1979 - You Must Be Kidding (15 page)

A girl touched his arm and motioned him to the door.

Hamilton was still talking. Lepski couldn’t care less. He had had one minute of fame. As he walked, feeling ten feet tall, into the impressive lobby, he saw a row of telephone booths. He called home.

After a delay that made him hop from one foot to the other with impatience, Carroll came on the line.

‘Hi, baby! How did you like it?’

‘Like what?’ Carroll demanded, her voice shrill.

‘Come on, baby. How did I look?’

‘Let me tell you something. I invited the Lipscombs, the Watsons and the Mayfields to watch with me. Right now they are guzzling your Cutty Sark like thirsty camels, and they are already eyeing our last bottle of gin.’

‘To hell with them!’ Lepski shouted. ‘I want to know how I looked!’

‘How should I know?’ Carroll snapped. From the tone of her voice, he could tell she was in a raging temper.

‘For Pete’s sake! Didn’t you watch the Hamilton show?’

‘Of course we watched it!’

Feeling strangled, Lepski dragged at his tie.

‘Then you saw me, for Christ’s sake!’

‘Don’t be blasphemous, Lepski!’

‘Did you or didn’t you see me?’ Lepski bawled. ‘Were you all so stinking drunk on my Scotch you didn’t see me?’

‘We were not drunk and we didn’t see you! All we saw was a close-up of the jacket, held by hands. If they were your hands, you should have washed them. They looked grimy!’

Lepski gave a great start as if he had been goosed by an icy finger.

‘Just hands, huh?’

‘Yes! I’ve got to go before they get at the gin bottle. They are having a ball . . . that’s more than I am! The Mayfields are throwing hints they haven’t had supper! I could have them with me for the rest of the night!’

‘Just hands, huh?’ Lepski said, dazed. Then he understood why he hadn’t been made-up. Why Hamilton hadn’t cared if he wore his hat or not. He released a soft hissing sound. ‘Why the goddamn stinking creep!’

‘Get home as soon as you can,’ Carroll said. ‘I need help here.’

‘Yeah . . . yeah. I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ Lepski said, his voice low. A vast black cloud of depression settled over him.

Carroll suddenly softened, recognizing from the tone of his voice, his shattering disappointment.

‘Dear Tom, I am so very sorry. You come right home and I’ll try to make it up for you.’

‘Yeah. Okay, honey,’ and Lepski hung up. He walked, heavy footed, out to his car and headed back to headquarters. He felt as if his ambitious little world had come apart at the seams.

Entering the Detectives room, he paused to gape. Three men from Homicide were at desks. Jacoby and Dusty were also at their desks: all were talking on their various telephones.

Beigler took the jacket from Lepski.

‘Get moving, Tom,’ he said. ‘That broadcast really started something. The moment it was off the air, people started calling in. Everyone in the city seems to have something to say about the jacket. We could be here all night.’

Lepski heard his telephone bell start up. He plodded across to his desk, sat down, pulled a scratch pad and pencil towards him, then lifted the receiver.

‘Lepski. Police headquarters.’

‘This is Mrs. Applebaum. I’ve just seen that jacket on the Pete Hamilton show. Mr. Hamilton said to contact the police . . . right?’ She sounded a very aggressive lady.

‘That’s right, madam,’ Lepski said.

‘It is my husband’s birthday, next week. I find it very difficult to give him a present.’

Lepski dug his fingers into the surface of his desk.

‘You have information about the jacket, madam?’

‘No. I want information from you. The police are supposed to give information . . . right?’

Lepski pushed his hat to the back of his head and dragged at his tie.

‘I’m not following you, madam,’ he said in a strangled voice.

‘I want information! I want to buy a jacket just like the one I saw on the telly for my husband’s birthday present. Where can I buy it?’

Lepski made a noise that would have frightened a hyena and slammed down the receiver.

six

C
laude Kendriek sat back in his massive, antique chair and released a sigh. His breath fluttered the papers on his desk. In a depressed mood, he looked around his reception room which he refused to call his office although all his big deals and sales were transacted there. It was a vast room with an enormous picture window overlooking the sea, sumptuously furnished with some of his most impressive treasures (anyone could buy them if they had enough money) and paintings worth a fortune, hanging on the silk covered walls.

