Tenth Commandment

3

Olga Eklund agreed to meet me in a health-food cafeteria on Irving Place. The salad, full of sprouted seeds, was really pretty good. I washed it down with some completely natural juice.

I listened to her lecture on health and diet as patiently as I could. When she paused I said, 'So when you told me Professor Stonehouse was being poisoned, you were referring to the daily food served in his house?'

'Yah. Bad foods. I tell them all the time. They don't listen. That Mrs Dark, the cook — everything with her is butter and cream. Too much oil. Too rich.'

'But everyone in the house eats the same thing?'

'Not me. I eat raw carrots, green salads with maybe a little lemon juice. Fresh fruit. I don't poison myself.'

'Olga,' I said, 'you serve the evening meal every night?'

'Except on my day off.'

'Can you recall Professor Stonehouse eating or drinking anything the others didn't eat or drink?'

She thought for a moment.

'No,' she said. Then: 'Except at night maybe. After I left.'

'Oh? What was that?'

'Every night he worked in his study. Late, he would have a cup of cocoa and a brandy before he went to bed.'

I was alive again.

'Where did the cocoa come from?'

'Come from?' she asked, puzzled. 'From Holland.'

'I mean, who made the cocoa every night for Professor Stonehouse?'

'Oh. Mrs Dark made it before she went to bed and before I went home. Then, when the Professor wanted it late, Glynis would heat it up, skim it, and bring it to his study.'

'Every night?'

'I think so.'

'No one else in the house drank the cocoa?'

'I don't know.'

It was sounding better and better.

'Let me get this sequence right,' I said. 'Every night Mrs Dark made a pot of cocoa. This was before you went home and before she went to bed. Then, later, when the Professor wanted it, Glynis would heat it up and bring it to him in his study. Correct?'

'Yah,' she said placidly, not at all interested in why I was so concerned about the cocoa.

'Thank you, Olga,' I said. 'You've been very helpful.'

'Yah,' she said, surprised.

'Does Glynis go out very often? In the evening, I mean.'

'Oh, yah.'

'Does she have a boyfriend?'

She pondered that.

'I think so,' she said, nodding. 'Before, she was very sad, quiet. Now she smiles. Sometimes she laughs. She dresses different. Yah, I think she has a man who makes her happy.'

'How long has this been going on? I mean, when did she start to be happy?'

'Maybe a year ago. Maybe more. Also, one night she said she was going to the theatre. But I saw her that night in a restaurant on 21st Street. She did not see me and I said nothing to her.'

'Was she with anyone?'

'No. But I thought she was waiting for someone.'

'What time of night was this?'

'Perhaps nine, nine-thirty. If she had gone to the theatre, as she said, she would not be in the restaurant at that time,'

'Did you ever mention that incident to her?'

'No,' she said, shrugging. 'Is no business of mine.'

'What do you think of Powell Stonehouse, Olga?'

'He poisons himself with marijuana cigarettes.' (She pronounced it 'mary-jew-anna.') 'Too bad. I feel sorry for him. His father was very mean to him.'

I drained the remainder of all that natural goodness in my glass and rose to my feet.

'Thank you again, Olga,' I said, 'for your time and trouble. The food here is delicious. You may have made a convert of me.'

What a liar I was getting to be.

When I got back to TORT I was confronted by Hamish Hooter, that tooth-sucking villain. 'See here,' Hooter said indignantly, glaring at me from sticky eyes, 'what's this about a secretary?'

'I need one,' I said. 'I spoke of it to Mr Tabatchnick.'

' I am the office manager,' he said hotly. 'Why didn't you speak to me? '

'Because you would have turned me down again,' I said in what I thought was a reasonable tone. 'All I want is a temporary assistant. Someone to help out with typing and filing until I complete a number of important and complex investigations.'

I had always thought the description 'He gnashed his teeth' was a literary exaggeration. But Hamish Hooter did gnash his teeth. It was a fascinating and awful thing to witness,

'We'll see about that,' he grated, and whirled away from me.

As soon as I reached my desk I phoned Yetta Apatoff and made a lunch date for Friday, then got back to business.

