Tenth Commandment

4

I awoke to a smutty day, a thick sky filled with whirling gusts of sleet and rain. A taut wind from the west whipped the pedestrians hunched as they scurried, heads down. The TORT building didn't exhibit its usual morning hustle-bustle. Many of the employees lived in the suburbs, and roads were flooded or blocked by toppled trees, and commuter trains were running late.

I had brought in a container of black coffee and an apple strudel. I made phone calls over my second breakfast. The Reverend Godfrey Knurr agreed to show me his club that day, and Glynis Stonehouse said she would see me. She said her mother was indisposed, in bed with a virus. (A sherry virus, I thought — but didn't say it.) Despite the wretched weather I got up to the West 70s in half an hour. Glynis Stonehouse answered the door. We went down that long corridor again, into the living room. I noticed that several of the framed maps and naval battle scenes had disappeared from the walls, to be replaced by bright posters and cheery graphics. Someone did not expect Professor Stonehouse to return.

We sat at opposite ends of the lengthy couch, half-turned so we could look at each other. Glynis said Mrs Stonehouse was resting comfortably. I declined a cup of coffee. I took out my notebook.

'Miss Stonehouse,' I started, 'I spoke to your brother at some length.'

'I hope he was — co-operative?'

'Oh yes. Completely. I gather there had been a great deal of, uh, enmity between Powell and his father?'

'He made my brother's life miserable,' she said. 'Powell is such a good boy. Father destroyed him!'

I was surprised by the virulence in her husky voice, and looked at her sharply.

The triangular face with cat's eyes of denim blue was expressionless, the sculpted lips firmly pressed. Her tawny hair was drawn sleekly back. A remarkably beautiful woman, with her own secrets. She made me feel like a blundering amateur; I despaired of ever penetrating that self-possession and discovering — what?

'Miss Stonehouse, can you tell me anything about Powell's ah, companion? Wanda Chard?'

'I don't know her very well. I met her only once.'

'What is your impression?'

'A very quiet woman. Deep. Withdrawn. Powell says she is very religious. Zen.'

'Your father met her two weeks before he disappeared.'

That moved her. She was astonished.

'Father did?' she said. 'Met Wanda Chard?'

'So she says. He went down to your brother's apartment. Powell wasn't at home. He stayed about ten minutes talking to Miss Chard. Your father never mentioned the visit?'

'No. Never.'

'You have no idea why he might have visited your brother — or tried to?'

'None whatsoever. It's so out of character for my father.'

'It couldn't have been an attempted reconciliation with your brother, could it?'

She pondered a moment.

'I'd like to think so,' she said slowly.

'Miss Stonehouse,' I said, 'I'd like to ask a question that I hope won't offend you. Do you believe your brother is capable of physical violence against your father?'

Those blue eyes turned to mine. It was more than a half-beat before she answered. But she never blinked.

'He might have been,' she said, no timbre in her voice.

'Before he left home. But since he's had his own place, my brother has made a marvellous adjustment. Would he have been capable of physical violence the night my father disappeared? No. Besides, he was here when my father walked out.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Do you think Wanda Chard could have been capable of physical violence?'

'I don't know,' she said. 'I just don't know. It's possible, I suppose. Perfectly normal, average people are capable of the most incredible acts.'

'Under pressure,' I agreed. 'Or passion. Or hate. Or any strong emotion that results in loss of self-control. Love, for instance.'

'Perhaps,' she said.

Noncommittal.

'Miss Stonehouse,' I said, sighing, 'is Mrs Dark at home?'

'Why, yes. She's in the kitchen.'

A definite answer. What a relief.

'May I speak to her for a moment?'

'Of course. You know the way, don't you?'

When I entered the kitchen, Effie was seated at the centre table, smoking a cigarette and leafing through the morning Daily News. She looked up as I came in, and her

bright little eyes crinkled up with pleasure.

'Why, Mr Bigg,' she said, her loose dentures clacking away. 'This is nice.'

'Good to see you again, Effie. How have you been?'

'Oh, I've got no complaints,' she said cheerily. 'What are you doing out on such a nasty morning? Here. . sit down.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'Well, Effie, I wanted to ask you a few more questions. Silly things that probably have nothing to do with the Professor's disappearance. But I've got to ask them just to satisfy my own curiosity.'

'Sure,' she said, shrugging her fat shoulders. 'I can understand that. I'm as curious as the next one. Curiouser.'

'Effie, what time of night do you usually go to bed?'

'Well, I usually go to my room about nine-thirty, ten.

Around then. After I've cleaned up here. Then I read a little, maybe watch a little television. Write a letter or two.

I'm usually in bed by eleven.'

I laughed. 'Lucky woman. Do you leave anything here in the kitchen for the family? In case they want a late snack?'

'Oh, they can help themselves,' she said casually. 'They know where everything is.' Then, when I was wondering how to lead into it, she added: 'Of course, when the Professor was here, I always left him a saucepan of cocoa.'

'Cocoa?' I said. 'I didn't think people drank cocoa anymore.'

'Of course they do. It's delicious.'

'And you served the Professor a cup of cocoa before you went to bed?'

'Oh no. I just made it. Then I left it to cool. Around midnight, Miss Glynis would come in and just heat it up.

