1979 - You Must Be Kidding

by James Hadley Chase

  He slammed down the receiver.

  Listening, Amelia closed her eyes and shuddered.

  Now, the police!

  eight

  The offer of a two hundred thousand dollar reward brought bedlam to the Paradise City headquarters. The telephone switchboard was jammed. A long queue of people waiting impatiently to be interviewed. Every available detective was pressed into service.

  While Lepski toiled at his desk, he kept thinking of Carroll, on her birthday, disappointed he couldn’t be with her.

  He was thankful he had given her her present before the avalanche had descended.

  Ninety percent of the eager-beavers had little or no information of use. They all claimed to have seen a tall, blond man, wearing Gucci shoes and in blue, but who was he, where he was they had no idea. They had seen him, they insisted, walking down the various city streets. Several more ambitious citizens whispered that their neighbour was tall and blond and suspicious looking. Names were taken, but as the day wore on, the detectives realized no valuable information was forthcoming. One piece of information that proved useful was supplied by a young, fat man who said he had seen Karen on Saturday evening, trying to thumb a ride.

  ‘I know it was her,’ he told Jacoby. ‘It was around seventeen fifteen. I would have given her a ride, but she looked through me. I guess she didn’t dig a fat guy like me.’

  At least this told Terrell who was at his desk, reading the reports as they came in, that Karen had found a driver to her taste and had hitched a ride. She had inadvertently happened on the maniac killer. This gave Terrell food for thought.

  Around 18.00, the telephone calls dwindled and the callers faded away. Buried with a mass of paper work that would last through the night, the detectives relaxed. None of them had had lunch. They had been sustained by coffee and cigarettes and doughnuts, produced by Charlie Tanner.

  Terrell came into the Detectives room.

  ‘Okay, fellas,’ he said. ‘Two at a time. Go get something to eat, but be back sharp. Tom, you and Max, go first.’

  In a greasy spoon restaurant, a few yards from headquarters, Lepski ordered corn beef hash while Jacoby opted for a beef-burger with onions.

  ‘Nowhere!’ Lepski said in disgust. ‘Nothing! I had promised Carroll a celebration dinner. Who the hell would be a cop?’

  ‘Tom,’ Jacoby said, ‘I’ve been thinking. Look, we have been chasing four blue jackets with golf ball buttons. We found three of the owners with alibis. So we are chasing the fourth . . . right?’

  ‘That doesn’t need a fat lot of thought,’ Lepski mumbled, through a mouthful of corn beef. ‘Jesus! This muck isn’t fit to feed a dog!’

  ‘The fourth jacket was owned by Cyrus Gregg,’ Jacoby went on. ‘His wife says it was given to the Salvation Army who know nothing about it. Here’s my thought: suppose Mrs. Gregg is lying?’

  With his fork loaded with corn beef, Lepski gaped at him.

  ‘Why should she lie for God’s sake?’

  ‘Here’s something I didn’t put in my report, now I keep wondering. When I talked to Levine, checking on what happened to Gregg’s clothing, he had no useful information, but he did yak about the Gregg family. Right then, I was only interested in the jacket, but I’ve been thinking about what he said, and I think I’ve missed out.’

  Lepski chewed meat that was mainly gristle.

  ‘So what about the family?’

  ‘There’s a son. According to Levine, Mrs. Gregg transferred her affection to the son, and old man Gregg was left in the wilderness. I asked what the son did, but Levine didn’t know nor has he ever seen him.’ Jacoby paused, looking at Lepski. ‘As far as I know, we don’t know anything about him either.’

  ‘Make your point,’ Max,’ Lepski said, laying down his knife and fork and sitting forward. ‘You have just said Mrs. Gregg could be lying.’

  ‘Suppose her son is the killer? Suppose he wore his father’s jacket when he killed Janie Bandler? Wouldn’t his mother cover up for him?’

  Lepski lit a cigarette while he thought.

  ‘You could have something, Max,’ he said finally. ‘This could certainly take care of the missing jacket. Yeah. If the description we now have fits Gregg’s son, we certainly have something.’

  ‘The trouble here is Mrs. Gregg,’ Jacoby pointed out. ‘She has the ear of the mayor.’

  Lepski thought some more, then got to his feet.

