You Must Be Kidding

Seven

Louis de Marney was sulking. He considered Kendriek’s insistence to keep the gallery open on Saturday afternoon a drag. He also considered that Kendriek’s insistence that he, as head salesman, should remain, while the rest of the boys enjoyed themselves in their various ways, utterly unfair. Admittedly, some eight weeks ago, some doddery old cow had wandered in and bought a Holbein miniature (a brilliant fake) for sixty thousand dollars. Since then, no one had visited the gallery on Saturday afternoon, but Kendriek was optimistic.

‘You never know, cheri,’ he said to Louis, ‘the door may open and some sucker come in. After all, you have Sundays and Thursdays: what more can you expect?’

Apart from sulking, Louis was outraged that he had to drive to the Gregg villa and to receive a wrapped canvas from an obviously drunken butler. On removing the wrapping, back at the gallery, he found himself confronted by one of Crispin’s landscapes.

‘We can’t show this!’ he shrilled. ‘Look at it!’

In dismay, Kendriek studied the landscape.

‘Very advanced,’ he said, and took off his wig to wipe his dome with a silk handkerchief.

‘Advanced?’ Louis shrilled. ‘It’s an insult to art!’

‘Put it in the window, cheri,’ Kendriek said. ‘You never know.’

‘But I do know!’ Louis screamed. ‘It will lower the tone of our lovely gallery!’

‘Control yourself, Louis!’ Kendriek snapped. ‘Put it in the window! I said I would show it, and I have to show it.’ He tapped Louis gently on his shoulder. ‘Remember, cheri, he owes us forty thousand dollars. Put it in the side window by itself,’ then shaking his head, he returned to his reception room.

Louis cleared the side window and put Crispin’s painting on an easel and in the window. Then he flounced to his desk and sat down, seething with fury.

He was trying to divert his mind with a gay magazine when Lepski entered the gallery.

Louis looked up and stiffened. He knew by sight and name every cop in the city, and he knew Lepski was a renowned troublemaker. He edged his foot to a concealed button under the carpet and pressed it. Kendriek, who was going through an illustrated art book, looking for something he could fake, saw the red light gleam on his desk and knew at once that he was about to have a visit from the police. This didn’t bother him. There were no hot objects d’art in the gallery, but he was surprised. The police hadn’t visited his gallery for the past six months. He heaved himself out of his chair, went to the Venetian mirror, set his wig askew and then, moving like a cat, he opened his door a crack to listen.

Louis had risen from his chair. His rat-like face was wreathed in smiles.

‘Detective Lepski!’ he gushed. ‘Such a stranger! Let me guess! You are looking for a gift for your beautiful wife! An anniversary! A birthday! A special occasion! How right you are to come to us! I have the very thing! Detective Lepski! For you, we can make a very special price! Let me show you!’

Somewhat dazed by this reception, Lepski hesitated. Louis swished by him, opened a glass-covered case and produced a brooch set with lapis lazuli stones.

‘How your wife would love this, Detective Lepski!’ Louis said excitedly. ‘Regard it! An Italian antique of the sixteenth century! How her friends would envy her! It’s unique. To anyone else, I wouldn’t sell it under one thousand dollars! But for you: five hundred! Think of the joy it would give her!’

Lepski pulled himself together. He gave Louis his cop stare.

‘That picture in the window: the one with the red moon.’

Louis started and gaped, then quickly recovered himself.

‘How wise! How perceptive! Of course. Such a striking painting on your wall would constantly remind your beautiful wife of you!’

‘I don’t want to buy it,’ Lepski snarled, his temper rising. ‘I want to know who painted it.’

‘You don’t want to buy it?’ Louis said in faked amazement.

‘I want to know who painted it!’

Kendriek decided it was time for him to appear on the scene. He walked heavily into the gallery, looking a complete freak with his wig askew.

‘It can’t be!’ he exclaimed. ‘Surely, you are Detective 1st Grade Lepski.’ He advanced. ‘Welcome to my modest gallery. You are inquiring about the painting in our window?’

‘I’m asking who painted it!’ Lepski snapped.

‘Who painted it?’ Kendriek raised his eyebrows. ‘You are interested in modern art? How wise! You buy a painting today, and in a few years, you treble your outlay.’

Lepski made a noise like a fall of gravel.

‘This is police business. Who painted it?’

To give Kendriek time, Louis said, ‘He is referring to the painting with the red moon, cheri.’

Kendriek nodded, lifted his wig and set it further askew on his head.

