1979 - You Must Be Kidding Page 7

  Convince Betty? Ken thought. That would mean lying to her. When she got the letter, she would show it to him.

  Ken knew he could never lie convincingly to her. He had never lied to her in their four years of happy marriage.

  He began to pace around his desk. What a mad fool he had been! Remorse, panic, self-disgust tore at him. Then he pulled himself together. What was done, was done!

  There was only one decent thing to do. He must tell her before the letter arrived. He must hope that her love for him would survive the shock. But suppose it didn’t? Suppose she was so shocked, her love for him died? He couldn’t bear to think of that possibility. He tried to assure himself that they were too close, but he did realize that their future relationship might never be the same. The thought sickened him, but whatever happened, he told himself, he must tell her: rather than lie to her.

  He looked at his watch. The time was 18.30. She would be home now. He would go home at once and tell her.

  He locked the office, got in his car and edged into the home-going traffic. The drive back to his house seemed endless. It was stop-start all the way.

  Sitting in the air conditioned car, he tried to think what he would say to her: how best to soften his confession?

  What words did a man use to tell his wife that he had been unfaithful to her?

  He was still undecided when he drove into his garage.

  Betty’s car was there.

  Bracing himself, he walked into the lobby.

  ‘Ken?’ Betty appeared in the doorway of their bedroom.

  ‘Oh, darling! I’m so glad you are back! I was just going to call you.’

  He could see she was pale and her eyes anxious.

  God! he thought. Has that creep been to see her? His heart began to hammer.

  ‘What is it, honey? Something wrong?’

  ‘Mother’s just called. Dad has had a heart attack. She wants me.’

  Betty’s parents lived in Atlanta. Her father was a successful attorney, and Ken was fond of him. This news gave him a jolt. His own problem was forgotten.

  ‘Is he bad?’

  Betty fought back tears.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Will you drive me to the airport? There’s a plane leaving in an hour. I must catch it.’

  ‘Of course . . . I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘I’m all packed. Let’s go!’

  He took a suitcase she handed to him.

  ‘Are you all right for money?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes. Let’s go!’

  As they drove fast to the airport, Betty said, ‘I hate leaving you, Ken. I don’t know how long I’ll be away. Do you think you can manage? There’s plenty of food in the freezer.’

  ‘Of course. No problem. I wish I could come with you.’

  He put his hand on her. ‘Not to worry, honey.’

  Betty dissolved into tears.

  He drove on. His mind switched to his own problem. It was unthinkable to tell her now. If she stayed away a week or so, then when the letter arrived, he would destroy it!

  He had a reprieve!

  * * *

  Chief of police Terrell, sitting behind his desk, smoking his pipe, listened to Lepski’s report.

  ‘Harry Bentley is in the clear,’ Lepski concluded. ‘He was at the club house all the evening. I’ve seen his jacket, no buttons missing. So that leaves Brandon and Gregg. It’s my guess Brandon was with the Sternwood girl, and after screwing her, he came on the body. He could have seen the killer. He could even have killed her. So what do I do? Do I put pressure on him?’

  ‘Check his jacket,’ Terrell said. ‘Find out what he says he was doing at the time of the killing. I don’t see a man like Brandon being a sex ripper. It’s none of our business what Sternwood’s daughter does. We have to tread carefully, Tom.’

  Lepski shrugged.

  ‘Gregg is dead, but he had a lot of clothes. What happened to them? If his wife gave them away, the jacket could have been worn by the killer. From what I hear, Mrs. Gregg is tricky.’

  ‘You can say that again, but talk to her. Handle her with kid gloves. She has money and influence, but talk to her.’

  The time now was 20.15. Lepski decided that Brandon would be home, so with Jacoby at his side, he drove to Brandon’s bungalow.

  Back from the airport, Ken was trying to relax. He didn’t feel like getting himself a meal. He pushed Lu Boone out of his mind and was thinking of Betty’s father when his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door bell.

  Getting to his feet, hoping it wasn’t a neighbour dropping in, he opened the front door.

  The sight of Lepski and Jacoby shocked him. He stepped back, his heart beginning to pound, knowing his face had turned white.

