1979 - You Must Be Kidding Read online

  Lepski tossed his cigarette out of the car window. He couldn’t tell his Chief about Mehitabel Bessinger. The thought of explaining to Terrell that Carroll had consulted a drunken clairvoyant, and this rum-dum had given out these clues, brought Lepski out in a cold sweat. Terrell, and the rest of the boys, would laugh themselves sick.

  They would think he had gone crazy. No, this was something he had to follow up himself: saying nothing. On Monday he would go to Kendriek’s gallery and take Kendriek’s staff apart.

  He drove back to headquarters. After typing his report about his talk with Syd Heinie, he took it to Terrell.

  After reading the report, Terrell shrugged. ‘Okay, Tom. Go home. Sooner or later, we’ll get a break.’

  Lepski got home at 23.15. As usual, he found Carroll clued to the goggle box. She waved to him. The gangster movie was exciting. She couldn’t take her eyes off the lighted screen.

  ‘There’s food in the refrig.’

  T.V.! Lepski thought sourly. A goddam drug!

  He ate cold chicken and drank beer in the kitchen. As he listened to the sound of gunfire, police sirens and strident voices coming from the T.V., he helped himself to more beer.

  At midnight, the film finished, and he walked into the living room. Carroll, her mind now switched off from the gangster violence, smiled at him.

  ‘A good day?’ she asked.

  ‘Right now, it is your birthday,’ Lepski said smugly. ‘A present!’

  ‘Oh, Tom! I was sure you would forget!’

  ‘That’s a nice thing to say.’ He placed the gift wrapped bag on her lap. ‘First grade detectives never forget!’

  When she saw the handbag, she gave a squeal of delight.

  At 02.30, Lepski was woken by the shrill sound of the telephone bell. Cursing, he rolled out of bed and stumbled into the living room, grabbing the telephone receiver.

  ‘Tom?’ Beigler barked. ‘Get down here fast! This sonofabitch has killed again. Guess who? Sternwood’s daughter,’ and he hung up.

  * * *

  Amelia Gregg came slowly awake from a drugged sleep.

  She looked around her familiar luxury bedroom with relief. She had had a spine chilling dream. She kept dreaming that she was walking through the big lounge of the Spanish Bay hotel. All her friends were sitting in the lounge, but when they saw her, they turned away. They began to whisper together. The whispers reached Amelia as she plodded across the deep pile of the carpet.

  Her son is mad. He is a monster. He is mad . . . mad . . . mad. The whispering voices built up into a strident sound that hammered inside her head.

  Mad . . . mad . . . mad!

  In her dream, she stumbled forward, hiding her face in her hands, then as if the film had been reversed, she found herself once more entering the lounge, but the voices were now deafening.

  Mad . . . mad . . . mad!

  She had woken, shuddering. She looked at the bedside clock. The time was 02.30. Dragging her bulk from the bed, she had gone to the bathroom and had taken two Valium pills.

  Now she was awake again. It was 09.45. What a dream! No one must know! This dreadful dream had been the writing on the wall! She knew she would have no friends, no future life, if Crispin was discovered.

  She pressed the bell push on her bedside table to alert Reynolds that she would be getting up. She needed strong black coffee. When she came into the living room, Reynolds was pouring coffee with an unsteady hand. She regarded him sharply, and she saw at once he was drunk.

  ‘Reynolds! You drink too much!’ she snapped as she sat down.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Reynolds said. ‘Will you need breakfast?’

  ‘No. Where is he?’

  ‘In his apartment, madam.’

  ‘He went out last night?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Did you hear him return?’

  ‘Just after ten o’clock, madam.’

  Amelia sipped the coffee gratefully.

  ‘Put on the television, Reynolds. Pete Hamilton.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  First, came Pete Hamilton with the background scene of Karen Sternwood’s cabin with police officers milling around, then a still shot of Karen, then the words that turned Amelia to stone.

