You Must Be Kidding

Six

Claude Kendriek sat back in his massive, antique chair and released a sigh. His breath fluttered the papers on his desk. In a depressed mood, he looked around his reception room which he refused to call his office although all his big deals and sales were transacted there. It was a vast room with an enormous picture window overlooking the sea, sumptuously furnished with some of his most impressive treasures (anyone could buy them if they had enough money) and paintings worth a fortune, hanging on the silk covered walls.

Al Barney,[2] that doyen of the waterfront, had once described Claude Kendriek as follows: ‘Let me give you a picture of Claude Kendriek. He is a tall, massively built queer of around sixty years of age. He wears an ill-fitting orange coloured wig and pale pink lipstick. He is as bald as an egg, and wears this wig just for the hell of it. When he meets a lady client he raises the wig like you would raise your hat... strictly a character. He is fat: soft, massive fat that is no good to anyone. He has a long thick nose and little green eyes and what with all this fat covering his face, he looks like a dolphin, but without a dolphin’s nice expression. Although he looks comic, and often acts comic, he is a top expert in antiques, jewelry and modern art. He runs his gallery on Paradise Avenue, the swank quarter of the City, with the aid of a number of gay boys, and he makes a load of dough.’

Apart from his flourishing gallery, Kendriek was also a fence. He became a fence by force of circumstances. Important collectors came to him, wanting some special art treasure that was not for sale. Their offers were so tempting, Kendriek couldn’t resist. He found a gang of expert art thieves who stole what his clients wanted and he sold to the clients at a huge profit, and his clients keep the treasures in their secret museums.

On this bright, sunny morning, Kendriek was gloomily reviewing his half-year’s balance sheet. He was not satisfied. The trouble with his ultra-rich clients was that, from time to time, they died. The new generation seemed impervious to his beautiful paintings and antiques. All they seemed interested in were sexy women, drugs, drink and expensive cars.

He had been looking at his long list of rich art collectors, ticking off those alive and those now dead. He had come upon the name of Cyrus Gregg. Now, there had been an excellent client! Kendriek again sighed. He remembered how he had unloaded a doubtful Picasso, a still more doubtful Chagall and many other costly, apparent treasures on Gregg. Since the good man had died so suddenly, the Gregg account had ceased to exist.

While he was ruminating sadly of life and death, his door opened and Louis de Marney, his head salesman, fluttered in.

Louis was pencil thin and could have been any age from twenty five to forty. His long thick hair was the colour of sable. His lean face, narrow eyes and almost lipless mouth gave him the appearance of a suspicious rat.

‘Darling! Guess who?’ he whispered, fluttering to Kendriek’s desk. ‘Crispin Gregg! He’s buying oil paints! Jo-Jo is taking care of him, but I just knew you would want to know!’

Kendriek heaved himself out of his chair, took off his wig and thrust it at Louis.

‘Comb it!’

‘Of course, pet.’ Louis produced a comb from his pocket, ran its fine teeth through the hair of the wig and handed the wig back to Kendriek with a flourish.

Moving to a Venetian mirror — worth thousands of dollars — Kendriek put on the wig, adjusted it, regarded his enormous bulk, straightened his immaculate cream coloured jacket, then nodded to his reflection.

‘This is destiny,’ he said. ‘At this very moment, I was thinking of his dead father.’

He walked into the vast gallery. In the artists’ material department, he found Jo-Jo, a young blond, laying tubes of oil paints, as if they were jewels, on a pad of black velvet before a tall, thin man whose back was to Kendriek.

Moving like a Spanish galleon in full sail, Kendriek approached.

‘Mr. Gregg!’

The tall, thin man turned.

Kendriek found himself confronted by a man with ash blond hair, cut close. His face was pale: the face of a man who avoided the sun. His features were symmetrical: a long, thin nose, a wide forehead, a full-lipped mouth. All this Kendriek took in at a glance, but the man’s eyes not only held him, but startled him: eyes like cloudy opals and as expressionless.

‘I am Claude Kendriek,’ Kendriek said, his voice as smooth as oil. ‘I had the great pleasure of serving your late lamented father. It is an honour and a pleasure to meet you.’

Crispin Gregg nodded. There was no smile, no offer to shake hands: just cold, bored indifference, but this didn’t dismay Kendriek. He had so often dealt with rich clients who treated him like a lackey, but eventually spent money with him.

‘I was just getting some oil paints,’ Crispin said.

‘I do hope we have everything you need, Mr. Gregg.’

‘Oh yes.’ Crispin turned to Jo-Jo. ‘Wrap them. I’ll take them.’

‘Our pleasure, sir,’ Jo-Jo said, bowing. He picked up the dozen or so tubes of paint and went to the end of the counter to pack them.

‘Mr. Gregg,’ Kendriek said, oozing charm, ‘I know that you are an artist. May I say that it has grieved me that after being on such excellent terms with your father, you haven’t been here before.’

‘I am not interested in the works of other artists,’ Crispin said curtly. ‘I am only interested in my own work.’