  Lepski noted the signs of panic, and in his cop voice, said, ‘Mr. Brandon? Detective Lepski. Detective Jacoby. We want to talk to you.’

  Ken struggled to control himself. He stood back and said huskily, ‘Come on in. What is it?’

  Lepski and Jacoby followed him into the lounge. Lepski looked around, approving the comfort of the room.

  ‘What is it?’ Ken repeated.

  Lepski believed in the slow approach. He saw that Brandon was already unnerved: no harm in turning the screw.

  ‘Nice place you have here, Mr. Brandon.’

  Ken didn’t say anything. He stood motionless, looking from Lepski to Jacoby and back to Lepski. He felt a trickle of cold sweat down the side of his face.

  Lepski let the silence prolong.

  Finally, Ken said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘We are investigating a murder, Mr. Brandon.’ Lepski took from his jacket the golf ball button. ‘This yours?’

  Ken stared at the button lying on Lepski’s open palm will felt a rush of cold blood up his spine.

  ‘Is this yours?’ Lepski repeated sharply.

  ‘I - I don’t think so,’ Ken said, almost sick with panic.

  ‘Mr. Brandon, this button was found a few yards from the murder scene,’ Lepski said. ‘It’s an unusual button. We have been checking. Four men, including yourself, bought a jacket from Levine with buttons like this one. We have to check. Have you a jacket with this kind of button?’

  Ken moistened his dry lips.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I see the jacket?’

  Ken thought, if there is a button missing!

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Brandon,’ and as Ken went down the corridor to the bedroom, Lepski winked at Jacoby. ‘He’s our guy,’ he said under his breath.

  Opening the closet door in his bedroom, Ken took out the jacket. Feverishly, he checked the buttons, then drew in a long deep breath of relief. No buttons missing! He stood for a minute or so, forcing himself to relax, then he walked back to the lounge and handed the jacket to Lepski.

  ‘There are no buttons missing,’ he said, his voice much more in control.

  Lepski checked the jacket. He was too good a detective to show his disappointment.

  ‘Fine, Mr. Brandon. We have to check these things out. Sorry to have troubled you.’

  Ken nodded, feeling a surge of relief.

  ‘Of course.’

  Lepski gave him his cop stare.

  ‘This girl was killed last night around eight and ten. Where were you at that time, Mr. Brandon?’

  Panic again gripped Ken.

  ‘Eight and ten last night?’ he repeated to gain time. He had to lie. He couldn’t tell this hard faced cop that he was with Karen. He had to protect her and himself.

  ‘That’s what I asked,’ Lepski said, knowing Brandon was thinking up a lie.

  ‘I was home,’ Ken said. ‘I should have been at my sister-in-law’s wedding anniversary, but my car broke down. I called my brother-in-law and explained.’

  ‘What time did you call your brother-in-law, Mr. Brandon?’

  ‘Just after eight. No, it was nearer half past eight.’

  ‘Could I have your brother-in-law’s name?’

  ‘
Jack Fresby, the corporation lawyer.’

  ‘Yeah, I know him,’ Lepski said. ‘You stayed home the rest of the evening?’

  ‘I was here when my wife returned just after midnight.’

  Lepski again stared at him, then nodded.

  ‘Okay. Sorry to have troubled you.’ Lepski gave him his wolfish smile and left.

  As he got into his car, he said to Jacoby, ‘He was lying his head off.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Jacoby said. ‘Did you imagine he would tell you he was with the Sternwood girl?’

  ‘He could have seen the killer. I’ll talk to him again.’ He started the engine. ‘Let’s go talk to Mrs. Gregg . . .could be fun.’

  After a ten minute drive, they arrived on Acacia Drive where the retired rich lived. On rising ground, at the back of the City, all the villas had a direct view of the distant sea and beach. Each villa was individually designed. All of them had at least an acre of garden, hidden from view by ten foot high hedges. Silence reigned over Acacia Drive.

  The owners were enormously wealthy and old. There were no sounds of transistors: no shouts from the young.

  ‘Like a goddam graveyard,’ Lepski said, as he drove along the sand-strewn road, looking for Mrs. Gregg’s villa.