Headquarters for Kipmar Textiles were located in a building on Seventh Avenue and 35th Street. When I phoned, a dulcet voice answered, 'Thank you for calling Kipmar Textiles,' and I wondered what the reaction would be if I screamed that I was suing Kipmar for six zillion dollars. After being shunted to two more extensions, I finally got through to a lady who stated she was Miss Gregg, secretary to Mr Herschel Kipper.

I forbore commenting on the aptness of her name and occupation, but merely identified myself and my employer and asked if it might be possible for me to see Mr Herschel Kipper and/or Mr Bernard Kipper at some hour that afternoon, at their convenience. She asked me the purpose of my request, and I replied that it concerned an inventory of their late father's estate that had to be made for tax purposes.

She put me on hold — for almost five minutes. But I was not bored; they had one of those attachments that switches a held caller to a local radio station, so I heard the tag end of the news, a weather report, and the beginning of a country singer's rendition of 'I Want to Destroy You, Baby,' before Miss Gregg came on the line again. She informed me that the Kipper brothers could see me 'for a very brief period' at 3.00 p.m. I was to come directly to the executive offices on the 34th floor and ask for her. I thanked her for her kindness. She thanked me, again, for calling Kipmar Textiles. It was a very civilized encounter.

I walked over from the TORT building, starting out at 2.30, heading due west on 38th. I strolled down Fifth Avenue to 35th, where I made a right into the garment district and continued over to Seventh. The garment centre in Manhattan is quintessentially New York. From early in the morning till late at night it is thronged, jammed, packed. The rhythm is frantic. Handtrucks and pedestrians share the sidewalks. Handtrucks, pedestrians, taxis, buses, private cars, and semi-trailers share the streets. There is a cacophony that numbs the mind: shouts, curses, the bleat of horns, squeal of brakes, sirens, bells, whistles, the blast of punk rock from the open doors of music shops, the demanding cries of street vendors and beggars.

I suppose there were streets in ancient Rome similar to these, and maybe in Medieval European towns on market day. It is a hurly-burly, a wild tumult that simply sweeps you up and carries you along, so you find yourself trotting, dashing through traffic against the lights, shouldering your way through the press, rushing, rushing. Senseless and invigorating.

Kipmar's executive offices were decorated in neutral tones of oyster white and dove grey, the better to accent the spindles of gaily coloured yarns and bolts of fabrics displayed in lighted wall niches. There were spools of cotton, synthetics, wools, silks, rayon, and folds of woven solids, plaids, stripes, checks, herringbones, satins, metallics, and one incredible bolt of a gossamer fine as a spider's web and studded with tiny rhinestones. This fabric was labelled with a chaste card that read: STAR WONDER.

Special Order. See Mr Snodgrass.

At the end of the lobby a young lady was seated behind a desk that bore a small sign: RECEPTIONIST. She was on the phone, giggling, as I approached, and I heard her say, 'Oh, Herbie, you're just awful! ' She covered the mouthpiece as I halted in front of her desk.

'Yes, sir?' she said brightly. 'How may I help you?'

'Joshua Bigg,' I said, 'to see Mr Kipper. I was told to ask for Miss Gregg.'

'Which Mr Kipper, sir?'

'Both Mr Kippers.'

'Just a moment, sir,' she said. Then, sotto voce, 'Don't go away, Herbie.' She pushed some buttons and said primly, 'Mr Joshua Biggs to see Mr Kipper. Both Mr Kippers.'

She listened a moment, then turned to me with a divine smile. 'Please take a seat, sir. Miss Gregg will be with you in a moment.'

I sat in one of the low leather sling chairs. True to her word, Miss Gregg came to claim me in a moment. She was tall, scrawny, and efficient. I knew she was efficient because the bows of her eyeglasses were attached to a black ribbon that went around her neck.

'Mr Bigg?' she said with a glassy smile. 'Follow me, please.'

She preceded me through a labyrinth of corridors to a door that bore a small brass plate: H. KIPPER, PRES.

'Thank you,' I said to her.

'Thank you, sir,' she said, ushered me in, then closed the door gently behind me.

