1979 - You Must Be Kidding

by James Hadley Chase

  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?’

  ‘Just a routine inquiry, Mrs. Brandon,’ Lepski said smoothly. ‘Would you know where the duplicates are?’

  ‘In my button box at home. I don’t understand. What is this?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs. Brandon. Sorry to have disturbed you,’ and Lepski hung up. He looked at Max Jacoby who had been listening in on an extension.

  ‘Now let’s see if Brandon dreams up a lie,’ Lepski said with his wolfish smile.

  Hurrying into the office, Ken found three coloured couples waiting patiently. Karen was busy typing. She gave him a jeering little smile.

  ‘Sleeping late these days?’ she murmured, without pausing in her typing. ‘The mail’s on your desk.’

  Ken took the first couple into his office. For the next hour he was fully occupied. Then as the final couple left, he turned his attention to the mail. As he was reading the first letter, the telephone bell rang. Scooping up the receiver, still reading the letter, he said, ‘Ken Brandon. Can I help you?’

  ‘Lepski, City police,’ a voice growled and Ken stiffened, nearly dropping the receiver.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Lepski?’ He was aware his voice was husky.

  ‘Did you find those buttons?’

  Ken drew in a long, deep breath.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about them,’ he said, forcing his voice to sound steady. ‘Mr. Levine must have made a mistake. I am quite sure he didn’t give me a duplicate set. I am sure I would have remembered.’

  ‘No duplicate set, huh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you quite sure, Mr. Brandon? As I told you, I am investigating a murder case. I repeat . . . are you quite sure?’

  Ken gripped the telephone receiver so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  ‘Yes, I am sure.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr. Brandon,’ and Lepski hung up.

  Ken sat for a long moment, staring into space. He was now committed to a dangerous lie. He must warn Betty.

  Anyway, it was time to telephone her and inquire about her father. He dialled. After a brief delay, Betty came on the line.

  ‘Betty, darling! How’s your father?’

  ‘Oh, Ken, he’s really bad, but he’s putting up a wonderful fight. The doctors say he has a fifty-fifty chance.’ Betty sounded distracted. ‘This could take time. I don’t know when I can get back. It’s mother who is so difficult. I was up all night with her.’

  They talked for a while. Betty was worried that Ken wasn’t eating properly, but he reassured her, then as he began to edge the conversation towards the golf ball buttons, not knowing what he was going to say, the ground was cut from under his feet.

  ‘Oh, Ken! I nearly forgot. I had an extraordinary telephone call about a couple of hours ago from the Paradise police. They were asking about those golf ball buttons on your jacket. They said they had talked to you.’

  Ken’s heart skipped a beat, then began to race. He opened and shut his mouth, but no words came.

  ‘They are asking about a duplicate set,’ Betty went on. ‘I told them they were in my button box. What is all this about?’

  ‘I—I’ll tell you later,’ Ken croaked. ‘Nothing important. I’ve got someone waiting. I’ll call you later. Bye, darling. I think of you,’ and he hung up.


  His hand went into his jacket pocket and he fingered the eight buttons. He felt so sick, he was ready to throw up. As he sat, ashen faced, panic gripping him, Karen came in. She paused and stared at him.

  ‘So now what’s happened?’ she demanded, her voice sharp. ‘You look like the kiss of death.’

  Because he had to tell someone, he spilled out the story of the buttons. Karen sat on his desk, swinging her long legs and listened.

  ‘There is one goddamn button missing!’ Ken concluded, his voice croaking. ‘They could arrest me for murdering this girl! Lepski will want to see the duplicate buttons now Betty has told him!’ He wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. ‘I don’t know what to do! Then this blackmailer will be here tomorrow!’

  Karen regarded him, Her eyes contemptuously amused.

  ‘Never mind him,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow is another day. Leave this to me.’ She slid off the desk. ‘I’ll fix it.’ Then with a snap in her voice, she went on, ‘Get hold of yourself! Don’t lose what guts you have—if any,’ and hip-swishing, she returned to her desk.

  * * *

  Lepski, itching for action, reported to Chief Terrell.

  ‘Brandon’s lying his head off. How about bringing him in and giving him the works?’

  Terrell shook his head.

