You Must Be Kidding

Eight

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

While Lepski toiled at his desk, he kept thinking of Carroll, on her birthday, disappointed he couldn’t be with her. He was thankful he had given her her present before the avalanche had descended.

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

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

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

Around 18.00, the telephone calls dwindled and the callers faded away.

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

Terrell came into the Detectives room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why should she lie for God’s sake?’

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

Lepski chewed meat that was mainly gristle.

‘So what about the family?’

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

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

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

Lepski lit a cigarette while he thought.

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

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

Lepski thought some more, then got to his feet.

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

Jacoby sighed.

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

Lepski gaped at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crispin nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Louis jumped to his feet.

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

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

Blood drained out of Louis’s face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’m so glad. And Betty?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lepski glared at him.

‘So you know who he is?’

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

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

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

Seeing Lepski hesitate, Kendriek moved into the offensive.

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

Realizing he was defeated, Lepski got to his feet.

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

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

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

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

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

As he was pushing back his chair, Mary Goodall came in.

‘There’s a detective wanting to speak to you, Ken. Detective Lepski.’

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

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

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

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

Lepski put the jacket on Ken’s desk.

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

‘Thank you.’

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

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

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

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

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

Ken stared at him.

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

‘You handled his insurance?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did Mrs. Gregg continue the coverage?’

‘Yes. The policy has an automatic renewal.’

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

‘I have had no dealings with him.’ Ken moved impatiently. ‘What is this all about?’

‘Have you ever seen him?’

‘No.’

‘Know anything about him?’

‘I know nothing about him. I’ve never seen him. So what is this all about?’

Lepski sat astride one of the upright chairs.

‘I’ll explain. Sit down for a moment, Mr. Brandon. This is important.’

Bewildered, Ken sat behind his desk.

‘We found a golf ball button right by where Janie Bandler was murdered,’ Lepski said. ‘We found that there were only four jackets with these special buttons sold in the city. We have checked out three of the jackets, including yours, and we know that you and the other two owners of the jacket have had nothing to do with Janie’s murder. We were told by Mrs. Gregg that the fourth jacket, together with Mr. Gregg’s other clothes, was given to the Salvation Army. We have been trying to trace this jacket, but no one at the Salvation Army has handled it. We are now wondering if Mrs. Gregg lied to us. We are wondering if her mysterious son kept his father’s jacket and wore it on the night of Janie’s murder. We have a description of a man, seen wearing the jacket on the day Janie was murdered. He has been described as tall, blond and wearing Gucci shoes. We have further information that this man could be an artist, painting way-out landscapes. This man is responsible not only for Janie’s murder, but for Lu Boone’s and Miss Sternwood’s murders. You with me so far?’

Ken eased himself back in his chair.

‘I hear you,’ he said, ‘but what has all this to do with me?’

‘All this I’m telling you is surmise. We don’t know for sure that Gregg’s son is the man we want. Mrs. Gregg draws a lot of water in this city. She has the ear of the Mayor. We want definite evidence that her son is an artist, is tall and blond and wears Gucci shoes. If we get those facts, we can interrogate him, but not before.’

‘I would have thought the simplest thing is for you to go to Mrs. Gregg’s place and ask to speak to her son,’ Ken said. ‘What’s the matter with that?’

‘If it was that simple, I wouldn’t be taking up your time,’ Lepski said. ‘But it isn’t. Mrs. Gregg is tricky. Suppose her son has nothing to do with the murders? Suppose she refuses to let us see him, asking why we want to see him? We have no real proof so we could be in a bind. Now, Mr. Brandon, here’s what I’m asking you to do. Will you go to the Gregg’s place and ask to see the son? Say you understand he has valuable paintings and he might like to insure them. We must know he is an artist and he matches up with this description we have: tall, blond, and possibly, wearing Gucci shoes.’

Ken shook his head.

‘I don’t want anything to do with it,’ he said firmly. ‘This is police business. Don’t tell me you can’t call and see Gregg yourself. Why drag me into this?’

Lepski shifted in his chair.

‘Let me spell this out, Mr. Brandon. We could be making a mistake. Gregg may not be the killer we are after. The Gregg family employ the smartest and toughest attorney in this city. If we are wrong about Gregg, we could get landed with a libel action. All I am asking you to do is to take a look at Gregg. If he doesn’t match up with the description we have of this killer, that’s it. Maybe, you can sell him some insurance. If he does match up, then we move in and arrest him.’

Again Ken shook his head.

‘I won’t have anything to do with this.’

With his wolf’s smile, Lepski played his trump card.

‘You are forgetting one important thing, Mr. Brandon. If Gregg is the man we are after, and you identify him for us, you will pick up the reward Mr. Sternwood is offering... two hundred thousand dollars.’

Ken gaped.

‘Two hundred thousand dollars? Me? You must be kidding!’