It was a corner office. Two walls were picture windows affording a marvellous view of upper Manhattan. The floor was carpeted deeply, almost indecently. The desk was a slab of black marble on a chrome base — more table than desk. Two men stood behind the desk.

I had an initial impression that I was seeing double or seeing identical twins. They were in fact merely brothers, but Herschel and Bernard Kipper looked alike, dressed alike, shared the same speech patterns, mannerisms, and gestures; during the interview that followed I was continually confused, and finally looked between them when I asked my questions and let him answer who would.

Both were men of medium height, and portly. Both had long strands of thinning hair combed sideways over pink scalp. Their long cigars were identical.

Both were clad in high garment district fashion in steel-grey, raw silk suits. Only their ties were not identical.

When they spoke their voices were harsh, phlegmy, with a smokers' rasp, their speech rapid, assertive. They asked me to be seated, although they remained standing, firmly planted, smoking their cigars and staring at me with hard, wary eyes.

Once again I explained that I was engaged in a preliminary inventory of their father's estate, and had come to ascertain if he had left any personal belongings in the offices.

'I understand he maintained a private office here,' I added softly. 'Even after his retirement.'

' Well. . sure,' one of them said. 'Pop had an office here.'

'But no personal belongings,' the other said. 'I mean, Pop's desk and chairs and all, the furnishings, they belong to the company.'

'No personal possessions?' I persisted. 'Jewellery? A set of cufflinks he might have kept in his desk? Photographs?

Silver frames?'

'Sure,' one of them said. 'Pop had photographs.'

'We took them,' the other one said. 'They were of our mother, and Pop's mother and father.'

'And all us kids,' the other said. 'And his grandchildren.

In plain frames. No silver or anything like that. And one photograph of her. She can have it.'

'The bitch!' the other Kipper son said wrathfully.

I had pondered how I might introduce the subjects of Tippi and the will without seeming to pry. I needn't have fretted.

'I assume you're referring to the widow?' I said.

'I said bitch,' one of them said, 'and I mean bitch!'

'Listen,' the other said, 'we're not complaining.'

'We're not hurting,' his brother agreed. 'But that gold-digger getting a piece of the company is what hurts.'

'Who knows what that birdbrain might do?'

'She might dump her shares.'

'Upset the market.'

'Or waltz in here and start poking around.'

'She knows zilch about the business.'

'She could make plenty of trouble, that fake.'

'I understand,' I said carefully, 'that she was formerly in the theatre?'

'The theatre!' one of them cried.

'That's a laugh!' the other cried.

'She was a nightclub dancer.'

'A chorus girl.'

'All she did was shake her ass.'

'And she wasn't very good at that.'

'Probably hustling on the side.'

'What else? Strictly a horizontal talent.'

'She played him like a fish.'

'She knew a good thing when she saw one, and she landed him.'

'And made his life miserable.'

'Once the contract was signed, no more nice-nice.'

'Unless she got what she wanted.'

'The house, which they didn't need, and clothes, cars, cruises, jewellery — the works. She took him good.'

'It hurt us to see what was going on.'

'But he wouldn't listen. He just wouldn't listen.'

'Uh,' I said, 'I understand she also persuaded your father to make contributions to charity. A certain Reverend Godfrey K n u r r. .? '

'Him!'

'That gonniff!'

'Hundreds!'

'Thousands!'

'To his cockamamie club for street bums.'

'Pop wasn't thinking straight.'

'Couldn't see how they were taking him.'

'Even after he's dead and gone.'

'But you probably know that.'

I didn't know it. Didn't know to what he was referring.

But I didn't want to reveal my ignorance by asking questions.

' Well. . ' I said judiciously, 'it's not the first time it's happened. An elderly widower. A younger woman. Does she have family?'

'Who the hell knows?' one of them said.

'She came out of nowhere,' the other said. 'A drifter.

Chicago, I think. Somewhere near there.'

'She doesn't talk about it.'

'He met her in Vegas.'

'Went out there on one of those gambling junkets and came back with a bride. Some bride! Some junket!'

'He lost!'

'We all lost.'

'A chippie.'

'A whore.'