  He found the villa at the far end of the road. Pulling up, he and Jacoby got out and surveyed the massive oak, nailed lidded gates that hid the villa.

  ‘The way these old farts live,’ Lepski snorted, and shoving open one of the gates, he peered at the immaculate garden, ablaze with flowers, then looked at the two storey villa, painted white and blue, that stood at the end of the drive.

  The two detectives walked up the drive and paused before the white painted front door. Lepski thumbed the bell, then paused to look right and left. To his right he saw a big swimming pool. To his left a four car garage. One of the garages contained a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. The other three garage doors were closed.

  The evening sun was hot. They waited for some minutes, then Lepski, muttering under his breath, rang again.

  The door swung open, and they were confronted by the very thing Lepski had seen out of a horror movie. Here was a tall, emaciated looking man, dressed in black, wearing a wasp waistcoat, black and yellow stripes, with the dignity of an Archbishop.

  Lepski gaped at him.

  Around seventy years of age, this man had a long, yellow complexioned face, his thinning hair was snow white, his eyes were as expressionless as sea washed pebbles. His lips were paper thin. As he regarded Lepski, his shaggy eyebrows lifted.

  ‘Mrs. Gregg,’ Lepski said in his cop voice.

  ‘Mrs. Gregg doesn’t receive at this hour, sir,’ the man said in a voice that could have come from the grave.

  ‘She’ll see me,’ Lepski said and flashed his badge. ‘Police.’

  ‘Mrs. Gregg has retired to bed. May I suggest you return tomorrow at eleven o’clock?’

  Lepski leaned against the door portal.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I am Reynolds, sir. I am Mrs. Gregg’s butler.’

  ‘Maybe we don’t have to disturb Mrs. Gregg,’ Lepski said. ‘We are investigating a murder.’ He took the golf ball button from his pocket and showed it to Reynolds. ‘Recognize this?’

  Reynolds regarded the button, his face expressionless.

  ‘I have seen a similar button. The late Mr. Gregg had a jacket with golf ball buttons.’

  ‘What happened to the jacket?’

  ‘I had the unhappy task of getting rid of all Mr. Gregg’s clothes,’ Reynolds said. ‘He had a large wardrobe. Madam asked me to get rid of them at his death.’

  ‘Including the golf ball jacket?’

  Watching him, Lepski saw the grey eyes shift.

  ‘Yes.’

  Lepski pulled at his nose, sensing that this man was lying.

  ‘What did you do with the jacket?’

  ‘Among many things, I sent it to the Salvation Army.’

  Lepski stared at him for a long moment.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two weeks after Mr. Gregg’s death. Sometime in January.’

  ‘Did you notice that a button was missing on the jacket?’

  Again the grey eyes shifted.

  ‘No, I didn’t notice.’

  ‘This button was found within a few yards of the murder scene,’ Lepski said. ‘Are you quite sure the button wasn’t missing when you gave the jacket to the Salvation Army?’

  ‘I think I would have noticed it, sir, but I didn’t examine the jacket closely. I just gave it away with Mr. Gregg’s other clothes.’

  Lepski looked at Jacoby and shrugged.

  ‘Thank you. I don’t think we need bother Mrs. Gregg.’

  Reynolds inclined his head, stepped back and closed the door.

  As the two detectives walked back to their car, Lepski said, ‘I’ve got a feeling old Dracula was lying.’

  ‘He sure looked shifty.’

  ‘You check the S.A. tomorrow, Max. That jacket could be remembered.’

  They got in the car and headed back to headquarters.

  Jacoby said suddenly, ‘I’ve an idea. With a jacket like that, and these special buttons, a class tailor like Levine would provide a spare set. What do you think?’

  ‘You’ve got something. Yeah.’

  Back at their desks in the detectives’ room, Lepski hunted up Levine’s home telephone number and called him. After talking to Levine, he said, ‘Thanks a lot. Sorry to have troubled you,’ and hung up. He grimaced at Jacoby. ‘Every jacket had a duplicate set of buttons. So that puts us back to square A! I’m beginning to love this goddam case! So, what have we got? Macree is out. He is still in New York. Bentley has a cast iron alibi. So that leaves us with Brandon and the Salvation Army. I still fancy Brandon. So, tomorrow, you check the S.A. and I’ll check Brandon’s duplicate buttons. If there is one missing, I’ll turn on the heat.’ He looked at his watch. The time was just after 22.00. ‘I’m going home. Carroll will be flipping her lid.’