  ‘So he’s lying, but that doesn’t mean he killed the girl. We could be opening a can of worms if we force him to admit he was with Karen Sternwood. Max has checked the Salvation Army. Craddock is positive the jacket wasn’t among Gregg’s clothes. I want to find out more about this. Before we do anything about Brandon, I want you to talk to Mrs. Gregg. From what I hear, her butler is a lush. He could have given the jacket to someone. Take it easy with Mrs. Gregg. She draws a lot of water, but make sure you talk to her, and not to her butler.’

  Lepski drove to Acacia Drive. When he rang the front door bell, Reynolds, his eyes glazed, opened the door.

  ‘Police business,’ Lepski said in his cop voice. ‘I want to talk to Mrs. Gregg.’

  Listening, out of sight, Amelia braced herself. She walked from the lounge to the lobby.

  ‘What is it, Reynolds?’ she demanded in her most arrogant tone.

  Reynolds turned.

  ‘A person is here, madam, from the police. He is asking to speak to you.’

  ‘The police?’ Amelia’s fat face was a stoney mask. ‘Show him in.’

  Reynolds stepped aside and motioned Lepski to enter.

  Lepski moved into the lobby and looked at Amelia. What an old bitch! he thought. Imagine having her as a mother-in-law!

  ‘Come in!’ Amelia snapped, her voice harsh and she led the way into the lounge. ‘What is it?’

  Moving into the lounge, pausing for a moment while Amelia sat down, Lepski said, ‘Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Gregg. We are checking on a jacket with golf ball buttons.

  It is to do with a murder investigation. Your man told me last night the jacket was sent, with other clothes, to the Salvation Army. I understand Mr. Gregg owned this jacket. Mr. Craddock, who handles all gifts, tells us this jacket was not with your husband’s other clothes. We need to know what has happened to this jacket.’

  Amelia glared at him.

  ‘Of course the jacket was with my late husband’s other clothes!’ She looked at Reynolds. ‘That is right, isn’t it Reynolds?’

  Reynolds, who had spent some hours in the boiler room the previous night, burning the bloodstained clothing nodded.

  ‘I have already told this officer that, madam.’

  Amelia glared at Lepski.

  ‘I know all about Craddock. He is an unscrupulous person! Probably he purloined my husband’s jacket for his own use or for the use of his brood of sons. I resent being bothered with this. Now, leave me!’

  ‘This is a murder inquiry,’ Lepski said. ‘You are making a serious allegation against Mr. Craddock. Am I to understand that you are saying this jacket was included with Mr. Gregg’s other clothes and Mr. Craddock has stolen it for his own use—’

  Reynolds had a mild coughing fit, and Amelia saw the red light. Still glaring at Lepski. she said, ‘All I can tell you is the jacket was given to the Salvation Army. What happened to it is not my affair. The men who made the collection could have stolen it. Anyone could have stolen it. That is your business. All I know is the jacket was given away.’ She drew herself up. ‘If I am bothered further, I will complain to the Mayor who is a good friend of mine.’

  Lepski gave her his wolfish smile.

  ‘Okay, Mrs. Gregg. Thanks for your time,’ and he walked by Reynolds and back to his car.

  He reported to Terrell.

  ‘Get Max to check out the men who collected the clothes,’ Terrell said. ‘You check on Craddock again. We don’t want a run-in with that old bitch.’

  Lepski and Jacoby spent the rest of the day, checking.

  Jacoby got nowhere with the two collectors. They spent their fives collecting throw-out clothes and they said they couldn’t remember anything about any particular article of clothing.

  Lepski got nowhere with Craddock.

  ‘I assure you,’ Craddock said, ‘this particular jacket was not among the clothes I disposed of.’

  Lepski believed him. He reported back to Terrell.

  ‘Okay, Tom, leave it for the moment,’ Terrell said.

  ‘Give the boys a hand, checking out these hippies.’

  * * *

  Lu Boone lay on his bed, sipping a cup of instant coffee.

  He had slept late, having spent half the night on the beach with a slim, coloured girl whose technical sexual expertise had surprised him. Today was Thursday, he told himself.