Even if she was out at the theatre or wherever, she'd come home, heat up the cocoa, and bring a cup to her father in his study.'

'So I understand. Glynis brought the Professor his cup 201

of cocoa every night?'

'That's right.'

'And no one else in the house drank it?'

'No one,' she said, and my heart leaped — until she said,

'except me. I finished it in the morning.'

'Finished it?'

'What was left in the pan. I like a cup of hot cocoa before I start breakfast.'

That seemed to demolish the Great Cocoa Plot. But did it?

'Effie, who washed out the Professor's cocoa cup in the morning?'

'I did. He always left it on the kitchen sink.'

'Why on earth did he drink cocoa so late at night?'

'He claimed it helped him sleep better.' She snickered.

'Just between you, me, and the lamppost, I suspect it was the brandy he had along with it.'

'Uh-huh,' I said. 'Well, Effie, I think that covers it.

There's just one other favour I'd like to ask. I want to take another look in the Professor's study.'

'Help yourself,' she said. 'The door's unlocked.'

'I don't want to go in alone.'

'Oh?' She looked at me shrewdly. 'So you'll have a witness that you didn't take anything?'

'Right,' I said gratefully.

The study looked exactly as it had before. I stood near the centre of the room, my eyes half-closed. I turned slowly, inspecting.

The drum table. Brandy bottle and two small balloon glasses on an Edwardian silvery tray. The Remy Martin bottle was new, sealed.

Where did he hide the will? Not up the chimney. Not in the littered desk. Not behind a secret panel. Ula and Glynis would have probed up the chimney, searched the desk, tapped the walls, combed every book and map.

But I thought I knew where the will was hidden.

Glynis seemed not to have moved since I left. Still reclined easily in a corner of the couch. She was not fussing with her scarf, stroking her sleeked-back hair, inspecting her nails. She had the gift of complete repose.

'Miss Stonehouse,' I said, 'could you spare me a few more minutes?'

'Of course.'

'I have some very distressing information,' I told her.

'Something I think you should be aware of. I hoped to inform your mother, but since she is indisposed — temporarily, I trust — I must tell you.'

She cocked her head to one side, looking puzzled.

'When your father was ill last year, for a period of months, he was suffering from arsenic poisoning.'

Something happened to her face. It shrank. The flesh seemed to become less and the skin tightened on to bone, whitened and taut. Genuine surprise or the shock of being discovered?

'What?' she said.

'Your father. He was being poisoned. By arsenic.

Finally, in time, he consulted a physician. He recovered.

That means he must have discovered how he was being fed the arsenic. And by whom.'

'Impossible,' she said. Her voice was so husky it was almost a rasp.

'I'm afraid it's true,' I said. 'No doubt about it. And since your father rarely dined out, he must have been ingesting arsenic here, in his own home, in some food or drink that no one else in the house ate or drank, because no one else suffered the same effects. I have an apology to make to you, Miss Stonehouse. For a brief period, I thought the arsenic might have been given to him in that nightly cup of cocoa which you served him. Something I thought no one else in the household drank. But Mrs Dark has just told me that she finished the cocoa every morning and was none the worse for it. So I apologize to you for my 203

suspicions. And now I must try to find some other way that your father was being poisoned.'

That jolted her. The repose was gone; she began to unbutton and button her black gabardine jacket. She was wearing a brassiere, but I caught quick glimpses of the smooth, tender skin of her midriff,

'You thought that I. . ' she faltered.

'Please,' I said, 'I do apologize. I know now it wasn't the cocoa. I'm telling you this because I want you to think very carefully and try to remember if your father ate or drank anything that no one else in the household ate or drank.'

'You're quite sure he was being poisoned?' she said faintly.

'Oh yes. No doubt about it.'

'And you think that had something to do with his disappearance?'

'It seems logical, doesn't it?'

Her face began to fill out again. Her colour returned to normal. She looked at me squarely. She stopped fussing with her buttons and settled back into her original position. She took a deep breath.

'Yes,' she said softly, 'I think you're right. If someone was trying to kill h i m. . '

'Someone obviously was.'

'But why?'

'Miss Stonehouse,' I said, 'I just don't know. My investigation hasn't progressed that far. As yet.'

'But you are making progress?'

It was my turn to be noncommittal.

'I have discovered several things,' I said, 'that may or may not be significant. But to get back to my original question, can you think of any way your father may have been poisoned? Other than the cocoa?'

She stared at me a long moment, but she wasn't seeing me.

'No,' she said,!I can't. We all ate the same things, drank the same things. Father bought bottled water, but everyone drank that.'

'He wasn't on a special diet of any kind?'

'No.'

' Well. . ' I said, 'if you recall anything, please let me know.'

'Mr Bigg,' she said slowly, 'you said you suspected me of poisoning my father's cocoa.'

'Not exactly,' I said. 'For a time I did think the cocoa you served him might have been poisoned. But anyone in the household could have done that. But I realized I was mistaken after Mrs Dark told me she finished the leftover cocoa every morning.'

'She told you,' Glynis Stonehouse said steadily. 'I've never seen Mrs Dark have a cup of cocoa in the morning, and I don't believe anyone else has either.'

Again our eyes locked, but this time she was really looking at me, her gaze challenging, unblinking.