  ‘The maniac killer had struck again. Karen Sternwood, the daughter of the multi-millionaire, had been brutally murdered and mutilated. This is the third time this madman has killed in less than a week,’ Hamilton went on. ‘The police are certain someone is sheltering him. Mr. Jefferson Sternwood is now offering a reward.’ On the screen came a still Sternwood: a cruel granite-hard face that made Amelia’s heart accelerate. ‘Mr. Sternwood is offering two hundred thousand dollars to anyone who gives information that will lead to the arrest of this madman.’ Hamilton paused. ‘Two hundred thousand dollars!’ he repeated. ‘Information received will be treated in strict confidence. Anyone who can give definite proof who this killer is has only to telephone police headquarters, and he or she will be paid two hundred thousand dollars, no questions asked.’ Hamilton then switched to other local news.

  There was silence in the room as Reynolds turned off the T.V. set.

  Two hundred thousand dollars! Amelia thought. Even for a million dollars she wouldn’t sacrifice her social life!

  Two hundred thousand dollars! Reynolds was thinking. Freedom! No more chores! No more waiting on this fat old woman! All he had to do was to telephone the police. Then, with two hundred thousand dollars, he would buy a little villa and a piece of land and settle in peace for the rest of his days with all the Scotch he could ever hope to drink!

  Then he became aware that Amelia was staring at him.

  ‘Reynolds!’ she said, half suspecting that he was contemplating treachery. ‘We must say nothing! Money isn’t everything! Think of me! My life would be ruined! I rely on your loyalty.’

  His face expressionless, Reynolds bowed. What a vain old fool! he thought. Did she really imagine he would keep silent now such a reward was being offered?

  ‘Yes, madam,’ he said. ‘Perhaps another cup of coffee?’

  ‘No. I will talk to Mr. Crispin. We must pay you more, Reynolds,’ Amelia said desperately. ‘Be loyal to me, and I promise you you won’t regret it.’

  ‘You may rely on me, madam. I have served you so long.’ Reynold’s voice was wooden. ‘A little more coffee, madam?’

  ‘No . . . no.’

  ‘Then I will remove the tray.’

  Could she trust him? Amelia wondered, watching him as he picked up the tray and moved towards the door.

  ‘Reynolds!’

  He paused.

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘What are you doing today?’

  ‘I have your lunch to prepare, then as it is Sunday, and as it is so fine, perhaps a walk.’

  ‘I am not feeling well. This has been a great shock. Would you be kind and stay? I don’t want to be left alone.’

  ‘Certainly, madam. As you know, I am always at your disposal.’

  With a little bow, he left her.

  On the other side of the city, Claude Kendriek turned off the T.V. set.

  Kendriek was sitting in his luxury living room in his apartment above the gallery, having finished breakfast. He was an expert cook and he believed, on Sundays, he should cook himself something special, then do without lunch, and go out to dinner. He had grilled two baby lamb chops, four lamb’s kidneys which he had placed on a bed of tiny peas. Strong black coffee, toast and marmalade completed the meal, but Pete Hamilton’s broadcast had given him indigestion.

  Two hundred thousand dollars!

  He considered the possibility of claiming the reward, but regretfully decided that he had no real proof that Crispin Gregg was the killer. What baffled him was why Lepski had said that Gregg’s painting was connected with the killer. Why had he said that? Admittedly, Lepski’s description of the wanted man fitted Gregg, but there were thousands of tall, blond men around. Kendriek thumped his chest, trying to ease his heartburn. Just suppose
Gregg could prove he had nothing to do with the killings? Just suppose it leaked that he (Kendriek) had informed? So many of his clients relied on him when dealing with stolen property to keep silent. Once an informer, always an informer. No, in spite of the size of the reward, in the long run, it would be more advantageous to say nothing. Then he thought of Louis de Marney. Would Louis want the reward? A silly question! Of course he would! Lumbering to his feet, Kendriek telephoned Louis who had a three room apartment within five minutes’ walk of the gallery.

  His voice thick with sleep, Louis answered the call.

