1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (21 page)

I found Edward Benbolt sitting behind his 'desk, looking flushed and, as usual, overfed.

He shook hands and waved me to a chair.

"I have just returned from Searle," he said. "In view of this offer for the frog-factory, I thought it was time to talk to Miss Peggy Wyatt." He gave me a roguish smile. "Nice little girl . . . lucky little girl."

"What offer?" I asked.

"Ah, Mr. Wallace, things have been happening. There will be no problem concerning Mr. Weatherspoon's will. Probate will be through very quickly. Mr. Seigler of Seigler & Seigler came to me with a handsome offer for the factory. It was an offer I had to consider in the interest of Miss Wyatt. So, this morning, I saw her and put the proposition to her and she has agreed to sell."

"What's the offer?"

He massaged his double chin

"Handsome."

"Look, don't go professional with me," I said in my cop voice. "I told you the buyer will be a drug-pusher. What's the offer?"

"You told me that," Benbolt said, his little eyes going hard, "but I have only your word for it."

"You'll have the Drug Enforcement toughies breathing down your neck. What's the offer?”

"If I have to Mr. Wallace; I will deal directly with them and not you."

"Who's the buyer?"

He leaned back in his chair, his fat, florid face looking hostile.

"Your business, Mr. Wallace, is to find Johnny Jackson. Shall we leave it at that?"

I stared at him.

"Are you saying you are no longer cooperative?"

"There is no reason for me to cooperate with a private inquiry agent." He looked more hostile. "Your insinuations that the frog-factory handles drugs I now consider reckless and absurd. I have inspected the factory and there is absolutely no evidence that it isn't what it claims to be a flourishing business, supplying luxury hotels with frog saddles. By delaying the sale, many hotels will be deprived and will probably look elsewhere for supplies. Also a number of skilled workers would be thrown out of work. All this because you claim, without any evidence, that this factory is connected with drugs." He looked at his watch. "Please don't bother me again. I do not wish to waste further time with you."

I got to my feet.

"How much did they pay you, Benbolt?"

His fat face turned into an ugly mask of controlled fury. "Get out of my office!"

"Man! What you finks will do for money," I said. "See you going down in the elevator.” I decided I had to contact Peggy Wyatt fast. There was a row of call-booths in the lobby. I hunted up The Jumping Frog hotel's telephone number. Old Abraham answered.

"Is Miss Peggy there, Abraham?" I asked. "This is Mr. Wallace."

"No, Mr. Wallace, she ain't."

"Where is she?"

"I guess up at the frog-factory. You heard the wonderful news? Miss Peggy owns that factory now."

"I heard. Thanks," and I hung up. I looked up Morgan & Weatherspoon, got the number, dialled, but got the out-of-order signal. Feeling suddenly uneasy. I hung up.

It would take me a good two hours driving to reach Searle from where I was. A lot could happen in two hours. I was possibly getting worked up for nothing. Since Benbolt had told Peggy that she had inherited the factory it would be normal for her to go and look at it, but, all the same, my unease was there and when I got that feeling I acted on it. I called the sheriff s office at Searle.

Bill Anderson came on the line.

"Bill, I want you to do something," I said. "I want you to go right away to the frog-factory. I want you to make sure Peggy's there, and is all right."

"All right?" He sounded puzzled. "What do you mean? You've heard the news? She's an heiress! Weatherspoon . . ."

"I know all that. Get over to the factory and see what she's doing. I'm calling from a call-booth. Here's the number." I read it to him. "Got it?"

"Sure, but what's all this about?"

"Get over there! Chat her up. Congratulate her, see if she's all right, then telephone me. I'll be waiting."

"Well, okay. You'll have to wait."

"I'll wait," I said. "Get on with it!"

I expected to wait at least an hour, but trained operators are used to waiting. I took a seat in the lobby near the call-booths, lit a cigarette and thought about Benbolt.

I was sure he had been got at. I was sure Seigler of Seigler & Seigler had cut him in on the frog-factory sale. I should have known better than to have confided in a fat shyster like Benbolt. I should have remembered that he was Weatherspoon's client. Could he have known what was going on at the factory? I didn't think that was likely, but it was possible. No, I decided, Benbolt was the kind who couldn't refuse big money and the money offered for him to influence Peggy to sell could have been considerable. This was a three million dollar a year take. Money to oil Benbolt would be no hardship. So I waited.

Finally, forty minutes and six cigarettes later, I heard the bell in the call-booth ringing.

I snatched up the receiver

"Dirk?"

"Yeah. What's happening?"

