James Chase - You Must Be Kidding

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?