‘No kidding, Mr. Brandon. I assure you if you identify Gregg as the man we want, you get the reward.’

Two hundred thousand dollars!

Ken felt a surge of excitement run through him. What couldn’t he do with money like that! Into his mind swam a picture of a new house in a better district, a big swimming pool, better cars for Betty and himself! Betty could even give up working for Dr. Heintz! He could even give up his job and start his own business!

Watching him, Lepski saw Ken was hooked.

‘If you really mean I’ll get the reward if I identify Gregg,’ Ken said, ‘then I’ll cooperate.’

Lepski beamed at him.

‘Providing your evidence leads to Gregg’s arrest and conviction,’ he said, ‘then you get the reward. I guarantee that.’

Ken drew in a deep breath.

‘Okay.’ His mind was churning with the thought of owning two hundred thousand dollars. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

Lepski knew that Brandon could be dealing with a dangerous killer, but he held back this information, fearing Brandon might chicken out if he realized he could be walking into trouble. Brandon must be protected, Lepski told himself.

‘I’ll set it up,’ he said, and picking up the telephone receiver, he dialled police headquarters. He asked for Max Jacoby. After a delay, Jacoby came on the line.

‘Max... Tom,’ Lepski said. ‘That idea you had could jell. I want you to come fast to Paradise City Assurance, Secomb. We have a trip to make.’

‘I’m up to my eyes in work!’ Jacoby protested.

‘Who the hell cares? Get moving, fast!’ Lepski hung up. Then smiling at Ken, he said, ‘No problem. In half an hour, we’ll get going. Here’s what you have to do.’

His mind only half concentrating, as he kept thinking what he would do with two hundred thousand dollars, Ken listened.

Lepski, driving his car with Max Jacoby at his side, followed Ken’s car as he headed for Acacia Drive.

Jacoby was worried.

‘I hope to God you know what you are doing,’ he said, as Lepski slowed the car in a traffic block. ‘We are sticking our necks out! The Chief will have our hides if something goes wrong. You should have reported to him first!’

‘Relax,’ Lepski said. ‘You know as well as I do, if I told the Chief knew what’s cooking, he would have put his foot on it. Between the two of us, Max, we could bust this case.’

‘How about Brandon?’ Jacoby demanded. ‘Suppose he walks into trouble? Suppose Gregg is our man? We know the killer is a psychopath. Suppose he kills Brandon? What will happen to us?’

‘Take it easy, Max,’ Lepski said, not feeling all that easy himself. ‘We are giving Brandon protection, aren’t we? That’s why I have you with me.’

‘Did you warn Brandon that he could be walking into trouble?’

‘Look, Max, Brandon wants the reward. He is willing to cooperate,’ Lepski said, knowing he should have warned Brandon. ‘If he fingers Gregg for us, he picks up two hundred grand.’

‘Not if he is killed!’ Jacoby snapped. ‘And is this such a hot idea of yours to get him to wear the golf ball jacket?’

‘If Gregg is our man, the sight of that jacket could throw him,’ Lepski said. ‘If he isn’t our man, then the jacket will mean nothing to him. These psychos crack easily under pressure. Anyway, no one picks up two hundred thousand dollars for nothing.’

‘Did you warn Brandon he could be walking into trouble?’ Jacoby persisted.

Lepski shifted in his driving seat.

‘I told him not to go into the villa. I told him to stay right on the doorstep so we could watch him all the time. Just relax for the love of Pete!’

By now they had reached Acacia Drive, and as arranged, Ken drew up within a hundred yards of the Gregg villa.

‘Let’s go,’ Lepski said, sliding out of the car. Followed by Jacoby, he walked to Ken’s car.

‘Go ahead, Mr. Brandon,’ he said, looking through the open car window. ‘Just remember, don’t go into the villa. Tell the butler you want a quick word with Mr. Gregg. If he invites you in, tell him you’re badly parked and it won’t take a minute. All you have to do is take a long look at Gregg. Okay?’

Ken began to read the message. His hands, resting on the steering wheel, turned clammy.

‘Gregg could be dangerous?’ There was a sudden quaver in his voice.

Lepski shifted impatiently.

‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘There’s a butler. Maybe Mrs. Gregg is there. You have nothing to worry about. You stay right on the doorstep where we can see you, and there’s no problem.’

Ken began to sweat.

‘But suppose I have to go inside?’

‘You don’t!’ Lepski barked in his cop voice. ‘If Gregg is our man, he won’t start anything with the butler and his mother around. You could be picking up two hundred thousand bucks!’ Reaching through the open car window, he patted Ken on his shoulder. ‘You have no problems, Mr. Brandon. We are right behind you.’

Ken hesitated, then he thought again of the reward. He forced an uneasy smile.

‘Okay... I’m on my way.’

