Somewhat dazed by this reception, Lepski hesitated. Louis swished by him, opened a glass-covered case and produced a brooch set with lapis lazuli stones.
‘How your wife would love this, Detective Lepski!’ Louis said excitedly. ‘Regard it! An Italian antique of the sixteenth century! How her friends would envy her! It’s unique. To anyone else, I wouldn’t sell it under one thousand dollars! But for you: five hundred! Think of the joy it would give her!’
Lepski pulled himself together. He gave Louis his cop stare.
‘That picture in the window: the one with the red moon.’
Louis started and gaped, then quickly recovered himself.
‘How wise! How perceptive! Of course. Such a striking painting on your wall would constantly remind your beautiful wife of you!’
‘I don’t want to buy it,’ Lepski snarled, his temper rising. ‘I want to know who painted it.’
‘You don’t want to buy it?’ Louis said in faked amazement.
‘I want to know who painted it!’
Kendriek decided it was time for him to appear on the scene. He walked heavily into the gallery, looking a complete freak with his wig askew.
‘It can’t be!’ he exclaimed. ‘Surely, you are Detective 1st Grade Lepski.’ He advanced. ‘Welcome to my modest gallery. You are inquiring about the painting in our window?’
‘I’m asking who painted it!’ Lepski snapped.
‘Who painted it?’ Kendriek raised his eyebrows. ‘You are interested in modern art? How wise! You buy a painting today, and in a few years, you treble your outlay.’
Lepski made a noise like a fall of gravel.
‘This is police business. Who painted it?’
To give Kendriek time, Louis said, ‘He is referring to the painting with the red moon, cheri.’
Kendriek nodded, lifted his wig and set it further askew on his head.
‘Of course. Who painted it? Ah! Now you have raised a problem, Detective Lepski. I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean — you don’t know?’
‘If I remember rightly an artist left it with us to sell. Although the painting has certain talent, it has no great value. I thought it would be fun to put it in the window over the weekend. Saturday afternoons are good for the young trade. I would let it go for fifty dollars. It would be cheerful in a youngster’s room, don’t you think?’
‘Who was the artist?’ Lepski rasped.
Kendriek heaved a regretful sigh.
‘To the best of my knowledge he didn’t leave a name nor did he sign the painting. He said he would call back, but so far he hasn’t.’
‘When did he leave the painting with you?’
‘A few weeks ago. Time goes by so quickly. Do you remember, cheri?’ Kendriek smiled at Louis.
‘No.’ Louis shrugged indifferently.
‘What was this artist like? I want a description,’ Lepski said.
‘What was he like?’ Kendriek looked sad. ‘I didn’t deal with him. Do you remember, Louis?’
‘I didn’t deal with him either,’ Louis said with another indifferent shrug.
Lepski eyed the two and felt instinctively they were lying.
‘Then who saw him?’
‘One of my staff. Artists continually come in here with paintings. Sometimes, we take the painting. These paintings are put in our cellar and from time to time, I look at them, and select something for the window. I don’t know who actually dealt with this artist.’
‘This is police business,’ Lepski said. ‘We have reason to believe the man who painted this picture is connected with the killing of Janie Bandler and Lu Boone. I don’t have to tell you about them, do I?’
Kendriek felt his heart miss a beat, but he was a master at controlling his expression. He merely lifted his eyebrows.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Never mind that! I want a description of this man! He could be the homicidal killer.’
Kendriek thought of Crispin Gregg. He also remembered that Crispin owed him forty thousand dollars.
‘I will ask my staff, Detective Lepski. They are not here on Saturday. You understand? Young people must have a little time off from the chores of daily work. One of them could remember.’
Lepski shifted from one foot to the other. He was almost sure he was being contrived.
‘I’ll spell it out,’ he said. ‘We are looking for a man with fair hair, around six foot tall, with artistic hands. Last seen, he was wearing a blue jacket with white golf ball buttons, pale blue slacks and Gucci shoes. We have reason to believe this man is responsible for two savage, mad murders. He could strike again any time. Now, I’m asking you for the last time, do you know the man who painted that picture?’
Kendriek felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his fat back. Just for a moment, he flinched, and Lepski saw the flinch.
There was a pause while Kendriek’s quicksilver mind went into action. There had been something frightening in Crispin Gregg’s expression that even now haunted him. Could he be this killer? Suppose he was? Suppose he (Kendriek) gave information that led to his arrest? Forty thousand dollars gone phut! The Suleiman pendant could never be resold!
‘I had no idea how serious this is,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Detective Lepski! You can rely on me. On Monday, when my staff is here, I will ask them. But better, Detective Lepski, if you would come here on Monday morning, you could ask them yourself.’
‘Where is your staff?’ Lepski snarled.
‘Ah! That I don’t know. I have five clever young men working for me. They could be out of town — they could be anywhere. The weekends are their own. But on Monday, they will all be here.’
‘Now listen,’ Lepski snarled in his cop voice, ‘anyone shielding this killer becomes an accessory to two murders. Remember that! I’ll be here Monday morning,’ and he stamped out of the gallery.
When Kendriek saw Lepski disappear, he turned to Louis.
‘Don’t involve me!’ Louis shrilled. ‘Why didn’t you tell him? An accessory to two murders!’
‘Tell him?’ Kendriek tore off his wig and threw it across the gallery. ‘Gregg owes me forty thousand dollars!’
‘Don’t involve me!’ Louis repeated. ‘I have had enough! I’m going for a swim! You must take all responsibility!’ and he flounced out of the gallery.
Karen Sternwood finally cleared her desk. The mail had been heavy and business brisk. Without Ken to help out, her Saturday afternoon had been completely taken up with routine work. She looked at her watch. The time was 18.30.
She thought of her father with a bunch of oldies on his yacht. He had invited her, but she had said she had to work and her father had been impressed. She had explained Ken had to go to his father-in-law who was very sick and she had to hold the fort. Her father had approved.
Now the work was finished, the desk cleared, and she pushed back her chair, lit a cigarette, and contemplated what was left of her weekend.
She felt horny.
She hadn’t had a man since Ken, and she now felt like having a man. It was a complete drag that she couldn’t drive until her licence had been restored. She decided she would spend the rest of the weekend in her cabin, but first, to find a man.
She thought of her various men friends. The trouble there, she thought, was they would be already booked. Her men friends were always careful not to have a vacant weekend.
She grimaced, then a thought struck her. Why not experiment? Why not thumb a ride and see what happened? Some interesting man might come along. Why not? It could be fun!
She locked the office and walked up Seaview Avenue to the Miami highway. She stood under the shade of a palm tree, watching the passing cars. They moved slowly in the Saturday evening jam.