drafted into the army, I got word from Fred asking me and Daisy to go up to his cabin as he wanted to make a will. We went up there." He shook his head. "For many years, Fred and I had been good friends. We played a lot of snooker together, but when he lost his legs he became a recluse. Daisy and I were dreadfully shocked to find how he was living. The squalor of it! Never mind, he told us exactly how he wanted the will worded. I asked him if he didn't want to make some provision for Mitch's wife, should he marry, and he turned unpleasant, telling me that was his will and that was how it was to be. I wrote it out, he signed it, and Daisy and I witnessed it, and that was that." He fingered his string tie. "I am sure Fred hadn't any money to leave, but only the land and the cabin which aren't worth much so I didn't press him to make a more comprehensive will."
"What makes you think he didn't have any money?" I asked.
Pollack looked a little startled.
"By the way he lived, Mr. Wallace. No one would live that rough unless he was short of money. He had no banking account and there was no money found in the cabin after his death."
"Who looked?" I asked.
"Dr. Steed and Mr. Weatherspoon went up there after Fred died. Dr. Steed told me they had a good look around and there were no papers nor money."
"Mr. Weatherspoon? Why did he go up there?"
"He wants to buy the property and he and Dr. Steed are good friends. Dr. Steed thought a witness was the correct procedure when he examined the cabin."
"Didn't they think it odd that old Jackson left no papers?"
"Yes, and so did I, but Dr. Steed said he thought that before Fred shot himself he had got rid of all letters and papers."
"Did it seem odd to you that old Jackson shot himself, Mr. Wallace?"
"Well, yes. It came as a great shock, but, as Dr. Steed said at the inquest, poor Fred led a lonely life and losing Johnny must have been a hard blow. At his age, with no legs, it may have seemed to him the best way out."
I got to my feet.
"So it now remains to find Johnny," I said. "Well, thank you, Mr. Pollack, for your time. I'll need further help, I hope I can bother you again."
"Don't hesitate, Mr. Wallace."
We shook hands, then I shook hands with Daisy and went down the rickety stairs and into the hot street.
This had begun as an unpromising jigsaw puzzle, I thought as I crossed Main Street and walked towards the post-office, but bit by bit pieces were falling into place. I was collecting information and that is the heart and guts of an investigation.
Entering the post-office, I found a young girl with an acne complexion and wearing pebble glasses, standing behind the wire mesh. She was yawning as I came to rest before her, then obviously recognizing me, she gave me a hopeful smile.
"Hi there, Mr. Wallace. Searle's post-office is at your service."
"Thanks," I said and, feeling sorry for her drab appearance, I gave her my sexy smile. "Is Josh around?"
"He's sorting the mail." She pointed to a door. "Have you found Johnny yet?"
"Not yet. You'll be the first to know when or if I do."
She giggled.
"I bet. It must be wonderful to be a private eye."
"You can say that again," I said and walked to the door, pushed it open and moved into a tiny sorting office.
A thickset man, balding, in his late fifties, stood at a counter, going through a pile of letters. He had a pipe in his mouth and spectacles at the end of his nose.
"Can you spare a minute?" I asked, closing the door. He glanced up, nodded and went back to sorting the letters.
"I'm Dirk Wallace. Bill Anderson may have mentioned me. I'm trying to find Johnny Jackson."
He nodded, found a rubber band and snapped it around a dozen or so letters.
"Anderson tells me that on the first of every month you delivered a letter to Fred Jackson. The delivery started soon after Mitch's death," I said. "Every month for six years . . . right?"
Again he nodded. So far he hadn't said a word.
"The letters came from Miami?"
Again he
"What makes you think he didn't have any money?" I asked.
Pollack looked a little startled.
"By the way he lived, Mr. Wallace. No one would live that rough unless he was short of money. He had no banking account and there was no money found in the cabin after his death."
"Who looked?" I asked.
"Dr. Steed and Mr. Weatherspoon went up there after Fred died. Dr. Steed told me they had a good look around and there were no papers nor money."
"Mr. Weatherspoon? Why did he go up there?"
"He wants to buy the property and he and Dr. Steed are good friends. Dr. Steed thought a witness was the correct procedure when he examined the cabin."
"Didn't they think it odd that old Jackson left no papers?"
"Yes, and so did I, but Dr. Steed said he thought that before Fred shot himself he had got rid of all letters and papers."
"Did it seem odd to you that old Jackson shot himself, Mr. Wallace?"
"Well, yes. It came as a great shock, but, as Dr. Steed said at the inquest, poor Fred led a lonely life and losing Johnny must have been a hard blow. At his age, with no legs, it may have seemed to him the best way out."
I got to my feet.
"So it now remains to find Johnny," I said. "Well, thank you, Mr. Pollack, for your time. I'll need further help, I hope I can bother you again."
"Don't hesitate, Mr. Wallace."
We shook hands, then I shook hands with Daisy and went down the rickety stairs and into the hot street.
This had begun as an unpromising jigsaw puzzle, I thought as I crossed Main Street and walked towards the post-office, but bit by bit pieces were falling into place. I was collecting information and that is the heart and guts of an investigation.
Entering the post-office, I found a young girl with an acne complexion and wearing pebble glasses, standing behind the wire mesh. She was yawning as I came to rest before her, then obviously recognizing me, she gave me a hopeful smile.
"Hi there, Mr. Wallace. Searle's post-office is at your service."
"Thanks," I said and, feeling sorry for her drab appearance, I gave her my sexy smile. "Is Josh around?"
"He's sorting the mail." She pointed to a door. "Have you found Johnny yet?"
"Not yet. You'll be the first to know when or if I do."
She giggled.
"I bet. It must be wonderful to be a private eye."
"You can say that again," I said and walked to the door, pushed it open and moved into a tiny sorting office.
A thickset man, balding, in his late fifties, stood at a counter, going through a pile of letters. He had a pipe in his mouth and spectacles at the end of his nose.
"Can you spare a minute?" I asked, closing the door. He glanced up, nodded and went back to sorting the letters.
"I'm Dirk Wallace. Bill Anderson may have mentioned me. I'm trying to find Johnny Jackson."
He nodded, found a rubber band and snapped it around a dozen or so letters.
"Anderson tells me that on the first of every month you delivered a letter to Fred Jackson. The delivery started soon after Mitch's death," I said. "Every month for six years . . . right?"
Again he nodded. So far he hadn't said a word.
"The letters came from Miami?"
Again he
Similar Books
