You Must Be Kidding

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:

When Amelia read this letter, she burst out laughing. What drivel this old fool had written!

Independent? Crispin? Again she laughed. Crispin was totally dependent on her, and always would be. She had controlled him for more than twenty years with rigid discipline. She hadn’t allowed him to go to a school or to a university. He had been educated at home by expensive tutors. The idea of Crispin mixing with immoral, vicious, drug-taking youthful troublemakers was not to be considered.

At an early age, Crispin had shown a remarkable talent for painting in oils. This she encouraged as, working in a specially constructed studio on the top floor of the enormous house, she was able to be constantly in touch with him.

She was unable to understand nor to appreciate his strange, wild paintings. His skies were black, his moons were scarlet and his seas were orange. An art expert who she had consulted had spent some time examining dozens of Crispin’s landscapes. Because of the big fee that Amelia paid him, he had guardedly said that Crispin had an unusual talent, but he refrained from saying that, in his opinion, these landscapes, in spite of considerable talent, revealed a diseased mind.

What was this drivel that Crispin was not as other men? Again she laughed. Not as other men! She knew that! He was a great artist, and he was her son! Of course, he wasn’t like other men!

But what her husband had said about her son becoming independent once he had money nagged her. It was a stupid suggestion, but all the same, it nagged her.

She decided to settle this insinuous suggestion once and for all.

She had gone to Crispin’s studio to find him not there. Facing her was a big canvas on an easel. The half-finished painting was of a woman, lying on orange coloured sand, her legs spread, her arms out stretched, a ribbon of blood coming from her vagina.

Amelia stood transfixed, staring at the painting in horror. Modern art was modern art, but this...! Her face hardened. Crispin must stop this kind of thing! But where was he?

She found Reynolds standing in the vast hall.

Reynolds had been in her service for some twenty-five years. Her husband had disliked him and had wanted to get rid of him, but Amelia would have none of it. Reynolds had served her faithfully, and he had been good with Crispin. Over the years, she had begun to confide in Reynolds, consulting him how best she could handle her husband, and, as Crispin grew up, how best to handle him.

Reynolds offered advice that suited her. He never made suggestions unless consulted. Later, she was to discover that he was a hopeless alcoholic and, being shrewd, she knew his one hope of survival was to remain her servant, and this pleased her. She never questioned the disappearing Scotch. She had long ago realized she needed him as he needed her.

‘Where is Mr. Crispin?’ she demanded. ‘He is not in his studio.’

Reynolds regarded her, his eyes, as always, like wet stones.

‘He is in Mr. Gregg’s study, madam.’

Amelia stiffened.

‘In the study? What is he doing there?’

Reynolds lifted his shaggy eyebrows. He was a man of few words.

Her face hardening, Amelia walked down the long corridor to her husband’s study, pushed open the door and paused in the doorway.

This big, comfortably furnished room had been Cyrus Gregg’s retreat. In this room, at a vast desk, he had manipulated his business deals, arranged his real estate transactions and juggled successfully in stocks.

Amelia seldom entered the room, and it came as a shock to see her son seated in his father’s executive chair, the big desk covered with documents, stock quotations and various other papers.

‘What are you doing in your father’s study?’ Amelia had demanded, her voice domineering and harsh.

Pencil between his artistic, long fingers, Crispin made a note, then, with a little frown, looked up.

His eyes were the colour of opals: eyes that would give warning to anyone less confident of her power over him than Amelia.

‘My father is dead. This is now my study,’ he said. His voice was low pitched: a metallic voice of a robot.

Amelia felt a little chill run through her. Her son had never spoken to her before in such a voice.

‘What do you imagine you are doing?’ she blustered. ‘Now, Crispin, you must leave all this to me. You don’t understand your father’s affairs. I do. Although your father has foolishly left you his estate, without my help, you won’t be able to manage it. Money needs, managing. If it interests you, we will work together, but I think it is better for you to continue with your art, and leave the estate to me.’

‘I leave nothing to you,’ Crispin said quietly. ‘You have had your reign. Now it is my turn, and I have waited long enough!’

Shocked, fury sending blood in a purple flush to her heavy face, Amelia shouted, ‘How dare you speak to me like this! Crispin! Go immediately to your studio, and remember, I am your mother!’

Crispin put down his pencil, folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. His opal coloured eyes lit up.

There was such a demoniac expression in them that Amelia recoiled.

Her son looked exactly like her uncle, Martin, dead these forty odd years. Staring at him, she felt stricken.