  ‘Say nothing to nobody, Max. I’ll handle this.’

  Jacoby sighed.

  ‘I was thinking maybe I could get the reward, Tom.’

  Lepski gaped at him.

  ‘You? Get the reward? You tell me whenever any cop got any reward.’

  ‘Just a thought,’ Jacoby shrugged. ‘What do we do? Tell the Chief?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ll do something. Come on, let’s get back.’

  As they left the restaurant, Lepski patted Jacoby on his broad back.

  ‘One of these days, Max, you’re going to make a great cop—like me.’ Then seeing a telephone booth, he went on, ‘Hold it! I better have a word with Carroll. Boy! Is she going to be sore!’

  Jacoby waited patiently. Finally, Lepski came out of the booth, beaming.

  ‘You know something, Max? She took it like a soldier. No problems. She’s going to wait. How many wives would do that?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Jacoby said. ‘I’m not married.’

  * * *

  When Crispin had left her, Amelia sat, staring blankly at the opposite wall. While she stared, she wrestled with her conscience. She knew she should telephone the police and tell them that her son was a homicidal maniac and he was planning yet another murder. But she couldn’t bring herself to do this.

  After all, she tried to convince herself, Reynolds was old and a hopeless drunk. With him out of the way, Crispin might just settle down and these dreadful murders might cease. Sometime tonight, Crispin would dispose of Reynolds. She refused to let her mind dwell on how Crispin would get rid of the body. What was this telephone call Crispin had received from this man, Kendriek. The police?

  Amelia got unsteadily to her feet. She couldn’t stay a moment longer in the house! She would go to the Spanish Bay hotel. They were always kind to her. She would stay there until this dreadful affair was concluded.

  She walked heavily to her bedroom. This was the moment when she missed Reynolds who always packed for her. She took a suitcase from the closet and packed what she thought she would need. As she was closing the lid of the suitcase, Crispin appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Very wise, mother,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Where will you stay?’

  ‘The Spanish Bay hotel,’ Amelia said in a stifled voice.

  Crispin nodded.

  ‘There is nothing to worry about. I will telephone you when you can return.’

  ‘I couldn’t but help to overhear,’ Amelia said, breathing heavily. ‘This man, Kendriek. Why was there talk about the police?’

  ‘Come along, mother!’ There was a sudden snap in Crispin’s voice. ‘I will carry your suitcase. Use the Rolls. I won’t need it for a while.’

  ‘Crispin!’ Amelia made a last feeble effort. ‘My son! Please. . .’

  Crispin’s eyes lit up, and once again he looked like her Uncle Martin.

  ‘Come along!’ he snarled. ‘I want you out of here! And remember . . . say nothing!’

  Defeated and frightened, Amelia followed him out of the house. Crispin put her suitcase in the trunk of the Rolls, then as she settled her bulk behind the driving wheel, he leaned forward and stared at her.

  ‘I will telephone you in a day or so. I must arrange for someone to take care of you. Say nothing! There is nothing to worry about.’

  Shaking, her hands trembling, Amelia somehow started the engine. Her last thought, as she drove away, was of Reynolds.

  * * *

  Kendriek paced the big living room of his apartment while Louis, in a furious temper, sat on the edge of a chair, glaring at him. Kendriek had spoilt
Louis’s Sunday: such a lovely boy and so willing. He hadn’t dared leave the boy in his apartment. The very young were so unreliable, and Louis had many choice possessions that could have tempted the boy. He had bundled him out, protesting, so he could rush over to Kendriek.

  ‘I thought it wise, so I telephoned Mr. Gregg to explain the position,’ Kendriek said. ‘He turned exceedingly unpleasant. He says if I mention his name to the police, he would close down the gallery. He sounded vicious enough to do just that. He has money to buy me out.’

  ‘Why should he do that unless he has something to hide?’ Louis demanded.

  ‘Perhaps he does have something to hide. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. When Lepski comes tomorrow, cheri, we tell him nothing.’

  ‘There’s a two hundred thousand dollar reward!’ Louis unearned. ‘I heard it on the radio before I left. Do you call that nothing?’

  Kendriek stared at Louis, his little eyes turning to stone.