  Tomorrow, he would call at the office of the Paradise City Assurance Corporation, Secomb. He had little doubt that he would collect, in cash, ten thousand dollars. Wearing dirty jeans, naked to the waist, he scratched his ribs. What would he do with the money? This problem had been puzzling him. He could, of course, return to college and complete his law training, but that didn’t appeal to him: too much grind and too boring. Anyway, a nine-to-five just wasn’t on.

  A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Scowling, he swung his legs off the bed, finished the coffee and crossed the room to open the door.

  He was confronted by a tall, grey haired man who held a microphone in his hand.

  ‘Hey, Mr. Boone!’ the man said. ‘I’m Pete Hamilton: Paradise T.V. I’ve been talking to Chet Miscolo. He tells me you were around here at the time of the murder of Janie Bandler. You could have seen the killer. Is it not a fact that you were passing the murder scene within minutes of the actual murder?’

  Standing in the doorway, the sun falling on him, Lu glared.

  ‘Piss off!’ he snarled and slammed the door in Hamilton’s face.

  Behind Hamilton was a small truck which had brought him to the Hippy camp. With a wry smile, Hamilton returned to the truck and slid under the driving wheel.

  ‘Did you get that jerk?’ he asked his camera man, concealed in the back of the truck, shooting through a one way window.

  ‘You betcha,’ the camera man said.

  A couple of hours later, Crispin Gregg turned on his T.V. set and listened to Pete Hamilton’s broadcast.

  ‘The police still have no clues leading to the arrest of this sex maniac,’ Hamilton said. ‘This morning, I learned that a young man, staying at the Paradise Hippy colony was at the murder scene at the time of the murder. His name is Lu Boone. I tried to talk to him.’ From Hamilton’s face on the screen, the picture dissolved to Boone’s cabin.

  Lu stood in the doorway of the cabin. ‘Mr. Boone was uncooperative.’ Hamilton’s ‘voice went oh. ‘I could, of course, be wrong, but I think this young man knows more than he is prepared to admit, not only to me, but to the police.’

  Crispin studied Lu as he stood in the doorway, then his eyes narrowed and his lips moved into a mirthless smile.

  He decided he must do something about Lu Boone. He could be a danger, but even if h
e was not, he would make a very exciting portrait in oils.

  * * *

  Lepski regarded his paper-strewn desk. He reckoned he had another two hours’ work ahead of him. He was hungry.

  He was getting irritated and frustrated. He would feel better after a good meal and a bath, he decided, and pushed back his chair.

  ‘I’m going home for a decent meal,’ he told Max Jacoby who was toiling at his desk. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Okay?’

  Max shrugged.

  ‘It has to be, doesn’t it?’

  In his usual showoff style, Lepski arrived home with screeching brakes and the smell of burning rubber. He always wanted to impress his neighbours, who at this time, would be tending their gardens. He was pleased to see them gaping at his arrival as he stormed into his house. He flung open the door and bawled for Carroll.

  Carroll was preparing an elaborate dinner. She had been given a recipe: an affair of chicken breasts done in tarragon and whisky. To her dismay, she found she had no tarragon, but decided this really wasn’t important. She also found she had given away Lepski’s Cutty Sark whisky.

  Well, she had mushrooms and a pot of cream. All good cooks improvised, her mother had often told her. So, okay, improvise!

  Lepski burst into the kitchen and came to a skidding halt.

  ‘What’s to eat?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve only got a couple of hours before I get back to work.’

  ‘You’ll eat,’ Carroll said, more calmly than she felt.

  Lepski always turned up at the wrong time. ‘Chicken breasts in a mushroom and cream sauce.’

  ‘Hey! Sounds terrific! Soon?’

  ‘Ten minutes. Have you found that sex fiend?’

  Lepski blew out his cheeks.

  ‘Not yet.’ He peered at the chicken, sizzling in the pan. ‘Yum! Yum! Looks terrific!’

  ‘No clues?’ Carroll, who was determined that Lepski was going to be the future Chief of Police, believed all successful police work depended on clues.

  ‘Here and there,’ Lepski said. ‘Hurry that bird, honey. I’m starving!’

  ‘I have three very important clues for you,’ Carroll said, as she added the mushrooms to the pan.