1979 - You Must Be Kidding (17 page)

‘Yeah. So you saw the jacket pass . . . who was wearing it?’

‘A tall, doll of a man, you know?’

Lepski reached for his scratch pad.

‘Tell me about him, Doroles. Give me a description.’

She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another.

‘I didn’t see his face, Mr. Detective. What with this cheapie and Jamie wanting to get to a tree, you know?’

Lepski refrained from crumpling up the pad and throwing it across the room.

‘Let’s take this step by step,’ he said in a low, strangulated voice. ‘A man walked by, and you saw he was wearing the golf ball jacket . . . right?’

‘That’s absolutely correct.’

‘This was around lunchtime of the fifth?’

She nodded.

‘You didn’t see this man’s face, but you saw something of him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. This is important, Doroles. Was he tall, medium, short?’

‘He was tall. I like tall men. Short men, to me, are a drag, you know?’

‘So he was tall.’ Lepski stood up. ‘As tall as I am?’

She surveyed him as a butcher surveys a prime side of beef.

‘Even taller: not much, but taller.’

Lepski sat down again.

‘Was he heavily built, thin, normal, fat?’

‘He had wide shoulders. I noticed that. I like men with wide shoulders, tapering away to slim hips. He had that.’

‘Did he wear a hat?’

‘No. I liked the look of his hair: fair, you know? Really fair: call it corn and cut close. I get bored with guys with long hair.’

‘Doroles, you saw a man with corn coloured hair, tall, broad shouldered and around six foot tall . . . right?’

‘Absolutely correct, Mr. Detective.’

‘What else did you notice about him?’

‘He was wearing light blue slacks. They went well with the jacket, you know? And he wore Gucci shoes. I notice shoes, and I think Gucci’s shoes are a real ball.’ She again shifted, and her breasts again did a little jig.

Lepski released a soft sigh. It wasn’t fair for any detective to talk to her, he thought.

‘How did he walk?’

‘Well, he walked, you know? Like a man who knows where he is going . . . big strides.’

‘He didn’t limp?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Doroles, this is important. This is the first lead we have to the man who killed Janie Bandler and Lu Boone. You’ve read about that, huh?’

‘That’s why I’m here. I always listen to Pete Hamilton when I’m not busy. He’s a doll.’

Lepski had other names to describe Hamilton, but this wasn’t the time.

‘We want as much information about this man you saw as you can give us. What else did you notice about him?’

She thought as she stubbed out her cigarette. She thought as she lit another.

‘His hands!’ She surveyed Lepski, giving him her sexy smile. ‘Hands mean a lot to me, Mr. Detective, you know? I have men friends, you know? Their hands . . . well, you know?’

Lepski nodded. He could well imagine a man’s hands were important to a high price hooker.

‘So, I noticed his hands as he passed. They were artistic: long fingers, the hands of an artist: a painter, you know?’

‘He could have been a surgeon, something like that, couldn’t he?’

‘Maybe. He had artistic hands.’

‘From your description, it sounds to me as if he is in the money.’

Doroles wrinkled her pretty nose.

‘He could be one of these cheapies who live on expenses, you know? No money, big deal, but charging everything on credit cards for whoever he works for to pick up. There was a cheapie who actually wanted to pay me by credit card . . . can you imagine?’

‘Yeah. Well, let’s see if we can get something more.’

‘I’d like you to hurry it, Mr. Detective. I guess by now, Jamie wants to visit a tree.’

But after asking more questions, Lepski decided she had nothing else of importance to tell him.

‘Well, that’s fine, Doroles. You’ve been a great help. If you saw the back of this guy, would you recognize him?’

‘Sure, I would.’

‘Even if he wasn’t wearing the jacket?’

Doroles nodded, then got to her feet. Her whole body gave a little dance. Jacoby who hadn’t taken his eyes off her, caught his breath in a despairing sigh.

‘One thing,’ Lepski said as he stood up, ‘say nothing to anyone about what you have told me. This is important. Up to now, you’re the only one out of hundreds who has given us constructive information. This man is dangerous. If it got around you could recognize him . . . you dig?’

Her big black eyes widened.

‘You think he would come after me?’

‘He could.’

‘You think he would cut me up like that poor girl?’

‘He could.’

‘I hope you get him fast, Mr. Detective. I won’t feel safe until you do.’

‘Just say nothing.’

‘Do you think I should have a bodyguard?’