‘Of course... of course,’ Kendriek smiled, now looking like a dolphin expecting a fish. ‘A true artist speaking.’ He paused, then went on. ‘Mr. Gregg, I would love to see some of your work. Quite recently, I was talking to Herman Lowenstein — a great art critic. He confided to me that your mother once consulted him about your work, and he was privileged to see some of it. Mr. Gregg! There are very few art critics who know their jobs. Most of them are fakes, but Lowenstein is a true judge.’ This was a glib lie as Kendriek regarded Lowenstein as the phoniest of all the local art critics. ‘He told me your work is outstanding.’ Again a glib lie as Lowenstein had said Crispin’s work was not only unhealthy, but utterly uncommercial. ‘He said the vigor, the imagination, the flow of creative ideas were quite remarkable! The splendid way you use colour! Your technique! When such a great critic talks like this to me, I long to promote your work Mr. Gregg! I can boast of running the finest art gallery on the coast! May I arrange an exhibition of your art? What a privilege! Please, don’t deny me!’

Well, Kendriek thought, if this doesn’t land this cold fish, nothing else will.

‘My work is special,’ Crispin said, but he felt a tingle of excitement. He knew his mother had shown some of his landscapes to Lowenstein, but this was the first time he had heard his work had made such an impression. He suddenly felt an urge to be recognized as an artist of stature. He had many paintings, apart from his secret horror paintings. Why not? But suppose no one was interested? His work was indeed special.

Seeing him hesitating, Kendriek said, oil dripping from his voice, ‘You are modest, Mr. Gregg. Lowenstein can’t be mistaken. Do, please, let me arrange an exhibition. Just imagine if our great modern artists had been shy. What a loss to the world!’

Still hesitating, Crispin said, ‘I don’t think the world is ready for my work. It is too advanced. Maybe later... I’ll think about it.’

The fish is nearly hooked, Kendriek thought. He switched on his understanding smile as he said, ‘How well do I understand your feelings, Mr. Gregg, but give me the privilege to judge. Let me have just one painting. Let me put it in my window. I promise you I will be utterly sincere. If there is no interest — quite unthinkable! — but if there isn’t I will tell you. Give me this opportunity to promote a new and vigorous artist. Let me have just one painting.’

Crispin moved away while he thought. He knew his work was outstanding, but he couldn’t bear the thought that these rich fools, living in Paradise City, wouldn’t appreciate it, but yet...

He made up his mind.

‘Very well, send someone to my villa and I will give him one of my landscapes. Put it in your window, but it must be understood that the painting will be unsigned. No one is to know that I have painted it. I want the reaction of the art collectors. If they show no interest, then return the painting. If they are interested, then I will let you have more for an exhibition.’

‘Perfect, Mr. Gregg. I can’t tell you how excited I am!’

Crispin stared at Kendriek as he said, ‘No one is to know who has painted this picture. It is to be the work of an unknown artist. Do you understand?’ There was something in the opal coloured eyes that sent a little chill through Kendriek’s fat body.

‘It is utterly understood, Mr. Gregg. You can rely on me. My man will call on you this afternoon if that would be convenient.’

Jo-Jo came forward, and with a flourish, presented Crispin with the box of paints.

‘I’ll have something ready for him,’ Crispin said, taking the box. ‘Bill me.’ Then nodding, he started down the long wide aisle that led to the gallery’s exit. On either side were glass cases, artistically lit, displaying some of Kendriek’s many treasures.

Crispin suddenly paused before a small showcase and looked at an object, lying on white velvet.

Kendriek was on his heels.

‘Ah, Mr. Gregg!’ he exclaimed, his little eyes lighting up. ‘A true artist! This unique ornament makes you pause.’

Crispin was regarding the object. He had no idea why it should have attracted his attention. Some odd instinct had made him stop.

The object was some four inches long: an elegant slim block of silver, finely engraved, and with tiny rubies and emeralds made in the shape of a dagger. The object was attached to a long silver chain of filigree work.

‘What is it?’ Crispin asked.

‘A pendant, Mr. Gregg: so fashionable these days, but much more than that. I must show you.’ Kendriek lifted the glass cover. Jo-Jo came forward and took the cover from Kendriek. ‘This is an exact replica of a pendant worn by Suleiman the Great. Suleiman went in fear of his life. This, Mr. Gregg, was his hidden protection. It is without doubt the first switch blade knife to have been invented.’

Crispin’s eyes narrowed.

‘A switch blade knife?’

Kendriek picked the pendant from its velvet bed and laid it on his fat palm.

‘Suleiman wore the original in 1540. It is reputed to have saved his life from an assassin’s attack. Let Jo-Jo demonstrate. It is quite, quite fascinating.’ Jo-Jo came forward and Kendriek draped the silver chain around his neck and allowed the pendant to swing down, lying on Jo-Jo’s narrow chest. ‘You see? A delightful, artistic pendant, but something very different. Jo-Jo!’