'Everyone could see it but him. Pussy-whipped.'

'An old man like that. Our father. Pussy-whipped.'

'It hurt.'

They glowered at me accusingly. I ducked my head and made meaningless jottings in my notebook, pretending their anger was worth recording. Though I had learned more than I had hoped, there were questions I wanted desperately to ask, but I didn't dare arouse their suspicions.

'Well,' I said, 'I think that covers the matter of your father's personal belongings. There is one additional thing you may be able to help me with. A claim for a thousand dollars has been filed against the estate by an individual named Martin Reape. We have been unable to contact Mr Reape, and we wondered if either of you is acquainted with him or knows the reason for the claim.'

Again they looked at each other. Then shook their heads.

'Martin Reape?'

'Never heard of him.'

'We thought it might possibly be a business expense. Is there any way. .?'

'Sure. It can be checked out.'

'We got everything on film.'

'We can tell you if he was a supplier, a customer, or whatever. Heshie, give Al Baum a call.'

Heshie picked up a silver-coloured phone.

'Get me Al Baum,' he snapped. Then, in a moment,

'Al? Herschel. I'm sending you down a lawyer. He wants to check into a certain individual. To see if he's on our books. You understand? Right. Al, give him every possible co-operation.'

He hung up.

'That's Al Baum, our comptroller,' he said to me. 'He's on the 31st floor. If we've got this guy — what's his name?'

'Martin Reape.'

'If we've got this Martin Reape on our books, Al will put him on the screen and see if we owe him.

Okay?'

I stood up.

'Gentlemen,' I said, 'you've been very kind, and I appreciate it.'

'You filed for probate yet?'

'Well, uh, I think you better talk to Mr Tabatchnick about that. He's handling it personally.'

' Sure. . what else? Uncle Leo and Pop were old friends.

They go way back together.'

'Give Uncle Leo our best.'

'I'll do that,' I said. 'Thank you again for your time and trouble.'

I got out of there. They were still standing shoulder to shoulder behind the desk, still furious. Their cigars were much shorter now. The marble top was littered with white ash.

The 31st floor was different from the executive enclave on the 34th. Wood floors were carpeted with worn runners, walls were tenement green, chipped and peeling.

There was no receptionist; directly in front of the elevators 188

began a maze of flimsy metal cubicles. There was constant noise here; banging and clattering, shouted questions and screamed answers, and a great scurrying to and fro. Large office machines, some with keyboards, some with hidden keys clacking, some quiescent, burping forth a sheet or two of paper at odd moments.

I approached a desk where a young black man was shuffling through an enormous pile of computer printout.

He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and a steel comb pushed into his Afro.

'I beg your pardon,' I said timidly.

He continued his rapid riffling of the folded stack of paper before him.

'I beg your pardon,' I said, louder.

He looked up.

'Say what?' he said.

'I'm looking for Mr Baum. I wonder if — '

'Al!' he bawled at me. 'Oh you, Al! Someone here!'

I drew back, startled. Before I knew what was happening, my elbow was gripped. A little butterball of a man had me imprisoned.

'Yes, yes, yes?' he spluttered. 'Al Baum. What, what, what?'

'Joshua Bigg, Mr Baum,' I said. 'I'm the — '

'Who, who, who?' he said. 'From Lupowitz?'

'No, no, no,' I said. It was catching. 'From Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum. Mr Herschel Kipper just called and asked — '

'Right, right, right,' he said. 'Follow me. This way. Just follow me. Don't trip over the cables.'

He darted away and I went darting after him. We rushed into an enormous room where tall grey modules were lined up against the walls, all with tape reels whirling or starting and stopping.

'Computers,' I said foolishly.

'No, no, no,' Baum said rapidly. 'Data processing and 189

retrieval. Payrolls, taxes, et cetera, but mostly inventory.

Hundreds of yarns, hundreds of fabrics: all coded. What's this gink's name?'

'Reape,' I said. 'Martin Reape. R-e-a-p-e.'

I scurried after him into a cramped corner office where a young lady sat before a keyboard and what appeared to be a large television screen.