He drove to the entrance of the Gregg villa, looking in his driving mirror to make sure Lepski and Jacoby were following him on foot. He was self-conscious about wearing the golf ball jacket, but Lepski had insisted he should wear it. Then parking outside the villa, he left the car and walked slowly up the drive. He glanced back, and was in time to see the two detectives had entered and were ducking out of sight into a vast clump of flowering shrubs.

He walked up to the front door of the villa, then, bracing himself, he thumbed the bell. He heard the chimes of bolls somewhere inside the villa. He waited, feeling the hot sun on his back, his heart thumping. Nothing happened. He looked uneasily behind him, but there were no signs of the two detectives. He felt frighteningly alone. He thumbed the bell again. Apart from the sound of the bells, a heavy silence brooded over the villa.

He took out his handkerchief and mopped his sweating face. He began to relax. Maybe, he told himself, no one was home. He felt a disappointed letdown. The dream of two hundred thousand dollars began to fade.

After waiting another long moment, he took a step back. Then almost relieved, he turned to walk back to his car. At this moment, the front door of the villa opened.

Watching, Lepski and Jacoby, concealed behind flowering shrubs, saw Ken start down the steps, pause and turn around. They saw the front door open, but that was all they could see. Ken, moving back to the top step, blotted out their view. All they could see was his broad back.

The first thing Ken saw was a pair of highly polished black Gucci shoes. Then looking up, he found himself confronted by a tall, blond man who was smiling at him.

Tall! Blond! Gucci shoes! This was the man the police were searching for! Ken’s mouth turned dry. His instincts screamed to him to turn and run, but he remained motionless, like a rabbit hypnotized by a stoat.

‘Yes?’ Crispin said, his voice gentle.

Ken pulled himself together.

‘Excuse me for disturbing you,’ he said. ‘Are you Mr. Gregg?’

‘That’s a nice jacket you are wearing,’ Crispin said. ‘My father had one just like that. What did you want?’

Ken licked his dry lips.

‘I am sure I am disturbing you. Some other time. I won’t bother you now.’

He took a step back, then paused as he found himself looking at an automatic pistol Crispin was pointing at him.

‘Do exactly what I tell you,’ Crispin said, an edge to his voice. ‘If you don’t want to be shot, come in.’

Although Ken had often read in newspapers and in detective stories of people held at gunpoint, it wasn’t until this moment, he understood the terror of a pointing gun.

Crispin moved back into the lobby.

‘Come in,’ he repeated.

Ken thought of the two detectives, hidden and watching.

Lepski had told him not to enter the villa, but the threatening gun gave him no alternative. Moving with leaden feet, he crossed the threshold and walked into the lobby.

‘Very wise of you,’ Crispin said. ‘Now shut the door.’

His heart pounding, Ken paused and looked down the drive, but saw nothing of the two detectives. He closed the door.

‘Now shoot the bolts,’ Crispin said.

Ken found two heavy bolts: one at the top of the door, the other at the bottom. His hand shaking, he did as he was told.

‘Now go upstairs,’ Crispin said.

Supporting his shaking legs by holding onto the banister rail, Ken mounted the stairs. Crispin followed him.

‘To your right,’ Crispin said. ‘Go in.’

Ken entered Crispin’s luxurious living room.

‘Sit down.’ The gun pointed to a chair, away from the picture window.

Ken sat down, resting his sweating hands on his knees.

Crispin perched himself on the edge of the big desk.

‘You must excuse the gun,’ he said. ‘I am nervous of being kidnapped. I always take precautions. Who are you?’

Maybe, Ken thought, this is going to work out all right. He could understand a man of Gregg’s worth being nervous about being kidnapped.

‘My name is Brandon,’ he said, trying to steady his voice. ‘I represent the Paradise City Assurance. I’ve called to see if you would be interested in insuring your paintings. I assure you, Mr. Gregg, I am quite harmless.’

Crispin stared at him for a long moment.

‘Insure my paintings? How do you know I paint? Did Kendriek tell you?’

Again Ken felt a sick feeling of fear. Lepski had asked him to verify that Gregg was a painter. The fact that he was now saying he was, plus the description Lepski had given, told Ken this tall, blond man who was staring at him was without any doubt the lunatic killer who had so horribly murdered Karen Sternwood. He felt the blood drain out of his face.

Watching him, Crispin asked again, ‘Did Kendriek tell you?’

Ken had had business dealings with Kendriek, insuring some of Kendriek’s treasures.

‘In confidence, Mr. Gregg,’ he said, his voice husky, ‘Mr. Kendriek did mention you had valuable paintings.’

‘Yes, they are valuable.’ Crispin dropped the gun into his pocket. ‘Again, I apologize for scaring you, Mr. Brandon, but in these days, unknown callers can be dangerous.’

‘Of course.’ Ken again began to relax. ‘Would it interest you, Mr. Gregg for us to cover your paintings?’