‘Of course. Who painted it? Ah! Now you have raised a problem, Detective Lepski. I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean — you don’t know?’

‘If I remember rightly an artist left it with us to sell. Although the painting has certain talent, it has no great value. I thought it would be fun to put it in the window over the weekend. Saturday afternoons are good for the young trade. I would let it go for fifty dollars. It would be cheerful in a youngster’s room, don’t you think?’

‘Who was the artist?’ Lepski rasped.

Kendriek heaved a regretful sigh.

‘To the best of my knowledge he didn’t leave a name nor did he sign the painting. He said he would call back, but so far he hasn’t.’

‘When did he leave the painting with you?’

‘A few weeks ago. Time goes by so quickly. Do you remember, cheri?’ Kendriek smiled at Louis.

‘No.’ Louis shrugged indifferently.

‘What was this artist like? I want a description,’ Lepski said.

‘What was he like?’ Kendriek looked sad. ‘I didn’t deal with him. Do you remember, Louis?’

‘I didn’t deal with him either,’ Louis said with another indifferent shrug.

Lepski eyed the two and felt instinctively they were lying.

‘Then who saw him?’

‘One of my staff. Artists continually come in here with paintings. Sometimes, we take the painting. These paintings are put in our cellar and from time to time, I look at them, and select something for the window. I don’t know who actually dealt with this artist.’

‘This is police business,’ Lepski said. ‘We have reason to believe the man who painted this picture is connected with the killing of Janie Bandler and Lu Boone. I don’t have to tell you about them, do I?’

Kendriek felt his heart miss a beat, but he was a master at controlling his expression. He merely lifted his eyebrows.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Never mind that! I want a description of this man! He could be the homicidal killer.’

Kendriek thought of Crispin Gregg. He also remembered that Crispin owed him forty thousand dollars.

‘I will ask my staff, Detective Lepski. They are not here on Saturday. You understand? Young people must have a little time off from the chores of daily work. One of them could remember.’

Lepski shifted from one foot to the other. He was almost sure he was being contrived.

‘I’ll spell it out,’ he said. ‘We are looking for a man with fair hair, around six foot tall, with artistic hands. Last seen, he was wearing a blue jacket with white golf ball buttons, pale blue slacks and Gucci shoes. We have reason to believe this man is responsible for two savage, mad murders. He could strike again any time. Now, I’m asking you for the last time, do you know the man who painted that picture?’

Kendriek felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his fat back. Just for a moment, he flinched, and Lepski saw the flinch.

There was a pause while Kendriek’s quicksilver mind went into action. There had been something frightening in Crispin Gregg’s expression that even now haunted him. Could he be this killer? Suppose he was? Suppose he (Kendriek) gave information that led to his arrest? Forty thousand dollars gone phut! The Suleiman pendant could never be resold!

‘I had no idea how serious this is,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Detective Lepski! You can rely on me. On Monday, when my staff is here, I will ask them. But better, Detective Lepski, if you would come here on Monday morning, you could ask them yourself.’

‘Where is your staff?’ Lepski snarled.

‘Ah! That I don’t know. I have five clever young men working for me. They could be out of town — they could be anywhere. The weekends are their own. But on Monday, they will all be here.’

‘Now listen,’ Lepski snarled in his cop voice, ‘anyone shielding this killer becomes an accessory to two murders. Remember that! I’ll be here Monday morning,’ and he stamped out of the gallery.

When Kendriek saw Lepski disappear, he turned to Louis.

‘Don’t involve me!’ Louis shrilled. ‘Why didn’t you tell him? An accessory to two murders!’

‘Tell him?’ Kendriek tore off his wig and threw it across the gallery. ‘Gregg owes me forty thousand dollars!’

‘Don’t involve me!’ Louis repeated. ‘I have had enough! I’m going for a swim! You must take all responsibility!’ and he flounced out of the gallery.

Karen Sternwood finally cleared her desk. The mail had been heavy and business brisk. Without Ken to help out, her Saturday afternoon had been completely taken up with routine work. She looked at her watch. The time was 18.30.

She thought of her father with a bunch of oldies on his yacht. He had invited her, but she had said she had to work and her father had been impressed. She had explained Ken had to go to his father-in-law who was very sick and she had to hold the fort. Her father had approved.

Now the work was finished, the desk cleared, and she pushed back her chair, lit a cigarette, and contemplated what was left of her weekend.

She felt horny.