At the age of ten, Martin, uncle on her mother’s side, had attempted to sexually assault her. Staring at her son and seeing the frightening resemblance, she vividly recalled the happening. Her parents had gone off for the day to some social affair. Uncle Martin, they told her, would take her out to lunch. This had delighted her as Uncle Martin, although eccentric, was fun. He was tall, slim with corn coloured hair, so much like Crispin. He used to dabble in art and dressed even in those days eccentrically. His preference was white frilly shirts and bottle green velvet suits. He was often suspected by his friends to be gay, that was far from the truth. He had a sexual compulsion for young girls, but at the age of ten, Amelia thought he was dashingly romantic.

On his arrival, and after the coloured butler had left them together, Uncle Martin had asked her where she would like to be taken for lunch. Even at that age, Amelia had developed the taste for luxury. She named the most expensive restaurant in the city. There was a strange expression on her uncle’s face as he agreed.

‘Pretty little girls who ask for expensive outings must give as well as take,’ he said, and with a fixed smile that turned him into a terrifying stranger, he caught hold of her. The next few moments still remained a nightmare to Amelia. At the age of ten, she was sturdy. As his hand thrust up her dress and between her thighs, she had lashed out at his face. Her wild screams had brought the butler and the footman into the room. They had great difficulty in dragging Uncle Martin away from her. While the struggle went on, Amelia fled to her bedroom and locked herself in. Sometime later, the footman who was on friendly terms with her had told her that Uncle Martin had been certified, and had been put in an asylum where later, he killed himself. Her parents had said nothing to her, nor did she to them.

Now here was her son, glaring at her, the spitting image of Uncle Martin.

She recalled what her husband had written: You have failed to realize that Crispin is not as other men. You will find the truth when he comes into my money.

Looking at her son now she realized that her power over him had gone. As he continued to glare at her, she also realized that he not only had become a stranger, but as mad as Uncle Martin.

‘Here...’ He picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Take this and read it. It is for you to decide. Now, leave me!’

With trembling fingers, she took the sheet of paper and went unsteadily to the lounge.

Reynolds, white faced, had been listening at the door. He watched Amelia as she walked into the lounge: her arrogance gone, looking like a fat, drooping old woman of eighty.

He went silently to his room and poured himself a treble Scotch. He drank the spirit in one long gulp. Then he took out his handkerchief and mopped his white, sweating face, stiffened, pulled down the points of his black and yellow waistcoat, adjusted his tie, then walked to the lounge. He paused in the doorway.

Amelia looked up and motioned him to come in.

Reynolds quietly closed the door, advanced and took the sheet of paper she held out to him.

‘Read it,’ she said.

Crispin’s instructions had been drawn up by Abel Lewishon, his father’s attorney. The instructions stated that Amelia had a choice: she could either remain to take over the running of her Son’s new home with an income of fifty thousand dollars a year for her services, or if this arrangement was not agreeable to her, she would receive an income of ten thousand dollars a year and live where she liked.

The house was to be sold. All the ten members of the staff were to be dismissed with the exception of Reynolds who would be expected to run the new, much smaller establishment with the aid of a cook/maid who Crispin would supply. Reynold’s salary would be increased by one thousand dollars a year. If he didn’t agree to this, he was to be dismissed.

‘He has gone mad!’ Amelia whispered. ‘He has gone the same dreadful way his uncle went. What am I to do?’

Reynolds thought of all the Scotch he could buy with the extra one thousand dollars a year. He thought too of the awful prospects of being unemployed.

‘I would suggest, madam, you accept these terms,’ he said. ‘May I say, madam that I have often suspected that Mr. Crispin is far from normal. We can but wait and hope.’

For the first time in her married life, Amelia wept.

This conversation, between Amelia and Reynolds had taken place some six months ago. During these months, the big house had been sold. Crispin, Amelia, Reynolds and a thin, elderly coloured woman named Chrissy had moved into a villa on Acacia Drive. The villa had been found and purchased on Crispin’s behalf by Lewishon.

Although prejudiced, Amelia had to admit that the villa was a success. She had a bedroom and a sitting room on the ground floor. Reynolds had a bed/sitting room, also on the ground floor to the rear of the villa. Chrissy had a small bedroom, leading off the kitchen. The whole of the top floor was taken over by Crispin. He had a bedroom, a big living room and a bigger studio. An oak door, at the head of the stairs, leading to his apartment, was kept locked. Only Chrissy was allowed up there to clean once a week.

Chrissy was a deaf-mute. Neither Amelia nor Reynolds could communicate with her, and Amelia suspected that Crispin had deliberately engaged this woman because of her affliction. She did her work and was an excellent cook, and in her spare time, she was content to watch T.V., only going out to do the marketing. Reynolds guessed she could lip-read. He warned Amelia to be careful what she said to him when Chrissy was around.

