1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (20 page)

She reacted to this as if I had slapped her face. She started back and caught her breath.

"Murdered? You're crazy! What are you saying? The verdict was suicide!"

"Unless Johnny Jackson murdered his grandfather," I said quietly, "he didn't get the money he should inherit."

"That old bastard shot himself!"

"Okay. Where do I find Johnny Jackson?"

"I don't know! I've had enough of this! Get the hell away from me!" Her voice had turned strident.

Fortunately, by now, the terrace was deserted, but I saw the waiter stare at us.

"Mrs. Stobart, please calm down." I put a snap in my voice. "I want to find Johnny. You say you don't know where he is. Can't you give me some lead? Is it right he is homosexual and goes around with a black buck?"

She hesitated, staring away from me, her hard face set.

"Yes, he is a queer," she said finally. "He came once to me with this nigger and tried to borrow money from me. I haven't seen him since. He's probably dead. I don't know . . . I don't care! He was part of my miserable past."

"Why should he be dead?"

"I don't know! I've had enough of him! I just hope he is dead!"

"You can give me no idea where I can find him?"

"Oh, God!" She clenched her fists. "Can't you forget the little fag? Who cares?"

"That's not answering my question, Mrs. Stobart. Have you no idea if he is around here?"

She made the effort and pulled herself together.

"I have no idea. All I hope is that he doesn't bother me ever again." She glared at me. "Do you understand? I've been through hell! Now, I have found a rich husband. My life from what it was has changed. I'm respectable!" She leaned forward, her big eyes glittering. "I've made it! Can't you understand what that means to me? I've made it, but still this ghastly little fag haunts me!"

"Oh, sure. Was Mitch Jackson his father?"

"Don't you ever stop prying? All right, if you must know; Mitch Jackson was his father. Now, are you satisfied?"

"Did you marry Jackson?"

"That bastard wasn't the marrying kind. Let me tell you, you snooping creep, like his goddamn father, Mitch only wanted a son! So I gave him a son: a homo mess! I thought Mitch would marry me when I told him he had a son, but he didn't. He got himself killed and won a medal! How's that for a laugh?"

"Johnny ran away from you when he was around eight years old. Why did he do that?"

"You want to know? Well, find out! You called me a hooker. Use what stupid brains you have." She got to her feet. "If you upset my life, Mr. Private Eye, you'll be sorry." She leaned forward, glaring at me. "I've told you what I know. If you must still search for that goddamn little fag, go ahead, but keep me out of it. Understand?"

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Stobart." I got to my feet. "I hope I haven't spoilt your evening."

"A turd like you couldn’t spoil my evening," she snarled and walked away.

I watched her climb the steps to the restaurant terrace, then wave as someone claimed her.

I lit a cigarette and wandered to the balustrade and stared down at the beach and the glittering sea. I watched the young frolicking and listened to their distant shouts: Paradise City at play.

I thought about what she had told me.

I still wasn't within grasping distance of the elusive Johnny Jackson.

Back in my apartment, I switched on the TV and watched a blonde girl screaming into a mike. She jiggled her behind, clawed at the air and screamed: I love you. I love you! I love you! The back-up band of four coloured youths did their best to drown her squawking voice, but didn't succeed. I tried the other channels, but got more or less the same treatment so I switched off. I wondered how Terry O'Brien was making out.

The shrill sound of my telephone bell brought me awake. Looking at my watch, I saw it was a few minutes after 03.00. I grabbed the receiver.

"I hope I woke you up," O'Brien said.

"Me? I've been sitting here waiting. What have you got?"

"Look, Dirk, would you be conning me?"

"About what?"

"Johnny Jackson."

"What are you talking about?"

"I've visited about ten drag clubs and I talked to Flossie. No one . . . repeat no one . . . has ever heard of Johnny Jackson and, let me tell you, Flossie knows them all. He keeps a directory. He knows who is who and who does what. No Johnny Jackson."

"No fair, pretty boy going around in beads and bracelets with a black buck?"

"You heard what I said. Johnny Jackson doesn't exist. If you don't believe me, go talk to Flossie. Can I go to bed now?"

"Sure, and thanks, Terry. Maybe he didn't visit the clubs."