'Josie,' Baum said, 'look up a Martin Reape. R-e-a-p-e.'

He turned to me. 'What is he?' he asked. 'A supplier?

Buyer? What, what, what?'

'I don't know,' I said, feeling like an idiot. 'You may have paid him for something. A supplier. Call him a supplier.'

Josie's fingers sped over the keyboard. Mr Baum and I leaned over her shoulder, watching the screen. Suddenly printing began to appear, letter by letter, word by word, left to right, then down to the next line, with a loud chatter. Finally the machine stopped. The screen showed seven payments of five hundred dollars each. The payee was Martin Reape, the address was his 49th Street office.

The first payment was made in August of the previous year. The last payment was made one week prior to the death of Sol Kipper.

'There he is,' Al Baum said. 'That what you wanted?'

'Yes,' I said, feeling a fierce exaltation. 'Would it be possible to see the cancelled cheques?'

'Why not?' he said. 'We got everything on film. Josie?'

She pushed more buttons. The screen cleared, then was filled with a picture of the Kipmar Textile cheques made out to Martin Reape. I leaned closer to peer. All the cheques had been signed by Albert Baum, Comptroller.

I turned to him.

'You signed the cheques?' I said.

I must have sounded accusing. He looked at me pityingly.

'Sure I signed. So, so, so?'

'Do you remember what it was for? I mean, why was Martin Reape paid that money?'

He shrugged. 'I sign a thousand cheques a week. At least. Who can remember? Josie, let's see the bills.'

She pushed more buttons. Now the bills appeared on the screen. They had no printed heading, just the typewritten name and address of Martin Reape. Each was for $500.

Each merely said. 'For services rendered.'

'See, see, see?' Al Baum demanded. 'Down there in the corner of every bill? 'OK/SK.' That's Sol Kipper's initials and handwriting. He OK'd the bills, so I paid.'

'You have no idea of the services Martin Reape rendered?'

'Nope, nope, nope.'

'Is there any way I can get a copy of the bills and cancelled cheques?'

'Why not?' he said. 'Mr Heshie said to give you full cooperation. Right, right, right? Josie, run a printout on everything — totals, bills, cheques: the works.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'You've been very — '

'Happy, happy, happy,' he rattled, and then he was gone.

I waited while Josie pushed more buttons, and printout came stuttering out of an auxiliary machine. I watched, fascinated, as it printed black-and-white reproductions of the bills from Martin Reape, the cheques paid by Kipmar Textiles, and a neat summation of dates billed, dates paid, ana totals. Josie tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to me. I folded it carefully and tucked it into my inside jacket pocket.

'Thank you very much,' I said.

'Sure, bubi,' she chirped.

I found a phone booth in the street-floor lobby, and looked up a number in my book. She answered on the first ring.

'Yes?' she said.

'Perdita?' I asked, 'Perdita Schug?'

'Yes. Who's this?'

'Joshua Bigg. You probably don't — '

'Josh!' she said. 'How cute! I was hoping you'd call.'

'Yes. . well. . how are you?'

'Bored, bored, bored,' she said. I wondered if she knew Al Baum. 'What I need is a little excitement. A new love.'

'Uh. . yes. Well, why I called. . I remembered you said Thursday was your day off. Am I correct?'

'Right on,' she said. 'I get off at noon tomorrow and I don't have to be back until Friday noon. Isn't that cute?'

'It certainly is,' I said bravely. 'What do you usually do on your day off?'

'Oh,' she said, 'This and that. I should go out to visit my dear old mother in Weehawken. You got any cuter ideas?'

'Well, I was wondering if you might care to have dinner with me tomorrow night?'

'I accept,' she said promptly.

'We can make it early,' I suggested, 'so you'll have plenty of time to get over to New Jersey.'

She laughed merrily.

'You're so funny, Josh,' she said, 'You're really a scream.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'Is there any place you'd like to go?

For dinner, I mean. Some place where we can meet?'

'Mother Tucker's,' she said. 'Second Avenue near Sixty-ninth Street. You'll like it. I hang out there all the time.

Seven or eight o'clock like that, OK?'