Amelia only caught occasional glimpses of her son. For the past months neither had exchanged a word. Outside the locked door leading to Crispin’s apartment was a table.

Reynolds had been instructed to take up Crispin’s meals on a tray, knock on the door, then go away. Crispin ate very little. His lunch consisted of a fish salad or an omelette, his dinner a small steak or the breast of a chicken.

From time to time, he left his studio and drove away in the Rolls. Watching from behind the curtain, Amelia assumed he was going to see Lewishon. She also assumed that when Crispin was locked in his studio, he was painting.

By now she had accepted the bitter fact that she no longer had any power over her son, but at least she had fifty thousand dollars a year, spending money. She had always lived an active, sociable life. She was an expert bridge player. In her big circle of friends, the news had got around that Crispin had inherited his father’s fortune. Eyebrows had been raised when the big house had been sold. Amelia had explained that Crispin had become a great, dedicated artist. On no account was he to be disturbed. She had hinted that Picasso might have a rival. Her friends secretly jeered. She was often invited to her friends’ homes for cocktails or dinner. As a quid pro quo, she invited them to one of the many luxury restaurants in Paradise City, again explaining that Crispin was so sensitive, she could now no longer entertain at home.

But she kept wondering what Crispin was doing, locked away, month after month. Her curiosity became so overpowering, she decided she must find out. One day, she had the opportunity. Chrissy had gone out, shopping. Crispin had already driven away in the Rolls. She called Reynolds.

‘Do you think you could get in up there, Reynolds?’

‘I believe so, madam. I have already examined the lock. I could arrange it.’

‘Then let us go at once!’

It took Reynolds only a few minutes, with the aid of a stiff piece of wire to unlock the door, and together, they entered the studio.

It was like walking into a nightmare world of revolting horror.

Hanging on the walls were big canvasses of such ghastly scenes that Amelia turned faint. The theme of these realistic paintings were always the same: a naked girl, depicted with astonishing photographic detail, lying on a beach with a red blood moon, a black, threatening sky and an orange beach. The girl was either decapitated or disemboweled or hacked in pieces.

In a corner of the room stood an easel on which was a large portrait, completely life-like, of Amelia. Between her bloodstained teeth hung a pair of male legs, clad in white and red striped trousers — her husband’s weekend casual dress. From her black dyed hair, sprouted a pair of fur covered horns.

For a long moment, Amelia stared at the painting, then half fainting, she allowed Reynolds to support her down the stairs.

Leaving her in the lounge, Reynolds walked unsteadily to his room and drank a big Scotch. Then, revived, but still shaken, he returned upstairs and relocked the apartment door.

He entered the lounge and poured Amelia a stiff brandy.

‘What are we going to do?’ she asked, after sipping the drink. ‘This is dreadful! He is utterly mad! He could be dangerous!’

Again Reynolds thought of the nightmare his life would become if he lost this sinecure of a job.

‘I think, madam, there is nothing we can do but wait and hope.’

Amelia, thinking what life would be like to live on a mere ten thousand dollars a year, nodded agreement.

So they waited, but without any hope.

Then on the evening after Janie Bandler’s murder, Reynolds made a horrifying discovery. He went immediately to where Amelia was watching T.V. after an excellent dinner.

‘Madam,’ he said huskily, ‘I must ask you to come with me to the boiler room.’

‘The boiler room?’ Amelia stared at him, then seeing his white, sweating face, she felt a stab of fear. ‘What is it?’

‘Please, madam, please come,’ and he turned and began walking down the corridor. After a moment’s hesitation, now feeling dread, Amelia followed him down the stairs and into the boiler room.

‘Look, madam,’ Reynolds whispered and pointed..

Amelia regarded the heap of clothes lying by the furnace. She recognized her husband’s golf ball jacket which Crispin had taken a liking to and often wore, also Crispin’s grey slacks, his blue and white check shirt and his suede shoes. She stared with mounting horror at the unmistakable bloodstains. There was a sheet of paper pinned to the jacket. In Crispin’s artistic writing was the message:

They looked at each other, then Amelia turned and stumbled up the stairs and back into the lounge. Reynolds hurried into his room and poured himself a vast Scotch. He swallowed the drink, then went unsteadily to the lounge.

Amelia was staring transfixed at the T.V. screen. Pete Hamilton was talking. Like statues, Amelia and Reynolds listened to Hamilton’s lurid description of the finding of Janie Bandler’s mutilated body.

‘Someone must be shielding this maniac,’ he concluded. ‘His clothes must be heavily blood stained.’ To Amelia, Hamilton seemed to be staring directly at her. ‘I earnestly ask whoever it is who is giving this dangerous maniac sanctuary — whether wife, mother, father or friend — to communicate immediately with the police. This vicious maniac could strike again! Until he is apprehended, no woman in our city is safe.’