  ‘Listen, fool!’ he said, a rasp in his voice. ‘Once a police informer, always a police informer. I promised Gregg not to say he was the painter of this abortion of his. If I tell the police, the word will leak. No one, in the future, will touch us!’

  ‘So you are going to lie to Lepski!’ Louis shrilled. ‘That will make you an accessory to murder! You are out of your mind!’

  ‘We don’t know Gregg has anything to do with these murders!’ Kendriek shouted. ‘Lepski says Gregg’s painting is connected with these murders, but he doesn’t say why. Suppose we told Lepski that Gregg did the painting and the police interrogate Gregg. He will know we have informed! Then suppose the police can prove nothing against Gregg? Then we have Gregg ruining us and the word will leak we have informed. Use your brains, cheri! We say nothing.’

  Louis jumped to his feet.

  ‘I will not be involved in this!’ he cried, stamping his foot. ‘You have spoilt my day! You lie to Lepski! I will not have anything to do with it!’

  ‘Louis.’ Kendriek’s voice turned quiet. ‘You are forgetting yourself. Once an informer, always an informer. Have you forgotten Kenny? How old was he . . . seven? The police are still hunting for his ravisher, Louis. Kenny could pick this man from a lineup. Once an informer, always an informer.’

  Blood drained out of Louis’s face.

  ‘Behave yourself, cheri,’ Kendriek said and smiled. ‘No more hysterics. If necessary you will lie to Lepski.’ He took off his wig and handed it to Louis. ‘Comb it, cheri.’

  With a shaking hand, Louis took out his pocket comb.

  * * *

  Ken Brandon found Mary Goodall, his previous head office secretary, waiting outside the Secomb office of the Paradise Assurance Corporation. To say he was pleased to see her would be an understatement. Middle aged, plump and utterly efficient, Mary Goodall, to him in this present mood, was a gift from the gods.

  They greeted each other, then Ken unlocked the office door, and they entered.

  ‘How is Judge Lacey?’ Mary asked as she surveyed the outer office.

  ‘It’s miraculous. We really thought he was gone, but he has made a remarkable recovery. The doctor says, with care, he could last sometime yet.’

  ‘I’m so glad. And Betty?’

  ‘She came back with me last night. Her sister is staying with Mrs. Lacey.’ He saw Mary’s expression as she looked around the office. ‘I’m afraid this dump isn’t what you are used to, Mary, but I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you here.’

  ‘Mr. Sternwood’s secretary phoned me yesterday, telling me to take over.’ Mary grimaced, then smiled. ‘It’s not quite as bad as I had imagined.’ Then her smile faded as she went on, ‘What a terrible thing to have happened! Poor Mr. Sternwood! He was so proud of his daughter!’

  Ken flinched, then he walked to Karen’s desk and looked at the letters and papers she had left.

  ‘They must find this dreadful maniac,’ Mary went on. ‘This enormous reward Mr. Sternwood is offering. Two hundred thousand dollars! Surely someone will come forward.’

  Ken couldn’t bear to think of Karen and her dreadful end.

  ‘I hope so,’ he muttered, picked up the letters and papers and moved to his office. ‘I’ll deal with these, Mary. Suppose you go through the files and get the photo of what we have been doing.’ Leaving her, he went into his office, closed the door and sat at his desk.

  What a nightmare Sunday had been! He had read in the paper that Lu Boone had been murdered. Shocked, yet relieved that there would now be no blackmail threat, he turned on the radio. He then heard of Karen’s murder. This news shattered him, and he was scarcely civil to his sister-in-law who had said, ‘She asked for it, living in a hippy cabin. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was no better than a whore.’ He had telephoned Jefferson Sternwood but he was unavailable. Sternwood’s secretary thanked him for his call and said she hoped he would be at the Secomb office on Monday, adding that Mary Goodall was to replace Karen.

  Now that Judge Lacey was out of danger, Ken couldn’t wait to get home. Betty had been contacted by Dr. Heintz who asked impatiently when he could expect her. They decided to leave on the afternoon plane.

  As they sat side by side in the plane, the mystery of the missing golf ball button was solved. Betty looking in her bag for a cigarette, gave a little laugh and produced the button.

  ‘Look, darling. I carry this around as my talisman.’ She put her hand on his. ‘It’s something that belongs to you.’

