instructed to take up Crispin’s meals on a tray, knock on the door, then go away. Crispin ate very little. His lunch consisted of a fish salad or an omelette, his dinner a small steak or the breast of a chicken.
From time to time, he left his studio and drove away in the Rolls. Watching from behind the curtain, Amelia assumed he was going to see Lewishon. She also assumed that when Crispin was locked in his studio, he was painting.
By now she had accepted the bitter fact that she no longer had any power over her son, but at least she had fifty thousand dollars a year, spending money. She had always lived an active, sociable life. She was an expert bridge player. In her big circle of friends, the news had got around that Crispin had inherited his father’s fortune. Eyebrows had been raised when the big house had been sold.
Amelia had explained that Crispin had become a great, dedicated artist. On no account was he to be disturbed.
She had hinted that Picasso might have a rival. Her friends secretly jeered. She was often invited to her friends’ homes for cocktails or dinner. As a quid pro quo, she invited them to one of the many luxury restaurants in Paradise City, again explaining that Crispin was so sensitive, she could now no longer entertain at home.
But she kept wondering what Crispin was doing, locked away, month after month. Her curiosity became so overpowering, she decided she must find out. One day, she had the opportunity. Chrissy had gone out, shopping. Crispin had already driven away in the Rolls. She called Reynolds.
‘Do you think you could get in up there, Reynolds?’
‘I believe so, madam. I have already examined the lock. I could arrange it.’
‘Then let us go at once!’
It took Reynolds only a few minutes, with the aid of a stiff piece of wire to unlock the door, and together, they entered the studio.
It was like walking into a nightmare world of revolting horror.
Hanging on the walls were big canvasses of such ghastly scenes that Amelia turned faint. The theme of these realistic paintings were always the same: a naked girl, depicted with astonishing photographic detail, lying on a beach with a red blood moon, a black, threatening sky and an orange beach. The girl was either decapitated or disemboweled or hacked in pieces.
In a corner of the room stood an easel on which was a large portrait, completely life-like, of Amelia. Between her bloodstained teeth hung a pair of male legs, clad in white and red striped trousers—her husband’s weekend casual dress. From her black dyed hair, sprouted a pair of fur covered horns.
For a long moment, Amelia stared at the painting, then half fainting, she allowed Reynolds to support her down the stairs.
Leaving her in the lounge, Reynolds walked unsteadily to his room and drank a big Scotch. Then, revived, but still shaken, he returned upstairs and relocked the apartment door.
He entered the lounge and poured Amelia a stiff brandy.
‘What are we going to do?’ she asked, after sipping the drink. ‘This is dreadful! He is utterly mad! He could be dangerous!’
Again Reynolds thought of the nightmare his life would become if he lost this sinecure of a job.
‘I think, madam, there is nothing we can do but wait and hope.’
Amelia, thinking what life would be like to live on a mere ten thousand dollars a year, nodded agreement.
So they waited, but without any hope.
Then on the evening after Janie Bandler’s murder, Reynolds made a horrifying discovery. He went immediately to where Amelia was watching T.V. after an excellent dinner.
‘Madam,’ he said huskily, ‘I must ask you to come with me to the boiler room.’
‘The boiler room?’ Amelia stared at him, then seeing his white, sweating face, she felt a stab of fear. ‘What is it?’
‘Please, madam, please come,’ and he turned and began walking down the corridor. After a moment’s hesitation, now feeling dread, Amelia followed him down the stairs and into the boiler
From time to time, he left his studio and drove away in the Rolls. Watching from behind the curtain, Amelia assumed he was going to see Lewishon. She also assumed that when Crispin was locked in his studio, he was painting.
By now she had accepted the bitter fact that she no longer had any power over her son, but at least she had fifty thousand dollars a year, spending money. She had always lived an active, sociable life. She was an expert bridge player. In her big circle of friends, the news had got around that Crispin had inherited his father’s fortune. Eyebrows had been raised when the big house had been sold.
Amelia had explained that Crispin had become a great, dedicated artist. On no account was he to be disturbed.
She had hinted that Picasso might have a rival. Her friends secretly jeered. She was often invited to her friends’ homes for cocktails or dinner. As a quid pro quo, she invited them to one of the many luxury restaurants in Paradise City, again explaining that Crispin was so sensitive, she could now no longer entertain at home.
But she kept wondering what Crispin was doing, locked away, month after month. Her curiosity became so overpowering, she decided she must find out. One day, she had the opportunity. Chrissy had gone out, shopping. Crispin had already driven away in the Rolls. She called Reynolds.
‘Do you think you could get in up there, Reynolds?’
‘I believe so, madam. I have already examined the lock. I could arrange it.’
‘Then let us go at once!’
It took Reynolds only a few minutes, with the aid of a stiff piece of wire to unlock the door, and together, they entered the studio.
It was like walking into a nightmare world of revolting horror.
Hanging on the walls were big canvasses of such ghastly scenes that Amelia turned faint. The theme of these realistic paintings were always the same: a naked girl, depicted with astonishing photographic detail, lying on a beach with a red blood moon, a black, threatening sky and an orange beach. The girl was either decapitated or disemboweled or hacked in pieces.
In a corner of the room stood an easel on which was a large portrait, completely life-like, of Amelia. Between her bloodstained teeth hung a pair of male legs, clad in white and red striped trousers—her husband’s weekend casual dress. From her black dyed hair, sprouted a pair of fur covered horns.
For a long moment, Amelia stared at the painting, then half fainting, she allowed Reynolds to support her down the stairs.
Leaving her in the lounge, Reynolds walked unsteadily to his room and drank a big Scotch. Then, revived, but still shaken, he returned upstairs and relocked the apartment door.
He entered the lounge and poured Amelia a stiff brandy.
‘What are we going to do?’ she asked, after sipping the drink. ‘This is dreadful! He is utterly mad! He could be dangerous!’
Again Reynolds thought of the nightmare his life would become if he lost this sinecure of a job.
‘I think, madam, there is nothing we can do but wait and hope.’
Amelia, thinking what life would be like to live on a mere ten thousand dollars a year, nodded agreement.
So they waited, but without any hope.
Then on the evening after Janie Bandler’s murder, Reynolds made a horrifying discovery. He went immediately to where Amelia was watching T.V. after an excellent dinner.
‘Madam,’ he said huskily, ‘I must ask you to come with me to the boiler room.’
‘The boiler room?’ Amelia stared at him, then seeing his white, sweating face, she felt a stab of fear. ‘What is it?’
‘Please, madam, please come,’ and he turned and began walking down the corridor. After a moment’s hesitation, now feeling dread, Amelia followed him down the stairs and into the boiler
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