The sleet had lessened, but the sky was still drooling. I ducked into a kerbside phone kiosk on Columbus Avenue and called the office, and chatted with Yetta Apatoff. I reminded her of our lunch date on Friday. She hadn't forgotten. Yetta said the office manager had left me a message. He had hired a temporary assistant for me. She would appear at my office at three o'clock, which still gave me time to run downtown to visit the good Reverend Knurr.

I took the Seventh Avenue IRT local down to Houston Street and walked up to Carmine Street. I stopped at a bodega along the way and bought a six-pack. I had the address, but was a few minutes early, so I walked by across the street, inspecting the premises. It was no smaller or larger than any of the other storefronts on the street. But the glass window and door had been painted a dark green.

An amateur sign across the front read: TENTMAKERS CLUB.

I crossed the street and went in. The door rang a bell as it opened.

'Halloo?' Knurr's voice shouted from the rear.

'Joshua Bigg,' I yelled back.

'Be with you in a minute, Joshua. Make yourself at home.'

There was a small open space as one entered. Apparently it was used as an office, for there was a battered wooden desk, an old, dented file cabinet, three chairs (none of which matched), a coat tree, and several cartons stacked on the floor. They all seemed to be filled with used and tattered paperback novels.

Beyond the makeshift office was a doorway curtained with a few yards of sleazy calico nailed to the top of the frame. I pushed my way through and found myself in a large bare chamber with fluorescent lights overhead. On the discoloured walls were charts showing positions and blows in judo, jiu-jitsu, and karate. There were also a few posters advertising unarmed combat tournaments.

In one corner was a tangle of martial arts jackets, kendo staves and masks, dumbbells. There was a rolled-up wrestling mat against one wall.

I was inspecting an illustrated directory of kung fu positions and moves taped to the wall when the Reverend Godfrey Knurr entered from a curtained rear doorway.

'Joshua,' he said, 'good to see you. Thanks for coming.'

'Here,' I said, thrusting the damp brown bag at him. 'I brought along a cold six-pack. For lunch.'

He peeked into the bag.

'Wonderful,' he said. 'Come on back. I'll put the beer in the fridge and you can hang your things away.'

There was a short corridor that debouched into kitchen and bedroom.

The kitchen was just large enough to contain a wooden table and four chairs, refrigerator, sink, cabinets, and a tiny stove. The walls were pebbled with umpteen coats of paint. There was a small rear window looking out on to a sad little courtyard, squalid in the rain. The same view was available from the window in the bedroom. This was a monk's cell: bed, closet, chest of drawers, straight-back chair, bedside table with lamp and telephone, a bookcase.

'Not quite the Kipper townhouse, is it?' Knurr said. He was putting the beer in the refrigerator when we heard the jangle of the front door bell.

'They'll be coming in now,' he said. 'Let's go up front.'

I followed him to the gym. He was wearing a grey sweatsuit, out at elbow and knee. His sneakers were stained and torn; the laces broken and knotted.

Three boys were taking off wet things in the office. They tossed their outer apparel on to the desk, then came back to the larger room where they divested themselves of shoes, sweaters, shirts, and trousers, kicking these into a corner.

Knurr introduced me casually: 'Joshua, these brutes are Rafe, Tony, Walt. This is Josh.'

We all nodded. They appeared to me to be about 13 to 15, bodies skinny and white, all joints. Their faces and necks were pitted with acne.

The bell jangled again; more boys entered. Finally Knurr had a dozen boys milling around the gym in their drawers and socks.

'Cut the shit!' the Reverend yelled. 'Line up and let's get started.'

They arranged themselves in two files, facing him. At his command they began to go through a series of what I presumed were warmup exercises, following Knurr. He stood with left foot advanced, left arm extended, hand clenched, knuckles down. The right foot was back, right arm cocked, right fist clenched. Then, at a shouted 'Hah!'

everyone took a step forward on to the right foot, striking an imaginary opponent with the right fist while bending the left arm and retracting the left fist to the shoulder. At the second 'Hah!' they all took a step backwards to their original position.

I revised my guess at their age group upwards to 12 to 17. Some of them were quite large, including a six-foot black. There were four blacks, one Oriental, and two I thought were Hispanic. All were remarkably thin, some painfully so, and most had the poor skin tone of slum kids.

There were scars and bruises in abundance, and one shambling youth had a black patch over one eye.

Knurr led them through a series of increasingly violent exercises, culminating with a series of high front and back kicks.

After the exercise period was finished, Godfrey Knurr assigned partners and the boys paired off. They went through what appeared to me to be mock combat. No actual blows were struck, no kicks landed, but it was obvious that all the youths were in dead earnest, punching and counterpunching, kicking out and turning swiftly to avoid their opponents' kicks. As they fought, Knurr moved from pair to pair, watched them closely, stopped them to demonstrate a punch or correct the position of their feet. He had a few words to say to each boy in the room.

'All right,' he shouted finally. 'That's enough. Unroll the mat. We'll finish with a throw.'

The wrestling mat was spread in the centre of the bare wood floor. They gathered around and I moved closer.

Knurr strode out on to the mat and beckoned one of the lads.

'Come on, Lou,' he said. 'Be my first victim.'

There was laughter, some calls and rude comments as the six-foot black stepped forward on the mat to face Knurr.

'All right,' Knurr said, 'lead at me with a hard right.

