found Johnny yet?" he asked.

"It'll be a long job. The reason why I've come to bother you, Mr. Watkins, is I want to talk about your son."

A shadow crossed his face.

"What has he to do with this?" His voice sharpened.

"I don't know. I'm like a fisherman. I drop hooks into the stream and hope to catch something. Have you heard from him?"

"I haven't heard from him since he was drafted into the Army. That was a good ten years ago, and frankly, I don't want to hear from him. He was nothing but trouble. Kitty would have been alive today if it wasn't for him and the way he behaved."

"I understand that he and Mitch Jackson were buddies."

"A couple of no-gooders. Yes. I believe Syd encouraged Mitch. Syd was bright. Make no mistake about that. He had a head on his shoulders, but he was bad too." Wally removed his pipe, stared at it as he shook his head. "Neither Kitty nor I could figure what went wrong. We gave him all the love we had and that was plenty. He was just bad. Even when he was four years old, he started stealing from my store. He could have had anything he asked for, but it was more fun for him to steal. Later, he got around to stealing from my till. I caught him at it and I walloped him, but it didn't stop him. Then he and Mitch used to go to Paradise City on Mitch's motor-bike. Old Fred had given Mitch the machine. They stole there. I knew because I watched Syd and knew he was getting money for cigarettes and clothes from somewhere. So it went on. Kitty never stopped grieving. It killed her eventually."

"Tough," I said. "Didn't he write when he was in Vietnam?"

"He sent Kitty a postcard just once, telling her he had arrived. After that. . . nothing."

"Would you have a photograph of him, Mr. Watkins?" I said this very casually.

"A photograph? Why, yes. Come to think of it, he did send Kitty a photograph of himself in uniform before he embarked." He looked inquiringly at me. "Want to see it?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble." I gave him my wide, frank smile. "Just fishing, you understand."

He thought about this, then got slowly to his feet.

"Come on in. "I'll show it to you."

We entered the neat living-room. He went to a drawer and began searching while I moved to the rear window and looked out onto the small back garden. It contained an immaculate little lawn and more rose-bushes: these were the long-stemmed blood-red roses you have to pay high for at a florist.

I glanced around the room. On a small desk stood a portable typewriter.

"Do you type, Mr. Watkins?"

"My handwriting isn't as good as it should be. I keep in touch with old friends and I respect their eyesight." He straightened, then handed me an envelope. "There's Syd's photograph."

I took from the envelope a quarter-plate glossy: a professional job showing a young man wearing army tropical kit.

So this was Syd Watkins: narrow-shouldered, close-cut black hair, close-set eyes, an almost lipless mouth, a short blunt nose and a white scar running from his right eye down to his chin. Put him in dirty jeans and a sweat-shirt and he was a typical portrait of a vicious thug.

"I never look at it," Wally said, moving away. "He looks what he was, doesn't he? Bad."

"That scar?"

"Oh, that? He got it when he was fifteen. A knife-fight, I guess. Kitty and I didn't ask. He came home bleeding and we fixed him. We were so sick and scared, we just didn't ask." He heaved a sigh. "We learned not to ask questions. It was a waste of time."

I put the photograph back in the envelope and put the envelope on the table.

"Have you seen Johnny Jackson recently?" I asked, jumping the question on him.

He stiffened, then stared at me.

"What was that?"

"I asked if you had seen Johnny Jackson since old Fred died?"

His eyes shifted.

"Why do you ask that?"

"Someone put red roses from your garden on old Fred's grave. Someone typed a note that said 'Rest now in peace, Grandpa. Johnny.' The note could have been typed on your typewriter. Did Johnny telephone you, asking you to do this or did he come here and do it himself?"

He fumbled for his pipe, lit it, taking his time. I waited. Then still not looking at me, he forced a pale smile.

"A clever guess, Mr. Wallace," he said, "but wrong. I did it. I thought Johnny wherever he is, would like that. It was my idea. Old Fred and I were close friends. I didn't like to think of him being put in the ground without flowers. So I cut the roses and typed the card. Johnny would have done it if he had been here." Again the forced pale smile. "I hope old Fred appreciates what I did, acting for Johnny."