Jo-Jo pressed the top ruby on the hilt of the dagger, and from the slab of silver, a thin, narrow-bladed knife sprang out.

‘The first switch blade knife! It is utterly deadly and sharper than a razor. It is quite unique, Mr. Gregg.’

Crispin stared at the glittering four-inch blade. He felt a surge of sexual excitement run through him. This was something he had to possess!

‘What are you asking for it?’ he demanded.

This was so unexpected that Kendriek, for a split second, hesitated.

‘It is quite unique, Mr. Gregg. Actually, it is a museum piece. I—’

‘What do you want for it?’ Crispin snapped.

‘I am asking fifty thousand dollars. There is no other like it in the world, but for you, if you would like it, shall we say forty thousand?’

‘Give it to me!’ Crispin said to Jo-Jo who pressed the emerald at the point of the dagger and the blade snapped back. Jo-Jo hurriedly removed the chain from his neck and handed the pendant to Crispin who snatched it from him. Crispin put the chain around his neck and let the pendant drop on his chest, then he moved to a mirror and surveyed himself.

Kendriek watched. Could this be a sale? Admittedly the original pendant had been worn by Suleiman the Great. Kendriek had seen coloured drawings of it, and in an inspired moment, he had got his best silversmith to copy it. The copy had cost three thousand dollars. The rubies and emeralds were clever fakes.

Crispin pressed the ruby and the blade sprang out.

‘Pray be careful, Mr. Gregg,’ Kendriek said, his voice anxious. ‘The blade is incredibly sharp.’

Crispin lifted the pendant, letting the sunlight, coming through the big window, play on the blade. Again he felt a sexual urge run through him. Then nodding to himself, he pressed the emerald button and the blade snapped out of sight.

He turned and stared at Kendriek. There was a strange expression on his face that Kendriek couldn’t define, but which made him uneasy.

‘I’ll take it at forty thousand,’ Crispin said. ‘Bill me,’ and he walked down the aisle and out onto the street, the pendant bouncing gently on his chest.

Louis, watching discreetly, came forward.

‘That was truly marvellous!’ he gushed. ‘You are the most marvellous salesman!’

‘There’s something about that man...’ Kendriek began, then shrugged. He had made a thirty seven thousand dollar profit, so why should he worry about Crispin Gregg? ‘This afternoon, Louis, go to Mr. Gregg’s place and collect one of his paintings. We will exhibit it. Although I have little confidence in Lowenstein’s opinions, we have to bear in mind that he considers Mr. Gregg’s work of no commercial value. Let us see for ourselves. At least, Mr. Gregg has become a client.’

Then still not able to shake off his uneasiness from that strange, almost frightening expression he had seen on Crispin’s face, he walked heavily back to his reception room.

After one hundred and seventy seven telephone calls and eighteen visits to the squad room, the citizens of Paradise City abruptly lost interest in the golf ball jacket, but they had supplied information that had to be written down and collated.

On this sunny morning at 08.00, Lepski, Jacoby and Dusty Lucas toiled at their desks.

Lepski had returned home the previous night after 01.00. He had found his living room in a shambles. His bottle of Cutty Sark stood empty on the table. There were used glasses, overflowing ashtrays and it would seem, from the debris, Carroll had provided her guests with snacks.

He had gone up to bed to find Carroll asleep. From the soft whistling noise coming from her, he judged she was in an alcoholic stupor. Depressed by the T.V. fiasco, he had flopped into bed by her side, and finally slept. She was still sleeping when he dragged himself from the bed, showered, dressed and drove down to headquarters by 07.30.

Jacoby and Dusty joined him, and they set about reading the mass of reports the T.V. inquiry about the golf ball jacket had produced.

Finally, around 10.00, they had completed their reading and the information added up to nil, They had accurate descriptions of Ken Brandon, Harry Bentley and Sam Macree: all men seen wearing the jacket by conscientious citizens, but there was no information about the fourth jacket, once owned by the late Cyrus Gregg, and that was the information they so badly wanted.

Lepski pushed back his chair and released a snort of disgust that made both Jacoby and Dusty pause in their work.

‘Not a goddamn thing!’ Lepski exploded. ‘You two got anything?’

They shook their head.

‘Okay. Dusty, go talk to those two S.A. collectors. Put pressure on them. One or the other could be lying.’

Lucas, an eager beaver, nodded and took himself off.

Lepski leaned back in his chair. There was a nagging thought at the back of his mind that had nothing to do with police work. Next month would bring Carroll’s birthday, and he couldn’t remember the exact date. This fact had been bothering him for days. He wanted to buy her a present. He wanted to give her the present on the right day. He knew he would be in the doghouse for weeks if he didn’t come up, not only with the right date, but also, with the right present. This was something he had to avoid.

Vaguely, he remembered last year, he had taken Carroll to an expensive restaurant. Maybe the Maître d’ could give him the date. Then he realized he couldn’t remember the name of the restaurant. He thumped his fist on his desk with exasperation.

‘Got something on your mind, Tom?’ Jacoby asked, recognizing the signs.