"What's all the uproar about?" Anderson sounded irritated. "I walked to the factory. Peggy was there. She looked wild with excitement. I started my stuff about being pleased about her luck, but she cut me short. I'll tell you exactly what she said. 'Not now, Bill. Some other time. I'm busy completing a deal.' and she shut the door in my face."

"That all?"

"That's it. She looked happy and excited. Did you think something was wrong?"

"A deal? Someone was with her?"

"That's correct. I saw him through the office window as I went up the steps: a little guy, dark, looked like a Mexican."

"Shit!" I said and hung up.

I ran to my car.

As I approached, I saw a fair-haired boy around twelve years old, staring at the front of my car. He looked at me and gave me a wide smile.

"You gotta flat, mister," he said. "I saw the guy. He stuck a knife in your tyre."

I looked at the off-side front tyre. It couldn't have been flatter.

"What did he look like?" I asked the kid.

"A spade. Big black hat. Plenty of beads and he smelt like garbage."

Sombrero!

I got the spare wheel out and began the chore of changing wheels. I hadn't changed a wheel in years arid, after minutes of fumbling, the kid said, "You haven't the right idea, mister. Let me do it."

He did it in ten minutes. I couldn't have done it in half an hour.

"What's your name, son?" I asked as he put the flat in the trunk.

"Wes Bridley."

"If ever you want to be a private eye, you come to the Parnell Detective Agency and I'll see you get employed." I gave him a five-dollar bill.

"Private eye? Who wants to be that!" He screwed up his nose. "I'm going to be a banker."

I got in the car, waved to him and headed for Searle.

I kept to the coast road, driving just within the speed limit until I reached Fort Pierce, then I turned onto highway 8. The run up to Fort Pierce had been frustrating as the coast traffic was heavy and I was sure Raiz had told Sombrero to use delaying tactics, but by careful and smart driving I kept to within forty and fifty miles an hour, not wanting more delay with a traffic cop. Once on highway 8, the traffic thinned and, taking a chance, I moved up into the sixties.

My mind was busy thinking about Peggy. I thought of Stobart giving Raiz a check and telling him to get cash. Raiz, by now, had probably talked Peggy into selling the factory, dazzling her with a pile of dollar bills.

It was when I was within five miles of Lake Placid that I became aware of a truck loaded with crates of oranges within fifteen feet of my rear bumper. Then I remember the truck had been following me for some time. There were always dozens of trucks carrying vegetables and fruit on the highway and I had thought nothing of it. But driving at sixty-three miles an hour and to find the truck so close to me brought me alert.

Ahead of me the road was straight, bordered by trees and jungle. The truck irritated me to be driving so close and well above the speed-limit for commercial vehicles. I decided to lose it and trod down hard on the gas. My car surged forward to seventy-five miles an hour. A quick check in my driving, mirror showed the truck had fallen back. I had gained some hundred yards, but I couldn't keep up this speed.

Oncoming trucks had appeared and, ahead of me, I saw a massive twenty-tonner, loaded with vegetables, crawling. I had to slam on my brakes and wait for a chance to overtake. As it happened the oncoming traffic thickened. Looking in my rear mirror I saw the orange-carrying truck was again within fifteen feet of me.

It was a shabby truck with Miami number plates. It had a blue-tinted windshield so I couldn't see the driver. I saw my chance to overtake and trod down hard on the gas. I had a nasty heart-skipping moment as I got back to my right side. A car travelling much too fast had rounded the slight bend and we nearly smashed into each other. I heard the complaining sound of a horn as the car vanished from sight.

I tried to relax, but warning bells were ringing in my mind and the bells became shrill as looking into my rear mirror I saw the orange-carrying truck had crept up and was again within fifteen feet of me. We were both now travelling at over seventy miles an hour. Then, for a brief moment, I saw a black arm resting on the open window of the truck.

A black man!

On my left was a deep ditch, then trees, then jungle. The ditch was there to syphon off water when the tropical rains came. I looked in the rear mirror. The truck had disappeared Sweating, I looked to my right. The goddamn truck was right beside me. It was too high for me to see the driver, but I knew what he was planning to do. He was going to sideswipe me and smash me and the car into the ditch.

My instinct was to stand on the gas, but this was no ordinary truck. It could match my speed, so I trod down hard on the foot-brake, tightening my grip on the steering-wheel in case my back wheels went into a skid.

My brakes were good. With a screaming of tortured tyres. I saw the truck flash by me, its rear fender just scraping my front fender. I had a struggle to keep my car from diving into the ditch, but with sheer strength I corrected the skid.