She hadn’t had a man since Ken, and she now felt like having a man. It was a complete drag that she couldn’t drive until her licence had been restored. She decided she would spend the rest of the weekend in her cabin, but first, to find a man.

She thought of her various men friends. The trouble there, she thought, was they would be already booked. Her men friends were always careful not to have a vacant weekend.

She grimaced, then a thought struck her. Why not experiment? Why not thumb a ride and see what happened? Some interesting man might come along. Why not? It could be fun!

She locked the office and walked up Seaview Avenue to the Miami highway. She stood under the shade of a palm tree, watching the passing cars. They moved slowly in the Saturday evening jam.

A Porsche approached, but it was driven by a fat, dreary looking man and she let that one go, although the driver looked inquiringly and hopefully at her. She disliked fat men. The stream of Fords, Mercedes, VWs and Cadillacs crept by, but the drivers, some of them of interest to her, had a girl at their sides. She was beginning to lose patience when she saw a Rolls approaching. At this moment there was a traffic block, and the Rolls came to a standstill right by her. After regarding the driver, she didn’t hesitate. He was blond, handsome and much more important, on his own. Moving up to the car, she gave the driver a dazzling, sexy smile.

‘Going my way?’ she asked.

Crispin Gregg regarded her. His first thought was that she would make a wonderful subject for a painting. Then he saw the blatant sexual invitation in her eyes. He leaned over and opened the off-side door.

‘Where is your way?’ he asked, as Karen slid into the passenger’s seat.

‘Paddler’s Creek.’ She smiled at him. ‘What a dream of a car!’

The traffic began to move.

‘Paddler’s Creek?’ Crispin said as he moved the car forward. ‘That’s the Hippy colony.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But you’re no hippy.’

She laughed and thrust out her breasts.

‘I have a cabin near the colony. I am Karen Sternwood.’

‘Sternwood?’ Crispin looked sharply at her. ‘There is a Sternwood to do with insurance who was friendly with my father.’

‘His daughter. Your father? Who are you?’

‘Crispin Gregg, my father was Cyrus Gregg He died a few months ago.’

‘You are his son? I once met your father. I liked him. How odd!’

‘Yes.’ Crispin took one hand off the driving wheel and fingered the Suleiman pendant. Since he had had it, he found the urge to keep fingering it.

‘That’s original,’ Karen said, seeing the pendant in his fingers. ‘What is it?’

‘Something I picked up,’ Crispin’s eyes shifted. ‘I have something to do. It won’t take a few minutes. Are you in a hurry?’

Karen laughed.

‘I have all the time in the world! I am at a loose end this weekend. I have nothing to do.’

Crispin nodded.

‘That makes two of us. Perhaps we might do something together?’

Looking at his lean body, his long legs, his artistic hands and his handsome face, Karen felt a rush of hot blood move down to her loins.

‘Yes, you wonderful man!’ she thought. ‘We will certainly do something together!’

‘That would be fun,’ she said.

Crispin swung the Rolls off the highway and down Paradise Avenue.

‘There is something I want to see, then my time is yours.’

At this hour of 19.10, Paradise Avenue was deserted. All the luxury shops had now closed. Crispin pulled up outside Kendriek’s gallery.

Since he had parted with his landscape, he had itched to see it displayed in this renowned gallery. He wondered if there had already been inquiries. Saturday afternoon, of course, was a bad time, but he wanted to see how this stupid looking queer had displayed his painting.

There it was! On a silver painted easel! The last rays of the sun fell directly on it.

Crispin felt a surge of pride run through him. Yes! It was original! It had life!

‘What do you think of that?’ he asked, and pointed to the painting.

Karen stared, frowned, stared again, then looked at him.

‘That thing there?’

Crispin’s smile became fixed.

‘That painting.’

Karen shrugged.

‘I don’t know much about modern art. I have a few interesting works. My father has some of the great modern paintings.’

Crispin’s long artistic fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

‘What do you think of that painting in the window,’ he said, an edge to his voice.

‘It must be a joke... a weekend joke,’ Karen said. ‘Either that or Kendriek has gone out of his tiny mind. That? Why it looks to me as if an idiot child painted it. Don’t you agree?’

‘An idiot child?’ Crispin said.

She laughed.

‘Or a mad man. What a thing!’

Crispin’s fingers caressed the Suleiman pendant.

‘I thought it was original.’

‘Is that all you want to see?’ Karen asked. She was now impatient to get this hunk of man to her cabin. ‘Let’s go.’

