1979 - You Must Be Kidding (9 page)

‘Mr. Brandon, this button was found a few yards from the murder scene,’ Lepski said. ‘It’s an unusual button. We have been checking. Four men, including yourself, bought a jacket from Levine with buttons like this one. We have to check. Have you a jacket with this kind of button?’

Ken moistened his dry lips.

‘Yes.’

‘Can I see the jacket?’

Ken thought, if there is a button missing!

‘I’ll get it.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Brandon,’ and as Ken went down the corridor to the bedroom, Lepski winked at Jacoby. ‘He’s our guy,’ he said under his breath.

Opening the closet door in his bedroom, Ken took out the jacket. Feverishly, he checked the buttons, then drew in a long deep breath of relief. No buttons missing! He stood for a minute or so, forcing himself to relax, then he walked back to the lounge and handed the jacket to Lepski.

‘There are no buttons missing,’ he said, his voice much more in control.

Lepski checked the jacket. He was too good a detective to show his disappointment.

‘Fine, Mr. Brandon. We have to check these things out. Sorry to have troubled you.’

Ken nodded, feeling a surge of relief.

‘Of course.’

Lepski gave him his cop stare.

‘This girl was killed last night around eight and ten. Where were you at that time, Mr. Brandon?’

Panic again gripped Ken.

‘Eight and ten last night?’ he repeated to gain time. He had to lie. He couldn’t tell this hard faced cop that he was with Karen. He had to protect her and himself.

‘That’s what I asked,’ Lepski said, knowing Brandon was thinking up a lie.

‘I was home,’ Ken said. ‘I should have been at my sister-in-law’s wedding anniversary, but my car broke down. I called my brother-in-law and explained.’

‘What time did you call your brother-in-law, Mr. Brandon?’

‘Just after eight. No, it was nearer half past eight.’

‘Could I have your brother-in-law’s name?’

‘Jack Fresby, the corporation lawyer.’

‘Yeah, I know him,’ Lepski said. ‘You stayed home the rest of the evening?’

‘I was here when my wife returned just after midnight.’

Lepski again stared at him, then nodded.

‘Okay. Sorry to have troubled you.’ Lepski gave him his wolfish smile and left.

As he got into his car, he said to Jacoby, ‘He was lying his head off.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Jacoby said. ‘Did you imagine he would tell you he was with the Sternwood girl?’

‘He could have seen the killer. I’ll talk to him again.’ He started the engine. ‘Let’s go talk to Mrs. Gregg . . .could be fun.’

After a ten minute drive, they arrived on Acacia Drive where the retired rich lived. On rising ground, at the back of the City, all the villas had a direct view of the distant sea and beach. Each villa was individually designed. All of them had at least an acre of garden, hidden from view by ten foot high hedges. Silence reigned over Acacia Drive.

The owners were enormously wealthy and old. There were no sounds of transistors: no shouts from the young.

‘Like a goddam graveyard,’ Lepski said, as he drove along the sand-strewn road, looking for Mrs. Gregg’s villa.

He found the villa at the far end of the road. Pulling up, he and Jacoby got out and surveyed the massive oak, nailed lidded gates that hid the villa.

‘The way these old farts live,’ Lepski snorted, and shoving open one of the gates, he peered at the immaculate garden, ablaze with flowers, then looked at the two storey villa, painted white and blue, that stood at the end of the drive.

The two detectives walked up the drive and paused before the white painted front door. Lepski thumbed the bell, then paused to look right and left. To his right he saw a big swimming pool. To his left a four car garage. One of the garages contained a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. The other three garage doors were closed.

The evening sun was hot. They waited for some minutes, then Lepski, muttering under his breath, rang again.

The door swung open, and they were confronted by the very thing Lepski had seen out of a horror movie. Here was a tall, emaciated looking man, dressed in black, wearing a wasp waistcoat, black and yellow stripes, with the dignity of an Archbishop.

Lepski gaped at him.

Around seventy years of age, this man had a long, yellow complexioned face, his thinning hair was snow white, his eyes were as expressionless as sea washed pebbles. His lips were paper thin. As he regarded Lepski, his shaggy eyebrows lifted.

‘Mrs. Gregg,’ Lepski said in his cop voice.

