1979 - You Must Be Kidding (23 page)

He took out his handkerchief and mopped his sweating face. He began to relax. Maybe, he told himself, no one was home. He felt a disappointed letdown. The dream of two hundred thousand dollars began to fade.

After waiting another long moment, he took a step back. Then almost relieved, he turned to walk back to his car. At this moment, the front door of the villa opened.

Watching, Lepski and Jacoby, concealed behind flowering shrubs, saw Ken start down the steps, pause and turn around. They saw the front door open, but that was all they could see. Ken, moving back to the top step, blotted out their view. All they could see was his broad back.

The first thing Ken saw was a pair of highly polished black Gucci shoes. Then looking up, he found himself confronted by a tall, blond man who was smiling at him.

Tall! Blond! Gucci shoes! This was the man the police were searching for! Ken’s mouth turned dry. His instincts screamed to him to turn and run, but he remained motionless, like a rabbit hypnotized by a stoat.

‘Yes?’ Crispin said, his voice gentle.

Ken pulled himself together.

‘Excuse me for disturbing you,’ he said. ‘Are you Mr. Gregg?’

‘That’s a nice jacket you are wearing,’ Crispin said. ‘My father had one just like that. What did you want?’

Ken licked his dry lips.

‘I am sure I am disturbing you. Some other time. I won’t bother you now.’

He took a step back, then paused as he found himself looking at an automatic pistol Crispin was pointing at him.

‘Do exactly what I tell you,’ Crispin said, an edge to his voice. ‘If you don’t want to be shot, come in.’

Although Ken had often read in newspapers and in detective stories of people held at gunpoint, it wasn’t until this moment, he understood the terror of a pointing gun.

Crispin moved back into the lobby.

‘Come in,’ he repeated.

Ken thought of the two detectives, hidden and watching.

Lepski had told him not to enter the villa, but the threatening gun gave him no alternative. Moving with leaden feet, he crossed the threshold and walked into the lobby.

‘Very wise of you,’ Crispin said. ‘Now shut the door.’

His heart pounding, Ken paused and looked down the drive, but saw nothing of the two detectives. He closed the door.

‘Now shoot the bolts,’ Crispin said.

Ken found two heavy bolts: one at the top of the door, the other at the bottom. His hand shaking, he did as he was told.

‘Now go upstairs,’ Crispin said.

Supporting his shaking legs by holding onto the banister rail, Ken mounted the stairs. Crispin followed him.

‘To your right,’ Crispin said. ‘Go in.’

Ken entered Crispin’s luxurious living room.

‘Sit down.’ The gun pointed to a chair, away from the picture window.

Ken sat down, resting his sweating hands on his knees.

Crispin perched himself on the edge of the big desk.

‘You must excuse the gun,’ he said. ‘I am nervous of being kidnapped. I always take precautions. Who are you?’

Maybe, Ken thought, this is going to work out all right.

He could understand a man of Gregg’s worth being nervous about being kidnapped.

‘My name is Brandon,’ he said, trying to steady his voice. ‘I represent the Paradise City Assurance. I’ve called to see if you would be interested in insuring your paintings. I assure you, Mr. Gregg, I am quite harmless.’

Crispin stared at him for a long moment.

‘Insure my paintings? How do you know I paint? Did Kendriek tell you?’

Again Ken felt a sick feeling of fear. Lepski had asked him to verify that Gregg was a painter. The fact that he was now saying he was, plus the description Lepski had given, told Ken this tall, blond man who was staring at him was without any doubt the lunatic killer who had so horribly murdered Karen Sternwood. He felt the blood drain out of his face.

Watching him, Crispin asked again, ‘Did Kendriek tell you?’

Ken had had business dealings with Kendriek, insuring some of Kendriek’s treasures.

‘In confidence, Mr. Gregg,’ he said, his voice husky, ‘Mr. Kendriek did mention you had valuable paintings.’

‘Yes, they are valuable.’ Crispin dropped the gun into his pocket. ‘Again, I apologize for scaring you, Mr. Brandon, but in these days, unknown callers can be dangerous.’

‘Of course.’ Ken again began to relax. ‘Would it interest you, Mr. Gregg for us to cover your paintings?’

‘Would they have to be valued?’

‘Not necessarily. You tell us what you think they are worth, and we will quote.’

‘Perhaps you would care to see some of my work, Mr. Brandon?’ Crispin said and stood up.

‘I am no judge,’ Ken said and got to his feet. ‘I won’t waste your time further, Mr. Gregg.’ His one thought now was to escape from the villa. ‘Just tell me approximately what you want us to cover your work for, and I will write to you, quoting premiums.’ He started moving towards the door.