"How many more times do I have to tell you?" O'Brien's voice rose in exasperation. "Flossie says there is no Johnny Jackson. All these goddamn fags, as soon as I told them this guy Jackson was coming into money, fell over themselves to help, but no one has ever heard of him. Does that satisfy you?"

"It has to, doesn't it?" I said and hung up.

chapter eight

I
found two notes on my desk when I entered thy office the following morning.

The first read: Mr. Anderson, deputy sheriff, Searle, asks you to call him. Urgent The second read: Mr. Benbolt of Howard & Benbolt, Miami, asks you to call him.

I had had a restless night and finally slept late. After a lasts breakfast and feeling depressed, I had gone to the office. I was depressed by Terry O'Brien's report. This presented a puzzling problem. There had to be a Johnny Jackson. Thinking about this as I had driven to the office, I wondered if Be-Be Mansel and Phyllis Stobart had been lying to me. Why should they? Both of them had told the same story that Johnny Jackson was a homosexual and went around with a black buck. And yet Flossie Atkins had said he knew of no such pair and, from past experience, I knew Flossie was more than reliable. What possible reason could Be-Be Mansel and Phyllis Stobart have to lie to me? The evidence was there. Johnny was an obvious homosexual from what I had learned. All my informants in Searle had said he was 'soft' and didn't dig girls. If that didn't make him gay, what did?

Chick Barley was out so I had the office to myself. I put a call through to Bill Anderson.

"Dirk, I've got something for you," he said when he came on the line. He sounded efficient and excited.

"What is it?"

"I've traced the Beretta gun that killed old Jackson."

"How did you do that?"

"Well, as usual, I had nothing to do and I kept wondering about the gun so I called every cop house up the coast. I struck lucky at Jacksonville. They told me they had issued a licence for the gun six years ago.'"

"Who to?"

"Here's a surprise. Harry Weatherspoon."

"Nice work, Bill."

"They told me Weatherspoon, two years ago, had reported the gun had been stolen and would they cancel his permit."

"How was it stolen?"

"According to Weatherspoon, he had a break-in at the factory. Some money and the gun were stolen. He told the Jacksonville cops that Sheriff Mason was dealing with the break-in, but he wanted the permit cancelled."

"Was there a break-in, Bill?"

"No. I would have known about it. No break-in."

"How come Weatherspoon registered the gun with the Jacksonville cops?"

"I asked that. They told me he had rented an apartment there while he was looking around. He said he wanted the gun as protection. He explained to the cops that he was an ex-narcotic agent with plenty of enemies. They accepted that."

"You've done a great job, Bill! This will do you a lot of good with the colonel!"

"That's great! Do you think Weatherspoon murdered old Jackson?"

"That's my bet."

"But why for God's sake?"

"I'm working on it. When's Weatherspoon's inquest?"

"Today. The funeral will be the day after tomorrow."

"Dr. Steed is sticking to the accident death?"

"Sure." He breathed heavily over the line. "Isn't it?"

I ignored this.

"About the gun, Bill. Has Dr. Steed still got it?"

"I guess so. I don't know."

"Was it checked for fingerprints?"

"I wanted to do that but Dr. Steed said it wasn't necessary."

"Do you even know if it was the gun that killed old Jackson?"

"There was no ballistic check if that's what you mean."

"Man! What a fig-leaf job! Okay, Bill, I'll be seeing you," and I hung up.

I then called the offices of Howard & Benbolt. I got the fat old party who, as soon as I told her my name, turned snooty.

"Mr. Benbolt is out." Her voice rang with triumph.

"He asked me to call him," I said patiently, reminding myself to be kind to the old.

"I have a note here. He would like to see you this afternoon at three o'clock."

"I'll be there," I said and hung up.

I got out the carbon copies of my report to the colonel that Glenda was holding and read through them. Then I added my telephone conversation with Anderson. I sat for a little while thinking. More jigsaw puzzle pieces were falling into place. Weatherspoon, decided to pull out of the drug racket, knowing old Jackson had a hidden hoard of money, had gone to the cabin and murdered old Jackson but someone had already got old Jackson's hoard. I did some more thinking. I had interviewed all the various people connected directly or indirectly with Johnny Jackson, except one: Herbert Stobart. Maybe he had never heard of Johnny Jackson, but I had a strong urge to take a long look at Stobart. I had nothing to do until my date with Benbolt, so I went along to Glenda's office and gave her the report of Anderson's telephone call, asking her to keep it along with the rest of the stuff she was holding.

