1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (17 page)

This wasn't door that could be forced open. Moving around the back of the building, I found another door. This too was securely locked.

I stepped back and surveyed the building. There was a sloping roof and a veranda, then the apartment windows, then another sloping roof. I returned to the courtyard. After searching around among the factory sheds, I found a short ladder, lying on its side in the grass. I carried it around to the back of the office block, set it up and got onto the sloping roof. From there, I climbed over the veranda rail. One of the windows was half open. I lifted the latch, paused to listen, then opened the window wide. Using my flashlight, I found myself in a big, well-furnished bedroom. The bed was big enough to accept three people comfortably. I imagined Peggy lying on it, offering her nice little body to Weatherspoon. I moved into the room, opened the door, stepped out into a dark corridor, opened another door and looked into a living-room, also well furnished, neat and orderly.

I wasn't interested in Weatherspoon's living-quarters. I wanted to get down to his office.

There were stairs. I stood at the head of them and sent the beam of my flashlight down to a solid-looking door. I descended to the door to find it locked. Again this wasn't a door to be forced open. I knew if I could open it, I would walk into Weatherspoon's office.

Frustrated, I returned to the apartment. Going into the bedroom, I opened the door of the big closet, facing the bed. Weatherspoon's clothes hung in an orderly row. I spent some time going through the pockets of a number of suits, but came up with nothing. I went through the drawers: many shirts, underwear, socks, but nothing of interest to me.

Finally, after half an hour's patient search, I opened a small drawer in his bedside table. This contained a packet of condoms and a key. Hopefully, I went down to the locked door and tried the key.

The lock turned and I moved into the office. I went to the big desk behind which Weatherspoon had sat when I had first met him. Every drawer in the desk was locked. I sat in his chair and examined the locks.

It would take a professional to open them.

Leaving the desk, I prowled around the office, found a door, opened it and moved into a small room.

Facing me was a floor-to-ceiling steel door. Across the door was a steel bar with a padlock. The door had two locks. Short of blasting the door open, there was no hope of opening it without the keys.

I stood and stared at the door.

Well, I told myself, it was a try. There had just been the remote chance that Weatherspoon's security wasn't top-class.

There was no point in staying longer. I would have to approach from another angle: what angle for the moment defeated me. Then I heard the sound of an approaching car.

I snapped off the flashlight and moved to one of the big windows. I could hear voices. Then the gates to the factory swung open and a truck drove into the courtyard. It was followed by a car that came to rest beside the truck.

The moon was high now and I could see the truck and the car clearly.

From the car, a short, heavily built man got out. I recognized him: Edmundo Raiz. From the truck two men got out: Sombrero and Goatskin.

I moved fast, opening the door to Weatherspoon's apartment, closing it and locking it behind me, then I moved silently up the stairs. I left by the open window, pushed it to, climbed down the ladder and carried it to a clump of bushes where I hid it.

Easing my gun from its holster, I walked silently around the building, pausing as I approached the courtyard. I edged forward, peering around the wall.

Lights were on in the office. I could hear voices. The door to the office stood open. Light streamed into the courtyard. After a long pause, I satisfied myself the three men had entered the office. I moved forward, keeping to the shadows, then, seeing a pile of frog-barrels, I got behind them. This must have been the place where Peggy had hidden and, as she had told me, from there I could look directly into the office.

Sombrero was standing by the desk. Raiz and Goatskin had gone into the small inner room. There was a long pause, then Goatskin came into the office said something to Sombrero, who followed him into the small room.

Raiz came out and went to the desk. He was holding a bunch of keys. Sitting at the desk, he began unlocking the drawers.

Goatskin came out, carrying a number of small cartons. He went out to the truck and shoved the cartons in, then returned as Sombrero came out, also ladened with cartons, putting them in the truck.

I watched Raiz. He was going through a pile of papers he had taken from one of the drawers of the desk. His movements were hurried. Every now and then, he put a paper aside.

The other two, working fast, kept piling cartons into the truck. It was a quick, well organized operation.

Raiz opened another drawer. He took from it a folder, examined it, then laid it with the other papers he had put aside. After unlocking more drawers and taking a quick look, he slammed them shut. I decided he had found what he was looking for.

He got to his feet.

I heard him shout, "Come on! Come on! Haven't you finished yet?"

Goatskin mumbled something and went back to the small room again.