Jacoby half started out of his chair, then meeting Lepski’s scowl, he sat down again.

‘If the Chief thinks you should have a bodyguard, I’ll fix it,’ Lepski said.

‘Bye for now.’ She flashed him a smile, flashed another to Jacoby, then flowed out of the room.

Jacoby wiped his hands on his handkerchief.

‘What did she say her address was?’

‘A minimum of two hundred dollars,’ Lepski said. ‘Be your age, Max. Since when has a third grade cop have two hundred bucks to spend on a hooker?’ He gathered up his notes and went into Terrell’s office.

* * *

Reynolds switched off the Pete Hamilton’s ten o’clock programme and looked hesitantly at Amelia who sat in a fat heap in her chair. They had listened to the details of Lu Boone’s killing. Hamilton, who liked to shock, had spared no details. He described the severed head and the horrifying mutilations of the body.

‘There can be no doubt that this homicidal maniac is still in the city,’ he concluded. ‘Be on your guard. No one is safe until he is apprehended. You might well ask what the police are doing!’

‘I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it!’ Amelia exclaimed wildly. ‘Crispin wouldn’t. . . ’

‘I think a little brandy, madam,’ Reynolds said.

‘Yes. . .’

As he moved unsteadily to the liquor cabinet, through the window, he saw Crispin walk briskly to the Rolls. Crispin was on his way to the Kendriek Gallery.

‘He is leaving, madam,’ Reynolds said as he watched the Rolls drive away.

‘Go to his studio!’ Amelia said. ‘Look!’

But first, Reynolds went to his room, poured himself a treble Scotch, swallowed it, then paused until the spirit steadied him. Then finding the length of wire to pick the lock on Crispin’s apartment door, he slowly climbed the stairs.

Amelia sat and waited. She was sure that Crispin had committed another gruesome murder. She could be wrong, she told herself desperately. This time there were no blood stained clothes to get rid of. She laid a fat hand against her floppy bosom, feeling her heart thumping. He must have done it! She closed her eyes. The disgrace! Her life would come to an end! Who would want to entertain the mother of such a monster? This evening, she had been invited to join a party at the Spanish Bay hotel restaurant in honour of the French ambassador. This was her life! But who would ever invite her again to such dinners if it became known that her son was a homicidal lunatic?

She heard a sound and looked towards the door. Reynolds stood there, his face as white as cold mutton fat, sweat on his forehead. They looked at each other, then he nodded.

‘What?’ Amelia exclaimed, leaning forward. ‘Don’t nod at me! What?’

‘He is painting the head of a man, madam,’ Reynolds said, his voice a half whisper. ‘A severed head in blood.’

Although she had been sure, what Reynolds had said was like a blow in her face. She sank back, closing her eyes.

‘Brandy, Reynolds!’

He went slowly to the liquor cabinet and picked up a glass. As he reached for the cognac, the glass slipped from his shaking hand and dropped onto the carpet.

‘Reynolds!’ Amelia screamed.

‘Yes, madam.’

He found another glass, slopped spirit into it, then brought it to her. She seized the glass and drank.

‘Madam. . .’

‘Don’t talk to me. Understand, Reynolds? We know nothing! Go about your work!’

‘He could continue, madam.’

‘Who are these people? Who cares?’ Amelia’s voice was shrill. ‘A whore! A hippy! Who cares?’

‘But, madam. . .

‘We know nothing!’ Amelia screamed at him. ‘Do you want to lose your job? Do you imagine I want to be thrown out of my home? It is not our business! We know nothing!’

Reynolds saw the terrifying vision of himself out of work with no more unlimited supply of Scotch. He hesitated, then felt impelled to issue a warning.

‘Madam, he is very dangerous. He just might attack you.’ He refrained from adding that Crispin might also attack him.

‘Attack me? I am his mother! Stop drivelling, and go about your work! We know nothing!’

* * *

Terrell sat at his desk. Hess, Beigler and Lepski occupied chairs. All men were sipping coffee which Charlie Tanner had brought in.

‘We are getting nearer to this mad man,’ Terrell said. ‘This is our first important break: the fourth jacket. The other three owners don’t match up with this description.’

He looked at Lepski. ‘This girl satisfied you she knew what she was talking about?’

‘Yeah,’ Lepski said. ‘She knew.’