I regarded him. This kindly-looking old man had no guile. It was a good try, but I felt he was lying.

"A nice thought," I said. "So you haven't seen nor heard from Johnny since he disappeared?"

He puffed at his pipe, hesitated, then, still not looking at me, shook his head.

"No, I haven't."

Then I was sure he was lying.

"Well, thanks, Mr. Watkins. Maybe, I'll be worrying you again," and, leaving him looking sad and confused, I returned to my car and headed back to Searle.

When I reached the highway, I pulled into a lay-by, cut the car engine, lit a cigarette and went over in my mind the progress report I would have to give Colonel: Parnell on his return from Washington.

Time was running out. I had only three more days before I submitted the report. I felt pretty sure once Parnell had read my report he would drop the case. For one thing, there was no money in it: for another, my report would expose a fig-leaf job on Mitch Jackson's death. Also Parnell wouldn't want a national hero exposed as a vicious drug-pusher, and who cared, anyway, what had happened to Johnny Jackson?

Well, I did!

There were many loose ends that needed tying up and I had to admit to myself I was no nearer to finding Johnny Jackson than when I had begun this investigation.

I remembered my father's advice: When you are stuck, son, go back to square A, and you might, if you use brains, find an important lead you have overlooked.

I was certainly stuck, so I went back to square A.

Frederick Jackson, a frog-farmer, had asked Colonel Parnell to find his grandson, Johnny. He had paid a retainer of one hundred dollars, reminding Parnell that his son, Mitch, the father of Johnny, was a Medal of Honor hero. So Parnell had accepted the assignment, given it to me, asking for action.

I had discovered the following: Fred Jackson had been murdered. To protect a drunken sheriff and to keep the State police from investigating, the coroner, Dr. Steed, had given a suicide verdict. There had been a hidden, empty hole under Fred's bed that probably had contained his savings. Someone had cleaned out the cabin, taken away Mitch's Medal of Honor and Fred's savings. Town gossip established that Mitch was a thug who went around with another thug, Syd Watkins, stealing and fighting. Both had been drafted into the Army. An eight-year-old boy had arrived in Searle soon after Mitch went into the Army. The boy was looking for his grandfather, Fred Jackson. The boy, Johnny, had given the mailman a letter addressed to Mrs. Stella Costa. The boy remained with his grandfather, attending school until he became fourteen years of age. At this point the news arrived of Mitch's death and his medal award.

Johnny had left school and for another six years wasn't seen by the very few people coming to the farm, but Wally Watkins was sure he hadn't left. Then two months ago he did leave since Fred had asked Parnell to find him. For six years, after Mitch's death, Fred had received an envelope, mailed from Miami. Although the Army brass thought a lot of Mitch, a Negro sergeant, Hank Smith, had said Mitch was a drug-pusher and he had lost his life while trying to protect his young clients who were his source of income. Smith had been killed by a hit-and-run driver. I had been threatened by a black man, then attacked by two muggers. Then there was Harry Weatherspoon to think about: an ex-narcotic army agent who was about to arrest Mitch Jackson when Mitch died a hero's death. Weatherspoon had wanted to buy Jackson's frog-farm. He had advertised, through his attorney Edward Benbolt, for Johnny, but now had lost interest. Fred's will had been oddly worded; his farm and his money went to Mitch and then, if Mitch died, to go to Mitch's male offspring, in or out of wedlock. So Johnny inherited the farm and Fred's unknown fortune. Stella Costa, apparently Johnny's mother, had worked at a dubious nightclub owned by a Mexican, Edmundo Raiz. A young stripper, Be-Be Mansel, who had replaced Stella when she had left the club, claimed Stella had died of an overdose of drugs, and Johnny, her son, was a homosexual, going around with a black buck. Be-Be used a car registered in the name of Phyllis Stobart, who, a year ago, married a rich, retired merchant from Saigon, Herbert Stobart. Wally Watkins, father of Syd Watkins, had seen Johnny regularly when Johnny came to his grocery store. Wally had told me he had put flowers on old Fred's grave, telling me that it was what Johnny would have wanted, but he was a poor liar and I felt sure Wally was still in touch with Johnny.