‘Would they have to be valued?’

‘Not necessarily. You tell us what you think they are worth, and we will quote.’

‘Perhaps you would care to see some of my work, Mr. Brandon?’ Crispin said and stood up.

‘I am no judge,’ Ken said and got to his feet. ‘I won’t waste your time further, Mr. Gregg.’ His one thought now was to escape from the villa. ‘Just tell me approximately what you want us to cover your work for, and I will write to you, quoting premiums.’ He started moving towards the door.

‘It won’t take a moment,’ Crispin said. ‘I am working on a particularly interesting study. I must show it to you.’ As he stared at Ken, he fingered the Suleiman pendant, and he smiled.

‘I have another appointment,’ Ken said desperately. ‘Some other time, Mr. Gregg. Suppose I call and see you tomorrow? You can tell me the value of your paintings and I can quote you.’

‘As Ken opened the door,’ Crispin his opal coloured eyes suddenly alight, moved towards him.

Crouching behind the flowering shrubs, Lepski, with Jacoby by his side, watched Ken move forward and enter the villa.

‘The stupid jerk!’ Lepski exploded. ‘He’s gone in! I told him to stay outside! You heard me, didn’t you?’

‘I heard what you told him,’ Jacoby said, showing alarm. ‘So what are we going to do?’

Lepski wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand.

‘The stupid pea-brain! I told him whatever he did, he was to stay on the doorstep, and not to go in!’

Staring at the villa, the two detectives saw the front door close.

‘So what are we going to do?’ Jacoby said.

‘What can we do? Could be Mrs. Gregg opened the door and Brandon felt he had to go in.’ Lepski shoved his hat to the back of his head in exasperation.

‘If Mrs. Gregg didn’t open the door: if the butler didn’t open the door but Gregg did, we’d better do something,’ Jacoby said. ‘Tom! I get the feeling this caper has turned sour.’

‘Just suppose Gregg isn’t our man,’ Lepski said feverishly. ‘Just suppose Brandon walks out in the next few minutes. If we go charging in there, we could start a stink that could put us back on the beat.’

‘But suppose Gregg is our man?’ Jacoby said. ‘Suppose Gregg kills him? We’d better do something.’

‘Yeah.’ Lepski straightened. ‘I’ll handle this, Max. You stay right here.’ He took out his .38 police special. ‘If there’s trouble, I’ll fire a shot, and you come running. Okay?’

‘What’s your idea?’

‘I’ll say I’m checking on this goddam golf ball jacket again,’ Lepski said, then leaving Jacoby, he walked swiftly across the lawn and to the front entrance of the villa. He returned his gun to its holster and leaving his jacket open so he could grab his gun, he thumbed the doorbell.

As Crispin moved towards Ken, his eyes glittering, the bell of the telephone standing on his desk began ringing.

The sound brought Crispin to an abrupt halt. He pointed to a chair away from the door.

‘Sit down a moment, Mr. Brandon.’ The edge to his voice and his expression was such that Ken, now thoroughly frightened, hurriedly sat down.

Not turning his back to Ken, Crispin moved to the desk and lifted the receiver.

‘Yes? Who is it?’

‘Sergeant Beigler. City police. Is that Mr. Gregg?’ Watching, Ken saw Crispin’s face turn into a snarling mask.

‘Yes. What is it?’

‘You are wanted at the Paradise hospital, Mr. Gregg. I’m sorry to tell you there has been an accident.’

‘My mother?’

‘Yes, sir. Apparently she lost control of her car and hit a truck.’

‘Is she badly hurt?’ Crispin asked eagerly.

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

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

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

Regarding him with horror, Ken got to his feet.

‘I must go, Mr. Gregg.’

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

Ken gulped, then nodded.

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

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

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

Crispin’s smile turned evil.

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

Regarding this man, Ken knew he was in deadly danger. He walked across the room to the door indicated, then he heard, somewhere in the villa, the sound of the front door bell. He paused and looked quickly at Crispin.

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

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

The bell rang again.

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

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

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

‘No one’s answering,’ Lepski said.

‘Bust in the door?’

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

Then suddenly the door was flung open and they were confronted by a tall, coloured woman, her face contorted with terror, her big eyes rolling. She put her hand to her mouth, sighing to the two gaping detectives to keep silent. Frantically, she beckoned them in. Such was her terror, both Lepski and Jacoby drew their guns as they followed her into the lobby.

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

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

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

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

‘Upstairs,’ Jacoby whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crispin continued to smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lepski brightened.

‘How about the Chief?’

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

Lepski grinned.

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

Jacoby beamed.

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

‘And Brandon?’

‘He’s getting the reward.’

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

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

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

‘Oh, Tom, darling!’

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

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

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

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

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

Carroll sat by the bed and took his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh, Tom! I really thought...’

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

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