1979 - You Must Be Kidding

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘I regret to tell you, sir, she died on arrival.’

  A smile that sent a chill through Ken, played around Crispin’s lips.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Please notify Mr. Lewishon, my attorney. He will attend to the necessary formalities,’ and he hung up. He turned and grinned gleefully at Ken. ‘I have just had excellent news, Mr. Brandon. My mother has been killed in a road accident. At last, I am free of her!’

  Regarding him with horror, Ken got to his feet.

  ‘I must go, Mr. Gregg.’

  ‘But first you must see my art.’ Crispin stared at Ken. ‘You knew Miss Karen Sternwood?’

  Ken gulped, then nodded.

  ‘I am working on her portrait. It’s just a rough sketch, but I want your opinion.’

  All Ken could think of was to get out and away from this madman.

  ‘Please excuse me, Mr. Gregg,’ he said, his voice a croak. ‘I just have to go now.’

  Crispin’s smile turned evil.

  ‘I don’t want to get annoyed with you, Mr. Brandon,’ he said, fingering the Suleiman pendant. ‘I assure you I can be exceedingly unpleasant with people who annoy me.’ He waved to a door at the end of the room. ‘Go ahead, please.’

  Regarding this man, Ken knew he was in deadly danger.

  He walked across the room to the door indicated, then he heard, somewhere in the villa, the sound of the front door bell. He paused and looked quickly at Crispin.

  Lepski? Ken thought. God! He hoped it was!

  ‘Now who could that be?’ Crispin said, half to himself. ‘Never mind. Whoever it is can’t get in. You bolted the door securely, didn’t you, Mr. Brandon? Now come along. I want you to see my sketch of this little whore.’ He regarded Ken. ‘She was a little whore, wasn’t she?’

  The bell rang again.

  ‘Do what I tell you!’ Crispin snarled as he saw Ken hesitating. Shocked by the demoniacal expression on Crispin’s face, Ken opened the door and walked into the studio.

  Standing before the front door, Lepski, in a slight panic that no one answered the bell, looked to right and left. All the windows of the downstairs rooms were barred.

  Seeing there was no answer, Jacoby came out of the shrubs and joined Lepski.

  ‘No one’s answering,’ Lepski said.

  ‘Bust in the door?’

  ‘We can’t do that without a warrant,’ Lepski rang the bell again.

  Then suddenly the door was flung open and they were confronted by a tall, coloured woman, her face contorted with terror, her big eyes rolling. She put her hand to her mouth, sighing to the two gaping detectives to keep silent.

  Frantically, she beckoned them in. Such was her terror, both Lepski and Jacoby drew their guns as they followed her into the lobby.

  With a stabbing motion, she pointed down the passage to a door at the far end, making a soft mumbling noise.

  Signalling Jacoby to stay with the woman, Lepski went silently to the door and threw it open. What he saw in the room made him catch his breath.

  Lying on a bed was the tattered and mutilated remains of a man Lepski scarcely recognized as the drunken butler, Reynolds. He saw Reynolds was beyond help, and his mind flashed to Brandon. Where was he?

  Chrissy, moaning softly, was shaking Jacoby’s arm and pointing up the stairs, then with surprising strength, she pushed Jacoby out of her way and ran from the villa.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Jacoby whispered.

  Lepski nodded and began to mount the stairs. Jacoby followed him. On the landing, Lepski paused. Jacoby went down on one knee, covering Lepski.

  Through the door of the studio, Lepski heard Crispin say, ‘What do you think of it, Mr. Brandon? Have I caught her likeness?’ Ken scarcely looked at the sketch of Karen Sternwood that Crispin was holding up. He was staring with horror at the painting of Lu Boone’s head, at the gruesome painting of Janie Bandler and at the portrait of Mrs. Gregg. Then his eyes moved to the other sick canvasses lining the walls.

  ‘I see you are looking at my art,’ Crispin said, ‘but please concentrate. What do you think of my sketch of the little whore?’

  Lepski nodded to Jacoby, then took four quick steps to the door, threw it open and shouted in his cop voice, ‘Stay still! Police!’ His gun covered Crispin.

  Ken drew in a long, deep breath. He slowly backed to the door.

  ‘He has a gun in his pocket,’ he said breathlessly.

  Crispin appeared to be completely relaxed. He raised his hands in a token of surrender.

  ‘Of course, Chrissy let you in. Stupid of me to have forgotten Chrissy.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, there is a gun in my pocket. It belonged to my father.’