‘Yeah. God help me, I’m trying to remember the date of Carroll’s birthday.’

‘The day after tomorrow,’ Jacoby said without hesitation.

Lepski half started from his chair, his eyes bulging.

‘You must be kidding! It’s next month!’

‘The day after tomorrow: the tenth,’ Jacoby said. ‘I keep a birthday book.’

‘A... what?’

‘We Jewish people are sentimental,’ Jacoby said, smiling. ‘I know we are known to be mean, but we are sentimental. My father kept a birthday book. He liked to send friends a card or a present. I keep a birthday book. Carroll is a friend. I’ve already bought her a bottle of perfume. It will be delivered the day after tomorrow.’

Lepski sucked in his breath.

‘You really mean it’s on the tenth?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Holy God!’ Lepski’s hands turned clammy. ‘I could have sworn it was next month! Perfume, huh? You’re sending her perfume?’

‘Well, I thought a wonderful girl like Carroll would like some perfume.’

‘Yeah... yeah.’ Lepski loosened his tie. ‘What the hell can I give her?’

Jacoby, who wasn’t married, but had a string of girlfriends, hid a grin.

‘Just look around, Tom. Girls like presents.’

‘Yeah.’ Lepski stared into space. ‘But what the hell what?’

‘A handbag. A dress. Jewels. Depends on how much you want to spend.’

‘It’s not how much I want to spend: it’s how much I can afford to spend,’ Lepski said. ‘A handbag, huh? That’s an idea. Yeah. I’ll give her a handbag.’

A voice said, ‘If you two will stop yakking, can I have some attention?’ A female voice, soft, sensual: a creamy voice.

Both detectives swung around and stared.

Standing at the barrier that divided the Detectives’ room from the visitors was a coloured girl, and what a girl!

Both Lepski and Jacoby pointed like gun dogs, then Lepski came fast to the barrier.

The girl was the colour of coffee, gently diluted with cream. She was tall and willowy. She wore close fitting white cotton slacks and a close fitting blood red jersey top. What this outfit did to her made Lepski breath heavily through his nose. He hadn’t seen a more perfect woman’s body! Big, half pineapple shaped breasts, a tiny waist, a voluptuous sweep of hips, long legs. Her features were sensual: a short, thin nose with slightly flared nostrils, big black eyes that glittered with life, and full lips that suggested untold promises. Some girl!

‘Yes, miss?’ Lepski said, looking into the black eyes and feeling his blood move down to where it shouldn’t have moved down — being a married man.

‘I’ve come about this jacket I saw on the telly last night,’ the girl said. Her voice reminded Lepski of Mae West’s in an old movie he had seen, murmuring ‘Come up and see me sometime.’

He opened the gate of the barrier.

‘Come on in,’ he said, aware that Jacoby was leaning over his desk, staring. ‘Have a seat.’

She moved by him. Her body flowed. Her breasts did a tiny jig. Following her, Lepski watched the movement of her hips. She sat in a chair opposite Lepski’s desk, opened her handbag and took from it a pack of Camels. Lepski searched through his pockets for a match, but she had already lit the cigarette with a solid gold lighter before he had found his matchbook.

He sat down and restrained a leer. He knew instinctively that this girl knew all the answers, and a detective, although first grade, was small fry to her, but that didn’t stop him from eyeing those beautiful breasts, scarcely concealed by the jersey top.

‘May I have your name, miss?’ he asked and drew a scratch pad towards him.

‘Doroles Hernandez. I live in apartment 165 Castle Avenue. My mother got screwed by a Spanish creep who ran a factory, and I was the product. I kept his name.’ She gave Lepski a brilliant smile, revealing perfect white teeth. ‘Just the background, Mr. Detective. Do you want more?’

Lepski whistled through his nose. He knew all about Castle Avenue: that was where the expensive hookers lived. So she was a hooker! Boy! He thought, if I wasn’t married and five years younger, I’d be up there at apartment 165 Castle Avenue, like a lizard after a fly!

‘You have information, Miss Hernandez,’ he asked in a carefully controlled voice.

‘Maybe... maybe not. I had a stand-up last night. The guy was sick or something,’ Doroles said, ‘so I put on the telly. I don’t usually look at the telly. It’s a drag, you know?’

‘Yeah. So you looked at the telly and saw the jacket... right?’ Lepski said, trying to keep his mind off those provocative breasts and on the work in hand.

‘That’s it.’ She gave him a sexy smile that almost destroyed his better feelings. ‘There I was all alone, with a gin martini for company...’ She paused and regarded him with her big, black eyes. ‘I bet you prefer Scotch, Mr. Detective.’

Lepski, who was now wondering just how marvellous she would look without clothes, started.

‘Yeah. So there you were alone and you saw the jacket?’

‘Yes. As soon as I saw it, I remembered.’ She turned her head and caught Jacoby leaning across his desk, breathing heavily, as he gaped at her. ‘Is he a detective?’ she asked. ‘He looks cute.’

