James Chase - You Must Be Kidding

‘You are looking pensive, mother,’ he said, came into the room and shut the door.

She shuddered at the sight of him, her fat little hands closing into flabby fists.

He sat in a chair, fingering the Suleiman pendant.

‘I am sure you have the same problem on your mind as I have. You will have to do without Reynolds. I am sorry for you, as I know you rely on him. We can no longer trust him. This reward will be too much of a temptation.’

Amelia tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

‘Don’t look so distressed, mother,’ Crispin said. ‘Leave it to me. It is unfortunate, but necessary for us both.’

Gasping, Amelia forced herself to say, ‘Crispin! What do you mean?’

Crispin smiled at her.

‘I intend to dispose of Reynolds. After all, why not? He is old, an alcoholic, and no one except you, will miss him.’

Amelia stared at her son in horror.

‘Dispose? What are you saying?’

‘Come, mother, please don’t be stupid!’ A sudden grating note came into Crispin’s voice that made Amelia cringe. ‘You know what I mean... dispose.’

Amelia leaned forward, clasping her hands and looking imploringly at her son.

‘Crispin, my son,’ she said, her voice trembling, ‘please listen to your mother who loves you. You must know you are ill. I beg you to consult someone. Dr. Raison can help you. I know he can! Please do confide in him.’

Crispin smiled an evil smile.

‘Is that old fool still alive? He put Uncle Martin away. What would happen to you if I were put away? Have you thought of that? Would you want it known that your son, like your uncle, was locked in a padded cell? How many of your friends would you have left?’ He watched her as she hid her face in her hands. ‘Leave this to me. There is nothing to worry about. I will find a replacement for Reynolds. After a few days, your life will continue as before.’ He stared at her, his eyes lighting up. ‘Say something... do you understand?’

At this moment, the telephone bell rang. Frowning, Crispin picked up the receiver.

‘Mr. Gregg?’

‘Who is it?’

‘Claude Kendriek of the Kendriek Gallery.’

A surge of excitement ran through Crispin.

‘You have news for me? You have sold my painting?’

‘It is about your painting, Mr. Gregg.’ Kendriek’s voice was hushed. ‘I have had a police officer here. He wanted to know who had painted your landscape.’

Crispin stiffened.

‘The police? Why should they be interested in my landscape?’

‘It is most extraordinary, Mr. Gregg,’ Kendriek said. ‘The police appear to think your painting is connected with these dreadful murders: this maniac killer. I can’t imagine why they think so, but they do. I have told them I don’t know the name of the artist, but they are pressing me. They will be here again tomorrow. Mr. Gregg! Do you have any objection to my telling them that you are the artist?’

Crispin’s face turned into a savage, snarling mask.

‘You tell the police nothing about me!’ he snarled. ‘When you took my painting, you agreed I was to remain anonymous. I hold you to that! If you say anything to the police about me, Kendriek, I will put you out of business!’ He slammed down the receiver.

Listening, Amelia closed her eyes and shuddered.

Now, the police!

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.’