James Chase - You Must Be Kidding

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?’