‘His mother thought so,’ Lepski growled. ‘Let’s work on this, Miss Hernandez. You saw the jacket and you remembered. What did you remember?’

‘Call me Doroles.’ This in the Mae West voice.

Lepski was thankful the desk hid what was now happening to his lower section.

‘Yeah. Well, Doroles... what did you remember?’

‘I remembered seeing the jacket. I thought it was pretty sharp, you know? A real eye catcher.’

‘When did you see the jacket?’

‘When?’ She moved in the chair and her breasts did a little dance which was appreciated both by Lepski and Jacoby. ‘It was on the fifth.’

Lepski stiffened to attention. On the evening of the fifth, Janie Bandler had been murdered.

‘Are you sure about the date, Doroles? This is important.’

‘I’m sure. I’ll tell you for why. It’s Jamie’s birthday. Jamie is my dog. I took him to the Blue Sky restaurant. The Maître d’ loves Jamie. Do you like dogs, Mr. Detective?’

Lepski suppressed a growling noise. He hated dogs.

‘So you took your dog out. What time was this?’

‘Lunch time. I’m crazy about Jamie. He’s my best friend, you know? When I come home tired, he’s there waiting for me. He jumps all over me. He’s really sweet.’

Lepski snapped the pencil he was holding.

‘You were walking your dog? So what happened?’

She made a little grimace.

‘Well, this guy came up to me. Guys are always coming up to me, you know?’

Lepski could imagine. If he hadn’t been married, he would have gone up to her.

‘And this guy was wearing the golf ball jacket?’

She stubbed out her cigarette, and immediately lit another.

‘I can’t stop,’ she said, and her sensual lips parted in a smile. ‘I guess I’m nervous or something. Do you think all this crap about cigarettes being dangerous is right?’

‘Maybe. You were saying this guy came up to you,’ Lepski said. If it had been anyone but this gorgeous sex symbol, he would have been shouting by now. As it was, his face turned a dark hue.

‘A cheapie.’

‘Was he wearing the jacket?’ Lepski hissed.

Her big eyes opened wide.

‘Why, no. He was wearing a sharkskin brown... strictly for the birds.’

Lepski snapped another pencil.

‘We’re talking about this godda... we’re talking about this golf ball jacket.’

She gave him another smile that went right down to his heels.

‘You can swear if you want to Mr. Detective. I don’t mind. Lots of my men friends swear. Men do, you know?’

Lepski dug his fingers into the surface of his desk.

‘So what about the jacket?’

‘Well, this cheapie was chatting me up. He was offering fifty. Can you imagine?’ She leaned back and laughed. She had a nice, sexy laugh, but by now, Lepski was fast losing patience. ‘Jamie wanted to visit a tree, then this jacket went by. As soon as I saw it, I thought it was real sharp. I like to see men well dressed. A man who cares about how he looks is the kind of man I like.’

‘Yeah. So you saw the jacket pass... who was wearing it?’

‘A tall, doll of a man, you know?’

Lepski reached for his scratch pad.

‘Tell me about him, Doroles. Give me a description.’

She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another.

‘I didn’t see his face, Mr. Detective. What with this cheapie and Jamie wanting to get to a tree, you know?’

Lepski refrained from crumpling up the pad and throwing it across the room.

‘Let’s take this step by step,’ he said in a low, strangulated voice. ‘A man walked by, and you saw he was wearing the golf ball jacket... right?’

‘That’s absolutely correct.’

‘This was around lunchtime of the fifth?’

She nodded.

‘You didn’t see this man’s face, but you saw something of him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. This is important, Doroles. Was he tall, medium, short?’

‘He was tall. I like tall men. Short men, to me, are a drag, you know?’

‘So he was tall.’ Lepski stood up. ‘As tall as I am?’

She surveyed him as a butcher surveys a prime side of beef.

‘Even taller: not much, but taller.’

Lepski sat down again.

‘Was he heavily built, thin, normal, fat?’

‘He had wide shoulders. I noticed that. I like men with wide shoulders, tapering away to slim hips. He had that.’

‘Did he wear a hat?’

‘No. I liked the look of his hair: fair, you know? Really fair: call it corn and cut close. I get bored with guys with long hair.’

‘Doroles, you saw a man with corn coloured hair, tall, broad shouldered and around six foot tall... right?’

‘Absolutely correct, Mr. Detective.’

‘What else did you notice about him?’

‘He was wearing light blue slacks. They went well with the jacket, you know? And he wore Gucci shoes. I notice shoes, and I think Gucci’s shoes are a real ball.’ She again shifted, and her breasts again did a little jig.

Lepski released a soft sigh. It wasn’t fair for any detective to talk to her, he thought.

‘How did he walk?’

‘Well, he walked, you know? Like a man who knows where he is going... big strides.’

‘He didn’t limp?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Doroles, this is important. This is the first lead we have to the man who killed Janie Bandler and Lu Boone. You’ve read about that, huh?’

‘That’s why I’m here. I always listen to Pete Hamilton when I’m not busy. He’s a doll.’

