1979 - You Must Be Kidding Read online

  ‘Bye for now.’ She flashed him a smile, flashed another to Jacoby, then flowed out of the room.

  Jacoby wiped his hands on his handkerchief.

  ‘What did she say her address was?’

  ‘A minimum of two hundred dollars,’ Lepski said. ‘Be your age, Max. Since when has a third grade cop have two hundred bucks to spend on a hooker?’ He gathered up his notes and went into Terrell’s office.

  * * *

  Reynolds switched off the Pete Hamilton’s ten o’clock programme and looked hesitantly at Amelia who sat in a fat heap in her chair. They had listened to the details of Lu Boone’s killing. Hamilton, who liked to shock, had spared no details. He described the severed head and the horrifying mutilations of the body.

  ‘There can be no doubt that this homicidal maniac is still in the city,’ he concluded. ‘Be on your guard. No one is safe until he is apprehended. You might well ask what the police are doing!’

  ‘I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it!’ Amelia exclaimed wildly. ‘Crispin wouldn’t. . . ’

  ‘I think a little brandy, madam,’ Reynolds said.

  ‘Yes. . .’

  As he moved unsteadily to the liquor cabinet, through the window, he saw Crispin walk briskly to the Rolls. Crispin was on his way to the Kendriek Gallery.

  ‘He is leaving, madam,’ Reynolds said as he watched the Rolls drive away.

  ‘Go to his studio!’ Amelia said. ‘Look!’

  But first, Reynolds went to his room, poured himself a treble Scotch, swallowed it, then paused until the spirit steadied him. Then finding the length of wire to pick the lock on Crispin’s apartment door, he slowly climbed the stairs.

  Amelia sat and waited. She was sure that Crispin had committed another gruesome murder. She could be wrong, she told herself desperately. This time there were no blood stained clothes to get rid of. She laid a fat hand against her floppy bosom, feeling her heart thumping. He must have done it! She closed her eyes. The disgrace! Her life would come to an end! Who would want to entertain the mother of such a monster? This evening, she had been invited to join a party at the Spanish Bay hotel restaurant in honour of the French ambassador. This was her life! But who would ever invite her again to such dinners if it became known that her son was a homicidal lunatic?

  She heard a sound and looked towards the door. Reynolds stood there, his face as white as cold mutton fat, sweat on his forehead. They looked at each other, then he nodded.

  ‘What?’ Amelia exclaimed, leaning forward. ‘Don’t nod at me! What?’

  ‘He is painting the head of a man, madam,’ Reynolds said, his voice a half whisper. ‘A severed head in blood.’

  Although she had been sure, what Reynolds had said was like a blow in her face. She sank back, closing her eyes.

  ‘Brandy, Reynolds!’

  He went slowly to the liquor cabinet and picked up a glass. As he reached for the cognac, the glass slipped from his shaking hand and dropped onto the carpet.

  ‘Reynolds!’ Amelia screamed.

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  He found another glass, slopped spirit into it, then brought it to her. She seized the glass and drank.

  ‘Madam. . .’

  ‘Don’t talk to me. Understand, Reynolds? We know nothing! Go about your work!’

  ‘He could continue, madam.’

  ‘Who are these people? Who cares?’ Amelia’s voice was shrill. ‘A whore! A hippy! Who cares?’

  ‘But, madam. . .

  ‘We know nothing!’ Amelia screamed at him. ‘Do you want to lose your job? Do you imagine I want to be thrown out of my home? It is not our business! We know nothing!’

  Reynolds saw the terrifying vision of himself out of work with no more unlimited supply of Scotch. He hesitated, then felt impelled to issue a warning.

  ‘Madam, he is very dangerous. He just might attack you.’ He refrained from adding that Crispin might also attack him.

  ‘Attack me? I am his mother! Stop drivelling, and go about your work! We know nothing!’

  * * *

  Terrell sat at his desk. Hess, Beigler and Lepski occupied chairs. All men were sipping coffee which Charlie Tanner had brought in.

  ‘We are getting nearer to this mad man,’ Terrell said. ‘This is our first important break: the fourth jacket. The other three owners don’t match up with this description.’

  He looked at Lepski. ‘This girl satisfied you she knew what she was talking about?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Lepski said. ‘She knew.’