  Ken, remembering his panic, remembering how Karen had got him another button, remembering how drunk he had been, and remembering he had taken Karen into Betty’s and his bed, had trouble in forcing a smile.

  Now, sitting at his desk, he thought back on that Sunday. Karen was dead. Lu Boone was dead. This disloyal, disgraceful episode in his married life was now behind him. Clenching his fists, he swore to himself that it would never happen again.

  On the other side of the city, Lepski parked his car within a few yards of Kendriek’s gallery. He walked in to be met by Louis de Marney, pale, but with a false smile of welcome.

  ‘Mr. Lepski! How nice! Mr. Kendriek is expecting you.’ He led Lepski into Kendriek’s reception room.

  Kendriek, beaming like an amiable dolphin, rose from behind his desk and offered a fat hand, but Lepski was in no mood for this kind of greeting.

  Ignoring the offered hand, he said in his cop voice, ‘What have you got for me?’

  ‘Please sit down, Mr. Lepski. Let us conduct this conversation in a civilized manner,’ Kendriek said, losing his smile. He sat down.

  After hesitating, Lepski took the visitor’s chair, facing Kendriek.

  ‘Mr. Lepski, please understand that I have to protect my clients. You are asking for the name of the artist who painted this picture. That, of course, is a fair question from the police, but this artist made me promise not to reveal his name. Many artists ask me for anonymity. This may seem strange to you, but I assure you it often happens.’

  Lepski glared at him.

  ‘So you know who he is?’

  Kendriek took off his wig, stared at the inside of it as if he expected to find in it an ant’s nest, then he replaced it, askew.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Lepski. I know the name of the artist.’ He leaned forward, his little eyes like stones. ‘If you will explain to me why you think this artist has something to do with these murders, and if you can convince me that you have definite evidence against this artist, then, of course, I will reveal his name.’

  Lepski shifted in his chair. How the hell could he tell this fat queer about this rum-dum Mehitabel? How could he even tell Terrell about her? A red moon! A black sea! An orange sky!

  Seeing Lepski hesitate, Kendriek moved into the offensive.

  ‘Perhaps, Mr. Lepski, it would be better if Chief Terrell talked to me. I have always found him understanding.’ The dolphin smile was back. ‘Suppose, if I may suggest, you speak to your Chief, then he could, if he feels it necessary, speak to me.’

  Realizing he was defe
ated, Lepski got to his feet.

  ‘Okay, Kendriek,’ he snarled. ‘So you don’t give us information. I’ll remember this. When you are in trouble, you’ll be in real trouble,’ and he stormed out of the gallery.

  Kendriek took off his wig and threw it up to the ceiling.

  As Louis, who had been listening, came in, Kendriek beamed at him.

  ‘You see, cheri, this stupid cop was bluffing!’

  * * *

  By 10.30, Ken Brandon had cleared his desk, had talked over the telephone to his sales director, and now decided, he would go on a hunt for new business.

  As he was pushing back his chair, Mary Goodall came in. ‘There’s a detective wanting to speak to you, Ken. Detective Lepski.’

  ‘Send him in, Mary,’ Ken said, his heart beginning to race.

  Lepski came in, wearing a wide, friendly grin that didn’t reach his hard cop eyes.

  ‘Hi there, Mr. Brandon!’ he said. ‘I’ve brought your jacket back.’

  Ken gulped, forced a smile as he said, ‘Thank you. I hope no further trouble.’

  Lepski put the jacket on Ken’s desk.

  ‘The spare buttons are in the pocket, Mr. Brandon.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem now,’ Lepski went on. ‘I’m sorry to have worried you.’

  ‘Well, you have a job to do,’ Ken said.

  ‘Yeah. This news about Miss Sternwood must have been a shock.’

  ‘Yes. Is that all, Mr. Lepski? I’ve just got back and I have a work load.’

  ‘I’m hoping you can help me,’ Lepski said. ‘This won’t take long. Does the name Cyrus Gregg mean anything to you?’

  Ken stared at him.

  ‘Of course. He was one of my clients. He died some months ago.’

  ‘You handled his insurance?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did Mrs. Gregg continue the coverage?’

  ‘Yes. The policy has an automatic renewal.’

  ‘There’s a son. What do you know about him, Mr. Brandon?’