Al Barney, that doyen of the waterfront, had once described Claude Kendriek as follows: ‘Let me give you a picture of Claude Kendriek. He is a tall, massively built queer of around sixty years of age. He wears an ill-fitting orange coloured wig and pale pink lipstick. He is as bald as an egg, and wears this wig just for the hell of it. When he meets a lady client he raises the wig like you would raise your bat . . . strictly a character. He is fat: soft, massive fat that is no good to anyone. He has a long thick nose and little green eyes and what with all this fat covering his face, he looks like a dolphin, but without a dolphin’s nice expression. Although he looks comic, and often acts comic, he is a top expert in antiques, jewelry and modern art. He runs his gallery on Paradise Avenue, the swank quarter of the City, with the aid of a number of gay boys, and he makes a load of dough.’

Apart from his flourishing gallery, Kendriek was also a fence. He became a fence by force of circumstances. Important collectors came to him, wanting some special art treasure that was not for sale. Their offers were so tempting, Kendriek couldn’t resist. He found a gang of expert art thieves who stole what his clients wanted and he sold to the clients at a huge profit, and his clients keep the treasures in their secret museums.

On this bright, sunny morning, Kendriek was gloomily reviewing his half-year’s balance sheet. He was not satisfied. The trouble with his ultra-rich clients was that, from time to time, they died. The new generation seemed impervious to his beautiful paintings and antiques. All they seemed interested in were sexy women, drugs, drink and expensive cars.

He had been looking at his long list of rich art collectors, ticking off those alive and those now dead. He had come upon the name of Cyrus Gregg. Now, there had been an excellent client! Kendriek again sighed. He remembered how he had unloaded a doubtful Picasso, a still more doubtful Chagall and many other costly, apparent treasures on Gregg. Since the good man had died so suddenly, the Gregg account had ceased to exist.

While he was ruminating sadly of life and death, his door opened and Louis de Marney, his head salesman, fluttered in.

Louis was pencil thin and could have been any age from twenty five to forty. His long thick hair was the colour of sable. His lean face, narrow eyes and almost lipless mouth gave him the appearance of a suspicious rat.

‘Darling! Guess who?’ he whispered, fluttering to Kendriek’s desk. ‘Crispin Gregg! He’s buying oil paints! Jo-Jo is taking care of him, but I just knew you would want to know!’

Kendriek heaved himself out of his chair, took off his wig and thrust it at Louis.

‘Comb it!’

‘Of course, pet.’ Louis produced a comb from his pocket, ran its fine teeth through the hair of the wig and handed the wig back to Kendriek with a flourish.

Moving to a Venetian mirror—worth thousands of dollars—Kendriek put on the wig, adjusted it, regarded his enormous bulk, straightened his immaculate cream coloured jacket, then nodded to his reflection.

‘This is destiny,’ he said. ‘At this very moment, I was thinking of his dead father.’

He walked into the vast gallery. In the artists’ material department, he found Jo-Jo, a young blond, laying tubes of oil paints, as if they were jewels, on a pad of black velvet before a tall, thin man whose back was to Kendriek.

Moving like a Spanish galleon in full sail, Kendriek approached.

‘Mr. Gregg!’

The tall, thin man turned.

Kendriek found himself confronted by a man with ash blond hair, cut close. His face was pale: the face of a man who avoided the sun. His features were symmetrical: a long, thin nose, a wide forehead, a full-lipped mouth. All this Kendriek took in at a glance, but the man’s eyes not only held him, but startled him: eyes like cloudy opals and as expressionless.

‘I am Claude Kendriek,’ Kendriek said, his voice as smooth as oil. ‘I had the great pleasure of serving your late lamented father. It is an honour and a pleasure to meet you.’

Crispin Gregg nodded. There was no smile, no offer to shake hands: just cold, bored indifference, but this didn’t dismay Kendriek. He had so often dealt with rich clients who treated him like a lackey, but eventually spent money with him.

‘I was just getting some oil paints,’ Crispin said.

‘I do hope we have everything you need, Mr. Gregg.’

‘Oh yes.’ Crispin turned to Jo-Jo. ‘Wrap them. I’ll take them.’

‘Our pleasure, sir,’ Jo-Jo said, bowing. He picked up the dozen or so tubes of paint and went to the end of the counter to pack them.

‘Mr. Gregg,’ Kendriek said, oozing charm, ‘I know that you are an artist. May I say that it has grieved me that after being on such excellent terms with your father, you haven’t been here before.’

‘I am not interested in the works of other artists,’ Crispin said curtly. ‘I am only interested in my own work.’