Shaking, Reynolds turned off the set.

‘I don’t believe it!’ Amelia moaned. ‘God! If Crispin did this! No! He would never do such a thing!’ Then she recalled those dreadful paintings in Crispin’s studio, and she shuddered. ‘Reynolds! We must say nothing! If he has done this dreadful thing, I couldn’t face the disgrace! My friends! They would all desert me! What would my life become? I won’t believe it!’ Then stiffening, she looked wildly at Reynolds. ‘Get rid of those clothes! Burn them! Do it now!’

It was at this moment that Lepski and Jacoby arrived.

The following morning, Max Jacoby called on Mr. Levine, the tailor and borrowed one of his golf ball button jackets. He then drove to the Salvation Army depot and talked to Jim Craddock who was in charge of distributing the many gifts sent in by the city’s rich.

Craddock was emphatic that the jacket had not been sent with Cyrus Gregg’s other clothes.

‘I would have remembered a jacket like this,’ he said. ‘No. I didn’t receive it.’

‘This is important, Mr. Craddock,’ Jacoby said. ‘Are you absolutely certain this jacket wasn’t among Mr. Gregg’s clothes?’

Craddock nodded.

‘I am absolutely certain Mr. Gregg’s clothes were so good, I sold them to a clothes dealer and the money went to our fund. They were far too good to give away, and this jacket was not among them.’

While this was going on, Lepski drove to Ken Brandon’s home. He arrived at 08.15.

Ken was preparing to go to the office. Surprised at the long ring on his front door bell, he opened the door to find Lepski.

Panic again gripped him. Ken had imagined since no buttons were missing on his jacket, Lepski would no longer bother him.

‘Morning, Mr. Brandon,’ Lepski said in his cop voice. ‘I’ve been checking on these buttons. Mr. Levine tells me he supplied a duplicate set with every jacket. I would like to check the duplicate set you have.’

The blood receded from Ken’s face.

‘Duplicate buttons?’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I don’t remember Levine giving me a duplicate set.’

‘He says he did!’ Lepski barked.

‘My wife looks after that kind of things She’s in Atlanta right now. Her father has had a heart attack. She would know. I’ve got to get to work. When I return home I’ll look, but I don’t remember any duplicates.’

‘This is important, Mr. Brandon. Will you look and let me know?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘I’m checking all duplicate buttons. Levine is sure he gave you a set,’ Lepski went on. ‘I’ve checked all the other owners of these buttons and none of the buttons are missing. That leaves you, Mr. Brandon, so let me know.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Ken said. ‘I’ll call you if I find them.’

As soon as Lepski had driven away, Ken went into the living room. Betty kept a big button box. She never discarded anything that might prove useful. His heart hammering, Ken found the box and lifted the lid. Some three hundred assorted buttons were in the box. He turned cold as he saw one of the golf ball buttons among the other buttons. So Levine had given him a duplicate set!

Leaving the box on the settee, he ran into his bedroom and took the jacket from the closet. How he now hated the sight of it! He counted the buttons: three on each sleeve, three on the front: nine buttons! Tossing the jacket on the bed, he returned to the living room and began to hunt through the various buttons. He unearthed eight of the golf ball buttons. One missing! Grabbing hold of the box, he upended it, pouring the various buttons on the carpet. Feverishly, he searched, but couldn’t find the missing button.

He sat back on his heels, staring at the mass of buttons spread out before him.

Jesus! One missing!

If he told Lepski that one of these goddamn buttons was missing, there would be an inquiry. He might even be suspected of killing this girl! Even if the police didn’t arrest him for murder, he would be forced to tell them of his affair with Karen. He shut his eyes, thinking now only of Betty.

With shaking hands, he gathered up the buttons and returned them to the box, then he put the box back on the shelf. He looked at the eight buttons on the settee. He must get rid of them, he told himself. He would swear that Levine had never given him a duplicate set. It would be Levine’s word against his! He would have to tell Betty in case the police asked her, and she must support his lie! But what was he to tell Betty? He had to think of some lie to convince her. He tried to think, then the Swiss clock in the lobby chimed nine. He was already late for the office. A lie must come that would convince Betty, he told himself, without hope. Then putting the golf ball buttons in his pocket, he locked the front door and drove to Secomb.

He wasn’t to know that as soon as Lepski returned to his desk, he called the Atlanta police. Betty’s father, who handled many of the city’s court cases in the past, was well known.

‘Mrs. Betty Brandon,’ the desk sergeant said. ‘Sure... she’s Mr. Lacey’s daughter. He’s a good friend of ours. He’s pretty sick right now... heart. Mrs. Brandon is with him.’