This seemed to me to be my one and only chance, as Sombrero followed him. Drawing my gun, I moved out from behind the shelter of the barrels, took six jumps to the back of the truck, snatched up one of the cartons, spun around and was back behind the barrels in less than three seconds. As I crouched down, Goatskin and Sombrero came out, staggering under another load of cartons.

Raiz spent a few moments relocking the desk drawers, then he took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped the drawers and the top of the desk.

Goatskin was closing the canvas back of the truck. Sombrero was already at the driving-wheel.

Picking up the folder and the other papers, Raiz turned off the office lights. He came out, closed and locked the door, then moved swiftly to his car.

"Okay, you two," he said. "Let's go."

He backed his car, spun it around and drove away through the gateway. Sombrero drove the truck beyond the gates and stopped. Goatskin closed the gates and I heard him lock them.

I sat behind the smelly frog-barrels, clutching the carton and waited. I didn't move until I heard both Raiz's car engine and the truck's engine die away.

Leaving by the small gate, I walked fast to The Jumping Frog hotel.

There was only one light on in the lobby. This was above the reception desk. The lobby was deserted. The two commercials had gone to bed. Old Abraham was sleeping peacefully. His hands folded in his lap. I gently shook the old man awake. He opened his heavy-lidded eve, and blinked at me. Then he stiffened to attention, his black face lighting up with a smile.

"Must have dozed off, Mr. Wallace. You need something?"

"I want a can-opener," I said.

He blinked.

"What was that again, sir?"

"A can-opener. Have you one?"

"A can-opener?"

"That's what I want." I spoke in a soothing voice. He must have been pushing eighty and had come awake from a heavy sleep, probably dreaming of his past and his grandchildren. "A can-opener."

He rubbed his forehead, closed and opened his eyes, then nodded.

"I'll get you one, Mr. Wallace. If you're hungry, I can fix you a meal."

"Just a can-opener."

He got stiffly to his feet, swayed for a moment, then shuffled off to the restaurant. I waited. It took him some five minutes before he returned.

"Cook won't like this, Mr. Wallace," he said, handing me a rusty can-opener. "Can you let me have it back breakfast-time?"

"You'll get it." I had a twenty-dollar bill ready. "Thanks, Abraham. When do you get to bed?"

"Mr. Wyatt likes to keep open all night. He says you never know. Someone might want a bed and that's what a hotel's for." He gaped as I dropped the twenty-dollar bill in front of him. "Why, Mr. Wallace, that ain't necessary."

"Good-night," I said, patted his shoulder and, leaving him, took the elevator to my room.

Putting on the light, I locked the door, then put the carton on the table. It was a solid box, measuring around eight inches square and four inches deep.

The label on the box read:

Mrs. Lucilla Banbury

1445, West Drive

Los Angeles, CA

Using my all-purpose pocket-knife, I carefully eased away the tape that sealed the top of the box and revered the top open. In two snug compartments were two shiny-topped cans. Lifting one of them out, I read the well-designed label.

A Product from Morgan & Weatherspoon, Searle, Florida: FROG SADDLES, A luxury meal in itself. Follow the directions for a delicious, satisfying quick meal for two.

The cooking directions were the same as those given me by Chloe Smith.

Using the can-opener, I removed the lid and regarded the neatly packed frog legs, golden in batter.

They certainly looked good to eat. Using the blade of my knife, I poked around and unearthed a two inch square plastic envelope containing white powder. I fished it out, then, crossing to the bathroom, I washed the envelope clean.

I guessed what the envelope contained, but I had to be sure. I put the envelope in my wallet, collected the can from the table and rather reluctantly emptied its contents into the toilet. I stripped the label and added that to the floating frog legs, then I flushed the lot down the drain.

Going to the window, I opened it, made sure the street was deserted, then threw the empty can far into the street. Resealing the carton, now containing only one can, I put the carton in my closet.

I may not have found Johnny Jackson, I told myself as I undressed, but at least my day had been far from unprofitable.

I took a shower and went to bed.

chapter seven

H
arry Meadows, tall, lean and pushing seventy, had at one time been in charge of the Paradise City police laboratory. When the time had come for him to retire, Colonel Parnell had offered him the job of running the Agency's small, well equipped lab. Meadows had jumped at the offer. He had been considered the best pathologist in Florida and was still, in spite of his age, in the upper echelon, often being consulted by his successor at the police lab.

I found Meadows sitting on a high stool examining a slide under a microscope.

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.