1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (8 page)

He swung the car to a standstill outside the cabin.

"Well, here we are," he said and got out of the car.

Together, we walked to the front door and pushed it open. The blowflies had left. There was still the smell of decay. The only sound was the distant croaking of frogs.

"Did you check that old Jackson had a gun licence, Bill?" I asked as I stood looking around.

"Yup. He had a shotgun licence, but not for the Beretta."

"Did you check if Dr. Steed had a licence for the Beretta?"

"Yup. He didn't."

"Did you check if anyone in Searle owned a Beretta?"

"Yup. No one in Searle owns or has owned a Beretta."

I nodded approvingly.

"You're doing your homework."

"I want to work for Colonel Parnell."

"At the rate you are going, that's what you'll do. Now, let's take a good look around."

We spent the next hour and a half carefully searching the entire cabin. We came up with nothing: no letters, no bills, no photographs. As I looked into the empty drawers of the old bureau, it seemed to me someone had been here before us and had made a clean sweep of everything. I couldn't accept that old Jackson, who had lived here for years, hadn't kept some letter, some papers.

"Looks like we're too late, Bill," I said.

"That's what it looks like." He was kneeling by the bed, peering under it. "Something here."

Together we shoved the bed aside and found a good-sized hole in the floor, half covert d with a wooden lid. I moved aside the lid and stared into the empty hole.

I looked at Bill who was staring over my shoulder. "Maybe he kept money here," I said. "Did you check if he had a bank account at Searle?"

"Yup. He didn't."

I sat back on my heels.

"He must have made money and he couldn't have spent much. This hole could have been his bank, and someone found it."

Bill nodded.

"Makes sense."

I shrugged and stood up.

"We seem to be getting nowhere fast. I was hoping to find some letters or at least a photograph of Mitch and Johnny. Let's take a look at the old coot's clothes."

I opened the closet. There was only a spare pair of cut-down trousers and a shabby leather jerkin. I tried the pockets, but found nothing but dust.

"Lived rough, didn't he?" I said as I closed the closet door.

Bill grunted. He was staring at the opposite wall. The sun had slowly moved around to the back of the cabin and was now lighting the gloomy little room. I followed his gaze and saw the distinct marks of where a picture or a framed photograph had hung. It was only because of the sunlight that we saw it. The mark showed the frame had been around twelve inches long and six inches wide.

I stared as I thought, then I said, "At a guess, that frame contained Mitch's Medal of Honor. Above the old coot's bed: a place of pride. It's a guess, but I bet I'm right."

"If some thief came up here between yesterday and this morning," Bill said, "what would he want with a Medal of Honor? It would have Mitch's name on it."

"Who said some thief? Whoever cleared out the drawers and took that frame was the man who shot Fred Jackson," I said. "No thief would clean out every scrap of paper belonging to Jackson. This was the killer, Bill."

"Yeah."

I moved into the steamy sunshine.

"We'll take a look at the frog-pond."

We did and found only frogs. They seem to know that Fred Jackson was no more for they were sitting in swarms along the bank. As soon as we appeared they vanished into the muddy, weed-covered water.

"That's it," I said, lighting a cigarette. "We'll go back." As we walked to the Chewy, I asked, "Will the sheriff worry that you are going around with me, Bill?"

"I fixed that. I told him it would be a good idea if I kept close to you and reported to him. He liked the idea."

"Don't over-report, Bill. Give him the idea I'm getting nowhere. I have a hunch that this is a bigger fig-leaf job than I had first thought."

He looked intrigued.

"What makes you say that?"

"Work it out for yourself," I said as I got in the car. "It'll be good training for you." As he started the engine, I asked, "Did you talk to the mailman about Jackson's correspondence?"

"Not yet. I haven't forgotten, but Josh is difficult to catch. I hope to see him tonight."

"Do that," I said and sat back while he drove me to Searle.

Before leaving Anderson outside the sheriff s office, I asked him where Syd Watkins's father lived.

"Wally Watkins?" He looked surprised. "You want to talk to him?"

"Where do I find him?"

"He has a real nice little house just outside Searle," Anderson told me. "It's the third turning on your left off the highway. You can't miss it. There's no other house up there. Wally comes to the Club three or four times a week. He's popular. He and Kitty, his wife, made a real home of the place. It was a terrible thing for Wally when Kitty died."