‘I need a word with her,’ Lepski said. ‘Let me have the telephone number.’

‘Something wrong?’

‘No... just routine,’ Lepski said airily.

The desk sergeant gave him the number.

‘Don’t bother her unless you have to,’ he said. ‘Mr. Lacey is real bad.’

Lepski grunted, hung up and dialled the number. In a matter of minutes, he was talking to Betty.

‘Mrs. Brandon, I’m sorry to trouble you at this time,’ he said, ‘but we are trying to trace a set of golf ball buttons. I understand Mr. Brandon has a jacket with golf ball buttons. I’ve already talked to him. He can’t remember if there was a duplicate set of buttons with the jacket. He said you would know.’

Betty had been up all night coping with her parents. Her father seemed to be sinking and her mother was hysterical with grief. This call from the Paradise City police was the last thing she wanted.

‘There is a duplicate set,’ she said curtly. ‘What is all this about?’

‘Just a routine inquiry, Mrs. Brandon,’ Lepski said smoothly. ‘Would you know where the duplicates are?’

‘In my button box at home. I don’t understand. What is this?’

‘Thank you, Mrs. Brandon. Sorry to have disturbed you,’ and Lepski hung up. He looked at Max Jacoby who had been listening in on an extension.

‘Now let’s see if Brandon dreams up a lie,’ Lepski said with his wolfish smile.

Hurrying into the office, Ken found three coloured couples waiting patiently. Karen was busy typing. She gave him a jeering little smile.

‘Sleeping late these days?’ she murmured, without pausing in her typing. ‘The mail’s on your desk.’

Ken took the first couple into his office. For the next hour he was fully occupied. Then as the final couple left, he turned his attention to the mail. As he was reading the first letter, the telephone bell rang. Scooping up the receiver, still reading the letter, he said, ‘Ken Brandon. Can I help you?’

‘Lepski, City police,’ a voice growled and Ken stiffened, nearly dropping the receiver.

‘Yes, Mr. Lepski?’ He was aware his voice was husky.

‘Did you find those buttons?’

Ken drew in a long, deep breath.

‘I’ve been thinking about them,’ he said, forcing his voice to sound steady. ‘Mr. Levine must have made a mistake. I am quite sure he didn’t give me a duplicate set. I am sure I would have remembered.’

‘No duplicate set, huh?’

‘No.’

‘Are you quite sure, Mr. Brandon? As I told you, I am investigating a murder case. I repeat... are you quite sure?’

Ken gripped the telephone receiver so tightly his knuckles turned white.

‘Yes, I am sure.’

‘Thanks, Mr. Brandon,’ and Lepski hung up.

Ken sat for a long moment, staring into space. He was now committed to a dangerous lie. He must warn Betty. Anyway, it was time to telephone her and inquire about her father. He dialled. After a brief delay, Betty came on the line.

‘Betty, darling! How’s your father?’

‘Oh, Ken, he’s really bad, but he’s putting up a wonderful fight. The doctors say he has a fifty-fifty chance.’ Betty sounded distracted. ‘This could take time. I don’t know when I can get back. It’s mother who is so difficult. I was up all night with her.’

They talked for a while. Betty was worried that Ken wasn’t eating properly, but he reassured her, then as he began to edge the conversation towards the golf ball buttons, not knowing what he was going to say, the ground was cut from under his feet.

‘Oh, Ken! I nearly forgot. I had an extraordinary telephone call about a couple of hours ago from the Paradise police. They were asking about those golf ball buttons on your jacket. They said they had talked to you.’

Ken’s heart skipped a beat, then began to race. He opened and shut his mouth, but no words came.

‘They are asking about a duplicate set,’ Betty went on. ‘I told them they were in my button box. What is all this about?’

‘I... I’ll tell you later,’ Ken croaked. ‘Nothing important. I’ve got someone waiting. I’ll call you later. Bye, darling. I think of you,’ and he hung up.

His hand went into his jacket pocket and he fingered the eight buttons. He felt so sick, he was ready to throw up. As he sat, ashen faced, panic gripping him, Karen came in. She paused and stared at him.

‘So now what’s happened?’ she demanded, her voice sharp. ‘You look like the kiss of death.’

Because he had to tell someone, he spilled out the story of the buttons. Karen sat on his desk, swinging her long legs and listened.

‘There is one goddamn button missing!’ Ken concluded, his voice croaking. ‘They could arrest me for murdering this girl! Lepski will want to see the duplicate buttons now Betty has told him!’ He wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. ‘I don’t know what to do! Then this blackmailer will be here tomorrow!’

Karen regarded him, Her eyes contemptuously amused.