  ‘Why didn’t you telephone that you would be so late?’

  Carroll demanded when Lepski entered his home.

  ‘What’s to eat?’ he demanded, stamping into the lounge.

  ‘It must be spoilt now. I have already eaten.’

  Lepski made a noise like a ship’s siren.

  ‘I’ve been working my ass off all day, and now you tell me I have nothing to eat!’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar, Lepski. Sit down, and I’ll get you your dinner.’

  Lepski beamed. He passed his hand over his wife’s behind.

  ‘That’s talking! What have I got?’

  ‘Keep your hands off me! There’s a time and a place for everything. Sit down!’

  Lepski took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and sat down. In a few minutes, Carroll put a casserole on the table. It was her usual disaster, but Lepski was hungry. He poked around with a fork at the contents of the casserole, sighed, then forked an overcooked lump of meat onto his plate. Somehow, the potatoes, carrots and onions were scarcely cooked.

  He began to saw up the meat while Carroll sat by his side. He took a mouthful and began to chew.

  ‘There’s brandy and wine in this stew,’ Carroll said. ‘How do you like it?’

  ‘Could be nourishing,’ Lepski said manfully. ‘The gravy is fine. What’s the meat . . . goat?’

  Carroll bridled. Any form of criticism was fighting talk to her.

  ‘I’ll have you know Lepski, it is the best neck of lamb!’

  Lepski continued to chew.

  ‘That’s right?’ He swallowed, then began to saw up a potato. It flew off his plate and landed on the floor.

  ‘Lepski! You are a disgusting eater!’ Carroll said. ‘The trouble with you is you try to bolt your food. Cut everything up in small pieces. Take time! Decent eaters enjoy their food slowly.’

  ‘Where’s the fancy meat mincer I bought you?’ Lepski asked, ‘Let’s screw it on the table and give this lot the works.’
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  Carroll stared at him.

  ‘You need to see your dentist, Lepski,’ and getting up, she walked over to the T.V. set and turned it on.

  Lepski moaned softly and began sawing the meat into tiny pieces.

  Carroll usually had the last word.

  four

  Amelia Gregg, stood, hidden, behind the half open door of the lounge and listened to what Reynolds was saying to these two detectives who had arrived so unexpectedly.

  Amelia Gregg was a tall, heavily built woman in her late fifties. Her thick hair was dyed as black as a raven’s wing.

  Her round, heavy face could have been chiseled out of stone. Her large black eyes, her short nose and her thin lips indicated ruthless arrogance.

  Listening, she flinched when she heard one of the detectives ask about the golf ball jacket, and she flinched again when she heard Reynolds say the jacket had been given to the Salvation Army. The jacket, stained with blood, was at this moment in the basement boiler room, together with her son’s bloodstained grey slacks and blood spattered shoes.

  Moving from the door to the window, she watched the two detectives walk down the drive, then her hand on her floppy bosom, she sat down heavily in a lounging chair.

  Since her husband had died in the car crash, some months ago, her life had been completely and unbelievably disrupted.

  To her shocked rage, her husband had willed his entire estate to their son, Crispin. To prevent litigation, he had cunningly instructed his son to pay his mother any sums of money which Crispin considered her to be worth.

  In a To Be Read After My Death letter, given her by Gregg’s attorney after the car crash, Gregg had taken revenge for the misery she had inflicted on him during their twenty seven years of marriage.

  He had written:

  Amelia,

  There are only two things in your life that have any meaning for you: the complete domination of our son, and money. Since Crispin was born, you have regarded me merely as a bank account, and nothing else. I know that our son has inherited your ruthless greed so I have decided to leave him my entire estate in the hope he will deal with you as you have dealt with me. There is no way that you can revoke my will. Should Crispin die, the entire estate goes to the Cancer Research Institute, and you will receive an income of ten thousand dollars a year.