  ‘So this must be the jacket Mrs. Gregg gave away to the Salvation Army. This is the jacket we want to trace.’ Terrell paused to light his pipe. ‘But according to the description of this man, he wasn’t on the end of a handout from the S.A. A man who can afford Gucci shoes could afford to buy his own jacket . . . right?’

  ‘We have a load of phonies living here,’ Hess said.

  ‘Guys who haven’t a dime. Gigolos, stags, con men: you name them, we have them, all battening on the rich, trying for the fast buck, and these guys have to keep up an appearance. Could be this guy spotted the jacket on the S.A. truck and either stole it or offered a five spot for it. Maybe he got his Gucci shoes either by stealing them or from a clothes dealer at a knock down price.’

  Terrell nodded.

  ‘Could be. So okay, let’s check the clothes dealers. Tom, you get it organized. We want to know if any dealer has sold a pair of Gucci shoes and to whom.’

  At this moment Dusty Lucas came in.

  ‘Chief, I think I’ve got something,’ he said excitedly.

  ‘I’ve been checking on those two S.A. collectors. I’ve got the truck driver here—Joe Heinie. His father is Syd Heinie who runs a used clothes store in Secomb. I went to this guy’s home and caught him unloading a bundle of clothes off the S.A. truck. He’s admitted he passes some of the clothes they collect to his father to sell.’

  Hess got to his feet.

  ‘I’ll handle him, Chief.’

  Joe Heinie was sitting on a bench the other side of the barrier with a patrolman standing over him. He was around twenty-eight, tall, thin with a mop of dirty black hair and a sullen expression on his badly shaven face.

  Hess and Lepski sat him down in front of a desk, then with Lepski hovering near him, Hess sat down, facing him.

  ‘You could be in trouble, Joe,’ Hess said.

  Heinie looked up and sneered.

  ‘Trouble? You’re crazy! What trouble? These goddamn clothes are given away . . . right?’

  ‘They are given to the Salvation Army. You have no right to take them for yourself,’ Hess snapped.

  ‘Yeah? What does the S.A. do with them? They give them away. So what’s wrong in giving a few to my father? What’s the difference?’

  ‘How long have you been doing this?’

  ‘Six months . . . I don’t remember. Who cares?’

  ‘You’ll care, Joe. You have been stealing clothes from the Salvation Army. Could get you three months.’

  Heinie sneered again.

  ‘Yeah? You can’t pin a charge on me. I know my rights.

  Some fink gives me clothes. He gives them to me . . . right? Okay, so I pick out a few items and give them to my father . . . right? Then I give the rest to the S.A.’ He leaned forward and jabbing his finger in Hess’s direction, he went on, ‘The clothes are not the S.A.’s property until I deliver them . . .right?’

  ‘The clothes are the property of the S.A. the moment you put them in the S.A.’s truck,’ Hess said, looking smug.

  Heinie’s sneer deepened.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘but the goddam truck is mine! I help the S.A. voluntarily. I pay for the gas and the insurance. So, I’m entitled to give my old man some clothes to pay my expenses . . . right?’

  Hess breathed heavily.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Heinie. ‘We are interested in this blue jacket with golf ball buttons. Did you give such a jacket to your father?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Heinie demanded. ‘I don’t examine everything I give my old man. I give him a bundle, and he picks what he can sell, then gives the rest back to me, and I give them to the S.A.’

  Hess looked at Lepski.

  ‘Check with his father,’ he said.

  As Lepski left, he heard Heinie say, ‘So I’m not in trouble, huh? I can’t afford the time to sit around chewing the fat with you. . .’

  ‘A real smart ass,’ Lepski thought as he hurried to his car. He drove fast to Secomb.

  Syd Heinie was tall like his son, with hard little eyes and a rattrap of a mouth. His store was crammed with discarded clothing. When Lepski strode in, Heinie was measuring a fat black for a pair of trousers.

  Lepski moved restlessly around until the purchase was made, then Heinie came to him. He surveyed Lepski, and instinctively knew he was a cop. He smiled, but his eyes hardened.

  Lepski flashed his shield, and in his cop voice, said, ‘We are looking for a blue jacket with white golf ball buttons. Have you had such a jacket through your hands?’