‘Never mind him,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow is another day. Leave this to me.’ She slid off the desk. ‘I’ll fix it.’ Then with a snap in her voice, she went on, ‘Get hold of yourself! Don’t lose what guts you have — if any,’ and hip-swishing, she returned to her desk.

Lepski, itching for action, reported to Chief Terrell.

‘Brandon’s lying his head off. How about bringing him in and giving him the works?’

Terrell shook his head.

‘So he’s lying, but that doesn’t mean he killed the girl. We could be opening a can of worms if we force him to admit he was with Karen Sternwood. Max has checked the Salvation Army. Craddock is positive the jacket wasn’t among Gregg’s clothes. I want to find out more about this. Before we do anything about Brandon, I want you to talk to Mrs. Gregg. From what I hear, her butler is a lush. He could have given the jacket to someone. Take it easy with Mrs. Gregg. She draws a lot of water, but make sure you talk to her, and not to her butler.’

Lepski drove to Acacia Drive. When he rang the front door bell, Reynolds, his eyes glazed, opened the door.

‘Police business,’ Lepski said in his cop voice. ‘I want to talk to Mrs. Gregg.’

Listening, out of sight, Amelia braced herself. She walked from the lounge to the lobby.

‘What is it, Reynolds?’ she demanded in her most arrogant tone.

Reynolds turned.

‘A person is here, madam, from the police. He is asking to speak to you.’

‘The police?’ Amelia’s fat face was a stoney mask. ‘Show him in.’

Reynolds stepped aside and motioned Lepski to enter. Lepski moved into the lobby and looked at Amelia. What an old bitch! he thought. Imagine having her as a mother-in-law!

‘Come in!’ Amelia snapped, her voice harsh and she led the way into the lounge. ‘What is it?’

Moving into the lounge, pausing for a moment while Amelia sat down, Lepski said, ‘Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Gregg. We are checking on a jacket with golf ball buttons. It is to do with a murder investigation. Your man told me last night the jacket was sent, with other clothes, to the Salvation Army. I understand Mr. Gregg owned this jacket. Mr. Craddock, who handles all gifts, tells us this jacket was not with your husband’s other clothes. We need to know what has happened to this jacket.’

Amelia glared at him.

‘Of course the jacket was with my late husband’s other clothes!’ She looked at Reynolds. ‘That is right, isn’t it Reynolds?’

Reynolds, who had spent some hours in the boiler room the previous night, burning the bloodstained clothing nodded.

‘I have already told this officer that, madam.’

Amelia glared at Lepski.

‘I know all about Craddock. He is an unscrupulous person! Probably he purloined my husband’s jacket for his own use or for the use of his brood of sons. I resent being bothered with this. Now, leave me!’

‘This is a murder inquiry,’ Lepski said. ‘You are making a serious allegation against Mr. Craddock. Am I to understand that you are saying this jacket was included with Mr. Gregg’s other clothes and Mr. Craddock has stolen it for his own use—’

Reynolds had a mild coughing fit, and Amelia saw the red light. Still glaring at Lepski. she said, ‘All I can tell you is the jacket was given to the Salvation Army. What happened to it is not my affair. The men who made the collection could have stolen it. Anyone could have stolen it. That is your business. All I know is the jacket was given away.’ She drew herself up. ‘If I am bothered further, I will complain to the Mayor who is a good friend of mine.’

Lepski gave her his wolfish smile.

‘Okay, Mrs. Gregg. Thanks for your time,’ and he walked by Reynolds and back to his car.

He reported to Terrell.

‘Get Max to check out the men who collected the clothes,’ Terrell said. ‘You check on Craddock again. We don’t want a run-in with that old bitch.’

Lepski and Jacoby spent the rest of the day, checking.

Jacoby got nowhere with the two collectors. They spent their fives collecting throw-out clothes and they said they couldn’t remember anything about any particular article of clothing.

Lepski got nowhere with Craddock.

‘I assure you,’ Craddock said, ‘this particular jacket was not among the clothes I disposed of.’

Lepski believed him. He reported back to Terrell.

‘Okay, Tom, leave it for the moment,’ Terrell said. ‘Give the boys a hand, checking out these hippies.’

Lu Boone lay on his bed, sipping a cup of instant coffee. He had slept late, having spent half the night on the beach with a slim, coloured girl whose technical sexual expertise had surprised him. Today was Thursday, he told himself. Tomorrow, he would call at the office of the Paradise City Assurance Corporation, Secomb. He had little doubt that he would collect, in cash, ten thousand dollars. Wearing dirty jeans, naked to the waist, he scratched his ribs. What would he do with the money? This problem had been puzzling him. He could, of course, return to college and complete his law training, but that didn’t appeal to him: too much grind and too boring. Anyway, a nine-to-five just wasn’t on.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Scowling, he swung his legs off the bed, finished the coffee and crossed the room to open the door.