And don't tighten up. Stay loose. Ready?'

Lou fell into the classic karate stance, then punched at 208

Knurr's throat with his right knuckles. The pastor executed a movement so fast and flowing that I could scarcely follow it. He plucked the black's wrist out of the air, lifted it as he turned, bent, put a shoulder into the boy's armpit, pulled down on the arm, levered up, and Lou's feet went flying high in the air, cartwheeling over Knurr's head. He would have crashed on to the mat if Knurr hadn't caught him about the waist and let him down gently.

There was more laughter, shouts, exclamations of delighted surprise. The Reverend helped Lou to his feet and then they went through the throw very slowly, Knurr pausing frequently to explain exactly what he was doing, calling his students' attention to the position of his feet, how his weight shifted, how he used the attacker's momentum to help disable him.

'Okay,' he said, 'that was just a demonstration.

Tomorrow you're all going to work on that throw. And you'll work on it and work on it until everyone can do it

right. Then I'll show you the defence against it.

Now … who's going to show up for the bullshit session tonight?' He looked around the room. But heads were hanging; no one volunteered. 'Come on, come on,' Knurr said impatiently, 'you've got to pay for your fun. Who's coming for the talk?'

A few hands went up hesitantly, then a few more.

Finally about half the boys had hands in the air.

'How about you, Willie?' Knurr demanded, addressing the shambling youth with the black eyepatch. 'You haven't been around for weeks. You must have a wagonload of sins to confess. I especially want you.'

This was greeted with laughter and shouts from the others.

'Right on!'

'Get him, Faddeh!'

'Make him spill everything!'

'He's been a baaaad boy!'

'Aw right,' Willie said with a tinny grin, 'I'll be here.'

'Good,' Knurr said. 'Now dry off, all of you, then get the hell out of here. The gym will be open from five to eight tonight if any of you want to work out. See you all tomorrow.'

They began to pick up their garments from the floor, with the noise and horseplay you'd expect. Knurr rolled up the mat and flung it against the wall. His sweatshirt was soaked dark under the arms, across the back and chest.

While he showered I sat at the kitchen table, sipping beer from the can, listening to shouts and laughter of departing boys. I looked up through the window. In the apartment house across the courtyard an old woman fed a parakeet seeds, from her lips, bird perched on finger.

Godfrey Knurr came into the kitchen wearing a terrycloth robe, towelling head and beard. He put the towel around his neck, took a beer from the refrigerator.

He said across from me.

'Well?' he demanded. 'What do you think?'

'Very impressive,' I said. 'You speak to them in their own language. They seem to respect you. They obey you.

The only thing that bothers me is — '

'I know what bothers you,' he interrupted. 'You're wondering if I'm not teaching those monsters how to be expert muggers.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Something like that.'

'It's a risk,' he admitted. 'I know it exists. I keep pounding at them that they're learning the martial arts only for self-defence. And God knows they need it, considering what their lives are like. And they do need physical exercise.'

'Does it have to be karate?' I asked. 'Couldn't it be basketball?'

'Or tiddledywinks?' he said sourly. 'Or I could read them Pindar's odes. Look, Joshua, most of those kids have records. Violence attracts them. All I'm trying to do 210

is capitalize on that. Listen, every time they punch the air and shout " H a h! " they're punching out the Establishment.

I'm trying to turn that revolt to a more peaceable and constructive channel.'

'You can kill with karate, can't you?' I asked him.

'I don't teach them killing blows,' he said shortly. 'Also, what you just saw is only half of my programme. The other half is group therapy and personal counselling. I try to become a father figure. Most of their natural fathers are drunks, on drugs, or have disappeared. Vamoosed. So I'm really the only father they've got, and I do my damndest to straighten out their tiny brains. Some of those brutes are so screwed up — you wouldn't believe! Mens sana in corpore sano. That's really what I'm hoping for these kids. What I'm working towards. Let's eat.'

He had made a salad of cut-up iceberg lettuce topped with gobs of mayonnaise. The roast beef sandwiches had obviously been purchased in a deli; they were rounded with the meat filling, also slathered with mayonnaise. He opened two more beers for us and we ate and drank. And he talked.

He was a very intelligent, articulate man, and he talked well. What impressed me most about him was his animal energy. He attacked his sandwich wolfishly, forked the salad into his mouth in great, gulping mouthfuls, swilled the beer in throat-wrenching swallows.

'But it all costs money,' he was saying. 'Money, money, money: the name of the game. There's no church available for me — for any of the tentmakers. So we have to make our own way. Earn enough to do the work we want to do.'

'Maybe that's an advantage,' I said.

He looked at me, startled. 'You're very perceptive, Joshua,' he said. 'If you mean what I think you mean, and I think you do. Yes, it's an advantage in that is keeps us in closer touch with the secular life, gives us a better understanding of the everyday problems and frustrations 211

of the ordinary working stiff — and stiffess! A pastor who's in the same church for years and years grows moss. Sees the same people day in and day out until he's bored out of his skull. There's a great big, cruel, wonderful, striving world out there, but the average preacher is stuck in his little backwater with weekly sermons, organ music, and the terrible problem of how to pay for a new altar cloth. No wonder so many of them crawl in a bottle or run off with the soprano in the choir.'

'How did you meet Tippi Kipper?' I asked.