Crispin shifted into ‘drive’ and headed back to the highway.

‘Seriously, if you are interested in good modern art,’ Karen said, ‘not utter junk like that, you should talk to Kendriek. He really knows.’

‘Utter junk?’ Crispin said. ‘You really think that?’

‘Well, don’t you?’

Crispin felt a vicious urge to pull up, press the ruby stone, then stab this girl and keep on stabbing her, but he managed to control the urge.

‘So you are free for the weekend,’ he said, his voice deceptively mild. ‘What would you like us to do?’

‘Let’s go to my cabin. You’ll like it.’ She gave him a sexy smile. ‘We’ll have fun.’

Neither of them said anything during the short drive.

‘Leave the car here,’ Karen said. ‘It’s only a short walk.’

Crispin drove the Rolls under the shadow of a palm tree, and together they walked down the path toward Karen’s cabin.

Crispin said, ‘Isn’t it around here that girl got killed?’ Knowing, of course, it was.

‘Yes. Wasn’t that terrible?’

Dusk was falling, and the path, overhung by trees and boxed in by shrubs, was almost dark.

Crispin moved closer.

‘Aren’t you scared to use this path?’ and he fingered the Suleiman pendant.

‘Not with a he-man like you with me.’

They came out into the open.

‘There it is! All mine!’ Karen said and pointed.

Crispin regarded the lonely cabin.

‘Looks good. You stay there quite alone? Don’t the hippies bother you?’

‘They dig me.’ Karen unlocked the door. ‘I dig them.’

They entered the cabin and Karen turned on the lights. She crossed to the big window and drew the curtains.

Crispin looked around, nodding his approval.

‘Very nice,’ he said.

‘I love it!’ Karen regarded him. Some man! she thought. ‘How about a drink?’

Crispin went up to her. He put his hands gently on her arms, then turned her, so her back was to him. Then very lightly, he ran his fingers down her spine.

Karen shuddered, hunched her shoulders, feeling a wave of sexual excitement run through her.

‘Do it again!’ she said. ‘How did you guess?’

Again his fingers moved from the nape of her neck down to the end of her spine.

‘I love it!’

He pushed her gently towards the bed.

‘Wait!’ Karen slipped out of her T shirt, dropped her jeans, whipped down her panties. Then she fell face down across the bed.

‘Do it!’ she said breathlessly. ‘Again and again!’

Crispin sat on the bed by her side. He moved a finger of his left hand down her naked back. With his right hand, he lifted the Suleiman pendant from his neck. His fingers pressed the ruby, and the blade sprang out.

‘I love it!’ Karen moaned. ‘More!’

What felt like a feather moved down her spine. The razor sharp blade gently parted her skin and blood began to well out. There was no pain: just sexual ecstasy to her. Again the knife parted her skin in a second long line from her nape to the end of her spine. More blood began to well out.

‘God!’ Karen gasped, thumping her clenched fists on the bed. ‘This is marvellous! Do it again!’

Crispin’s eyes suddenly lit up, and his lips turned into a snarl. He cut deeper, and made a long, terrible gash down the length of her body. Blood began to pour onto the sheet. Feeling sharp pain, Karen stiffened, then whirled around onto her back. She stared with horror at Crispin’s face: the face of a savage, terrifying demon. She saw the blood stained blade.

‘What are you doing?’ she cried, her voice shrill. ‘What have you done to me?’

Then she saw the blood on the sheet, and as her mouth formed into a big O to scream, Crispin struck.

The sales girl at Lucille’s Boutique wore a claret coloured trouser suit and she had a fringe hairdo. With a welcoming smile, she drifted towards Lepski as he entered the shop.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, and Lepski was aware she was looking him over, judging what he was worth.

‘I want a handbag,’ he said. ‘Around a hundred bucks.’

She surveyed him again with her deep blue eyes.

‘A present?’ Her eyebrows lifted. ‘A hundred?’

Lepski shifted from one foot to the other. This wasn’t his scene, but as he had come this far, he had to get the goddamn bag.

‘A present for my wife.’

‘I have just the thing: a baby mink crocodile. Your wife will adore it.’ The bag was laid on the counter. ‘It has everything: chamois leather lined. Matching lipstick and compact... purse...’

Lepski regarded the bag. He knew at once that Carroll would flip her lid to have a bag like this. What he didn’t realize was that Carroll would want a new dress, a new coat, new gloves and new shoes to go with the bag.

‘Yeah. Very nice. How much?’