"When was that?"

"A couple of years ago. The town talk is she pined away for her son, but you know how the locals talk. Dr. Steed said it was pneumonia."

"From what I've heard Syd Watkins was a wild one."

"He was that, but you know what mothers are. Wally had other ideas about his son. He and Syd didn't get on."

Before driving to Wally Watkins house, I stopped off at the Morgen & Weatherspoon frog-factory.

I found Harry Weatherspoon at his desk. He gave me a hard stare as I walked into his office, then he grinned.

"Ah, Mr. Wallace! The private eye," he said, sitting back. "You sure conned me with that information-for-writers line."

"Sorry about that, Mr. Weatherspoon," I said, approaching his desk. "From past experience, I've learned some people don't care to talk to private eyes."

He nodded.

"No offense taken. I hear you are hoping to find poor old Jackson's grandson."

"This town certainly has a great grapevine."

"It sure does. Nothing happens here without the whole town knowing about it within half an hour."

"I'd like to ask one question, Mr. Weatherspoon."

"Well, there's no harm in asking. What is it?"

"Old Jackson supplied you with a weekly consignment of frogs. I'd like to know how much you paid him."

He regarded me, his bright, dark eyes quizzing.

"Why?"

"Johnny Jackson must be his heir. The way old Jackson lived, he was spending very little money, so he must have had money stashed away."

"I suppose so. No harm telling you. Some weeks were fair, some good. Take an average, I paid him around $150 a week."

"How was this money paid to him?"

"Always in cash. I would put the money in an envelope and Abe would give it to Jackson and he would give Abe receipt."

"So he must have been saving at the rate of S too a week?"

Weatherspoon shrugged.

"Maybe."

"And this has been going on for years?"

"Jackson has been doing business with our firm for some twenty years. I'd say we paid him, taking into account, his best years, some $200 a week."

"In cash . . . no tax?"

"Cash, yes. I wouldn't know about tax."

"So at a very rough guess, he could have saved a hundred thousand dollars?"

"I wouldn't know. There was his son, Mitch. Maybe, hi gave him money."

I thought of the hole under Jackson's bed. That must have been where he hoarded his money. Even if my guess was wrong, there could still be a big sum missing.

"Sad for the old fellow to take his life," Weatherspoon went on, "but he hadn't much to live for. We'll miss him. That is a very fertile farm."

"Thinking of buying it?" I asked casually.

He hesitated; giving me his quizzing look.

"Well, yes, I know of a young active frog-farmer I could rent the farm to if I buy it, but it belongs to the Jackson estate. Until his grandson is found or proved dead, there's nothing can do about it."

"Nothing?" I looked at him.

"Well, as soon as I heard old Jackson was dead, I thought of buying the farm. I have my attorney working on it." He met my steady stare with slightly shifty eyes. "I had instructed him to advertise for Johnny Jackson. You could be a help, Mr. Wallace. If you trace Johnny Jackson, I'll ask you to tell him I'd like to talk to him. Tell him he'll get reasonable price for the farm."

"Who's your attorney?"

"Howard & Benbolt. Mr. Benbolt handles all my business."

"Would you mind if I talked to 'him?"

"Why should I? What about?"

"I'm looking for Johnny. You tell me Benbolt is looking for Johnny. We could save each other's time by not crossing lines."

"Go ahead. He's in the book."

"Right. Well, thanks, Mr. Weatherspoon. Let's hope we find the kid," and, shaking hands, I left.

It took me less than fifteen minutes' driving to reach Wally Watkins's house. Bill Anderson's description was an Understatement. The little bungalow was compact, white-washed with a small garden, an immaculate, tiny lawn and standard roses. The roses were exhibition blooms. There was a short, gravel path to the front door with red tiles as an edging. The little place spoke of care and attention and loving hands.

Sitting in a rocker under the deep porch was Wally Watkins, smoking a pipe. He was neat in a white suit and a Panama hat.

He watched me get out of the car. He would be around seventy: lean, with a white beard and sun-tanned. To me, he looked like an old pioneer who had worked hard, suffered a little, but had finally reached his haven.