  ‘Come at once, cheri!’ Kendriek barked. ‘I must talk to you, and do nothing until we have talked!’

  ‘Do nothing about what?’ Louis shrilled. ‘This is Sunday!’

  Kendriek realized that Louis hadn’t seen the Hamilton programme. He visualized Louis in bed with some boy.

  ‘Never mind! Come as soon as you can,’ and he hung up. Crispin Gregg turned off his T.V. set. Two hundred thousand dollars! His eyes narrowed. He had made a dangerous mistake killing that disgusting little whore.

  * * *

  Who knew? Only his mother and Reynolds. His mother? Her social position meant everything to her. Reynolds? Yes, Reynolds would betray him. Reynolds, with his drink problem, wouldn’t hesitate to claim the reward.

  Crispin sat for some moments, fingering the Suleiman pendant, then he got to his feet. Moving in cat-like silence, he left his apartment and stood at the head of the stairs.

  He listened. He could hear Reynolds washing up in the kitchen. Silently, he ran down the stairs and to Reynolds’ room. He opened the door and moved into the neat bed-sitting room. The smell of whisky made him grimace. He looked around. The window, overlooking the garden, had iron bars. Because the living quarters were on ground level, Amelia had insisted that every window should have bars.

  He saw the extension telephone. He pressed the ruby button, and with the razor sharp blade, he cut the telephone cord. Then he moved to the door, took the key from the lock and moved out into the corridor, closing the door.

  Halfway down the corridor was a walk-in broom closet.

  He stepped inside, leaving the door ajar.

  Chrissy, the deaf-mute cook, had watched the Pete Hamilton broadcast. She knew nothing about the murders Hamilton was talking about. She took no interest in local news, but she was impressed when she learned there was a two hundred thousand dollar reward. What could she do with money like that! Sunday was her day off. She had gone to Mass at 07.00 and now, she intended to watch T.V. Knowing Reynolds’ habits, she was waiting until he had left the kitchen. She wanted to get the remains of a chicken pie she had left in the refrigerator for her lunch.

  Still thinking how wonderful it would be to own two hundred thousand dollars, she opened her door, then hastily stepped back into her room.

  She watched through the crack in the door as Crispin removed the key from Reynolds’ lock. She watched him step into the broom closet.

  A few minutes later, Reynolds left the kitchen, came down the corridor, entered his room and closed the door.

  Watched by Chrissy, a puzzled expression on her face, Crispin left the broom closet and gently inserted the key into the lock of Reynolds’ door, turned it, removed it and dropped it into his pocket. She watched him walk down the corridor to his mother’s living room.

  Reynolds poured himself a large Scotch and sat down.

  Two hundred thousand dollars! He would call the police!

  He had all the proof they needed! Those gruesome paintings on the walls! The ashes of the blood stained clothes he had burned! He was sure the police would find some clues among the ashes. He had peered into the furnace and seen, although charred, the golf ball buttons hadn’t been destroyed. What was he waiting for? Tell them now!

  Hamilton had said all information would be treated in strict confidence, but once they had paid him the reward he didn’t give a damn what Mrs. Gregg said or thought of him.

  He finished the whisky. He was now recklessly confident. Do it now!

  Unsteadily he got to his feet and picked up the telephone receiver. A sticker on the telephone told him the number of police headquarters. He lifted the receiver. Although, by now, he was drunk, he was aware that there was no dialling tone. Muttering to himself, he replaced the receiver. He jiggled the crossbar. The telephone remained dead. From time to time, the telephone did go dead.

  When, on Mrs. Gregg’s instructions, he had complained, he was told by some pert girl that the exchange was overloaded, but if he waited, the receiver would be restored.

  After hesitating, he poured himself another Scotch. He looked at his watch. The time was 10.38. He had plenty of lime. From force of habit, he thought of what he would give Mrs. Gregg for lunch. Why bother? he thought. In a few days he would be worth two hundred thousand dollars, and he could tell the old woman to get stuffed.