‘Two hundred and fifty.’ The girl smiled at him. ‘It is a beautiful bag. Any lady would be proud to own it.’

Lepski had one hundred and ninety five dollars in his billfold. He looked at the bag regretfully.

‘Too much,’ he said firmly. ‘I want something around a hundred and fifty... not more.’

‘There’s this antelope, but, of course, it’s not in the same class.’

Another bag was produced. Lepski scarcely looked at it as he continued to eye the crocodile bag.

‘Will you take my check?’ he asked.

‘Do we know you?’ the girl asked, her smite fading.

Lepski produced his shield.

‘Detective Lepski. City police.’

The girl’s reaction startled him. Her eyes opened wide and she positively beamed at him.

‘Mr. Lepski? I can give you a discount. Suppose we say a hundred and seventy?’

Lepski gaped at her.

‘My brother works at headquarters: Dusty Lucas,’ the girl went on. ‘He’s often talked about you. He says you are the smartest cop on the force.’

Lepski preened himself.

‘We have a deal, and let me tell you, Miss Lucas, your brother is no slouch either.’

She gift wrapped the bag while Lepski counted out his money.

‘I appreciate this, Miss Lucas,’ he went on. He gave her his wolf leer. ‘Dusty is lucky to have a sister as gorgeous as you.’

‘Why, Mr. Lepski! That’s quite a compliment. You tell him.’

Lepski nodded.

‘Yeah. Brothers don’t appreciate sisters, but I’ll tell him.’

Out on the street, he looked at his watch. The time was 18.45. There was no point in checking out any more clothes dealers. By now, they would have closed shop. He got in his car, lit a cigarette, and thought. He found himself in a quandary. The old rum-dum, Mehitabel Bessinger, had said he would find the killer by the clues of a blood red moon, a black sky and an orange beach. She had been right the previous time when she said he would find the killer he had been hunting among oranges. Lepski hated to admit it, but it looked as if this rum-dum knew what she was talking about. He should have realized right away that she had been talking about a painting. It had been sheer chance that he had seen this painting in Kendriek’s window. He knew Kendriek was a fence. He felt sure he had been lying when he had said he didn’t know the artist who had painted the picture. He was sure that Kendriek was covering for someone. Lepski shoved his hat to the back of his head while he thought. He knew for sure that Kendriek would never cover anyone unless this someone was rich.

Lepski tossed his cigarette out of the car window. He couldn’t tell his Chief about Mehitabel Bessinger. The thought of explaining to Terrell that Carroll had consulted a drunken clairvoyant, and this rum-dum had given out these clues, brought Lepski out in a cold sweat. Terrell, and the rest of the boys, would laugh themselves sick. They would think he had gone crazy. No, this was something he had to follow up himself: saying nothing. On Monday he would go to Kendriek’s gallery and take Kendriek’s staff apart.

He drove back to headquarters. After typing his report about his talk with Syd Heinie, he took it to Terrell.

After reading the report, Terrell shrugged. ‘Okay, Tom. Go home. Sooner or later, we’ll get a break.’

Lepski got home at 23.15. As usual, he found Carroll clued to the goggle box. She waved to him. The gangster movie was exciting. She couldn’t take her eyes off the lighted screen.

‘There’s food in the refrig.’

T.V.! Lepski thought sourly. A goddam drug!

He ate cold chicken and drank beer in the kitchen. As he listened to the sound of gunfire, police sirens and strident voices coming from the T.V., he helped himself to more beer.

At midnight, the film finished, and he walked into the living room. Carroll, her mind now switched off from the gangster violence, smiled at him.

‘A good day?’ she asked.

‘Right now, it is your birthday,’ Lepski said smugly. ‘A present!’

‘Oh, Tom! I was sure you would forget!’

‘That’s a nice thing to say.’ He placed the gift wrapped bag on her lap. ‘First grade detectives never forget!’

When she saw the handbag, she gave a squeal of delight.

At 02.30, Lepski was woken by the shrill sound of the telephone bell. Cursing, he rolled out of bed and stumbled into the living room, grabbing the telephone receiver.

‘Tom?’ Beigler barked. ‘Get down here fast! This sonofabitch has killed again. Guess who? Sternwood’s daughter,’ and he hung up.

Amelia Gregg came slowly awake from a drugged sleep. She looked around her familiar luxury bedroom with relief. She had had a spine chilling dream. She kept dreaming that she was walking through the big lounge of the Spanish Bay hotel. All her friends were sitting in the lounge, but when they saw her, they turned away. They began to whisper together. The whispers reached Amelia as she plodded across the deep pile of the carpet.