Lepski had other names to describe Hamilton, but this wasn’t the time.

‘We want as much information about this man you saw as you can give us. What else did you notice about him?’

She thought as she stubbed out her cigarette. She thought as she lit another.

‘His hands!’ She surveyed Lepski, giving him her sexy smile. ‘Hands mean a lot to me, Mr. Detective, you know? I have men friends, you know? Their hands... well, you know?’

Lepski nodded. He could well imagine a man’s hands were important to a high price hooker.

‘So, I noticed his hands as he passed. They were artistic: long fingers, the hands of an artist: a painter, you know?’

‘He could have been a surgeon, something like that, couldn’t he?’

‘Maybe. He had artistic hands.’

‘From your description, it sounds to me as if he is in the money.’

Doroles wrinkled her pretty nose.

‘He could be one of these cheapies who live on expenses, you know? No money, big deal, but charging everything on credit cards for whoever he works for to pick up. There was a cheapie who actually wanted to pay me by credit card... can you imagine?’

‘Yeah. Well, let’s see if we can get something more.’

‘I’d like you to hurry it, Mr. Detective. I guess by now, Jamie wants to visit a tree.’

But after asking more questions, Lepski decided she had nothing else of importance to tell him.

‘Well, that’s fine, Doroles. You’ve been a great help. If you saw the back of this guy, would you recognize him?’

‘Sure, I would.’

‘Even if he wasn’t wearing the jacket?’

Doroles nodded, then got to her feet. Her whole body gave a little dance. Jacoby who hadn’t taken his eyes off her, caught his breath in a despairing sigh.

‘One thing,’ Lepski said as he stood up, ‘say nothing to anyone about what you have told me. This is important. Up to now, you’re the only one out of hundreds who has given us constructive information. This man is dangerous. If it got around you could recognize him... you dig?’

Her big black eyes widened.

‘You think he would come after me?’

‘He could.’

‘You think he would cut me up like that poor girl?’

‘He could.’

‘I hope you get him fast, Mr. Detective. I won’t feel safe until you do.’

‘Just say nothing.’

‘Do you think I should have a bodyguard?’

Jacoby half started out of his chair, then meeting Lepski’s scowl, he sat down again.

‘If the Chief thinks you should have a bodyguard, I’ll fix it,’ Lepski said.

‘ ’Bye for now.’ She flashed him a smile, flashed another to Jacoby, then flowed out of the room.

Jacoby wiped his hands on his handkerchief.

‘What did she say her address was?’

‘A minimum of two hundred dollars,’ Lepski said. ‘Be your age, Max. Since when has a third grade cop have two hundred bucks to spend on a hooker?’ He gathered up his notes and went into Terrell’s office.

Reynolds switched off the Pete Hamilton’s ten o’clock programme and looked hesitantly at Amelia who sat in a fat heap in her chair. They had listened to the details of Lu Boone’s killing. Hamilton, who liked to shock, had spared no details. He described the severed head and the horrifying mutilations of the body.

‘There can be no doubt that this homicidal maniac is still in the city,’ he concluded. ‘Be on your guard. No one is safe until he is apprehended. You might well ask what the police are doing!’

‘I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it!’ Amelia exclaimed wildly. ‘Crispin wouldn’t...’

‘I think a little brandy, madam,’ Reynolds said.

‘Yes...’

As he moved unsteadily to the liquor cabinet, through the window, he saw Crispin walk briskly to the Rolls. Crispin was on his way to the Kendriek Gallery.

‘He is leaving, madam,’ Reynolds said as he watched the Rolls drive away.

‘Go to his studio!’ Amelia said. ‘Look!’

But first, Reynolds went to his room, poured himself a treble Scotch, swallowed it, then paused until the spirit steadied him. Then finding the length of wire to pick the lock on Crispin’s apartment door, he slowly climbed the stairs.

Amelia sat and waited. She was sure that Crispin had committed another gruesome murder. She could be wrong, she told herself desperately. This time there were no blood stained clothes to get rid of. She laid a fat hand against her floppy bosom, feeling her heart thumping. He must have done it! She closed her eyes. The disgrace! Her life would come to an end! Who would want to entertain the mother of such a monster? This evening, she had been invited to join a party at the Spanish Bay hotel restaurant in honour of the French ambassador. This was her life! But who would ever invite her again to such dinners if it became known that her son was a homicidal lunatic?

She heard a sound and looked towards the door. Reynolds stood there, his face as white as cold mutton fat, sweat on his forehead. They looked at each other, then he nodded.

‘What?’ Amelia exclaimed, leaning forward. ‘Don’t nod at me! What?’

‘He is painting the head of a man, madam,’ Reynolds said, his voice a half whisper. ‘A severed head in blood.’

Although she had been sure, what Reynolds had said was like a blow in her face. She sank back, closing her eyes.

‘Brandy, Reynolds!’

He went slowly to the liquor cabinet and picked up a glass. As he reached for the cognac, the glass slipped from his shaking hand and dropped onto the carpet.