I liked him on sight.

"Mr. Watkins?" I said, pausing before him.

"No one else, and you'll be Dirk Wallace, an operator working for Parnell's Agency." He thrust out his hand and laughed. "Don't be surprised. News travels fast in this neck of the woods."

"I've already learned that," I said and shook his hand.

"Excuse me for not getting up. I have a bad knee. Now, before we talk, go into the house and into the kitchen: first door on your left. In the frig you'll find a bottle of good Scotch and a bottle of charge water. You'll find glasses right by the frig. Will you kindly do this?" He gave me a friendly smile. "While you're about it, take a look around. I'd like you to see how I live. Frankly, Mr. Wallace, I'm proud of the way I'm keeping our home since I lost Kitty."

So I did exactly that. The little bungalow was perfectly kept as the garden. There was a good-sized living-room and a well equipped kitchen. I guessed from the two doors there were two bedrooms, but I didn't look further. I made the drinks and came out and sat in another rocker by his side.

"Mr. Watkins, you can be more than proud of your home," I said.

"Thank you." He looked happy. "Kitty kept a high standard. She really loved this place and she kept it as I am keeping it." He regarded me. "I wouldn't want her to be unhappy." He took the drink. "I believe dear ones keep close." He lifted his glass in a salute. We drank a little. "So you're looking for Johnny Jackson?"

"Yes. Did you ever meet him?"

"Of course. He was a nice kid: smart. When I say smart, I mean he was good at school, and he was a hell of a worker. Make no mistake about that. Kids, these days, don't know the meaning of work: it's pop and fooling, but Johnny used to ride his cycle five miles to school, work, then cycle back, do Fred's laundry, cook his supper, help with the frogs and keep the place clean. He loved Fred. From what I know, I'll say he even worshipped Fred."

"Then why did he take off?"

Wally stroked his beard and shook his head.

"That's what I keep asking myself. Why did Johnny suddenly vanish?"

"Mr. Watkins, do you imagine something happened to him? I mean he got ill and died or had an accident and died and old Jackson didn't report it?"

Wally slopped a little of his drink, muttered to himself, then, taking out a handkerchief, he mopped up the slight spill on his trousers.

"Died? Oh, no. Fred would have reported it. Nothing like that. No, something happened up at that cabin that made Johnny run away. That's what I think."

"What could have happened that bad?"

He rocked in his chair.

"That's what I keep asking myself."

"Suppose, as Johnny grew up, he got tired of living rough. Suppose he decided to quit."

"I told you. He worshipped Fred. He wouldn't have left him.”

"But he did."

"That's right."

"You knew Fred pretty well?"

"More than well. At one time we were close friends. When the a'gator got his legs, I used to drive up there with groceries. Mitch was there then. He was a good son to Fred, but g real young hellion to everyone else. When he got drafted, he came to see me. He told me to look after his father—as if I wouldn't have! So I continued to drive up there with groceries, but it wasn't the same. Fred turned nasty. He hated anyone seeing him stumping around on his thighs. I guess that's natural, but it grieved me. Then Johnny arrived. Johnny used to come to my store after school and buy stuff. He said Fred didn't welcome visitors, so I kept away. Both Kitty and I felt the kid would look after Fred, so we left him to it."

"Was Fred married?"

"I think so, I'm talking now of some thirty-five or so years ago. That was when I was just starting my grocery store and Fred was working for a frog-farmer . . . before he bought land and started up for himself. Anyway, he quit Searle and was away a couple of years. When he returned, he had made a bit of money and brought Mitch back with him. Mitch was around two years old. Fred told me in confidence the mother had died, giving birth to Mitch. Fred liked boys. He was very proud of Mitch. Although both Kitty and I told him he would have a tough time rearing the baby, he just laughed and said Mitch would have to take his chances, and he certainly did. I remember Fred telling me that if it had been a baby girl he would have got it adopted, but having a son meant a lot to him."

"Did Fred save his money?"

Wally looked surprised.

"I don't know, but I've wondered about that. He was getting well paid for his frogs. I guess he must have saved."

"That's why I want to find Johnny. He seems to be Fred's only heir. There's talk about buying the farm."