  Heinie put the stub of a pencil in his right ear, twisted it, removed it and flicked off a piece of wax.

  ‘I can’t say I have,’ he said. ‘With white golf ball buttons?’

  Lepski restrained his impatience with an effort.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Heinie dug the pencil stub into his left ear, twisted it, removed it and flicked more wax.

  ‘Golf ball buttons, huh? Let me think.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Unusual kind of jacket, huh?’

  Lepski made a soft growling noise.

  ‘Well, now I think of it, I did have a jacket with golf ball buttons.’

  Lepski stiffened to attention. At last, a break!

  ‘You said blue, didn’t you?’ Heinie asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Heinie shook his head.

  This jacket was brown. I remember it. Must have been two years, maybe three years ago. Sort of jacket that sticks in the mind, huh?’

  ‘This jacket is blue!’ Lepski snarled.

  Heinie thought some more.

  ‘No . . . I haven’t seen it.’

  ‘Look, Mr. Heinie, this is important,’ Lepski rasped. ‘This is to do with a murder investigation.’

  ‘Sure . . . sure.’ Heinie nodded. ‘No, I haven’t seen a blue jacket with golf ball buttons. A brown one . . . sure, back two, three years ago, but no blue one.’

  ‘Maybe one of your staff. . .’

  ‘I don’t have a staff,’ Heinie said. ‘Who wants staff these days?’

  Police work! Lepski thought in disgust. ‘Gucci shoes?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Have you sold a pair of Gucci shoes to anyone anytime?’

  ‘You mean those Italian shoes?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Don’t ever get them. You want a fine pair of shoes? I can show you. . .’

  ‘Forget it!’ Lepski snarled. ‘And watch it, Heinie! Your son could get into trouble giving you clothes intended for the Salvation Army.’

  ‘Not Joe . . . he’s too smart to get into trouble,’ Heinie said, and grinned.

  Lepski stamped out of the store and made his way to his car. Then the thought struck him he had to buy a handbag for Carroll. He paused by his car. Where the hell was he going to buy a goddam handbag on Saturday afternoon? If there was one thing Lepski loathed it was shopping.

  ‘Hi, Mr. Lepski!’

  Turning, Lepski found Karen Sternwood at his side. His eyes ran over her: some doll, he thought.

  ‘Hi, there Miss Sternwood. How are you doing?’

  She pouted.

  ‘I am just grabbing a hamburger. Imagine! My boss has gone off for the weekend and left me a raft of work. I’ll be working all afternoon. Saturday! Imagine!’

  ‘Mr. Brandon away?’

  ‘His father-in-law’s sick. He won’t be back until Monday. How’s the murder investigation going?’

  ‘We’re working at it.’ Lepski had a sudden idea. ‘Miss Sternwood, you could help me if you would have the time.’

  Her eyelashes fluttered. Sweet Pete! Lepski thought, if this babe hasn’t hot pants then I’m a monkey’s uncle.

  ‘For you, I have time,’ she said.

  Lepski eased his shirt collar.

  ‘I have to buy my wife a handbag for her birthday. How do I go about it?’

  ‘That’s no problem. What kind of handbag?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Something fancy, I guess. My wife is pretty choosey.’

  Karen laughed.

  ‘Most women are. The point is how much do you want to spend? Five hundred dollars? Something like that?’

  ‘Well, not that high. I thought around a hundred.’

  ‘You can’t do better than try Lucille’s boutique on Paradise Avenue,’ Karen said. ‘You can rely on her.’ She smiled, fluttered her eye lashes, thrust her breasts at him as she went on, ‘I’ve got to get this hamburger. See you,’ and she walked away, swashing her hips while Lepski stared after her.

  Getting in his car, he drove fast to Paradise Avenue. The luxury shops kept open on Saturday afternoon, and the sidewalks were crowded with people, shop window gazing.

  Parking his car, Lepski set off down the long avenue, looking for Lucille’s boutique. He had got halfway down the avenue, cursing to himself, when he passed Kendriek’s gallery. It was only because he was looking desperately at every passing shop window that he saw Crispin’s landscape in Kendriek’s window.

  He came to an abrupt halt as he stared at the painting, then he felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

  A red blood moon!