He was confronted by a tall, grey haired man who held a microphone in his hand.

‘Hey, Mr. Boone!’ the man said. ‘I’m Pete Hamilton: Paradise T.V. I’ve been talking to Chet Miscolo. He tells me you were around here at the time of the murder of Janie Bandler. You could have seen the killer. Is it not a fact that you were passing the murder scene within minutes of the actual murder?’

Standing in the doorway, the sun falling on him, Lu glared.

‘Piss off!’ he snarled and slammed the door in Hamilton’s face.

Behind Hamilton was a small truck which had brought him to the Hippy camp. With a wry smile, Hamilton returned to the truck and slid under the driving wheel.

‘Did you get that jerk?’ he asked his camera man, concealed in the back of the truck, shooting through a one way window.

‘You betcha,’ the camera man said.

A couple of hours later, Crispin Gregg turned on his T.V. set and listened to Pete Hamilton’s broadcast.

‘The police still have no clues leading to the arrest of this sex maniac,’ Hamilton said. ‘This morning, I learned that a young man, staying at the Paradise Hippy colony was at the murder scene at the time of the murder. His name is Lu Boone. I tried to talk to him.’ From Hamilton’s face on the screen, the picture dissolved to Boone’s cabin. Lu stood in the doorway of the cabin. ‘Mr. Boone was uncooperative.’ Hamilton’s ‘voice went oh. ‘I could, of course, be wrong, but I think this young man knows more than he is prepared to admit, not only to me, but to the police.’

Crispin studied Lu as he stood in the doorway, then his eyes narrowed and his lips moved into a mirthless smile.

He decided he must do something about Lu Boone. He could be a danger, but even if he was not, he would make a very exciting portrait in oils.

Lepski regarded his paper-strewn desk. He reckoned he had another two hours’ work ahead of him. He was hungry. He was getting irritated and frustrated. He would feel better after a good meal and a bath, he decided, and pushed back his chair.

‘I’m going home for a decent meal,’ he told Max Jacoby who was toiling at his desk. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Okay?’

Max shrugged.

‘It has to be, doesn’t it?’

In his usual showoff style, Lepski arrived home with screeching brakes and the smell of burning rubber. He always wanted to impress his neighbours, who at this time, would be tending their gardens. He was pleased to see them gaping at his arrival as he stormed into his house. He flung open the door and bawled for Carroll.

Carroll was preparing an elaborate dinner. She had been given a recipe: an affair of chicken breasts done in tarragon and whisky. To her dismay, she found she had no tarragon, but decided this really wasn’t important. She also found she had given away Lepski’s Cutty Sark whisky. Well, she had mushrooms and a pot of cream. All good cooks improvised, her mother had often told her. So, okay, improvise!

Lepski burst into the kitchen and came to a skidding halt.

‘What’s to eat?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve only got a couple of hours before I get back to work.’

‘You’ll eat,’ Carroll said, more calmly than she felt. Lepski always turned up at the wrong time. ‘Chicken breasts in a mushroom and cream sauce.’

‘Hey! Sounds terrific! Soon?’

‘Ten minutes. Have you found that sex fiend?’

Lepski blew out his cheeks.

‘Not yet.’ He peered at the chicken, sizzling in the pan. ‘Yum! Yum! Looks terrific!’

‘No clues?’ Carroll, who was determined that Lepski was going to be the future Chief of Police, believed all successful police work depended on clues.

‘Here and there,’ Lepski said. ‘Hurry that bird, honey. I’m starving!’

‘I have three very important clues for you,’ Carroll said, as she added the mushrooms to the pan.

Lepski reared back as if he had trodden on a viper.

‘Clues? Don’t tell me you’ve been visiting that whisky sodden old hag again?’

Carroll gave him a cold stare.

‘Mehitabel Bessinger is not a whisky sodden old hag! She is a brilliant, shrewd clairvoyant! Remember she gave you two vital clues to that killer last year, and you were stupid enough to ignore them! Remember?’[1]

Lepski groaned, then dashed into the living room, jerked open the door of the liquor cabinet and found his, bottle of Cutty Sark missing. Muttering, he dragged his tie loose, crumpled it and flung it on the floor.

Carroll appeared in the doorway.

‘There are times, Lepski,’ she said coldly, ‘when I think you have been badly brought up.’

This was such an unexpected attack that Lepski gaped at her.

‘Stop acting like a spoilt child and listen to me,’ Carroll said.

‘My Cutty Sark! It’s gone!’