Her son is mad. He is a monster. He is mad... mad... mad. The whispering voices built up into a strident sound that hammered inside her head.

Mad... mad... mad!

In her dream, she stumbled forward, hiding her face in her hands, then as if the film had been reversed, she found herself once more entering the lounge, but the voices were now deafening.

Mad... mad... mad!

She had woken, shuddering. She looked at the bedside clock. The time was 02.30. Dragging her bulk from the bed, she had gone to the bathroom and had taken two Valium pills.

Now she was awake again. It was 09.45. What a dream! No one must know! This dreadful dream had been the writing on the wall! She knew she would have no friends, no future life, if Crispin was discovered.

She pressed the bell push on her bedside table to alert Reynolds that she would be getting up. She needed strong black coffee. When she came into the living room, Reynolds was pouring coffee with an unsteady hand. She regarded him sharply, and she saw at once he was drunk.

‘Reynolds! You drink too much!’ she snapped as she sat down.

‘Yes, madam,’ Reynolds said. ‘Will you need breakfast?’

‘No. Where is he?’

‘In his apartment, madam.’

‘He went out last night?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Did you hear him return?’

‘Just after ten o’clock, madam.’

Amelia sipped the coffee gratefully.

‘Put on the television, Reynolds. Pete Hamilton.’

‘Yes, madam.’

First, came Pete Hamilton with the background scene of Karen Sternwood’s cabin with police officers milling around, then a still shot of Karen, then the words that turned Amelia to stone.

The maniac killer had struck again. Karen Sternwood, the daughter of the multi-millionaire, had been brutally murdered and mutilated.

‘This is the third time this madman has killed in less than a week,’ Hamilton went on. ‘The police are certain someone is sheltering him. Mr. Jefferson Sternwood is now offering a reward.’ On the screen came a still Sternwood: a cruel granite-hard face that made Amelia’s heart accelerate. ‘Mr. Sternwood is offering two hundred thousand dollars to anyone who gives information that will lead to the arrest of this madman.’ Hamilton paused. ‘Two hundred thousand dollars!’ he repeated. ‘Information received will be treated in strict confidence. Anyone who can give definite proof who this killer is has only to telephone police headquarters, and he or she will be paid two hundred thousand dollars, no questions asked.’ Hamilton then switched to other local news.

There was silence in the room as Reynolds turned off the T.V. set.

Two hundred thousand dollars! Amelia thought. Even for a million dollars she wouldn’t sacrifice her social life!

Two hundred thousand dollars! Reynolds was thinking. Freedom! No more chores! No more waiting on this fat old woman! All he had to do was to telephone the police. Then, with two hundred thousand dollars, he would buy a little villa and a piece of land and settle in peace for the rest of his days with all the Scotch he could ever hope to drink!

Then he became aware that Amelia was staring at him.

‘Reynolds!’ she said, half suspecting that he was contemplating treachery. ‘We must say nothing! Money isn’t everything! Think of me! My life would be ruined! I rely on your loyalty.’

His face expressionless, Reynolds bowed. What a vain old fool! he thought. Did she really imagine he would keep silent now such a reward was being offered?

‘Yes, madam,’ he said. ‘Perhaps another cup of coffee?’

‘No. I will talk to Mr. Crispin. We must pay you more, Reynolds,’ Amelia said desperately. ‘Be loyal to me, and I promise you you won’t regret it.’

‘You may rely on me, madam. I have served you so long.’ Reynold’s voice was wooden. ‘A little more coffee, madam?’

‘No... no.’

‘Then I will remove the tray.’

Could she trust him? Amelia wondered, watching him as he picked up the tray and moved towards the door.

‘Reynolds!’

He paused.

‘Yes, madam.’

‘What are you doing today?’

‘I have your lunch to prepare, then as it is Sunday, and as it is so fine, perhaps a walk.’

‘I am not feeling well. This has been a great shock. Would you be kind and stay? I don’t want to be left alone.’

‘Certainly, madam. As you know, I am always at your disposal.’

With a little bow, he left her.

On the other side of the city, Claude Kendriek turned off the T.V. set.

Kendriek was sitting in his luxury living room in his apartment above the gallery, having finished breakfast. He was an expert cook and he believed, on Sundays, he should cook himself something special, then do without lunch, and go out to dinner. He had grilled two baby lamb chops, four lamb’s kidneys which he had placed on a bed of tiny peas. Strong black coffee, toast and marmalade completed the meal, but Pete Hamilton’s broadcast had given him indigestion.

