‘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.