I turned all this over in my mind. I didn't come up with anything constructive. There was still a lot of digging to be done. As I was within a mile or so from Fred Jackson's frog-farm, and as I had two hours before lunch-time, I decided to take one more look around. It was just possible I might have missed something. A careful search, without Bill Anderson to distract me, just might produce something.

I started the car engine and drove towards the frog-farm. Driving up the narrow lane until I came to the wide turn-around, I parked the car and did the rest of the short journey on foot. Rounding the bend, I paused to look at the cabin. The door was ajar. The croaking of frogs blotted out all other sound. There was this eerie atmosphere that I had noticed before: humid heat, croaking frogs, this sinister-looking little cabin.

Automatically, I released the middle button of my jacket so I could get at the .38, snug in its holster.

I walked by the well and the wooden tub on trestles where Johnny had washed old Fred's clothes, then, reaching the cabin door, I pushed it open.

For a moment, I stood looking into the dimly lit living-room. Although the sun was strong and hot, it scarcely penetrated the grime-covered windows.

The living-room looked as if it had been hit by vandals. The table was legless, chairs without backs, the dusty carpet thrown aside. Someone had hacked at the walls, making big holes in the wood. The two ancient armchairs had been ripped and revealed the dirty stuffing that oozed out liked the entrails of some animal.

I walked into this mess, then into Fred's bedroom. Here again, the place had been ripped apart. His bed, his mattress had all been ripped: stuffing from the mattress made dirty snow on the floor. The closet doors hung open. The back of the closet had had the axe treatment. Fred's dirty clothes were flung into the mess on the floor. The second bedroom was the same: everything ripped, everything axed.

I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand as I stared around.

Someone had come, looking for something, and had been determined to find it. The destruction and the mess told me I would be wasting time to look further.

I moved out into the hot sunshine. The almost deafening noise of the frogs made thought impossible.

I decided I would have to tell Sheriff Tim Mason what had happened up here. The destruction could have been done by vandals, but I doubted it. Someone was looking for Fred Jackson's money. The empty hole under the bed hadn't convinced whoever it was that someone else had got the money..

I started towards the lane to my car, then paused. I had a sudden urge to look once more at the frog-pond. I had these odd hunches from time to time and this was a strong one.

I walked down the narrow path and as I approached the pond, still hidden by the jungle of trees, bushes and weeds, the noise of the frogs thudded inside my head.

I felt alone and uneasy and I put my sweating hand on the butt of my .38, but it gave me no comfort.

I came silently to the pond.

There seemed to be hundreds of frogs, sitting on the far bank: an army of them, green, croaking, their little black eyes glittering.

I moved forward slowly, making no sound.

The slimy pond with its thick weeds caught the hot, overhead sun.

There appeared to be some kind of raft in the middle of the pond on which dozens of frogs were sitting.

I moved closer, then I caught my breath as I saw a human hand. This wasn't a raft! It was a body!

I clapped my hands and immediately every frog in sight vanished. I moved down to the edge of the pond and stared at the floating body.

A big bullfrog was sitting on the head of the body. He eyed me evilly, croaked, then leaped into the water.

I stared down at the drowned body of Harry Weatherspoon.

chapter six

F
rom a call-box on the highway. I called the sheriff s office.

Bill Anderson, sounding efficient, answered.

"Bill, I'm reporting that Fred Jackson's cabin has been done over." I said. "I thought you should know."

"Done over?"

"That's right. Taken to pieces."

There was a pause, then he said, "Excuse me, Dirk, but what are you doing up there?"

"I felt lonely. I have a thing about frogs."

Another pause, then he said, "Oh. Well, maybe I had better come up."

"That's why I'm telephoning, and while you're at it, Bill, bring the sheriff, Dr. Steed, an ambulance and two husky men in waders."