Two hundred thousand dollars!

He considered the possibility of claiming the reward, but regretfully decided that he had no real proof that Crispin Gregg was the killer. What baffled him was why Lepski had said that Gregg’s painting was connected with the killer. Why had he said that? Admittedly, Lepski’s description of the wanted man fitted Gregg, but there were thousands of tall, blond men around. Kendriek thumped his chest, trying to ease his heartburn. Just suppose Gregg could prove he had nothing to do with the killings? Just suppose it leaked that he (Kendriek) had informed? So many of his clients relied on him when dealing with stolen property to keep silent. Once an informer, always an informer. No, in spite of the size of the reward, in the long run, it would be more advantageous to say nothing. Then he thought of Louis de Marney. Would Louis want the reward? A silly question! Of course he would! Lumbering to his feet, Kendriek telephoned Louis who had a three room apartment within five minutes walk of the gallery.

His voice thick with sleep, Louis answered the call.

‘Come at once, cheri!’ Kendriek barked. ‘I must talk to you, and do nothing until we have talked!’

‘Do nothing about what?’ Louis shrilled. ‘This is Sunday!’

Kendriek realized that Louis hadn’t seen the Hamilton programme. He visualized Louis in bed with some boy.

‘Never mind! Come as soon as you can,’ and he hung up.

Crispin Gregg turned off his T.V. set. Two hundred thousand dollars! His eyes narrowed. He had made a dangerous mistake killing that disgusting little whore.

Who knew? Only his mother and Reynolds. His mother? Her social position meant everything to her. Reynolds? Yes, Reynolds would betray him. Reynolds, with his drink problem, wouldn’t hesitate to claim the reward.

Crispin sat for some moments, fingering the Suleiman pendant, then he got to his feet. Moving in cat-like silence, he left his apartment and stood at the head of the stairs.

He listened. He could hear Reynolds washing up in the kitchen. Silently, he ran down the stairs and to Reynolds’ room. He opened the door and moved into the neat bed-sitting room. The smell of whisky made him grimace. He looked around. The window, overlooking the garden, had iron bars. Because the living quarters were on ground level, Amelia had insisted that every window should have bars.

He saw the extension telephone. He pressed the ruby button, and with the razor sharp blade, he cut the telephone cord. Then he moved to the door, took the key from the lock and moved out into the corridor, closing the door.

Halfway down the corridor was a walk-in broom closet. He stepped inside, leaving the door ajar.

Chrissy, the deaf-mute cook, had watched the Pete Hamilton broadcast. She knew nothing about the murders Hamilton was talking about. She took no interest in local news, but she was impressed when she learned there was a two hundred thousand dollar reward. What could she do with money like that! Sunday was her day off. She had gone to Mass at 07.00 and now, she intended to watch T.V. Knowing Reynolds’ habits, she was waiting until he had left the kitchen. She wanted to get the remains of a chicken pie she had left in the refrigerator for her lunch. Still thinking how wonderful it would be to own two hundred thousand dollars, she opened her door, then hastily stepped back into her room.

She watched through the crack in the door as Crispin removed the key from Reynolds’ lock. She watched him step into the broom closet.

A few minutes later, Reynolds left the kitchen, came down the corridor, entered his room and closed the door.

Watched by Chrissy, a puzzled expression on her face, Crispin left the broom closet and gently inserted the key into the lock of Reynolds’ door, turned it, removed it and dropped it into his pocket. She watched him walk down the corridor to his mother’s living room.

Reynolds poured himself a large Scotch and sat down. Two hundred thousand dollars! He would call the police! He had all the proof they needed! Those gruesome paintings on the walls! The ashes of the blood stained clothes he had burned! He was sure the police would find some clues among the ashes. He had peered into the furnace and seen, although charred, the golf ball buttons hadn’t been destroyed. What was he waiting for? Tell them now! Hamilton had said all information would be treated in strict confidence, but once they had paid him the reward he didn’t give a damn what Mrs. Gregg said or thought of him.

He finished the whisky. He was now recklessly confident. Do it now!

Unsteadily he got to his feet and picked up the telephone receiver. A sticker on the telephone told him the number of police headquarters. He lifted the receiver. Although, by now, he was drunk, he was aware that there was no dialling tone. Muttering to himself, he replaced the receiver. He jiggled the crossbar. The telephone remained dead. From time to time, the telephone did go dead. When, on Mrs. Gregg’s instructions, he had complained, he was told by some pert girl that the exchange was overloaded, but if he waited, the receiver would be restored.