‘It won’t take a moment,’ Crispin said. ‘I am working on a particularly interesting study. I must show it to you.’ As he stared at Ken, he fingered the Suleiman pendant, and he smiled.

‘I have another appointment,’ Ken said desperately.

‘Some other time, Mr. Gregg. Suppose I call and see you tomorrow? You can tell me the value of your paintings and I can quote you.’

As Ken opened the door,’ Crispin his opal coloured eyes suddenly alight, moved towards him.

* * *

Crouching behind the flowering shrubs, Lepski, with Jacoby by his side, watched Ken move forward and enter the villa.

‘The stupid jerk!’ Lepski exploded. ‘He’s gone in! I told him to stay outside! You heard me, didn’t you?’

‘I heard what you told him,’ Jacoby said, showing alarm. ‘So what are we going to do?’

Lepski wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand.

‘The stupid peabrain! I told him whatever he did, he was to stay on the doorstep, and not to go in!’

Staring at the villa, the two detectives saw the front door close.

‘So what are we going to do?’ Jacoby said.

‘What can we do? Could be Mrs. Gregg opened the door and Brandon felt he had to go in.’ Lepski shoved his hat to the back of his head in exasperation.

‘If Mrs. Gregg didn’t open the door: if the butler didn’t open the door but Gregg did, we’d better do something,’ Jacoby said. ‘Tom! I get the feeling this caper has turned sour.’

‘Just suppose Gregg isn’t our man,’ Lepski said feverishly. ‘Just suppose Brandon walks out in the next few minutes. If we go charging in there, we could start a stink that could put us back on the beat.’

‘But suppose Gregg is our man?’ Jacoby said. ‘Suppose Gregg kills him? We’d better do something.’

‘Yeah.’ Lepski straightened. ‘I’ll handle this, Max. You stay right here.’ He took out his .38 police special. ‘If there’s trouble, I’ll fire a shot, and you come running. Okay?’

‘What’s your idea?’

‘I’ll say I’m checking on this goddam golf ball jacket again,’ Lepski said, then leaving Jacoby, he walked swiftly across the lawn and to the front entrance of the villa. He returned his gun to its holster and leaving his jacket open so he could grab his gun, he thumbed the doorbell.

As Crispin moved towards Ken, his eyes glittering, the bell of the telephone standing on his desk began ringing.

The sound brought Crispin to an abrupt halt. He pointed to a chair away from the door.

‘Sit down a moment, Mr. Brandon.’ The edge to his voice and his expression was such that Ken, now thoroughly frightened, hurriedly sat down.

Not turning his back to Ken, Crispin moved to the desk and lifted the receiver.

‘Yes? Who is it?’

‘Sergeant Beigler. City police. Is that Mr. Gregg?’

Watching, Ken saw Crispin’s face turn into a snarling mask.

‘Yes. What is it?’

‘You are wanted at the Paradise hospital, Mr. Gregg. I’m sorry to tell you there has been an accident.’

‘My mother?’

‘Yes, sir. Apparently she lost control of her car and hit a truck.’

‘Is she badly hurt?’ Crispin asked eagerly.

‘I regret to tell you, sir, she died on arrival.’

A smile that sent a chill through Ken, played around Crispin’s lips.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Please notify Mr. Lewishon, my attorney. He will attend to the necessary formalities,’ and he hung up. He turned and grinned gleefully at Ken. ‘I have just had excellent news, Mr. Brandon. My mother has been killed in a road accident. At last, I am free of her!’

Regarding him with horror, Ken got to his feet.

‘I must go, Mr. Gregg.’

‘But first you must see my art.’ Crispin stared at Ken. ‘You knew Miss Karen Sternwood?’

Ken gulped, then nodded.

‘I am working on her portrait. It’s just a rough sketch, but I want your opinion.’

All Ken could think of was to get out and away from this madman.

‘Please excuse me, Mr. Gregg,’ he said, his voice a croak. ‘I just have to go now.’

Crispin’s smile turned evil.

‘I don’t want to get annoyed with you, Mr. Brandon,’ he said, fingering the Suleiman pendant. ‘I assure you I can be exceedingly unpleasant with people who annoy me.’ He waved to a door at the end of the room. ‘Go ahead, please.’

Regarding this man, Ken knew he was in deadly danger.

He walked across the room to the door indicated, then he heard, somewhere in the villa, the sound of the front door bell. He paused and looked quickly at Crispin.