Something fleeting through his eyes. He became a little less voluble.

'A friend of a friend of a friend,' he said. 'Joshua, the rich of New York are a city within a city. They all know each other. Go to the same parties. I was lucky enough to break into the magic circle. They pass me along, one to another. A friend of a friend of a friend. That's how I met Tippi.'

'Was she in the theatre?' I asked.

He grinned. 'That's what she says. But no matter. If she wants to play Lady Bountiful, I'm the bucko who'll show her how. Don't get me wrong, Joshua. I'm grateful to Tippi Kipper and I'll be eternally grateful to her kind, generous husband and remember him in my prayers for the rest of my life. But I'm a realist, Joshua. It was an ego thing with the Kippers, I suppose. As it is for all my patrons. And patronesses.'

'Sol Kipper contributed to your, uh, activities?' I asked.

'Oh sure. Regularly. What the hell — he took it off his taxes. I'm registered in the State of New York. Strictly non-profit. Not by choice!' he added with a harsh bark of laughter.

'When you counsel your patrons,' I said slowly, trying to frame the question, 'the rich patrons, like Tippi Kipper, what are their problems mostly? I mean, it seems unreal to me that people of such wealth should have problems.'

'Very real problems,' he said soberly. 'First of all, guilt for their wealth when they see poverty and suffering all around them. And then they have the same problems we all have: loneliness, the need for love, a sense of our own worthlessness.'

He was staring at me steadily, openly, it was very difficult to meet these hard, challenging eyes.

'He left a suicide note,' I said. 'Did you know that?'

'Yes, Tippi told me.'

'In the note, he apologized to her. For something he had done. I wonder what it was?'

'Oh, who the hell knows? I never asked Tippi and she never volunteered the information. It could have been anything. It could have been something ridiculous. I know they had been having, ah, sexual problems. It could have been that, it could have been a dozen other things. Sol was the worst hypochondriac I've ever met. I'm sure others have told you that.'

'When did you see him last?' I asked casually.

'The day before he died,' he said promptly. 'On a Tuesday. We had a grand talk in his office and he gave me a very generous cheque. Then he had to go somewhere for a meeting.'

We sat a few moments in silence. We finished our second beers. Then I glanced at my watch.

'Good heavens!' I said. 'I had no idea it was so late. I've got to get back to my office while I still have a job. Pastor, thank you for a very delightful and instructive lunch. I've enjoyed every minute of it.'

'Come again,' he said. 'And often. You're a good listener; did anyone ever tell you that? And bring your friends. And tell them to bring their chequebooks!'

I returned to the TORT building at about 2.50, scurrying out of a drizzly rain that threatened to turn to snow. Yetta Apatoff greeted me with a giggle.

'She's waiting for you,' she whispered.

'Who?'

She indicated with a nod of her head, then covered her mouth with her palm. There was a woman waiting in the corridor outside my office.

She was at least 78 inches tall, and wearing a fake monkey fur coat that made her look like an erect gorilla.

As I approached her, I thought this was Hamish Hooter's particularly tasteless joke, and wondered how many applicants he had interviewed before he found this one.

But as I drew closer, I saw she was no gorgon. She was, in fact, quite pleasant looking, with a quiet smile and that resigned placidity I recognized. All very short, very tall, and very fat people have it.

'Hello,' I said. 'I'm Joshua Bigg. Waiting for me?'

'Yes, Mr Bigg,' she said, not even blinking at my diminutive size. Perhaps she had been forewarned. She handed me an employment slip from Hooter's office. 'My name is Gertrude Kletz.'

'Come in,' I said. 'Let me take your coat.'

I sat behind the desk and she sat in my visitor's chair.

We chatted for almost half an hour, and as we talked, my enthusiasm for her grew. Hooter had seen only her huge size, but I found her sensible, calm, apparently qualified, and with a wry sense of humour.

She was married to a sanitation worker and, since their three children were grown and able to take care of themselves, she had decided to become a temporary clerk-typist-secretary: work she had done before her marriage. If possible, she didn't want to work later than 3.00 p.m., so she could be back in Brooklyn in time to cook dinner. We agreed on four hours a day, 11.00 a.m. to 3.00 p.m., with no lunch period, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

She was a ruddy woman with horsey features and a maiden's innocent eyes. Her hair was iron-grey and wispy.

For a woman her size, her voice was surprisingly light. She was dressed awkwardly, although I could not conceive how a woman of her heft could possibly be garbed elegantly.

She wore a full grey flannel skirt that would have provided enough material for a suit for me. With vest. A no-nonsense white blouse was closed at the neck with a narrow black ribbon, and she wore a tweed jacket in a hellish plaid that would have looked better on Man-o-War. Opaque hose and sensible brogues completed her ensemble. She wore only a thin gold wedding band on her capable hands.

I explained to her as best I could the nature of my work at Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum. Then I told her what I expected from her: filing, typing finished letters from my rough drafts, answering my phone, taking messages, doing simple, basic research from sources that I would provide.

'Think you can handle that, Mrs Kletz?' I asked.

'Oh yes,' she said confidently. 'You must expect me to make mistakes, but I won't make the same mistake twice.'

She sounded better and better.

'There is one other thing,' I said. 'Much of my work — and thus your work, too — will involve matters in litigation.

