Tenth Commandment

10

I slept late on Saturday morning and woke to find it was snowing: big fat flakes that were piling up rapidly. But the radio reported it would taper off by noon, and temperatures were expected to rise to the upper 30s.

I had a large breakfast and spent the day in the apartment, housecleaning and thinking about the cases.

In the early evening I showered and, in honour of the occasion, shaved. I dressed in a white oxford cloth shirt with a maroon rep tie, a navy blue blazer, grey flannel slacks, and polished black moccasins. Now I looked like a prep school student — but I was used to that.

I was tucking a white handkerchief into my breast pocket when someone knocked on my front door.

'Who is it?' I called before unlocking.

'Finkel,' came the reply.

I opened the door, smiling, and motioned Adolph Finkel inside. He was the fourth-floor tenant who lived across the 130

hall from Madame Zora Kadinsky.

'Uh, good evening, Bigg,' he said. 'I guess we're supposed to help Shank get downstairs.'

I glanced at my watch.

'We have a few minutes,' I said. 'How about a drink to give us strength?'

' W e l l. . don't go to any bother.' But he let me press some Scotch on him.

'Happy days,' I said.

'You're all dressed up,' he said sadly. 'I worked today and didn't have time to change.'

'You look fine,' I assured him.

He looked down at himself.

'The manager told me I shouldn't wear brown shoes with a blue suit,' he said. 'The manager said it doesn't look right for a shoe salesman to wear brown shoes with a blue suit. Of course, it's a ladies' shoestore where I w o r k. . but still. What do you think, Bigg?'

'Maybe black shoes would look better.'

'I could go up and change,' he said earnestly. 'I have a pair of black shoes.'

'Oh, don't bother,' I said. 'I doubt if anyone will notice.'

He was tall, six-one at least, and exceedingly thin, with rounded shoulders, bent neck, head pecked forward like a hungry bird. He had a wild mass of kinky, mouse-coloured hair hanging over a low brow. His complexion was palely blotched, washed-out. He had hurt eyes.

Apology was in his voice and in his manner. There is an ancient story of two men condemned to be shot to death.

One spits in the face of his executioner. His companion reproves him, saying, 'Don't make trouble.' That was Adolph Finkel.

'Uh, do you think the party will be in Mrs Hufnagel's apartment,' he asked me, 'or in Cleo's?'

'I really don't know. Probably Mrs Hufnagel's.'

'Uh, I suppose you go out with a lot of women?'

I laughed. 'What gave you that idea, Finkel? No, I don't go out with a lot of women.' Madame Kadinsky had been right. He was trying to discover if I had any interest in Cleo Hufnagel. 'There is one,' I said. 'A girl at my office. She's lovely.'

He beamed — or tried to. It was a mistake; it revealed his teeth.

Finkel and I took Captain Shank downstairs in his wheelchair. It wasn't as difficult as I feared it would be; we just tilted the chair back on to its big wheels and let it roll down, a step at a time. Finkel gripped the handles in back and I went ahead, trying to lift the footrest sufficiently to cushion the jars as the chair bumped down. It would have been a lot easier without Shank's roared commands. He carried wine I had bought.

When we arrived at the second-floor hallway, the three women, having heard our pounding descent, were waiting for us. I had been in error; the door to Cleo Hufnagel's apartment was open, and it was obvious the party would be held there.

'You said — ' Finkel started to whisper.

'Forget it,' I said, determined to stay as far away from him as I could.

I handed the wine to Mrs Hufnagel and told her the bottles were contributions from Shank and myself.

'Isn't that nice!' she said. 'Just look at this, Cleo. Look at what Mr Bigg brought!'

'And the Captain,' I reminded her.

' 'allo, 'allo, Joshy and Captain Shink!' Madame Zora Kadinsky carolled.

'Shank,' he said.

Cleo's apartment, obviously furnished to her mother's taste, was dull, overstuffed, suffocating. The great Hufnagel Plot was being forwarded.

The party was a punch-and-cookies affair. I was glad I'd had a ham sandwich late in the afternoon. The punch tasted like fruit juice.

'What the hell is this?' asked Captain Shank. 'No kick.

Dump about half the muscatel into it.'

I did so, and in a while I stole upstairs and got vodka and brandy to add to it. The guests had been stiffish, forcing themselves to try to match the abundant party styles of Mrs Hufnagel and Mme Kadinsky. But less than an hour after our arrival things were brightening up.

Mme Kadinsky sang 'Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life' and other suboperatic selections. The Captain bellowed and pounded the arm of his wheelchair. Urged by Madame Kadinsky and her mother, Cleo and I sedately danced to

'Stardust' rendered on an upright piano by Madame K.

Finkel showed signs of cutting in, but Mrs Hufnagel grappled him away to dance with her.

