‘Just after ten o’clock, madam.’
Amelia sipped the coffee gratefully.
‘Put on the television, Reynolds. Pete Hamilton.’
‘Yes, madam.’
First, came Pete Hamilton with the background scene of Karen Sternwood’s cabin with police officers milling around, then a still shot of Karen, then the words that turned Amelia to stone.
The maniac killer had struck again. Karen Sternwood, the daughter of the multi-millionaire, had been brutally murdered and mutilated.
‘This is the third time this madman has killed in less than a week,’ Hamilton went on. ‘The police are certain someone is sheltering him. Mr. Jefferson Sternwood is now offering a reward.’ On the screen came a still Sternwood: a cruel granite-hard face that made Amelia’s heart accelerate. ‘Mr. Sternwood is offering two hundred thousand dollars to anyone who gives information that will lead to the arrest of this madman.’ Hamilton paused. ‘Two hundred thousand dollars!’ he repeated. ‘Information received will be treated in strict confidence. Anyone who can give definite proof who this killer is has only to telephone police headquarters, and he or she will be paid two hundred thousand dollars, no questions asked.’ Hamilton then switched to other local news.
There was silence in the room as Reynolds turned off the T.V. set.
Two hundred thousand dollars! Amelia thought. Even for a million dollars she wouldn’t sacrifice her social life!
Two hundred thousand dollars! Reynolds was thinking. Freedom! No more chores! No more waiting on this fat old woman! All he had to do was to telephone the police. Then, with two hundred thousand dollars, he would buy a little villa and a piece of land and settle in peace for the rest of his days with all the Scotch he could ever hope to drink!
Then he became aware that Amelia was staring at him.
‘Reynolds!’ she said, half suspecting that he was contemplating treachery. ‘We must say nothing! Money isn’t everything! Think of me! My life would be ruined! I rely on your loyalty.’
His face expressionless, Reynolds bowed. What a vain old fool! he thought. Did she really imagine he would keep silent now such a reward was being offered?
‘Yes, madam,’ he said. ‘Perhaps another cup of coffee?’
‘No. I will talk to Mr. Crispin. We must pay you more, Reynolds,’ Amelia said desperately. ‘Be loyal to me, and I promise you you won’t regret it.’
‘You may rely on me, madam. I have served you so long.’ Reynold’s voice was wooden. ‘A little more coffee, madam?’
‘No... no.’
‘Then I will remove the tray.’
Could she trust him? Amelia wondered, watching him as he picked up the tray and moved towards the door.
‘Reynolds!’
He paused.
‘Yes, madam.’
‘What are you doing today?’
‘I have your lunch to prepare, then as it is Sunday, and as it is so fine, perhaps a walk.’
‘I am not feeling well. This has been a great shock. Would you be kind and stay? I don’t want to be left alone.’
‘Certainly, madam. As you know, I am always at your disposal.’
With a little bow, he left her.
On the other side of the city, Claude Kendriek turned off the T.V. set.
Kendriek was sitting in his luxury living room in his apartment above the gallery, having finished breakfast. He was an expert cook and he believed, on Sundays, he should cook himself something special, then do without lunch, and go out to dinner. He had grilled two baby lamb chops, four lamb’s kidneys which he had placed on a bed of tiny peas. Strong black coffee, toast and marmalade completed the meal, but Pete Hamilton’s broadcast had given him indigestion.
Two hundred thousand dollars!
He considered the possibility of claiming the reward, but regretfully decided that he had no real proof that Crispin Gregg was the killer. What baffled him was why Lepski had said that Gregg’s painting was connected with the killer. Why had he said that? Admittedly, Lepski’s description of the wanted man fitted Gregg, but there were thousands of tall, blond men around. Kendriek thumped his chest, trying to ease his heartburn. Just suppose Gregg could prove he had nothing to do with the killings? Just suppose it leaked that he (Kendriek) had informed? So many of his clients relied on him when dealing with stolen property to keep silent. Once an informer, always an informer. No, in spite of the size of the reward, in the long run, it would be more advantageous to say nothing. Then he thought of Louis de Marney. Would Louis want the reward? A silly question! Of course he would! Lumbering to his feet, Kendriek telephoned Louis who had a three room apartment within five minutes walk of the gallery.
His voice thick with sleep, Louis answered the call.
‘Come at once, cheri!’ Kendriek barked. ‘I must talk to you, and do nothing until we have talked!’
‘Do nothing about what?’ Louis shrilled. ‘This is Sunday!’
Kendriek realized that Louis hadn’t seen the Hamilton programme. He visualized Louis in bed with some boy.
‘Never mind! Come as soon as you can,’ and he hung up.
Crispin Gregg turned off his T.V. set. Two hundred thousand dollars! His eyes narrowed. He had made a dangerous mistake killing that disgusting little whore.
Who knew? Only his mother and Reynolds. His mother? Her social position meant everything to her. Reynolds? Yes, Reynolds would betray him. Reynolds, with his drink problem, wouldn’t hesitate to claim the reward.
Crispin sat for some moments, fingering the Suleiman pendant, then he got to his feet. Moving in cat-like silence, he left his apartment and stood at the head of the stairs.
He listened. He could hear Reynolds washing up in the kitchen. Silently, he ran down the stairs and to Reynolds’ room. He opened the door and moved into the neat bed-sitting room. The smell of whisky made him grimace. He looked around. The window, overlooking the garden, had iron bars. Because the living quarters were on ground level, Amelia had insisted that every window should have bars.
He saw the extension telephone. He pressed the ruby button, and with the razor sharp blade, he cut the telephone cord. Then he moved to the door, took the key from the lock and moved out into the corridor, closing the door.
Halfway down the corridor was a walk-in broom closet. He stepped inside, leaving the door ajar.
Chrissy, the deaf-mute cook, had watched the Pete Hamilton broadcast. She knew nothing about the murders Hamilton was talking about. She took no interest in local news, but she was impressed when she learned there was a two hundred thousand dollar reward. What could she do with money like that! Sunday was her day off. She had gone to Mass at 07.00 and now, she intended to watch T.V. Knowing Reynolds’ habits, she was waiting until he had left the kitchen. She wanted to get the remains of a chicken pie she had left in the refrigerator for her lunch. Still thinking how wonderful it would be to own two hundred thousand dollars, she opened her door, then hastily stepped back into her room.
She watched through the crack in the door as Crispin removed the key from Reynolds’ lock. She watched him step into the broom closet.
A few minutes later, Reynolds left the kitchen, came down the corridor, entered his room and closed the door.
Watched by Chrissy, a puzzled expression on her face, Crispin left the broom closet and gently inserted the key into the lock of Reynolds’ door, turned it, removed it and dropped it into his pocket. She watched him walk down the corridor to his mother’s living room.
Reynolds poured himself a large Scotch and sat down. Two hundred thousand dollars! He would call the police! He had all the proof they needed! Those gruesome paintings on the walls! The ashes of the blood stained clothes he had burned! He was sure the police would find some clues among the ashes. He had peered into the furnace and seen, although charred, the golf ball buttons hadn’t been destroyed. What was he waiting for? Tell them now! Hamilton had said all information would be treated in strict confidence, but once they had paid him the reward he didn’t give a damn what Mrs. Gregg said or thought of him.