It is all strictly confidential. You cannot take the job home with you. You cannot discuss what you learn here with anyone else, including husband, family, friends. I must be able to depend upon your discretion.'

'You can depend on it,' she said almost grimly. 'I don't blab.'

'Good,' I said, rising. 'Would you like to start tomorrow or would you prefer to begin on Monday?'

'Tomorrow will be fine,' she said, heaving herself upright. 'Will you be here then?'

'Probably,' I said, thinking about my Friday schedule.

'If not, I'll leave instructions for you on my desk. Will that be satisfactory?'

'Sure,' she said equably.

I stood on tiptoe to help her on with that ridiculous coat.

Then we shook hands, smiling, and she was gone. I thought her a very serene, reassuring woman, and I was grateful to Hamish Hooter, I'd never tell him that, of course.

The moment Mrs Kletz had departed, I called Hooter's office. Fortunately he was out, but I explained to his assistant what was needed: a desk, chair, typewriter, wastebasket, stationery and supplies, phone, etc., all to be installed in the corridor directly outside my office door. By eleven o'clock the following morning.

'Mr Bigg!' the assistant gasped in horror. I knew her: a frightened, rabbity woman, thoroughly tyrannized by her boss. 'We cannot possibly provide all that by tomorrow morning.'

'As soon as possible, then,' I said crisply. 'My assistant was hired with the approval of the senior partners.

Obviously she needs a place to work.'

'Yes, Mr Bigg,' she said submissively.

I hung up, satisfied. Today, a temporary assistant.

Soon, a full-time secretary. A larger office. Then the vvorrld!

I spent the remainder of the afternoon at my desk.

Outside, the snow had thickened; TORT employees with radios in their offices reported that three to five inches of snow were predicted before the storm slackened around midnight. Word came down from upstairs that because of the snowfall anyone who wished to leave early could do so.

Gradually the building emptied until, by 5.00 p.m., it was practically deserted, the noise stilled, corridors vacant. I stayed on. It seemed foolish to go home to Chelsea and then journey uptown to meet Perdita Schug at Mother Tucker's at 7.00. So I decided to remain in the office until it was time for my dinner date.

I got up and looked out into the main hallway. The lights had already been dimmed and the night security guard was seated at Yetta Apatoff's desk. Beyond him, through the glass entrance doors, I saw a curtain of snow, torn occasionally by heavy gusts.

I went back into my office, wishing that Roscoe Dollworth had left a bottle of vodka hidden in desk or file cabinet. A hopeless wish, I knew. Besides, on a night like that, a nip of brandy would be more to my liking. Now if only I had -

I sank slowly into my chair, suddenly realizing what it was that had puzzled me about Professor Yale Stonehouse's study: the bottle of Remy Martin on the silver salver was new, uncorked, still sealed. That meant, apparently, that it had been there since the night he disappeared.

There was a perfectly innocent explanation, of course: he had finished his previous bottle the night before and had set out a fresh bottle, intending to return when he left the Stonehouse apartment on the night of 10 January.

There was another explanation, not so innocent. And that was that Professor Stonehouse had been poisoned not by doctored cocoa, but by arsenic added to his brandy. He had both cocoa and brandy every night before retiring.

The lethal dose could have been added in either. And if he had discovered the source, it might account for the sealed bottle in his study.

I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes past 5.30 — a bad time to call. But I had to know. I dialled the Stonehouse apartment.

'Yah?' Olga Eklund said.

'Hi, Olga,' I said. 'This is Joshua Bigg.'

'Yah.'

'How are you?'

'Is not nice,' she said. 'The weather.'

'No, it looks like a bad storm. Olga, I wonder if I could talk to Mrs Dark for a moment — if it isn't too much trouble.'

'I get her,' she said stolidly.

I waited impatiently for almost three minutes before Mrs 217

Dark came on the line.

'Hello, dearie,' she said brightly.

'Effie,' I said. 'I'm sorry to bother you at this hour. I know you must be busy with the evening meal.'

'No bother. Everything's cooking. Now it's just a matter of waiting.'

'I have a few more little questions. I know you'll think they're crazy, but they really are important, and you could be a big help in discovering what happened to the Professor.'

'Really?' she said, pleasantly surprised. 'Well, I'll do what I can.'

'Effie, who buys the liquor for the family — the whisky, wine, beer, and so forth?'

'I do. I call down to the liquor store on Columbus Avenue and they deliver it.'

'And after they deliver it, where is it kept?'

'Well, I always make certain the bar in the living room is kept stocked with everything that might be needed. Plenty of sherry for you-know-who. The reserve I keep right here in the kitchen. In the bottom cupboard.'

'And the Professor's brandy? That he drank every night?'

'I always kept an extra bottle or two on hand. God forbid we should ever run out when he wanted it!'

'How long did a bottle last him, Effie? The bottle in his study, I mean?'

'Oh, maybe ten days.'

'So he finished about three bottles of cognac a month?'

'About.'

'And those bottles were kept in the kitchen cupboard?'

'That's right.'

'Who put a fresh bottle in the Professor's study?'

'He'd come in here and fetch it himself. Or I'd take it to him if he had a dead soldier. Or like as not, Glynis would bring him a new bottle.'

'And there was usually a bottle of Remy Martin in the living room bar as well?'