As I walked homeward west on my street, I saw Cleo Hufnagel coming east, arms laden with shopping. I hurried to help her.

'Thank you, Josh,' she said. 'I had no idea they'd be so heavy.'

She was wearing a red plaid coat with a stocking hat pulled down to her eyes. The wind and fast walking had rosied her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. She looked very

fetching and I told her so. She smiled shyly.

'Home from work so soon?' I asked as we climbed the steps.

'I had the day off,' she said, 'but I'll have to work Saturday. You're home early.'

'Playing hooky,' I said. I took the other bag of groceries while she hunted for her keys. She unlocked the doors and held them open for me.

'Can I carry these into your kitchen for you?' I asked.

'Oh no,' she said hastily. 'Thank you, but most of these things are for Mother.'

So I set the bags down in the hallway outside Mrs Hufnagel's apartment after huffing my way up to the second floor.

'Thank you so much, Josh,' Cleo said. 'You were very kind.'

I waved my hand. 'No tip necessary,' I said, and we both laughed. Then we just stood there, looking at each other.

It didn't bother me that I had to look up to meet her eyes. I blurted out, 'Cleo, would you like to come up to my place for a glass of wine after dinner?'

'Thank you,' she said in a low voice. 'I'd like that. What time?'

'About eight. Is that all right?'

'Eight is fine. See you then.'

I trudged up to my apartment, meditating on what I had done.

Checking my wine cellar, I found I was in short supply, so after I showered and got into my Chelsea clothes I headed out on a run to the liquor store. Bramwell Shank was there on the landing, waiting for me with the wine in his lap.

'Goddamn!' he shouted. 'I've been waiting here for you and all the time you've been in there!'

This was obviously my fault. I explained how I had come home early, and explained why, and offered to pick 193

up anything he needed from the stores, and got away with a promise to have a drink with him when I came back in.

This seemed a good idea or he might barge in later on my tete-a-tete with Cleo.

She arrived promptly at 8.00 p.m., knocking softly on my door. I leaped to my feet and upset what was left in a glass of wine on my chair arm. Fortunately, the glass fell to the rug without breaking, and none of the wine splashed on me.

'Coming!' I shouted. Hastily, I retrieved the glass and moved the armchair to cover the stain on the rug. Then I had to move the endtable to bring it alongside, and when I did that, the lamp tipped over. I caught it before it could crash, set it upright again, then rushed to the door.

'Come in, come in!' I said heartily and ushered her to the armchair. 'Sit here,' I said. 'It's the most comfortable.'

' Well. . ' Cleo Hufnagel said doubtfully, 'isn't it a little close to the fire? Could you move it back a bit?'

I stared at her, then started laughing. I told her what had happened just before she entered. She laughed, too, and assured me a stained rug wouldn't offend her. So we moved everything back in place.

'Much better,' she said, seating herself. 'I do that all the time. Spilling things, I mean. You shouldn't have bothered covering it.'

We settled down with drinks. Happily I asked her if she had noticed signs of rapprochement between Captain Shank and Madame Kadinsky. There had been signs of romance. That did it. In a moment she had kicked off her shoes and we were gossiping like mad.

Presently I heard myself saying, 'But if they married, they might tear each other to tatters. Argue, fight. You know.'

'Even that's better than what they had before, isn't it?'

The conversation was making me uneasy. I went into the kitchen to fetch fresh drinks.

194

'Cleo,' I said when I came back, 'I really know very little about what you do. I know you work in a library.

Correct?'

'Yes,' she said, lifting her chin. 'I'm a librarian.'

I spent five minutes assuring her that I admired librarians, that some of the happiest hours of my life had been spent in libraries, that they were a poor man's theatre, a portal to a world of wonder, and she was in a noble and honoured profession, etc., etc. I really laid it on, but the strange thing was that I believed every word of it.

'You're very kind,' she said doubtfully. 'But what it comes down to is some bored housewife looking for the new Jackie Onassis book or a Gothic. You're with a legal firm, Josh?'

'Yes,' I said, 'but I'm not a lawyer. I'm just an investigator.'