  He laughed, finished the Scotch and let the empty glass drop on the floor.

  No, he told himself. She loved her food. He would be loyal to her to the last moment. He would prepare something special for her. He searched his dazed mind. She liked chicken’s breasts, smeared with mustard and grilled, he would give her that.

  He reached for the telephone receiver, then he saw the cut cable. A cold shock ran through him as he stared at the dangling cable. Through the haze of Scotch, cold panic swept over him. Getting to his feet, he lurched to the door, twisted the handle and found himself locked in.

  * * *

  Amelia sat in a fat heap, her mind darting in terror.

  Karen Sternwood! Amelia had often been to the Sternwood’s residence with her husband, attending important dinners. She had often seen Karen at these functions. Why, in the name of God, she thought in despair, had Crispin, in his madness, picked this girl as a victim? If the truth came out, she would be completely finished. Sternwood would be ruthless. He would drive her out of Paradise City! This two hundred thousand dollar reward! She now felt certain that Reynolds, in his drunken state, would betray her. She heard the door open. Looking up, she saw her son, framed in the doorway.

  ‘You are looking pensive, mother,’ he said, came into the room and shut the door.

  She shuddered at the sight of him, her fat little hands closing into flabby fists.

  He sat in a chair, fingering the Suleiman pendant.

  ‘I am sure you have the same problem on your mind as I have. You will have to do without Reynolds. I am sorry for you, as I know you rely on him. We can no longer trust him. This reward will be too much of a temptation.’

  Amelia tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘Don’t look so distressed, mother,’ Crispin said. ‘Leave it to me. It is unfortunate, but necessary for us both.’

  Gasping, Amelia forced herself to say, ‘Crispin! What do you mean?’

  Crispin smiled at her.

  ‘I intend to dispose of Reynolds. After all, why not? He is old, an alcoholic, and no one except you, will miss him.’

  Amelia stared at her son in horror.

  ‘Dispose? What are you saying?’

  ‘Come, mother, please don’t be stupid!’ A sudden grating note came into Crispin’s voice that made Amelia cringe. ‘You know what I mean . . . dispose.’

  Amelia leaned forward, clasping her hands and looking imploringly at her son.

  ‘Crispin, my son,’ she said, her voice trembling, ‘please listen to your mother who loves you. You must know you are ill. I beg you to consult someone. Dr. Raison can help you. I know he can! Please do confide in him.’

  Crispin smiled an evil smile.

  ‘Is that old fool still alive? He put Uncle Martin away. What would happen to you if I were put away? Have you thought of that? Would you want it known that your son, like your uncle, was locked in a padded cell? How many of your friends would you have left?’ He watched her as she hid her face in her hands. ‘Leave this to me. There is nothing to worry about. I will find a replacement for Reynolds. After a few days,
your life will continue as before.’ He stared at her, his eyes lighting up. ‘Say something . . . do you understand?’

  At this moment, the telephone bell rang. Frowning, Crispin picked up the receiver.

  ‘Mr. Gregg?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Claude Kendriek of the Kendriek Gallery.’

  A surge of excitement ran through Crispin.

  ‘You have news for me? You have sold my painting?’

  ‘It is about your painting, Mr. Gregg.’ Kendriek’s voice was hushed. ‘I have had a police officer here. He wanted to know who had painted your landscape.’

  Crispin stiffened.

  ‘The police? Why should they be interested in my landscape?’

  ‘It is most extraordinary, Mr. Gregg,’ Kendriek said. ‘The police appear to think your painting is connected with these dreadful murders: this maniac killer. I can’t imagine why they think so, but they do. I have told them I don’t know the name of the artist, but they are pressing me. They will be here again tomorrow. Mr. Gregg! Do you have any objection to my telling them that you are the artist?’

  Crispin’s face turned into a savage, snarling mask.

  ‘You tell the police nothing about me!’ he snarled. ‘When you took my painting, you agreed I was to remain anonymous. I hold you to that! If you say anything to the police about me, Kendriek, I will put you out of business!’