After hesitating, he poured himself another Scotch. He looked at his watch. The time was 10.38. He had plenty of lime. From force of habit, he thought of what he would give Mrs. Gregg for lunch. Why bother? he thought. In a few days he would be worth two hundred thousand dollars, and he could tell the old woman to get stuffed.

He laughed, finished the Scotch and let the empty glass drop on the floor.

No, he told himself. She loved her food. He would be loyal to her to the last moment. He would prepare something special for her. He searched his dazed mind. She liked chicken’s breasts, smeared with mustard and grilled, he would give her that.

He reached for the telephone receiver, then he saw the cut cable. A cold shock ran through him as he stared at the dangling cable. Through the haze of Scotch, cold panic swept over him.

Getting to his feet, he lurched to the door, twisted the handle and found himself locked in.

Amelia sat in a fat heap, her mind darting in terror. Karen Sternwood! Amelia had often been to the Sternwood’s residence with her husband, attending important dinners. She had often seen Karen at these functions. Why, in the name of God, she thought in despair, had Crispin, in his madness, picked this girl as a victim? If the truth came out, she would be completely finished. Sternwood would be ruthless. He would drive her out of Paradise City! This two hundred thousand dollar reward! She now felt certain that Reynolds, in his drunken state, would betray her. She heard the door open. Looking up, she saw her son, framed in the doorway.

‘You are looking pensive, mother,’ he said, came into the room and shut the door.

She shuddered at the sight of him, her fat little hands closing into flabby fists.

He sat in a chair, fingering the Suleiman pendant.

‘I am sure you have the same problem on your mind as I have. You will have to do without Reynolds. I am sorry for you, as I know you rely on him. We can no longer trust him. This reward will be too much of a temptation.’

Amelia tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

‘Don’t look so distressed, mother,’ Crispin said. ‘Leave it to me. It is unfortunate, but necessary for us both.’

Gasping, Amelia forced herself to say, ‘Crispin! What do you mean?’

Crispin smiled at her.

‘I intend to dispose of Reynolds. After all, why not? He is old, an alcoholic, and no one except you, will miss him.’

Amelia stared at her son in horror.

‘Dispose? What are you saying?’

‘Come, mother, please don’t be stupid!’ A sudden grating note came into Crispin’s voice that made Amelia cringe. ‘You know what I mean... dispose.’

Amelia leaned forward, clasping her hands and looking imploringly at her son.

‘Crispin, my son,’ she said, her voice trembling, ‘please listen to your mother who loves you. You must know you are ill. I beg you to consult someone. Dr. Raison can help you. I know he can! Please do confide in him.’

Crispin smiled an evil smile.

‘Is that old fool still alive? He put Uncle Martin away. What would happen to you if I were put away? Have you thought of that? Would you want it known that your son, like your uncle, was locked in a padded cell? How many of your friends would you have left?’ He watched her as she hid her face in her hands. ‘Leave this to me. There is nothing to worry about. I will find a replacement for Reynolds. After a few days, your life will continue as before.’ He stared at her, his eyes lighting up. ‘Say something... do you understand?’

At this moment, the telephone bell rang. Frowning, Crispin picked up the receiver.

‘Mr. Gregg?’

‘Who is it?’

‘Claude Kendriek of the Kendriek Gallery.’

A surge of excitement ran through Crispin.

‘You have news for me? You have sold my painting?’

‘It is about your painting, Mr. Gregg.’ Kendriek’s voice was hushed. ‘I have had a police officer here. He wanted to know who had painted your landscape.’

Crispin stiffened.

‘The police? Why should they be interested in my landscape?’

‘It is most extraordinary, Mr. Gregg,’ Kendriek said. ‘The police appear to think your painting is connected with these dreadful murders: this maniac killer. I can’t imagine why they think so, but they do. I have told them I don’t know the name of the artist, but they are pressing me. They will be here again tomorrow. Mr. Gregg! Do you have any objection to my telling them that you are the artist?’

Crispin’s face turned into a savage, snarling mask.

‘You tell the police nothing about me!’ he snarled. ‘When you took my painting, you agreed I was to remain anonymous. I hold you to that! If you say anything to the police about me, Kendriek, I will put you out of business!’ He slammed down the receiver.

Listening, Amelia closed her eyes and shuddered.

Now, the police!