James Chase - You Must Be Kidding

‘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.