I explained to her what I did. I found myself talking and talking. She seemed genuinely interested, and asked very cogent questions. She wanted to know my research sources and how I handled abstruse inquiries. I told her some stories that amused her: how I had spent one Sunday morning trying to buy beer in stores on Second Avenue (illegal), how I manipulated recalcitrant witnesses, how people lied to me and how, to my shame, I was becoming an accomplished liar.

'But you've got to,' she said. 'To do your job.'

'I know that,' I said, 'But I'm afraid that I'll find myself lying in my personal life. I wouldn't like that.'

'I wouldn't either,' she said. 'Could I have another drink?'

I came back from the kitchen with fresh drinks. She reached up with a languid hand to take her glass. She was practically reclining in the armchair, stretched out, her head far back, her stockinged feet towards the dying fire.

She was wearing a snug, caramel-coloured wool skirt, cinched with a narrow belt, and a tight black sweater that 195

left her neck bare. All so different from the loose, flowing costumes she usually wore. The last flickering flames cast rosy highlights on throat, chin, brow. She had lifted her long, chestnut hair free. It hung down in back of the chair.

I wanted to stroke it.

I was shocked at how beautiful she looked, that willowy figure stretched out in the dim light. Her features seemed softened. The hazel eyes were closed, the lips slightly parted. She seemed utterly relaxed.

'Cleo,' I said softly.

Her eyes opened.

'I just thought of something. I have a favour to ask.'

'Of course,' she said, straightening up in her chair.

I explained that one of my investigations involved a man who had been a victim of arsenic poisoning. I needed to know more about arsenic: what it was, how it affected the human body, how it could be obtained, how administered, and so forth. Could Cleo find out the titles of books or suggest other places where I might obtain that information?

'I can do that,' she said eagerly. 'I'm not all that busy.

When do you need it?'

'Well. . as soon as possible. I just don't know where to start. I thought if you could give me the sources, I'd take it from there.'

'I'll be happy to,' she said. 'Did he die?'

'No, but he's disappeared. I chink the poisoning had something to do with it.'

'You mean whoever was poisoning him decided to, uh, take more direct measures?'

I looked at her admiringly. 'You're very perceptive.'

'I have a good brain, I know,' she said. It was not bragging: she was just stating a fact. 'Too bad I never get a chance to use it.'

'Were you born in New York, Cleo?' I asked her.

'No,' she said, 'Rhode Island.' She told me the story of 196

her family. Her father had disappeared from Newport one day and Mrs Hufnagel had brought tiny Cleo to Chelsea to live in the house, which had been bought with their last money as an investment.

I told her my little history — little in at least two ways. I told her how I was raised by my uncle and aunt and what I had to endure from my cousins.

'But I'm not complaining,' I said. 'They were good people.'

'Of course they were, to take you in. But still. . '

'Yes,' I said. ' Still. . '

We sat awhile in silence, a close, glowing silence.

'Another drink?' I asked finally.

'I don't think so,' she said. 'Well, maybe a very small one. Just a sip.'

'A nightcap?' I said.

'Right,' she said approvingly.

'I'm going to have a little brandy.'

'That sounds good,' she said. 'I'll have a little brandy, too.'

So we each had a little brandy. I thought about her father, a shy man who flew kites before he vanished. It seemed to go with the quiet and winking embers of the fire.

'I've never flown a kite,' I confessed. 'Not even as a kid.'

'I think you'd like it.'

'I think I would, too. Listen, Cleo, if I bought a kite, could we go up to Central Park some day, a Sunday, and fly it? Would you show me how?'

'Of course — I'd love to. But we don't have to go up to Central Park. We can go over to those old wharves on the river and fly it from there.'

'What kind of a kite should I buy?'

'The cheapest one you can get. Just a plain diamond shape. And you'll need a ball of string. I'll tear up some rags for a tail.'

'What colour would you like?' I said, laughing,

'Red,' she said at once. 'It's easier to see against the sky, and it's prettier.'

A green sweater for Yetta and a red kite for Cleo.

We sat in silence, sipping our brandies. After a while her free hand floated up and grasped my free hand. Hers was warm and soft. We remained like that, holding hands. It was perfect.