‘So this must be the jacket Mrs. Gregg gave away to the Salvation Army. This is the jacket we want to trace.’ Terrell paused to light his pipe. ‘But according to the description of this man, he wasn’t on the end of a handout from the S.A. A man who can afford Gucci shoes could afford to buy his own jacket . . . right?’

‘We have a load of phonies living here,’ Hess said.

‘Guys who haven’t a dime. Gigolos, stags, con men: you name them, we have them, all battening on the rich, trying for the fast buck, and these guys have to keep up an appearance. Could be this guy spotted the jacket on the S.A. truck and either stole it or offered a five spot for it. Maybe he got his Gucci shoes either by stealing them or from a clothes dealer at a knock down price.’

Terrell nodded.

‘Could be. So okay, let’s check the clothes dealers. Tom, you get it organized. We want to know if any dealer has sold a pair of Gucci shoes and to whom.’

At this moment Dusty Lucas came in.

‘Chief, I think I’ve got something,’ he said excitedly.

‘I’ve been checking on those two S.A. collectors. I’ve got the truck driver here—Joe Heinie. His father is Syd Heinie who runs a used clothes store in Secomb. I went to this guy’s home and caught him unloading a bundle of clothes off the S.A. truck. He’s admitted he passes some of the clothes they collect to his father to sell.’

Hess got to his feet.

‘I’ll handle him, Chief.’

Joe Heinie was sitting on a bench the other side of the barrier with a patrolman standing over him. He was around twenty-eight, tall, thin with a mop of dirty black hair and a sullen expression on his badly shaven face.

Hess and Lepski sat him down in front of a desk, then with Lepski hovering near him, Hess sat down, facing him.

‘You could be in trouble, Joe,’ Hess said.

Heinie looked up and sneered.

‘Trouble? You’re crazy! What trouble? These goddamn clothes are given away . . . right?’

‘They are given to the Salvation Army. You have no right to take them for yourself,’ Hess snapped.

‘Yeah? What does the S.A. do with them? They give them away. So what’s wrong in giving a few to my father? What’s the difference?’

‘How long have you been doing this?’

‘Six months . . . I don’t remember. Who cares?’

‘You’ll care, Joe. You have been stealing clothes from the Salvation Army. Could get you three months.’

Heinie sneered again.

‘Yeah? You can’t pin a charge on me. I know my rights.

Some fink gives me clothes. He
gives
them to me . . . right? Okay, so I pick out a few items and give them to my father . . . right? Then I give the rest to the S.A.’ He leaned forward and jabbing his finger in Hess’s direction, he went on, ‘The clothes are not the S.A.’s property until I deliver them . . .right?’

‘The clothes are the property of the S.A. the moment you put them in the S.A.’s truck,’ Hess said, looking smug.

Heinie’s sneer deepened.

‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘but the goddam truck is mine! I help the S.A. voluntarily. I pay for the gas and the insurance. So, I’m entitled to give my old man some clothes to pay my expenses . . . right?’

Hess breathed heavily.

‘Never mind,’ he said, realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Heinie. ‘We are interested in this blue jacket with golf ball buttons. Did you give such a jacket to your father?’

‘How should I know?’ Heinie demanded. ‘I don’t examine everything I give my old man. I give him a bundle, and he picks what he can sell, then gives the rest back to me, and I give them to the S.A.’

Hess looked at Lepski.

‘Check with his father,’ he said.

As Lepski left, he heard Heinie say, ‘So I’m not in trouble, huh? I can’t afford the time to sit around chewing the fat with you. . .’

‘A real smart ass,’ Lepski thought as he hurried to his car. He drove fast to Secomb.

Syd Heinie was tall like his son, with hard little eyes and a rattrap of a mouth. His store was crammed with discarded clothing. When Lepski strode in, Heinie was measuring a fat black for a pair of trousers.

Lepski moved restlessly around until the purchase was made, then Heinie came to him. He surveyed Lepski, and instinctively knew he was a cop. He smiled, but his eyes hardened.

Lepski flashed his shield, and in his cop voice, said, ‘We are looking for a blue jacket with white golf ball buttons. Have you had such a jacket through your hands?’

Heinie put the stub of a pencil in his right ear, twisted it, removed it and flicked off a piece of wax.

‘I can’t say I have,’ he said. ‘With white golf ball buttons?’

Lepski restrained his impatience with an effort.

‘Yeah.’

Heinie dug the pencil stub into his left ear, twisted it, removed it and flicked more wax.