'Oh no,' she said, laughing. 'The brandy in there is Eye-talian. The Professor kept the good stuff for himself.'

He would, I thought, gleeful at what I had learned.

'One more question, Effie,' I said. 'Very important.

Please think carefully and try to recall before you answer.

In the month or so before the Professor disappeared, do you remember bringing a fresh bottle of brandy to his study?'

She was silent.

'No,' she said finally, 'I didn't bring him any. Maybe Glynis did, or maybe he came into the kitchen and got it himself. Wait a minute. I'm on the kitchen extension; it'll just take me a minute to check.'

She was gone a short while.

'That's odd,' she said. 'I was checking the cupboard. I remember having two bottles in there. There's one there now and one unopened bottle in the Professor's study.'

'Do you recall buying any new bottles of Remy Martin in the month or six weeks before the Professor disappeared?'

Silence again for a moment.

'That's odd,' she repeated. 'I don't remember buying any, but I should have, him going through three bottles a month. But I can't recall ordering a single bottle. I'll have to go through my bills to make sure.'

'Could you do that, Effie?'

'Be glad to,' she said briskly. 'Now I've got to ring off; something's beginning to scorch.'

'You've been very kind,' I said hurriedly. 'A big help.'

'Really?' she said. 'That's nice.'

We hung up.

If I had been Professor Stonehouse, learning I was a victim of arsenic poisoning, I would have set out to discover how it was being done and who was doing it. And,

I was certain, he had discovered who had been doing the fiddling.

It was then getting on to 6.00 p.m. I had no idea how long it would take me to get uptown in the storm, so I donned rubbers, turned up the collar of my overcoat, pulled my hat down snugly, and started out. I said goodnight to the security guard and stepped outside.

I was almost blown away. This was not one of your soft, gentle snowfalls with big flakes drifting down slowly in silence and sparkling in the light of streetlamps and neon signs. This was a maelstrom, the whole world in turmoil.

Snow came whirling straight down, was blown sideways, even rose up in gusty puffs from drifts beginning to pile up on street corners.

There were at least twenty people waiting for the Third Avenue bus. After a wait that seemed endless but was probably no more than a quarter-hour, not one but four buses appeared out of the swirling white. I wedged myself aboard the last one. The ride seemed to take an eternity. At 69th, five other passengers alighted and I was popped out along with them. I fought my way eastward against the wind, bent almost double to keep snow out of my face.

And there, right around the corner on Second Avenue, was a neon sign glowing redly through the snow: MOTHER TUCKER'S.

'Bless you, Mother,' I said aloud.

Perdita was there, in the front corner of the bar, perched on a stool, wearing a black dress cut precariously low. Her head was back, gleaming throat exposed, and she was laughing heartily at something the man standing next to her had just said. The place was jammed in spite of the weather, but Perdita was easy to find.

She saw me almost the instant I saw her. She slid off the barstool with a very provocative movement and rushed to embrace me with a squeal of pleasure, burying me in her embonpoint.

220

'Josh!' she cried, and then made that deep, growling sound in her throat to signify pleasure. 'I never, never, never thought you'd show up. I just can't believe you came out in all this shit to see little me.' Her button eyes sparkled, her tongue darted in and out between wet lips.

'You poor dear, we must get you thawed out. Col, see if you can get a round from Harry.'

'What's your pleasure, sir?' her companion asked politely.

'Scotch please, with water.'

We introduced ourselves. He was Clyde Manila — Colonel Clyde Manila. Perdita called him Col, which could have meant in his case either Colonel or Colonial.

A bearded bartender, working frantically, heard the call, paused, and cupped his ear towards Colonel Manila.

'More of the same, Harry, plus Scotch and water.'

Harry nodded and in a few moments set the drinks before us. I reached for my wallet but Harry swiftly extracted the required amount from the pile of bills and change on the bar in front of the Colonel.

'Thank you, sir,' I said. 'The next one's on me.'

'Forget it,' Perdita advised. 'The Col's loaded. Aren't you, sweetheart?'

!I mean to be, ' he said, swallowing half his drink in one enormous gulp. 'No use trying to get home on a night like this — what?' His tiny eyes closed in glee.

He was genially messy in effect — white walrus moustache, swollen boozy nose, hairy tweed hacking jacket, all crowned with an ill-fitting ginger toupee.

'I'm awfully hungry,' I said. 'Perdita, do you think there's any chance of our getting a table?'

'Sure,' she said. 'Col, talk to Max.'

Obediently he moved away, pushing his way through the mob.

'A pleasant place,' I said to Perdita, who was winking at someone farther down the bar.

'This joint?' she said. 'A home away from home. You can always score here, Josh. Remember that: you can always score at Mother Tucker's. Here comes Col.'

I turned to see Colonel Manila waving wildly at us.

'He's got a table,' Perdita said. 'Let's go.'

'Is he going to eat with us?' I asked.

'Col? No way. He never eats.'

I wanted to thank him for obtaining a table for us, but missed him in the crush.

At the table she said, 'I want another drink, and then I want a Caesar salad, spaghetti with oil and garlic, scampi, and a parfait for dessert.'

I cringed from fear that I might not have enough to pay for all that. I do not believe in credit cards.

'What are you drinking?' I asked.

'Who knows?' she said. 'I've been here since one o'clock this afternoon.'