‘Mrs. Gregg doesn’t receive at this hour, sir,’ the man said in a voice that could have come from the grave.

‘She’ll see me,’ Lepski said and flashed his badge. ‘Police.’

‘Mrs. Gregg has retired to bed. May I suggest you return tomorrow at eleven o’clock?’

Lepski leaned against the door portal.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I am Reynolds, sir. I am Mrs. Gregg’s butler.’

‘Maybe we don’t have to disturb Mrs. Gregg,’ Lepski said. ‘We are investigating a murder.’ He took the golf ball button from his pocket and showed it to Reynolds. ‘Recognize this?’

Reynolds regarded the button, his face expressionless.

‘I have seen a similar button. The late Mr. Gregg had a jacket with golf ball buttons.’

‘What happened to the jacket?’

‘I had the unhappy task of getting rid of all Mr. Gregg’s clothes,’ Reynolds said. ‘He had a large wardrobe. Madam asked me to get rid of them at his death.’

‘Including the golf ball jacket?’

Watching him, Lepski saw the grey eyes shift.

‘Yes.’

Lepski pulled at his nose, sensing that this man was lying.

‘What did you do with the jacket?’

‘Among many things, I sent it to the Salvation Army.’

Lepski stared at him for a long moment.

‘When was this?’

‘Two weeks after Mr. Gregg’s death. Sometime in January.’

‘Did you notice that a button was missing on the jacket?’

Again the grey eyes shifted.

‘No, I didn’t notice.’

‘This button was found within a few yards of the murder scene,’ Lepski said. ‘Are you quite sure the button wasn’t missing when you gave the jacket to the Salvation Army?’

‘I think I would have noticed it, sir, but I didn’t examine the jacket closely. I just gave it away with Mr. Gregg’s other clothes.’

Lepski looked at Jacoby and shrugged.

‘Thank you. I don’t think we need bother Mrs. Gregg.’

Reynolds inclined his head, stepped back and closed the door.

As the two detectives walked back to their car, Lepski said, ‘I’ve got a feeling old Dracula was lying.’

‘He sure looked shifty.’

‘You check the S.A. tomorrow, Max. That jacket could be remembered.’

They got in the car and headed back to headquarters.

Jacoby said suddenly, ‘I’ve an idea. With a jacket like that, and these special buttons, a class tailor like Levine would provide a spare set. What do you think?’

‘You’ve got something. Yeah.’

Back at their desks in the detectives’ room, Lepski hunted up Levine’s home telephone number and called him. After talking to Levine, he said, ‘Thanks a lot. Sorry to have troubled you,’ and hung up. He grimaced at Jacoby. ‘Every jacket had a duplicate set of buttons. So that puts us back to square A! I’m beginning to love this goddam case! So, what have we got? Macree is out. He is still in New York. Bentley has a cast iron alibi. So that leaves us with Brandon and the Salvation Army. I still fancy Brandon. So, tomorrow, you check the S.A. and I’ll check Brandon’s duplicate buttons. If there is one missing, I’ll turn on the heat.’ He looked at his watch. The time was just after 22.00. ‘I’m going home. Carroll will be flipping her lid.’

‘Why didn’t you telephone that you would be so late?’

Carroll demanded when Lepski entered his home.

‘What’s to eat?’ he demanded, stamping into the lounge.

‘It must be spoilt now. I have already eaten.’

Lepski made a noise like a ship’s siren.

‘I’ve been working my ass off all day, and now you tell me I have nothing to eat!’

‘Don’t be vulgar, Lepski. Sit down, and I’ll get you your dinner.’

Lepski beamed. He passed his hand over his wife’s behind.

‘That’s talking! What have I got?’

‘Keep your hands off me! There’s a time and a place for everything. Sit down!’

Lepski took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and sat down. In a few minutes, Carroll put a casserole on the table. It was her usual disaster, but Lepski was hungry. He poked around with a fork at the contents of the casserole, sighed, then forked an overcooked lump of meat onto his plate. Somehow, the potatoes, carrots and onions were scarcely cooked.

He began to saw up the meat while Carroll sat by his side. He took a mouthful and began to chew.

‘There’s brandy and wine in this stew,’ Carroll said. ‘How do you like it?’

