James Chase - You Must Be Kidding

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You betcha,’ the camera man said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max shrugged.

‘It has to be, doesn’t it?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hey! Sounds terrific! Soon?’

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

Lepski blew out his cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carroll gave him a cold stare.

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

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

Carroll appeared in the doorway.

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

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

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

‘My Cutty Sark! It’s gone!’

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

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

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

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

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

‘That’s what she said.’

Lepski released a whistle that could have stopped a train.

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

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

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

Carroll suppressed a scream and dashed into the kitchen.

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

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

‘No chicken in mushroom and cream sauce?’

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

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

‘That’s for Sunday.’

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

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

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

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

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

The time was 23.00.

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