‘Reynolds!’ Amelia screamed.

‘Yes, madam.’

He found another glass, slopped spirit into it, then brought it to her. She seized the glass and drank.

‘Madam...’

‘Don’t talk to me. Understand, Reynolds? We know nothing! Go about your work!’

‘He could continue, madam.’

‘Who are these people? Who cares?’ Amelia’s voice was shrill. ‘A whore! A hippy! Who cares?’

‘But, madam...’

‘We know nothing!’ Amelia screamed at him. ‘Do you want to lose your job? Do you imagine I want to be thrown out of my home? It is not our business! We know nothing!’

Reynolds saw the terrifying vision of himself out of work with no more unlimited supply of Scotch. He hesitated, then felt impelled to issue a warning.

‘Madam, he is very dangerous. He just might attack you.’ He refrained from adding that Crispin might also attack him.

‘Attack me? I am his mother! Stop drivelling, and go about your work! We know nothing!’

Terrell sat at his desk. Hess, Beigler and Lepski occupied chairs. All men were sipping coffee which Charlie Tanner had brought in.

‘We are getting nearer to this mad man,’ Terrell said. ‘This is our first important break: the fourth jacket. The other three owners don’t match up with this description.’ He looked at Lepski. ‘This girl satisfied you she knew what she was talking about?’

‘Yeah,’ Lepski said. ‘She knew.’

‘So this must be the jacket Mrs. Gregg gave away to the Salvation Army. This is the jacket we want to trace.’ Terrell paused to light his pipe. ‘But according to the description of this man, he wasn’t on the end of a handout from the S.A. A man who can afford Gucci shoes could afford to buy his own jacket... right?’

‘We have a load of phonies living here,’ Hess said. ‘Guys who haven’t a dime. Gigolos, stags, con men: you name them, we have them, all battening on the rich, trying for the fast buck, and these guys have to keep up an appearance. Could be this guy spotted the jacket on the S.A. truck and either stole it or offered a five spot for it. Maybe he got his Gucci shoes either by stealing them or from a clothes dealer at a knock down price.’

Terrell nodded.

‘Could be. So okay, let’s check the clothes dealers. Tom, you get it organized. We want to know if any dealer has sold a pair of Gucci shoes and to whom.’

At this moment Dusty Lucas came in.

‘Chief, I think I’ve got something,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’ve been checking on those two S.A. collectors. I’ve got the truck driver here — Joe Heinie. His father is Syd Heinie who runs a used clothes store in Secomb. I went to this guy’s home and caught him unloading a bundle of clothes off the S.A. truck. He’s admitted he passes some of the clothes they collect to his father to sell.’

Hess got to his feet.

‘I’ll handle him, Chief.’

Joe Heinie was sitting on a bench the other side of the barrier with a patrolman standing over him. He was around twenty-eight, tall, thin with a mop of dirty black hair and a sullen expression on his badly shaven face.

Hess and Lepski sat him down in front of a desk, then with Lepski hovering near him, Hess sat down, facing him.

‘You could be in trouble, Joe,’ Hess said.

Heinie looked up and sneered.

‘Trouble? You’re crazy! What trouble? These goddamn clothes are given away... right?’

‘They are given to the Salvation Army. You have no right to take them for yourself,’ Hess snapped.

‘Yeah? What does the S.A. do with them? They give them away. So what’s wrong in giving a few to my father? What’s the difference?’

‘How long have you been doing this?’

‘Six months... I don’t remember. Who cares?’

‘You’ll care, Joe. You have been stealing clothes from the Salvation Army. Could get you three months.’

Heinie sneered again.

‘Yeah? You can’t pin a charge on me. I know my rights. Some fink gives me clothes. He gives them to me... right? Okay, so I pick out a few items and give them to my father... right? Then I give the rest to the S.A.’ He leaned forward and jabbing his finger in Hess’s direction, he went on, ‘The clothes are not the S.A.’s property until I deliver them... right?’

‘The clothes are the property of the S.A. the moment you put them in the S.A.’s truck,’ Hess said, looking smug.

Heinie’s sneer deepened.

‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘but the goddam truck is mine! I help the S.A. voluntarily. I pay for the gas and the insurance. So, I’m entitled to give my old man some clothes to pay my expenses... right?’

Hess breathed heavily.

‘Never mind,’ he said, realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Heinie. ‘We are interested in this blue jacket with golf ball buttons. Did you give such a jacket to your father?’

‘How should I know?’ Heinie demanded. ‘I don’t examine everything I give my old man. I give him a bundle, and he picks what he can sell, then gives the rest back to me, and I give them to the S.A.’

Hess looked at Lepski.

‘Check with his father,’ he said.

As Lepski left, he heard Heinie say, ‘So I’m not in trouble, huh? I can’t afford the time to sit around chewing the fat with you...’

‘A real smart ass,’ Lepski thought as he hurried to his car. He drove fast to Secomb.