But not the truck. The driver, had been so intent on smashing into me, he must have taken his eyes off the road. His onside s heels mounted the soft grass verge and the truck began to tilt. The load of oranges shifted, then the truck smashed down into the ditch. Crates of oranges tore loose, spilling fruit all over the jungle in a golden river. The sound of tearing metal filled the air.

I stopped my cat and got out. The lumbering twenty-ton truck came on the scene and stopped. The oncoming traffic also stopped. Truckers and men in business suits got out of their vehicles. Joined by them, I walked to the upturned truck. We peered into the driving cabin.

Both Sombrero and Goatskin had their heads half through the shattered windshield. They weren't a pretty sight. Apart from blood and mangled faces, all that was left of them was their smell of dirt.

The hands of the clock on my dashboard showed 18.30 as I pulled up outside The Jumping Frog hotel. I had had to hang around until the State police arrived to tell them I had seen the orange-carrying truck lose control and smash into the ditch. They were more interested in getting the traffic started and the mess cleared up.

“These blacks drive too fast," the cop in charge said in disgust. "These two had a reason. The truck was stolen."

That I had guessed. I told him I was in a hurry. He said I might be called as witness, but he doubted it. Approaching Searle, I turned over in my mind what had happened. I had no doubt that an attempt I had been made on my life. From now on, I told myself, I had to be much more on my guard. I wondered if Benbolt had tipped off Raiz that I knew about the drug-ring. This was possible, depending on how much he had been paid to handle the frog factory deal.

I thought with satisfaction of my report and the can of frog saddles that were waiting for the colonel's return. No matter what happened to me, the drug-ring would be smashed, but I was going to take care nothing did happen to me.

I found old Abraham behind the reception desk. He gave me a wide, happy smile.

"Where's Miss Peggy?" I asked.

"Right there in the office, Mr. Wallace. She's with Mr. Willis Pollack, the lawyer gentleman. You heard the great news? Miss Peggy is rich."

"Where's her father?"

He lost his smile.

"He's in bed. The poor, dear man. I guess he's not long for this life."

I moved around the reception desk, knocked on the office door and entered.

Pollack, looking more like Buffalo Bill than ever, was sitting in a lounging-chair. Peggy was behind the desk. They were splitting a bottle of champagne between them.

"Hi, Dirk!" Peggy exclaimed with a wide smile of welcome. "Where have you been?" She produced a glass. "We are celebrating. Join us!"

I moved in and closed the door.

"Not for me, but thanks," I said. "What are you celebrating?"

"I've sold the frog-factory! Harry left everything to me! I'm rich!"

I pulled up a chair and sat astride it.

“That's fast work. Weatherspoon isn't even buried."

"Tell him, Mr. Pollack. I want him to know," Peggy said and poured champagne into the glass and pushed it towards me across the desk. "Come on, Dirk, you're in this celebration as much as I am."

So I picked up the glass and saluted her, drank a little and set down the glass.

"Well, Mr. Wallace, this is a good deal," Pollack said. "Peggy was very wise to consult me."

"As soon as this Miami lawyer, Mr. Benbolt, told me about Harry's will and that he could sell the factory for me," Peggy broke in, "I rushed to Mr. Pollack, and he was with me when this man, Mr. Raiz, arrived."

Pollack gave me his old-fashioned smile.

"Frankly, Mr. Wallace, I didn't like the look of him, but he seemed business-like. He said he wanted to buy the factory, that any delay would mean laying off the staff and the loss of the restaurant business. That made good sense to me. He offered two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the factory. That seemed to me a good price. I pointed out that Mr. Weatherspoon's will hadn't been proved. He told me his lawyers were satisfied the factory belongs to Peggy, and there would be no problem about the probate. I then pointed out that legal transfer to him wasn't possible until the will was proved, so we must wait. He said, if he had to wait until the will was proved, the factory would lose value, and I accepted that. He proposed to pay fifty thousand dollars in cash. When the will was proved, he would pay a further two hundred thousand. If Peggy accepted the deposit, he could put a man in to run the factory tomorrow, keep the staff employed and continue to supply the restaurants. This was an acceptable offer, so I advised Peggy to sign and, from tomorrow, Mr. Raiz is the new owner of the factory unless Mr. Weatherspoon's will is disproved, which appears unlikely." He stroked his little beard and smiled. "However, after further discussion, I persuaded Mr. Raiz that the fifty thousand dollars would be non-returnable should the final deal fall through. There was a little argument about this." Again he smiled. "When someone in a deal appears overanxious for the deal to go through, the other party, with experience, knows when to turn the screw." He leaned forward and patted Peggy's hand. "So, whatever happens, this little girl has fifty thousand dollars now safe in the bank."