  A black sky!

  An orange beach!

  He stepped up to the window and again stared at the painting.

  ‘Holy Pete!’ he thought. ‘That old rum-dum’s prophecy!’

  He remembered she had been right when he had been hunting that killer last year. She had said he was to look for oranges, and the killer had been selling oranges!

  Could she be right again?

  Then he remembered what Doroles had said: the hands of an artist.

  Could the man who had painted this landscape be the killer they were hunting for?

  He hesitated for a long moment, then walked purposely into the gallery.

  seven

  Louis de Marney was sulking. He considered Kendriek’s insistence to keep the gallery open on Saturday afternoon a drag. He also considered that Kendriek’s insistence that he, as head salesman, should remain, while the rest of the boys enjoyed themselves in their various ways, utterly unfair.

  Admittedly, some eight weeks ago, some doddery old cow had wandered in and bought a Holbein miniature (a brilliant fake) for sixty thousand dollars. Since then, no one had visited the gallery on Saturday afternoon, but Kendriek was optimistic.

  ‘You never know, cheri,’ he said to Louis, ‘the door may open and some sucker come in. After all, you have Sundays and Thursdays: what more can you expect?’

  Apart from sulking, Louis was outraged that he had to drive to the Gregg villa and to receive a wrapped canvas from an obviously drunken butler. On removing the wrapping, back at the gallery, he found himself confronted by one of Crispin’s landscapes.

  ‘We can’t show this!’ he shrilled. ‘Look at it!’

  In dismay, Kendriek studied the landscape.

  ‘Very advanced,’ he said, and took off his wig to wipe his dome with a silk handkerchief.

  ‘Advanced?’ Louis shrilled. ‘It’s an insult to art!’

  ‘Put it in the window, cheri,’ Kendriek said. ‘You never know.’

  ‘But I do know!’ Louis screamed. ‘It will lower the tone of our lovely gallery!’

  ‘Control yourself, Louis!’ Kendriek snapped. ‘Put it in the window! I said I would show it, and I have to show it.’

  He tapped Louis gently on his shoulder. ‘Remember, cheri, he owes us forty thousand dollars. Put it in the side window by itself,’ then shaking his head, he returned to his reception room.

  Louis cleared the side window and put Crispin’s painting on an easel and in the window. Then he flounced to his desk and sat down, seething with fury.

  He was trying to divert his mind with a gay magazine when Lepski entered the gallery.

  Louis looked up and stiffened. He knew by sight and name every cop in the city, and he knew Lepski was a renowned troublemaker. He edged his foot to a concealed button under the carpet and pressed it. Kendriek, who was going through an illustrated art book, looking for something he could fake, saw the red light gleam on his desk and knew at once that he was about to have a visit from the police. This didn’t bother him. There were no hot objects d’art in the gallery, but he was surprised. The police hadn’t visited his gallery for the past six months. He heaved himself out of his chair, went to the Venetian mirror, set his wig askew and then, moving like a cat, he opened his door a crack to listen.

  Louis had risen from his chair. His rat-like face was wreathed in smiles.

  ‘Detective Lepski!’ he gushed. ‘Such a stranger! Let me guess! You are looking for a gift for your beautiful wife! An anniversary! A birthday! A special occasion! How right you are to come to us! I have the very thing! Detective Lepski! For you, we can make a very special price! Let me show you!’

  Somewhat dazed by this reception, Lepski hesitated.

  Louis swished by him, opened a glass-covered case and produced a brooch set with lapis lazuli stones.

  ‘How your wife would love this, Detective Lepski!’

  Louis said excitedly. ‘Regard it! An Italian antique of the sixteenth century! How her friends would envy her! It’s unique. To anyone else, I wouldn’t sell it under one thousand dollars! But for you: five hundred! Think of the joy it would give her!’

  Lepski pulled himself together. He gave Louis his cop stare.

  ‘That picture in the window: the one with the red moon.’

  Louis started and gaped, then quickly recovered himself.

  ‘How wise! How perceptive! Of course. Such a striking painting on your wall would constantly remind your beautiful wife of you!’

  ‘I don’t want to buy it,’ Lepski snarled, his temper rising. ‘I want to know who painted it.’

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