‘Of course . . . of course,’ Kendriek smiled, now looking like a dolphin expecting a fish. ‘A true artist speaking.’

He paused, then went on. ‘Mr. Gregg, I would love to see some of your work. Quite recently, I was talking to Herman Lowenstein—a great art critic. He confided to me that your mother once consulted him about your work, and he was privileged to see some of it. Mr. Gregg! There are very few art critics who know their jobs. Most of them are fakes, but Lowenstein is a true judge.’ This was a glib lie as Kendriek regarded Lowenstein as the phoniest of all the local art critics. ‘He told me your work is outstanding.’

Again a glib lie as Lowenstein had said Crispin’s work was not only unhealthy, but utterly uncommercial. He said the vigor, the imagination, the flow of creative ideas were quite remarkable! The splendid way you use colour! Your technique! When such a great critic talks like this to me, I long to promote your work Mr. Gregg! I can boast of running the finest art gallery on the coast! May I arrange an exhibition of your art? What a privilege! Please, don’t deny me!’

Well, Kendriek thought, if this doesn’t land this cold fish, nothing else will.

‘My work is special,’ Crispin said, but he felt a tingle of excitement. He knew his mother had shown some of his landscapes to Lowenstein, but this was the first time he had heard his work had made such an impression. He suddenly felt an urge to be recognized as an artist of stature.

He had many paintings, apart from his secret horror paintings. Why not? But suppose no one was interested? His work was indeed special.

Seeing him hesitating, Kendriek said, oil dripping from his voice, ‘You are modest, Mr. Gregg. Lowenstein can’t be mistaken. Do, please, let me arrange an exhibition. Just imagine if our great modern artists had been shy. What a loss to the world!’

Still hesitating, Crispin said, ‘I don’t think the world is ready for my work. It is too advanced. Maybe later . . . I’ll think about it.’

The fish is nearly hooked, Kendriek thought. He switched on his understanding smile as he said, ‘How well do I understand your feelings, Mr. Gregg, but give me the privilege to judge. Let me have just one painting. Let me put it in my window. I promise you I will be utterly sincere. If there is no interest—quite unthinkable!—but if there isn’t I will tell you. Give me this opportunity to promote a new and vigorous artist. Let me have just one painting.’

Crispin moved away while he thought. He knew his work was outstanding, but he couldn’t bear the thought that these rich fools, living in Paradise City, wouldn’t appreciate it, but yet. . . He made up his mind.

‘Very well, send someone to my villa and I will give him one of my landscapes. Put it in your window, but it must be understood that the painting will be unsigned. No one is to know that I have painted it. I want the reaction of the art collectors. If they show no interest, then return the painting. If they are interested, then I will let you have more for an exhibition.’

‘Perfect, Mr. Gregg. I can’t tell you how excited I am!’

Crispin stared at Kendriek as he said, ‘No one is to know who has painted this picture. It is to be the work of an unknown artist. Do you understand?’ There was something in the opal coloured eyes that sent a little chill through Kendriek’s fat body.

‘It is utterly understood, Mr. Gregg. You can rely on me. My man will call on you this afternoon if that would be convenient.’

Jo-Jo came forward, and with a flourish, presented Crispin with the box of paints.

‘I’ll have something ready for him,’ Crispin said, taking the box. ‘Bill me.’ Then nodding, he started down the long wide aisle that led to the gallery’s exit. On either side were glass cases, artistically lit, displaying some of Kendriek’s many treasures.

Crispin suddenly paused before a small showcase and looked at an object, lying on white velvet.

Kendriek was on his heels.

‘Ah, Mr. Gregg!’ he exclaimed, his little eyes lighting up. ‘A true artist! This unique ornament makes you pause.’

Crispin was regarding the object. He had no idea why it should have attracted his attention. Some odd instinct had made him stop.

The object was some four inches long: an elegant slim block of silver, finely engraved, and with tiny rubies and emeralds made in the shape of a dagger. The object was attached to a long silver chain of filigree work.

‘What is it?’ Crispin asked.

‘A pendant, Mr. Gregg: so fashionable these days, but much more than that. I must show you.’ Kendriek lifted the glass cover. Jo-Jo came forward and took the cover from Kendriek. ‘This is an exact replica of a pendant worn by Suleiman the Great. Suleiman went in fear of his life. This, Mr. Gregg, was his hidden protection. It is without doubt the first switch blade knife to have been invented.’