"Are you writing a novel?" she asked sarcastically.

"It's an idea," I grinned at her. "I hadn't thought of it, but it’s an idea," and I left her.

I drove to the Country Club, parked the car and climbed the steps to the lobby. The time was 11.10.

The rich and the idle were already on the terrace: the women yakking together, the men nibbling at their first drinks of the day and talking cars, sport, the Dow Jones and their money.

I found Sammy Johnson, the porter, sorting letters. He gave me a kindly smile. Colonel Parnell also looked after him at Christmas and Thanksgiving. He was a man with an ear to the ground and worth keeping sweet.

"Hi, Sammy," I said. "You're looking younger every day."

"Well, Mr. Wallace," He said, smiling, "I guess that's right. I feel younger every day."

"Mr. Stobart around?"

"He's playing golf, Mr. Wallace." Johnson sorted more letters, then said, "I guess he'll he on the 17th by now."

"I haven't met him," I said. "How will I know him?"

"He always comes up to the lower terrace after his game. He's a little gentleman and wears a red and white striped baseball cap. You can't miss him."

"Thanks, Sammy."

"If you want to talk business with him, Mr. Wallace, now's not the time. He's playing business golf with a gentleman, and Mr. Stobart isn't easy."

“Thanks again, Sammy."

I went down to the lower terrace, found an isolated table, pulled the chair around so I was half screened by dwarf palms and sat down to wait.

Twenty minutes later, I saw a man, wearing a red and white baseball cap, a white T-shirt and dark blue slacks coming up the steps, talking to a short, heavily built man who I immediately recognized as Edmundo Raiz. I hurriedly shifted back my chair to conceal myself further. They came towards me and sat down three tables from where I was sitting.

Stobart sat with his back to me. Raiz sat by his side. Neither of them looked in my direction.

Stobart flicked his fingers at a waiter and called "Beer.” Then leaning forward, he began to talk to Watching, I could see Raiz kept bobbing his head as if receiving instructions. I was frustrated that I couldn't see Stobart's face, but I waited patiently.

The waiter brought beers. Stobart signed and tipped and the waiter went away.

Then I saw Stobart take something from his hip pocket and then produced a pen. Standing up, peering over the palm-leaves, I saw he was writing a check. He waved it in the air, then gave it to Raiz who put it in his wallet.

Raising his voice, Stobart said, "Okay, Ed. Get off, get cash and get the deal settled."

"Yes, Mr. Stobart," Raiz said and hastily swallowed his beer. He stood up. "I'll call you as soon as I have news."

"Don't foul this up, Ed." The snap in Stobart's voice made Raiz flinch.

"You can leave this to me, Mr. Stobart," and he hurries across the terrace and up the steps and out of I sat down and waited.

Stobart took his time drinking his beer. He sat still, drumming thick, short fingers on the table, and I could image his brain was active. Then abruptly he stood up and walked with quick strides to the steps.

I went after him, keeping well back. I still only had the back view of him.

In the lobby, he went to the news-stand and bought a Paradise City Herald. I positioned myself near the revolving doors that led to the front terrace.

Below, I saw the cream and brown Rolls. A big, powerfully built negro in a brown uniform and a brow n peaked cap stood waiting. I recognized him as the negro who had threatened me when I had left Hank Smith: the gorilla. Startled, I stepped back and cannoned into Stobart who was heading for the exit.

"You drunk?" he snarled, glaring at me.

We looked straight at each other and I felt a shock run through me.

I looked at this man's face confronting me: close-set eyes, an almost lipless mouth, a short nose and a thin white scar running from his right eye down to his chin.

He shoved by me and walked down the steps. The gorilla held the door open and Stobart got in. The Rolls drove away.

I watched the car out of sight. I knew for sure this man who called himself Herbert Stobart was Mitch Jackson's thieving buddy. The man who stood on the sidelines, in the past, while Mitch Jackson fought battles: the man who the citizens of Searle had said was the brains while Mitch Jackson supplied the brawn: Syd Watkins!