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
Amelia 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.