  ‘Max, get it!’ Lepski snapped. ‘Stay still, Gregg.’

  Jacoby moved around to the back of Crispin while Lepski kept him covered. Jacoby found the gun and stepped away.

  Crispin continued to smile.

  ‘You two are badly paid detectives. You, Mr. Brandon, are a badly paid salesman,’ he said. ‘Let us make a deal. I offer two million dollars to be divided between the three of you and we will forget what has happened. What do you say?’

  ‘Money won’t buy you anything, Gregg! You have reached the end of your road,’ Lepski said.

  ‘Shall we make it three million?’ Crispin asked, still smiling.

  Without taking his eyes off Crispin, Lepski said, ‘Max get homicide here and the meat wagon.’

  As Jacoby moved to the telephone, Crispin waved his hand to his paintings.

  ‘What do you think of my art?’ he asked Lepski and he moved forward slowly. ‘I suppose people not used to modern art would think I was mad, but what do you think?’

  Lepski’s eyes swept around the studio and what he saw not only sickened him but threw him off his guard, then he realized Crispin was very close to him.

  ‘Stay right where you are!’ he barked and lifted his gun.

  ‘Don’t be nervous of me,’ Crispin said, his opal coloured eyes lighting up. ‘I am unarmed,’ then still smiling, his finger pressed the ruby of the Suleiman pendant, and weaving forward, he struck as Lepski shot him.

  * * *

  Two days later, Max Jacoby sneaked into a private room at the Paradise Clinic where Lepski, feeling sorry for himself, lay in bewildered style.

  ‘How are you feeling Tom?’ Jacoby asked as he came to the bed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Lepski demanded. ‘Why am I in this setup?’

  ‘Sternwood insisted you should be given the VIP treatment. He’s picking up the tab. You are a hero, Tom,’ and Jacoby grinned. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’ll survive,’ Lepski said and released a moan. ‘That sonofabitch nearly had me.’

  ‘Take it easy. You killed him. The press are yelling to interview you. Pete Hamilton is walking all over the ceiling to get you on T.V.’

  Lepski brightened.

  ‘How about the Chief?’

  ‘I fixed that. I told him you and I were checking on the golf ball jacket and we walked right into it. Brandon says he was trying to sell Gregg insurance when he recognized Gregg as the killer. There are no problems, Tom. Just recover. The boys plan to throw you a party as soon as you get out of here.’

  Lepski grinned.

  ‘I’m going to tell the Chief he should upgrade you, Max. You are a goddam fine pal.’

  Jacoby beamed.

  ‘It’s already fixed. I’ll be a second grade from tomorrow.’

  ‘And Brandon?’

  ‘He’s getting the reward.’

  ‘I guess he’s earned it. He had a hairy time.’

  ‘He wants to throw a party for you too.’ Jacoby began to move to the door. ‘Carroll’s waiting, Tom. I just wanted you to know you have no problems.’

  Two minutes later, Carroll, starry eyed, carrying a bouquet of flowers and an elaborate basket of fruit, swept in.

  ‘Oh, Tom, darling!’

  ‘Hi, honey!’ Lepski said. ‘You look good enough to get into bed with me!’

  ‘Now, don�
�t be coarse,’ Carroll said. ‘They say you nearly died.’

  ‘So what? I didn’t! Am I glad to see you!’

  ‘Tom, you are making headlines! You’ll be on television! I’m so proud of you!’

  ‘Fine!’ Lepski preened himself. ‘I’ll be out at the end of the week, then you and I will celebrate. We’ll go to the Spanish Bay grillroom and we’ll have a ball.’

  Carroll sat by the bed and took his hand.

  ‘We can’t afford the Spanish Bay, darling. That costs the earth.’

  ‘Who cares? What’s money for? We’ll celebrate at the Spanish Bay . . . that’s a promise!’

  ‘Tom! I want to ask you something. It has been worrying me. Did Mehitabel Bessinger’s clues help you?’

  Lepski hesitated, then decided that a lie would save him another bottle of Cutty Sark.

  ‘That old rum-dum? Forget it, honey. Her clues were as useful as a hole in the head.’

  ‘Oh, Tom! I really thought. . .’

  ‘Never mind about her,’ Lepski said. ‘Go and lock the door. I want to prove to you I’m not as badly hurt as I am supposed to be.’

  After hesitating, Carroll crossed the room and locked the door.

  The End

  Table of Contents

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