Syd Heinie was tall like his son, with hard little eyes and a rattrap of a mouth. His store was crammed with discarded clothing. When Lepski strode in, Heinie was measuring a fat black for a pair of trousers.

Lepski moved restlessly around until the purchase was made, then Heinie came to him. He surveyed Lepski, and instinctively knew he was a cop. He smiled, but his eyes hardened.

Lepski flashed his shield, and in his cop voice, said, ‘We are looking for a blue jacket with white golf ball buttons. Have you had such a jacket through your hands?’

Heinie put the stub of a pencil in his right ear, twisted it, removed it and flicked off a piece of wax.

‘I can’t say I have,’ he said. ‘With white golf ball buttons?’

Lepski restrained his impatience with an effort.

‘Yeah.’

Heinie dug the pencil stub into his left ear, twisted it, removed it and flicked more wax.

‘Golf ball buttons, huh? Let me think.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Unusual kind of jacket, huh?’

Lepski made a soft growling noise.

‘Well, now I think of it, I did have a jacket with golf ball buttons.’

Lepski stiffened to attention. At last, a break!

‘You said blue, didn’t you?’ Heinie asked.

‘Yeah.’

Heinie shook his head.

‘This jacket was brown. I remember it. Must have been two years, maybe three years ago. Sort of jacket that sticks in the mind, huh?’

‘This jacket is blue!’ Lepski snarled.

Heinie thought some more.

‘No... I haven’t seen it.’

‘Look, Mr. Heinie, this is important,’ Lepski rasped. ‘This is to do with a murder investigation.’

‘Sure... sure.’ Heinie nodded. ‘No, I haven’t seen a blue jacket with golf ball buttons. A brown one... sure, back two, three years ago, but no blue one.’

‘Maybe one of your staff...’

‘I don’t have a staff,’ Heinie said. ‘Who wants staff these days?’

Police work! Lepski thought in disgust. ‘Gucci shoes?’

‘Huh?’

‘Have you sold a pair of Gucci shoes to anyone anytime?’

‘You mean those Italian shoes?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t ever get them. You want a fine pair of shoes? I can show you...’

‘Forget it!’ Lepski snarled. ‘And watch it, Heinie! Your son could get into trouble giving you clothes intended for the Salvation Army.’

‘Not Joe... he’s too smart to get into trouble,’ Heinie said, and grinned.

Lepski stamped out of the store and made his way to his car. Then the thought struck him he had to buy a handbag for Carroll. He paused by his car. Where the hell was he going to buy a goddam handbag on Saturday afternoon? If there was one thing Lepski loathed it was shopping.

‘Hi, Mr. Lepski!’

Turning, Lepski found Karen Sternwood at his side. His eyes ran over her: some doll, he thought.

‘Hi, there Miss Sternwood. How are you doing?’

She pouted.

‘I am just grabbing a hamburger. Imagine! My boss has gone off for the weekend and left me a raft of work. I’ll be working all afternoon. Saturday! Imagine!’

‘Mr. Brandon away?’

‘His father-in-law’s sick. He won’t be back until Monday. How’s the murder investigation going?’

‘We’re working at it.’ Lepski had a sudden idea. ‘Miss Sternwood, you could help me if you would have the time.’

Her eyelashes fluttered. Sweet Pete! Lepski thought, if this babe hasn’t hot pants then I’m a monkey’s uncle.

‘For you, I have time,’ she said.

Lepski eased his shirt collar.

‘I have to buy my wife a handbag for her birthday. How do I go about it?’

‘That’s no problem. What kind of handbag?’

‘I wouldn’t know. Something fancy, I guess. My wife is pretty choosey.’

Karen laughed.

‘Most women are. The point is how much do you want to spend? Five hundred dollars? Something like that?’

‘Well, not that high. I thought around a hundred.’

‘You can’t do better than try Lucille’s boutique on Paradise Avenue,’ Karen said. ‘You can rely on her.’ She smiled, fluttered her eye lashes, thrust her breasts at him as she went on, ‘I’ve got to get this hamburger. See you,’ and she walked away, swashing her hips while Lepski stared after her.

Getting in his car, he drove fast to Paradise Avenue. The luxury shops kept open on Saturday afternoon, and the sidewalks were crowded with people, shop window gazing. Parking his car, Lepski set off down the long avenue, looking for Lucille’s boutique. He had got halfway down the avenue, cursing to himself, when he passed Kendriek’s gallery. It was only because he was looking desperately at every passing shop window that he saw Crispin’s landscape in Kendriek’s window.

He came to an abrupt halt as he stared at the painting, then he felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

A red blood moon!

A black sky!

An orange beach!

He stepped up to the window and again stared at the painting.

‘Holy Pete!’ he thought. ‘That old rum-dum’s prophecy!’

He remembered she had been right when he had been hunting that killer last year. She had said he was to look for oranges, and the killer had been selling oranges!

Could she be right again?

Then he remembered what Doroles had said: the hands of an artist.

Could the man who had painted this landscape be the killer they were hunting for?

He hesitated for a long moment, then walked purposely into the gallery.