‘Never mind about that! Anyway, Lepski, you drink too much! Now, listen to me! Mehitabel has solved this sex maniac case. You want to solve it, don’t you? You want to become Chief of Police, don’t you?’

Lepski walked slowly to an armchair and sank into it. He rested his head in his hands.

‘Yeah... yeah. So the old rum-dum has solved the case!’

‘You are not to call Mehitabel an old rum-dum. Now, listen. She looked into her crystal ball and she has given me three clues. She said first you must look for a blood red moon. Second, you must look for a black sky. Third, you must look for an orange beach. Then, and not before, you will find this maniac.’

Lepski lifted his head from his hands and gaped at his wife. ‘A blood red moon? A black sky? An orange beach?’

‘That’s what she said.’

Lepski released a whistle that could have stopped a train.

‘Did she give that out before or after she had emptied my bottle of Cutty Sark?’

‘Lepski! Pay attention! Mehitabel can be relied on! You now have three vital clues,’ Carroll said. ‘It’s up to your intelligence to use them.’

‘Yeah.’ Lepski sank back in his chair. ‘Sure. A blood red moon, huh? A black sky, huh? An orange beach, huh?’ He closed his eyes and made a noise like a bee trapped in a bottle. ‘That old hag certainly dishes it out, doesn’t she? I could do the same for a bottle of Cutty Sark.’ Then he stiffened and sniffed. ‘What’s burning?’

Carroll suppressed a scream and dashed into the kitchen.

Fearing the worst, Lepski moaned to himself. Then Carroll called, ‘Your dinner is ruined! It’s all your fault! You talk too much!’

Heavy footed, Lepski walked into the smoke-laden kitchen and stared at the burned mess in the pan.

‘No chicken in mushroom and cream sauce?’

‘After all the trouble I have taken!’ Carroll began opening a can of beans. ‘When will you learn to stop talking?’

‘Is that what we are going to eat?’ Lepski shouted, eyeing the can of beans. ‘How about that cold beef in the refrigerator? How about that?’

‘That’s for Sunday.’

‘Who the hell cares about Sunday? I’m starving!’

‘Don’t shout at me, Lepski.’ But she took the beef from the refrigerator. ‘Anyway, Lepski, you eat too much.’

‘Yeah. I’ve heard that before. So I eat too much. Who the hell cares?’

‘Remember the three clues I’ve given you,’ Carroll said as she began to cut up the meat. ‘I know they will solve the case.’

‘Sure... sure. Let’s eat for God’s sake!’

The time was 23.00.

Ken sat in a lounging chair, more than drunk. He had returned home after work, and was in such a state of panic, he couldn’t bring himself to cook a dinner. Any moment, he kept telling himself, there would be a ring at the bell, and Lepski would be there to quiz him about the missing button. He had taken a bottle of Scotch from the liquor cabinet, poured himself a big drink and had sat down to wait.

He would have to tell Lepski the whole sordid story. He was sure the story would leak. Then there was Boone. He was sure Boone would post the blackmailing letters. It was all very well for Karen to say she could handle her father, but he was sure Sternwood would get rid of him. Then there was Betty!

He took another drink.

His life had come to a standstill. It was in ruins!

Then he heard the doorbell ring.

Lepski!

He got unsteadily to his feet. The end of his road, he told himself.

He walked from the living room, into the lobby, and bracing himself, he opened the front door.

Karen said, ‘Let me in quick. No one has seen me,’ and she pushed by him as he hastily shut the front door.

He stared at her.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Man! Have you been drinking!’ Karen said, and hip-swished into the living room.

She was wearing a tight-fitting, emerald green frock. Her breasts pointed at him as he stood in the doorway, bewildered and trying to focus.

‘What is it? Why are you here?’

‘Look.’ She held out her hand. In her palm was a golf ball button.

Ken peered.

‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ she said, smiling at him. ‘I told you I would fix it.’

Ken came into the room. The sight of the button, lying on her palm, slightly sobered him.

‘Where did it come from?’

She laughed.

‘No problem. I went to Levine’s shop. They were busy. I cut the button off one of his jackets, then I walked out. They didn’t even notice me. No problem. They’ll think the button fell off. Pleased?’

Ken reached for the button. He suddenly felt ten years younger.

Her fingers closed over the button as she continued to smile at him.

‘Where’s your bedroom, Ken? Let’s celebrate,’ and with a quick movement, she was out of her dress, standing, naked before him. ‘A button for a screw,’ she said. ‘Fair enough?’

Ken looked at her.

Just for a brief moment he reminded himself this was Betty’s home as well as his. The bed was Betty’s as well as his. The Scotch destroyed these reminders. He saw only this beautiful, sensually built body.

Catching hold of her, he guided her along the corridor to the bedroom.