nodded.
"Now, no more letters?"
Again he nodded.
"I was told that you took Johnny Jackson when he first arrived in Searle in your mail-van to old Jackson's cabin?"
Again he nodded.
I contained my growing irritation with an effort.
"Did you talk to him when you drove him up to the cabin? Did you ask him where he had come from?"
With maddening slowness, he finished sorting the letters, puffed at his pipe, then, resting two big hands on the counter, he gave me a friendly grin.
"Excuse me, Mr. Wallace. I do one thing at a time. I've now done the mail, now I can give you my attention. You're asking about Johnny Jackson?"
I drew in a long slow breath, reminding myself that I was dealing with hick people in a hick town.
"Yes. When you drove him up to old Jackson's cabin, did you ask him where he came from?"
"I certainly did, but the kid just said it was a long way. I could see by his tired, white little face he didn't want to talk. Now, Mr. Wallace, I respect people's privacy. I don't gossip like other folks in this town do, so I shut up.”
"What happened when you took him to the cabin?"
"I didn't. I dropped him at the bottom of the lane. I told him the cabin was right up there and he couldn't miss it." He puffed at his pipe, then scratched his head. "Well, I guess I can tell you this, Mr. Wallace. I haven't told anyone else. It's a long time ago and I'd like to help find Johnny." He puffed at his pipe, hesitating.
"Tell me what?" I asked. "Look, Josh, Johnny is old Jackson's heir. You will be doing him a favour to help me find him."
"I guess that's right. Well, he got out of my truck and thanked me: he thanked me real nice. Then he took an envelope out of his pocket. This was some ten years ago, Mr. Wallace, but I can see his white anxious face now as he looked up at me. He said he hadn't the money to buy a postage-stamp. He asked me to mail the letter. He said it was important. I told him I would, and I did. The last I ever saw of him was him walking up the lane."
"You mean, when you delivered this envelope addressed to old Jackson each month for six years, you never saw the kid?"
"That's right. I never had the chance. My truck is noisy and Fred could hear me coming. He'd stump to the bend in the lane, take the envelope, grunt at me and that'd be that."
"Did you ever ask how Johnny was getting on?"
"I would have liked to, but Fred never had anything to say. He'd take the envelope and stump off. I was always on my rounds when the kid was at school so I never saw him. Fred didn't even say a thing when I delivered his son's medal. I knew by the way it was packed and the seals it was the medal. He just snatched it from me, signed and stumped off."
"This letter Johnny gave you. I know it was some ten years ago, but do you remember the address on the envelope?"
"Oh, yes. I was curious, you understand. Here was a kid out of the blue, looking for a man as dirty and as sour as old Fred: a kid around nine years of age, so naturally I was curious."
"I see that." I had to control myself not to shout. "What was the address?"
Josh found his pipe had gone out. He found a match struck it, puffed, while I clenched and unclenched my hands.
"The address? The name was Mrs. Stella Costa on Macey Street, Secomb. I think it was No. 7 or No. 9."
Had I struck gold? I asked myself. Was this the breakthrough?
"Mrs. Stella Costa, 7 or 9 Macey Street, Secomb?" He nodded.
"That's correct."
"Thanks. Josh," I said, "you've been a big help."
He grinned.
"I liked the kid. If old Fred left any money, I'd like to think the kid has it."
I shook his hand and hurried to my car.
All thoughts of talking to Harry Weatherspoon and Wally Watkins were dismissed. I had to find Mrs. Stella Costa, and pronto.
Paradise City has the reputation of being the most expensive, lush-plush city in the world. To keep this reputation, and to cosset the billionaires who live in the city, it is essential to employ a vast army of workers, street-cleaners,
"Now, no more letters?"
Again he nodded.
"I was told that you took Johnny Jackson when he first arrived in Searle in your mail-van to old Jackson's cabin?"
Again he nodded.
I contained my growing irritation with an effort.
"Did you talk to him when you drove him up to the cabin? Did you ask him where he had come from?"
With maddening slowness, he finished sorting the letters, puffed at his pipe, then, resting two big hands on the counter, he gave me a friendly grin.
"Excuse me, Mr. Wallace. I do one thing at a time. I've now done the mail, now I can give you my attention. You're asking about Johnny Jackson?"
I drew in a long slow breath, reminding myself that I was dealing with hick people in a hick town.
"Yes. When you drove him up to old Jackson's cabin, did you ask him where he came from?"
"I certainly did, but the kid just said it was a long way. I could see by his tired, white little face he didn't want to talk. Now, Mr. Wallace, I respect people's privacy. I don't gossip like other folks in this town do, so I shut up.”
"What happened when you took him to the cabin?"
"I didn't. I dropped him at the bottom of the lane. I told him the cabin was right up there and he couldn't miss it." He puffed at his pipe, then scratched his head. "Well, I guess I can tell you this, Mr. Wallace. I haven't told anyone else. It's a long time ago and I'd like to help find Johnny." He puffed at his pipe, hesitating.
"Tell me what?" I asked. "Look, Josh, Johnny is old Jackson's heir. You will be doing him a favour to help me find him."
"I guess that's right. Well, he got out of my truck and thanked me: he thanked me real nice. Then he took an envelope out of his pocket. This was some ten years ago, Mr. Wallace, but I can see his white anxious face now as he looked up at me. He said he hadn't the money to buy a postage-stamp. He asked me to mail the letter. He said it was important. I told him I would, and I did. The last I ever saw of him was him walking up the lane."
"You mean, when you delivered this envelope addressed to old Jackson each month for six years, you never saw the kid?"
"That's right. I never had the chance. My truck is noisy and Fred could hear me coming. He'd stump to the bend in the lane, take the envelope, grunt at me and that'd be that."
"Did you ever ask how Johnny was getting on?"
"I would have liked to, but Fred never had anything to say. He'd take the envelope and stump off. I was always on my rounds when the kid was at school so I never saw him. Fred didn't even say a thing when I delivered his son's medal. I knew by the way it was packed and the seals it was the medal. He just snatched it from me, signed and stumped off."
"This letter Johnny gave you. I know it was some ten years ago, but do you remember the address on the envelope?"
"Oh, yes. I was curious, you understand. Here was a kid out of the blue, looking for a man as dirty and as sour as old Fred: a kid around nine years of age, so naturally I was curious."
"I see that." I had to control myself not to shout. "What was the address?"
Josh found his pipe had gone out. He found a match struck it, puffed, while I clenched and unclenched my hands.
"The address? The name was Mrs. Stella Costa on Macey Street, Secomb. I think it was No. 7 or No. 9."
Had I struck gold? I asked myself. Was this the breakthrough?
"Mrs. Stella Costa, 7 or 9 Macey Street, Secomb?" He nodded.
"That's correct."
"Thanks. Josh," I said, "you've been a big help."
He grinned.
"I liked the kid. If old Fred left any money, I'd like to think the kid has it."
I shook his hand and hurried to my car.
All thoughts of talking to Harry Weatherspoon and Wally Watkins were dismissed. I had to find Mrs. Stella Costa, and pronto.
Paradise City has the reputation of being the most expensive, lush-plush city in the world. To keep this reputation, and to cosset the billionaires who live in the city, it is essential to employ a vast army of workers, street-cleaners,
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