‘I heard what you told him,’ Jacoby said, showing alarm. ‘So what are we going to do?’
Lepski wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand.
‘The stupid pea-brain! I told him whatever he did, he was to stay on the doorstep, and not to go in!’
Staring at the villa, the two detectives saw the front door close.
‘So what are we going to do?’ Jacoby said.
‘What can we do? Could be Mrs. Gregg opened the door and Brandon felt he had to go in.’ Lepski shoved his hat to the back of his head in exasperation.
‘If Mrs. Gregg didn’t open the door: if the butler didn’t open the door but Gregg did, we’d better do something,’ Jacoby said. ‘Tom! I get the feeling this caper has turned sour.’
‘Just suppose Gregg isn’t our man,’ Lepski said feverishly. ‘Just suppose Brandon walks out in the next few minutes. If we go charging in there, we could start a stink that could put us back on the beat.’
‘But suppose Gregg is our man?’ Jacoby said. ‘Suppose Gregg kills him? We’d better do something.’
‘Yeah.’ Lepski straightened. ‘I’ll handle this, Max. You stay right here.’ He took out his .38 police special. ‘If there’s trouble, I’ll fire a shot, and you come running. Okay?’
‘What’s your idea?’
‘I’ll say I’m checking on this goddam golf ball jacket again,’ Lepski said, then leaving Jacoby, he walked swiftly across the lawn and to the front entrance of the villa. He returned his gun to its holster and leaving his jacket open so he could grab his gun, he thumbed the doorbell.
As Crispin moved towards Ken, his eyes glittering, the bell of the telephone standing on his desk began ringing.
The sound brought Crispin to an abrupt halt. He pointed to a chair away from the door.
‘Sit down a moment, Mr. Brandon.’ The edge to his voice and his expression was such that Ken, now thoroughly frightened, hurriedly sat down.
Not turning his back to Ken, Crispin moved to the desk and lifted the receiver.
‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘Sergeant Beigler. City police. Is that Mr. Gregg?’ Watching, Ken saw Crispin’s face turn into a snarling mask.
‘Yes. What is it?’
‘You are wanted at the Paradise hospital, Mr. Gregg. I’m sorry to tell you there has been an accident.’
‘My mother?’
‘Yes, sir. Apparently she lost control of her car and hit a truck.’
‘Is she badly hurt?’ Crispin asked eagerly.
‘I regret to tell you, sir, she died on arrival.’
A smile that sent a chill through Ken, played around Crispin’s lips.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Please notify Mr. Lewishon, my attorney. He will attend to the necessary formalities,’ and he hung up. He turned and grinned gleefully at Ken. ‘I have just had excellent news, Mr. Brandon. My mother has been killed in a road accident. At last, I am free of her!’
Regarding him with horror, Ken got to his feet.
‘I must go, Mr. Gregg.’
‘But first you must see my art.’ Crispin stared at Ken. ‘You knew Miss Karen Sternwood?’
Ken gulped, then nodded.
‘I am working on her portrait. It’s just a rough sketch, but I want your opinion.’
All Ken could think of was to get out and away from this madman.
‘Please excuse me, Mr. Gregg,’ he said, his voice a croak. ‘I just have to go now.’
Crispin’s smile turned evil.
‘I don’t want to get annoyed with you, Mr. Brandon,’ he said, fingering the Suleiman pendant. ‘I assure you I can be exceedingly unpleasant with people who annoy me.’ He waved to a door at the end of the room. ‘Go ahead, please.’
Regarding this man, Ken knew he was in deadly danger. He walked across the room to the door indicated, then he heard, somewhere in the villa, the sound of the front door bell. He paused and looked quickly at Crispin.
Lepski? Ken thought. God! He hoped it was!
‘Now who could that be?’ Crispin said, half to himself. ‘Never mind. Whoever it is can’t get in. You bolted the door securely, didn’t you, Mr. Brandon? Now come along. I want you to see my sketch of this little whore.’ He regarded Ken. ‘She was a little whore, wasn’t she?’
The bell rang again.
‘Do what I tell you!’ Crispin snarled as he saw Ken hesitating. Shocked by the demoniacal expression on Crispin’s face, Ken opened the door and walked into the studio.
Standing before the front door, Lepski, in a slight panic that no one answered the bell, looked to right and left. All the windows of the downstairs rooms were barred.
Seeing there was no answer, Jacoby came out of the shrubs and joined Lepski.
‘No one’s answering,’ Lepski said.
‘Bust in the door?’
‘We can’t do that without a warrant,’ Lepski rang the bell again.
Then suddenly the door was flung open and they were confronted by a tall, coloured woman, her face contorted with terror, her big eyes rolling. She put her hand to her mouth, sighing to the two gaping detectives to keep silent. Frantically, she beckoned them in. Such was her terror, both Lepski and Jacoby drew their guns as they followed her into the lobby.
With a stabbing motion, she pointed down the passage to a door at the far end, making a soft mumbling noise.
Signalling Jacoby to stay with the woman, Lepski went silently to the door and threw it open. What he saw in the room made him catch his breath.
Lying on a bed was the tattered and mutilated remains of a man Lepski scarcely recognized as the drunken butler, Reynolds. He saw Reynolds was beyond help, and his mind flashed to Brandon. Where was he?
Chrissy, moaning softly, was shaking Jacoby’s arm and pointing up the stairs, then with surprising strength, she pushed Jacoby out of her way and ran from the villa.
‘Upstairs,’ Jacoby whispered.
Lepski nodded and began to mount the stairs. Jacoby followed him. On the landing, Lepski paused. Jacoby went down on one knee, covering Lepski.
Through the door of the studio, Lepski heard Crispin say, ‘What do you think of it, Mr. Brandon? Have I caught her likeness?’ Ken scarcely looked at the sketch of Karen Sternwood that Crispin was holding up. He was staring with horror at the painting of Lu Boone’s head, at the gruesome painting of Janie Bandler and at the portrait of Mrs. Gregg. Then his eyes moved to the other sick canvasses lining the walls.
‘I see you are looking at my art,’ Crispin said, ‘but please concentrate. What do you think of my sketch of the little whore?’
Lepski nodded to Jacoby, then took four quick steps to the door, threw it open and shouted in his cop voice, ‘Stay still! Police!’ His gun covered Crispin.
Ken drew in a long, deep breath. He slowly backed to the door.
‘He has a gun in his pocket,’ he said breathlessly.
Crispin appeared to be completely relaxed. He raised his hands in a token of surrender.
‘Of course, Chrissy let you in. Stupid of me to have forgotten Chrissy.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, there is a gun in my pocket. It belonged to my father.’
‘Max, get it!’ Lepski snapped. ‘Stay still, Gregg.’
Jacoby moved around to the back of Crispin while Lepski kept him covered. Jacoby found the gun and stepped away.
Crispin continued to smile.
‘You two are badly paid detectives. You, Mr. Brandon, are a badly paid salesman,’ he said. ‘Let us make a deal. I offer two million dollars to be divided between the three of you and we will forget what has happened. What do you say?’
‘Money won’t buy you anything, Gregg! You have reached the end of your road,’ Lepski said.
‘Shall we make it three million?’ Crispin asked, still smiling.
Without taking his eyes off Crispin, Lepski said, ‘Max get homicide here and the meat wagon.’