‘The boiler room?’ Amelia stared at him, then seeing his white, sweating face, she felt a stab of fear. ‘What is it?’
‘Please, madam, please come,’ and he turned and began walking down the corridor. After a moment’s hesitation, now feeling dread, Amelia followed him down the stairs and into the boiler room.
‘Look, madam,’ Reynolds whispered and pointed..
Amelia regarded the heap of clothes lying by the furnace. She recognized her husband’s golf ball jacket which Crispin had taken a liking to and often wore, also Crispin’s grey slacks, his blue and white check shirt and his suede shoes. She stared with mounting horror at the unmistakable bloodstains. There was a sheet of paper pinned to the jacket. In Crispin’s artistic writing was the message:
Destroy these clothes immediately.
They looked at each other, then Amelia turned and stumbled up the stairs and back into the lounge. Reynolds hurried into his room and poured himself a vast Scotch. He swallowed the drink, then went unsteadily to the lounge.
Amelia was staring transfixed at the T.V. screen. Pete Hamilton was talking. Like statues, Amelia and Reynolds listened to Hamilton’s lurid description of the finding of Janie Bandler’s mutilated body.
‘Someone must be shielding this maniac,’ he concluded. ‘His clothes must be heavily blood stained.’ To Amelia, Hamilton seemed to be staring directly at her. ‘I earnestly ask whoever it is who is giving this dangerous maniac sanctuary — whether wife, mother, father or friend — to communicate immediately with the police. This vicious maniac could strike again! Until he is apprehended, no woman in our city is safe.’
Shaking, Reynolds turned off the set.
‘I don’t believe it!’ Amelia moaned. ‘God! If Crispin did this! No! He would never do such a thing!’ Then she recalled those dreadful paintings in Crispin’s studio, and she shuddered. ‘Reynolds! We must say nothing! If he has done this dreadful thing, I couldn’t face the disgrace! My friends! They would all desert me! What would my life become? I won’t believe it!’ Then stiffening, she looked wildly at Reynolds. ‘Get rid of those clothes! Burn them! Do it now!’
It was at this moment that Lepski and Jacoby arrived.
The following morning, Max Jacoby called on Mr. Levine, the tailor and borrowed one of his golf ball button jackets. He then drove to the Salvation Army depot and talked to Jim Craddock who was in charge of distributing the many gifts sent in by the city’s rich.
Craddock was emphatic that the jacket had not been sent with Cyrus Gregg’s other clothes.
‘I would have remembered a jacket like this,’ he said. ‘No. I didn’t receive it.’
‘This is important, Mr. Craddock,’ Jacoby said. ‘Are you absolutely certain this jacket wasn’t among Mr. Gregg’s clothes?’
Craddock nodded.
‘I am absolutely certain Mr. Gregg’s clothes were so good, I sold them to a clothes dealer and the money went to our fund. They were far too good to give away, and this jacket was not among them.’
While this was going on, Lepski drove to Ken Brandon’s home. He arrived at 08.15.
Ken was preparing to go to the office. Surprised at the long ring on his front door bell, he opened the door to find Lepski.
Panic again gripped him. Ken had imagined since no buttons were missing on his jacket, Lepski would no longer bother him.
‘Morning, Mr. Brandon,’ Lepski said in his cop voice. ‘I’ve been checking on these buttons. Mr. Levine tells me he supplied a duplicate set with every jacket. I would like to check the duplicate set you have.’
The blood receded from Ken’s face.
‘Duplicate buttons?’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I don’t remember Levine giving me a duplicate set.’
‘He says he did!’ Lepski barked.
‘My wife looks after that kind of things She’s in Atlanta right now. Her father has had a heart attack. She would know. I’ve got to get to work. When I return home I’ll look, but I don’t remember any duplicates.’
‘This is important, Mr. Brandon. Will you look and let me know?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘I’m checking all duplicate buttons. Levine is sure he gave you a set,’ Lepski went on. ‘I’ve checked all the other owners of these buttons and none of the buttons are missing. That leaves you, Mr. Brandon, so let me know.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Ken said. ‘I’ll call you if I find them.’
As soon as Lepski had driven away, Ken went into the living room. Betty kept a big button box. She never discarded anything that might prove useful. His heart hammering, Ken found the box and lifted the lid. Some three hundred assorted buttons were in the box. He turned cold as he saw one of the golf ball buttons among the other buttons. So Levine had given him a duplicate set!
Leaving the box on the settee, he ran into his bedroom and took the jacket from the closet. How he now hated the sight of it! He counted the buttons: three on each sleeve, three on the front: nine buttons! Tossing the jacket on the bed, he returned to the living room and began to hunt through the various buttons. He unearthed eight of the golf ball buttons. One missing! Grabbing hold of the box, he upended it, pouring the various buttons on the carpet. Feverishly, he searched, but couldn’t find the missing button.
He sat back on his heels, staring at the mass of buttons spread out before him.
Jesus! One missing!
If he told Lepski that one of these goddamn buttons was missing, there would be an inquiry. He might even be suspected of killing this girl! Even if the police didn’t arrest him for murder, he would be forced to tell them of his affair with Karen. He shut his eyes, thinking now only of Betty.
With shaking hands, he gathered up the buttons and returned them to the box, then he put the box back on the shelf. He looked at the eight buttons on the settee. He must get rid of them, he told himself. He would swear that Levine had never given him a duplicate set. It would be Levine’s word against his! He would have to tell Betty in case the police asked her, and she must support his lie! But what was he to tell Betty? He had to think of some lie to convince her. He tried to think, then the Swiss clock in the lobby chimed nine. He was already late for the office. A lie must come that would convince Betty, he told himself, without hope. Then putting the golf ball buttons in his pocket, he locked the front door and drove to Secomb.
He wasn’t to know that as soon as Lepski returned to his desk, he called the Atlanta police. Betty’s father, who handled many of the city’s court cases in the past, was well known.
‘Mrs. Betty Brandon,’ the desk sergeant said. ‘Sure... she’s Mr. Lacey’s daughter. He’s a good friend of ours. He’s pretty sick right now... heart. Mrs. Brandon is with him.’
‘I need a word with her,’ Lepski said. ‘Let me have the telephone number.’
‘Something wrong?’
‘No... just routine,’ Lepski said airily.
The desk sergeant gave him the number.
‘Don’t bother her unless you have to,’ he said. ‘Mr. Lacey is real bad.’
Lepski grunted, hung up and dialled the number. In a matter of minutes, he was talking to Betty.
‘Mrs. Brandon, I’m sorry to trouble you at this time,’ he said, ‘but we are trying to trace a set of golf ball buttons. I understand Mr. Brandon has a jacket with golf ball buttons. I’ve already talked to him. He can’t remember if there was a duplicate set of buttons with the jacket. He said you would know.’
Betty had been up all night coping with her parents. Her father seemed to be sinking and her mother was hysterical with grief. This call from the Paradise City police was the last thing she wanted.
‘There is a duplicate set,’ she said curtly. ‘What is all this about?’