In time things progressed to a jig by Mrs Hufnagel, skirts held high to reveal thick support hose, and a final maudlin rendering of 'Auld Lang Syne.' A very morose Finkel and I had great trouble getting Bramwell Shank back upstairs.

I was too keyed up to attempt to sleep immediately, so I sat in the darkness of the living room, dressed for bed, staring into the cold fireplace. It was, perhaps, almost 1.30

a. m., and I was dozing happily, trying to summon the strength to rise and go to bed, when I heard a light knocking at my door, a timid tapping.

'Who is it?' I whispered hoarsely.

A moment of silence, then: 'Cleo, Cleo Hufnagel.'

I unlocked and unchained the door. She was still wearing her party clothes.

'I was just going to bed,' I said in a voice that sounded to me unnecessarily shrill.

'I just wanted to talk to you for a minute,' she said.

'Uh, sure,' I said, and ushered her in. She sat in my favourite armchair. I sat opposite her. I sat primly upright, 133

my pyjamaed knees together, my robe drawn tightly.

'First of all,' she said in a low voice, 'I want to thank you for what you did. The party was my mother's idea. I thought it would be horrible. And it was, until you helped.

Then it turned out to be fun.'

I made a gesture.

'Don't thank me,' I said. 'It was the punch.'

She smiled wanly. 'Whatever,' she said, 'I really enjoyed it.'

'I did, too,' I said. 'It was fun. I'm glad you invited me.'

'It was Mother's idea,' she repeated, then drew a deep breath. 'You see, I'm almost thirty years old, and she's afraid that I. . '

Her voice faded away.

'Yes,' I said gently, 'I understand.'

She looked up at me hopefully.

'Do you?' she said. Then: 'Of course you do. You're intelligent. You know what she's doing. Trying to do. I wanted you to know that it was none of my doing. I'm sure it must be very embarrassing to you and I wanted to apologize. For my mother.'

'Oh, Cleo,' I said. 'Listen, is it all right if I call you Cleo and you call me Josh?'

She nodded silently.

'Well, C l e o. . sure, I know what your mother's doing.

Trying to do. But is it so awful? I don't blame you and I don't blame her.'

'It's just so — so vulgar!' she burst out. 'And I wanted you to know that it wasn't my idea, that I'd never do anything like that.'

'I know,' I said consolingly. 'It must be very distressing for you. But don't condemn your mother, Cleo. She only wants what she thinks is best for you.'

'I know that.'

'She loves you and wants you to be happy.'

'I know that, too.'

'So, would it be so terrible if we just let her do her thing?

I mean, now that you and I know, it wouldn't be so awful to let her think she's helping — would it?'

'I guess not.'

We sat in silence awhile, not looking at each other.

'What about Adolph Finkel?' I asked finally.

'Oh no,' she said instantly. 'No. Did you see that he was wearing one brown shoe and one black shoe tonight?'

'No,' I said, 'I didn't notice.'

'But it's not only that,' she said. 'It's everything.'

'Is there anyone else you're interested in?' I asked. 'I don't mean to pry, but we're being so frank…'

'No,' she said. 'No one else.'

This was said in tones so empty, so devoid of hope, that my breath caught. I looked at her. She really was a tall, slender beauty, almost Spanish in her reserve and mystery.

It was criminal that she should be unwanted.

'Listen, Cleo,' I said desperately, 'this doesn't mean that we can't be friends. Does it?'

She raised luminous eyes to look at me steadily. I couldn't see any implication there. Just deep, deep eyes, unfathomable.

'I'd like that,' she said, smiling at last. 'To be friends.'

The whole thing lightened.

'We can learn some new dance steps. The Peabody.'

'The Maxixe,' she said and laughed a little.

Just before she slipped out into the hallway, she bent down to kiss my cheek. A little peck.

'Thank you,' she said softly.

By the time I had rechained and relocked the door, I was wiped out, tottering. I didn't want to think, or even feel. I just wanted sleep, to repair my punished body and dull a surfeit of impressions, memories, conjectures.

I fell into bed. I was halfway into a deep, dreamless slumber when my phone rang.

' 'Lo?'

'Josh?'

'Yes. Who is this?'

'Ardis. Ardis Peacock. Remember?'

I came suddenly awake.

'Of course I remember,' I said heartily. 'How are you, Ardis?'

'Where have you been?' she demanded. 'I been calling all night.'

'Uh, I had a late date.'

'You scamp, you!' she said. 'Listen, I got what you wanted on Stonehouse.'

'Wonderful?' I said. 'What was his illness?'

'Do I get the other fifty bucks?'

'Of course you do. What was it?'

'You'll never guess,' she said.

'What was it?' I implored.

'Arsenic poisoning,' she said.