Lepski? Ken thought. God! He hoped it was!

‘Now who could that be?’ Crispin said, half to himself. ‘Never mind. Whoever it is can’t get in. You bolted the door securely, didn’t you, Mr. Brandon? Now come along. I want you to see my sketch of this little whore.’ He regarded Ken. ‘She was a little whore, wasn’t she?’

The bell rang again.

‘Do what I tell you!’ Crispin snarled as he saw Ken hesitating. Shocked by the demoniacal expression on Crispin’s face, Ken opened the door and walked into the studio.

Standing before the front door, Lepski, in a slight panic that no one answered the bell, looked to right and left. All the windows of the downstairs rooms were barred.

Seeing there was no answer, Jacoby came out of the shrubs and joined Lepski.

‘No one’s answering,’ Lepski said.

‘Bust in the door?’

‘We can’t do that without a warrant,’ Lepski rang the bell again.

Then suddenly the door was flung open and they were confronted by a tall, coloured woman, her face contorted with terror, her big eyes rolling. She put her hand to her mouth, sighing to the two gaping detectives to keep silent.

Frantically, she beckoned them in. Such was her terror, both Lepski and Jacoby drew their guns as they followed her into the lobby.

With a stabbing motion, she pointed down the passage to a door at the far end, making a soft mumbling noise.

Signalling Jacoby to stay with the woman, Lepski went silently to the door and threw it open. What he saw in the room made him catch his breath.

Lying on a bed was the tattered and mutilated remains of a man Lepski scarcely recognized as the drunken butler, Reynolds. He saw Reynolds was beyond help, and his mind flashed to Brandon. Where was he?

Chrissy, moaning softly, was shaking Jacoby’s arm and pointing up the stairs, then with surprising strength, she pushed Jacoby out of her way and ran from the villa.

‘Upstairs,’ Jacoby whispered.

Lepski nodded and began to mount the stairs. Jacoby followed him. On the landing, Lepski paused. Jacoby went down on one knee, covering Lepski.

Through the door of the studio, Lepski heard Crispin say, ‘What do you think of it, Mr. Brandon? Have I caught her likeness?’ Ken scarcely looked at the sketch of Karen Sternwood that Crispin was holding up. He was staring with horror at the painting of Lu Boone’s head, at the gruesome painting of Janie Bandler and at the portrait of Mrs. Gregg. Then his eyes moved to the other sick canvasses lining the walls.

‘I see you are looking at my art,’ Crispin said, ‘but please concentrate. What do you think of my sketch of the little whore?’

Lepski nodded to Jacoby, then took four quick steps to the door, threw it open and shouted in his cop voice, ‘Stay still! Police!’ His gun covered Crispin.

Ken drew in a long, deep breath. He slowly backed to the door.

‘He has a gun in his pocket,’ he said breathlessly.

Crispin appeared to be completely relaxed. He raised his hands in a token of surrender.

‘Of course, Chrissy let you in. Stupid of me to have forgotten Chrissy.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, there is a gun in my pocket. It belonged to my father.’

‘Max, get it!’ Lepski snapped. ‘Stay still, Gregg.’

Jacoby moved around to the back of Crispin while Lepski kept him covered. Jacoby found the gun and stepped away.

Crispin continued to smile.

‘You two are badly paid detectives. You, Mr. Brandon, are a badly paid salesman,’ he said. ‘Let us make a deal. I offer two million dollars to be divided between the three of you and we will forget what has happened. What do you say?’

‘Money won’t buy you anything, Gregg! You have reached the end of your road,’ Lepski said.

‘Shall we make it three million?’ Crispin asked, still smiling.

Without taking his eyes off Crispin, Lepski said, ‘Max get homicide here and the meat wagon.’

As Jacoby moved to the telephone, Crispin waved his hand to his paintings.

‘What do you think of my art?’ he asked Lepski and he moved forward slowly. ‘I suppose people not used to modern art would think I was mad, but what do you think?’

Lepski’s eyes swept around the studio and what he saw not only sickened him but threw him off his guard, then he realized Crispin was very close to him.

‘Stay right where you are!’ he barked and lifted his gun.

‘Don’t be nervous of me,’ Crispin said, his opal coloured eyes lighting up. ‘I am unarmed,’ then still smiling, his finger pressed the ruby of the Suleiman pendant, and weaving forward, he struck as Lepski shot him.

* * *

Two days later, Max Jacoby sneaked into a private room at the Paradise Clinic where Lepski, feeling sorry for himself, lay in bewildered style.