‘Could be nourishing,’ Lepski said manfully. ‘The gravy is fine. What’s the meat . . . goat?’

Carroll bridled. Any form of criticism was fighting talk to her.

‘I’ll have you know Lepski, it is the best neck of lamb!’

Lepski continued to chew.

‘That’s right?’ He swallowed, then began to saw up a potato. It flew off his plate and landed on the floor.

‘Lepski! You are a disgusting eater!’ Carroll said. ‘The trouble with you is you try to bolt your food. Cut everything up in small pieces. Take time! Decent eaters enjoy their food slowly.’

‘Where’s the fancy meat mincer I bought you?’ Lepski asked, ‘Let’s screw it on the table and give this lot the works.’

Carroll stared at him.

‘You need to see your dentist, Lepski,’ and getting up, she walked over to the T.V. set and turned it on.

Lepski moaned softly and began sawing the meat into tiny pieces.

Carroll usually had the last word.

four

A
melia Gregg, stood, hidden, behind the half open door of the lounge and listened to what Reynolds was saying to these two detectives who had arrived so unexpectedly.

Amelia Gregg was a tall, heavily built woman in her late fifties. Her thick hair was dyed as black as a raven’s wing.

Her round, heavy face could have been chiseled out of stone. Her large black eyes, her short nose and her thin lips indicated ruthless arrogance.

Listening, she flinched when she heard one of the detectives ask about the golf ball jacket, and she flinched again when she heard Reynolds say the jacket had been given to the Salvation Army. The jacket, stained with blood, was at this moment in the basement boiler room, together with her son’s bloodstained grey slacks and blood spattered shoes.

Moving from the door to the window, she watched the two detectives walk down the drive, then her hand on her floppy bosom, she sat down heavily in a lounging chair.

Since her husband had died in the car crash, some months ago, her life had been completely and unbelievably disrupted.

To her shocked rage, her husband had willed his entire estate to their son, Crispin. To prevent litigation, he had cunningly instructed his son to pay his mother any sums of money which Crispin considered her to be worth.

In a
To Be Read After My Death
letter, given her by Gregg’s attorney after the car crash, Gregg had taken revenge for the misery she had inflicted on him during their twenty seven years of marriage.

He had written:

Amelia,

There are only two things in your life that have any
meaning for you: the complete domination of our son, and
money. Since Crispin was born, you have regarded me
merely as a bank account, and nothing else. I know that
our son has inherited your ruthless greed so I have decided
to leave him my entire estate in the hope he will deal with
you as you have dealt with me. There is no way that you
can revoke my will. Should Crispin die, the entire estate
goes to the Cancer Research Institute, and you will receive
an income of ten thousand dollars a year.

You will discover that when Crispin realizes he is no
longer dependent on you, he will show his true colours as
you did to me.

When you read this, I will be dead, but Crispin will be
very much alive. Tread carefully, Amelia. He will be a
hard taskmaster, and this thought gratifies me. You have
been so selfishly obsessed with your power over our son
that you have failed to realize that Crispin is not as other
men. You will discover the truth of this when he comes
into my money.

Cyrus Gregg.

When Amelia read this letter, she burst out laughing.

What drivel this old fool had written!

Independent? Crispin? Again she laughed. Crispin was totally dependent on her, and always would be. She had controlled him for more than twenty years with rigid discipline. She hadn’t allowed him to go to a school or to a university. He had been educated at home by expensive tutors. The idea of Crispin mixing with immoral, vicious, drug-taking youthful troublemakers was not to be considered.

At an early age, Crispin had shown a remarkable talent for painting in oils. This she encouraged as, working in a specially constructed studio on the top floor of the enormous house, she was able to be constantly in touch with him.

She was unable to understand nor to appreciate his strange, wild paintings. His skies were black, his moons were scarlet and his seas were orange. An art expert who she had consulted had spent some time examining dozens of Crispin’s landscapes. Because of the big fee that Amelia paid him, he had guardedly said that Crispin had an unusual talent, but he refrained from saying that, in his opinion, these landscapes, in spite of considerable talent, revealed a diseased mind.

What was this drivel that Crispin was not as other men?

Again she laughed.
Not as other men!
She knew that! He was a great artist, and he was her son! Of course, he wasn’t like other men!