protecting its flanks.
Roberts’ prowl car was parked under a palm tree. The big, rubbery faced cop came out of the shadows and joined Beigler.
“I took a look, sarg,” he said, “then left it. You’ll love this . . . it’s the Executioner again.”
Beigler swore under his breath, then walked up the short path to the open front door. He gestured to Lepski and Roberts to stay where they were.
He found Malcolm Riddle sitting in a lounging chair in the big living room.
Riddle was a heavily built man in his late fifties: his sun tanned, fleshy face was handsome enough for him to be mistaken for a film star. There was a look of dead despair on his face that shocked Beigler. He knew Riddle and liked him and knew about his difficulties. He knew Riddle’s wife was a bitch.
Allowing for the fact that after a riding accident she had now to spend her life in a wheel chair, she still remained a bitch.
Riddle looked up as Beigler came into the room.
“Ah, Joe . . . glad it’s you. This is a hell of a mess.” He waved towards a far door. “She’s in there.”
“Take it easy, Mr. Riddle,” Beigler said gently and went to the door that led into the bedroom. The lights were on. The king sized bed took up most of the floor space.
The woman lay face down on the bed, naked. Beigler’s practised eyes saw the rope of nylon stocking around her throat, and then his eyes shifted to her long, sun tanned back.
From the base of her neck to the base of her buttocks was painted in glistening black paint the legend: THE EXECUTIONER
Beigler stood for a long moment, staring at the body, his face hard and set, then he walked through the sitting room, ignoring Riddle and out into the hot night air.
“It’s our boy again,” he said to Lepski. “Set it up. Get the squad down here. I’m taking Riddle out of here.”
Lepski nodded and using the car’s telephone, he called headquarters.
Beigler returned to the bungalow.
“The press will be swarming around here any time now,” he said. “Let me take you home, Mr. Riddle.”
Riddle got heavily to his feet.
“I don’t want to go home . . . just yet. Of course you want to question me. I’ll take my car . . . you follow me. We’ll go down to Main Bay . . . it’ll be quiet there.”
Ten minutes later, Riddle parked his car under a palm tree. Main Bay was a day time favourite for beach lovers, but at night, it was always deserted.
Beigler joined him and the two men sat side by side on the sand. There was a long pause, then Riddle said, “This is a mess, isn’t it? It’s the end of the road for me. Why did that bastard pick on me?” He accepted Beigler’s cigarette and both men lit up. “If I hadn’t had a flat tyre this wouldn’t have happened. It’s fate, I suppose. I’ve always got to the bungalow before Lisa did, but tonight, I had this flat and she was there ahead of me.”
“Would you fill me in, Mr. Riddle?” Beigler said. “It’ll all have to come out. I’m sorry. I need everything you can give me. This nut could kill again.”
“Yes . . . go ahead . . . ask what you like.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“Lisa Mendoza.” Riddle stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette. “You know about my wife. Of course I should not have done it, but I’m not getting any younger . . . call it a last fling. I ran into Lisa. Something sparked off between us. She was a lovely person and lonely like myself.” His voice became unsteady and he paused. “There it is. I bought the bungalow. It was our love nest . . . that’s what the tabloids will call it, won’t they?”
“Did you have the bungalow long?”
“Eighteen months . . . nineteen months . . . something like that. Both of us knew it couldn’t last . . . what does?”
“How often did you meet?”
“Every Friday night. It was a fixed thing . . . like this Friday night.”
“She didn’t live at the bungalow?”
“Good God, no! We only used it on Friday nights. She has her own home. We chose
Roberts’ prowl car was parked under a palm tree. The big, rubbery faced cop came out of the shadows and joined Beigler.
“I took a look, sarg,” he said, “then left it. You’ll love this . . . it’s the Executioner again.”
Beigler swore under his breath, then walked up the short path to the open front door. He gestured to Lepski and Roberts to stay where they were.
He found Malcolm Riddle sitting in a lounging chair in the big living room.
Riddle was a heavily built man in his late fifties: his sun tanned, fleshy face was handsome enough for him to be mistaken for a film star. There was a look of dead despair on his face that shocked Beigler. He knew Riddle and liked him and knew about his difficulties. He knew Riddle’s wife was a bitch.
Allowing for the fact that after a riding accident she had now to spend her life in a wheel chair, she still remained a bitch.
Riddle looked up as Beigler came into the room.
“Ah, Joe . . . glad it’s you. This is a hell of a mess.” He waved towards a far door. “She’s in there.”
“Take it easy, Mr. Riddle,” Beigler said gently and went to the door that led into the bedroom. The lights were on. The king sized bed took up most of the floor space.
The woman lay face down on the bed, naked. Beigler’s practised eyes saw the rope of nylon stocking around her throat, and then his eyes shifted to her long, sun tanned back.
From the base of her neck to the base of her buttocks was painted in glistening black paint the legend: THE EXECUTIONER
Beigler stood for a long moment, staring at the body, his face hard and set, then he walked through the sitting room, ignoring Riddle and out into the hot night air.
“It’s our boy again,” he said to Lepski. “Set it up. Get the squad down here. I’m taking Riddle out of here.”
Lepski nodded and using the car’s telephone, he called headquarters.
Beigler returned to the bungalow.
“The press will be swarming around here any time now,” he said. “Let me take you home, Mr. Riddle.”
Riddle got heavily to his feet.
“I don’t want to go home . . . just yet. Of course you want to question me. I’ll take my car . . . you follow me. We’ll go down to Main Bay . . . it’ll be quiet there.”
Ten minutes later, Riddle parked his car under a palm tree. Main Bay was a day time favourite for beach lovers, but at night, it was always deserted.
Beigler joined him and the two men sat side by side on the sand. There was a long pause, then Riddle said, “This is a mess, isn’t it? It’s the end of the road for me. Why did that bastard pick on me?” He accepted Beigler’s cigarette and both men lit up. “If I hadn’t had a flat tyre this wouldn’t have happened. It’s fate, I suppose. I’ve always got to the bungalow before Lisa did, but tonight, I had this flat and she was there ahead of me.”
“Would you fill me in, Mr. Riddle?” Beigler said. “It’ll all have to come out. I’m sorry. I need everything you can give me. This nut could kill again.”
“Yes . . . go ahead . . . ask what you like.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“Lisa Mendoza.” Riddle stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette. “You know about my wife. Of course I should not have done it, but I’m not getting any younger . . . call it a last fling. I ran into Lisa. Something sparked off between us. She was a lovely person and lonely like myself.” His voice became unsteady and he paused. “There it is. I bought the bungalow. It was our love nest . . . that’s what the tabloids will call it, won’t they?”
“Did you have the bungalow long?”
“Eighteen months . . . nineteen months . . . something like that. Both of us knew it couldn’t last . . . what does?”
“How often did you meet?”
“Every Friday night. It was a fixed thing . . . like this Friday night.”
“She didn’t live at the bungalow?”
“Good God, no! We only used it on Friday nights. She has her own home. We chose
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