A waitress appeared in a T-shirt that said 'Flat is Beautiful.' We settled on a drink for Perdita and the waitress left.

'Don't worry about the check,' Perdita said breezily.

'Colonel Manila will pay.'

'Absolutely not,' I said indignantly. 'I invited you. He doesn't have to pay for our dinner.'

'Don't be silly,' she said. 'He likes to buy me things. I told you — he's loaded. Light my cigarette.'

Talking to her was no problem; it was only necessary to listen. She babbled through our second round of drinks, through her gargantuan meal and a bottle of Chianti. I tried, several times, to bring the conversation around to the Kipper household, saying such things as: 'I imagine this is better food than Mrs Neckin's.' But Perdita picked up on none of these leads; her monologue would not be interrupted. I gave up and asked for a check, but the waitress assured me, 'It's been taken care of.'

'I told you,' Perdita said, laughing. 'The Colonel's always doing things like that for me. He thinks it buys him something.'

'And does it?' I asked her.

'Sure,' she said cheerfully. 'What do you think? Let's go back to the bar.'

This was not really necessary as she was quite drunk already. We rejoined the Colonel, and the idea of going to Hoboken for clams was raised. I said I wouldn't. Two young men came and whispered in Perdita's ear and she told them to bug off. They disappeared quickly. The noise was incredible.

Colonel Clyde Manila was seated, lopsided, on Perdita's barstool. The moment he saw us, he slid off and bowed to Perdita.

'Keeping it warm f'you, dear lady,' he said, in a strangled voice.

'Colonel,' I shouted, 'I want to thank you for your kindness. The dinner was excellent.'

Those pale little eyes seemed to have become glassy.

'Good show,' he said.

'May I buy you a drink, sir?' I asked.

'Good show,' he said.

'Oh, don't be such a pooper, Josh,' Perdita said. 'Come dance with me.'

She clasped me in her arms, closed her eyes, began to shuffle me about. 'I just love Viennese waltzes,' Perdita Schug said dreamily.

'I think that's "Beautiful O h i o, " ' I said.

'Nasty brutes,' Colonel Manila said. He was at my shoulder, staggering after us around the minuscule dance floor. 'They smell, y'know. Did you ever sheep a shear?' I had suspected that he was Australian.

'The last time I saw Paris,' Perdita crooned in my ear.

'Let's you and me make yum-yum.'

'Perdita,' I said, 'I really — '

'Can we go to your place?' she whispered.

'Oh no. No, no, no. Really. I'm afraid that wouldn't — '

'Where is your place?'

'Miles from here. Way downtown. West side.'

'Where is your place?' she said. 'Yum-yum.'

'Way downtown,' I started again.

'Col!' she screamed. 'We're going.'

'Good show,' he said.

We came out of Mother Tucker's and turned our backs to a vindictive wind that stung with driven snow. Manila motioned and we went plodding after him around the corner on to 69th Street. He halted at a car and began to fumble in his coat pockets for his keys. We all piled into the front, Perdita sitting in the middle.

'A joint,' the Colonel said.

'Oh no, sir,' I said. 'I thought it was a very pleasant restaurant.'

Perdita, already fishing in her purse, got out a fat, hand-rolled cigarette, both ends twisted.

She lighted it, took a deep drag, and held it out to the Col. He took a tremendous drag and half the cigarette seemed to disappear in a shower of sparks.

'Now then,' the Colonel said. He handed the joint back to Perdita, then busied himself with switches and buttons.

In a few moments he had the headlights on, engine purring, the heater going. The snow on the windows began to melt away.

'Whisky,' the Colonel said, like a drillmaster rapping out commands.

Perdita twisted around, got on to her knee on the front seat, and leaned far over into the rear compartment. Her rump jutted into the air. Colonel Manila slapped it lightly.

'There's a gel,' he said affectionately.

She flopped back to her original position with a full decanter and three tumblers, all in cut crystal. She poured us all drinks, big drinks, then set the decanter on the floor between her feet. I knew we would be stopped. I knew the police would arrest us. I could imagine the charges.

Perhaps, I thought hopefully, I might get off with three years because of my youthful appearance and exemplary record.

Nothing of the sort happened. The Colonel drove expertly. Even after he turned on the radio to a rock-and-roll station and kept banging the steering wheel with one palm in time to the music, still he smoked, drank, stopped for traffic lights, negotiated turns skilfully, and pulled up right in front of my door, scrunching the limousine into a snowbank. I laughed shrilly.

'Well, this has certainly been a memorable evening,' I said, listening to the quaver in my voice. 'I do want to thank — '

'Out,' Perdita Schug growled, nudging me. 'Let's go.'

I stumbled out hastily into the snow. She came scrambling after me. I looked back in at Colonel Clyde Manila.

He waggled fingers at me. I waggled back. Perdita slammed the car door, then took my arm in a firm, proprietary grip.

'Up we go,' she said gaily.

It was then around midnight. I think. Or it could have been ten. Or it might have been two. Whatever it was, I hoped Mrs Hermione Hufnagel, Cleo, Captain Bramwell Shank, Adolph Finkel, and Madame Zora Kadinsky were all behind locked doors and sleeping innocently in their warm beds.

'Shh,' I said to Perdita Schug, leading her upstairs. I giggled nervously.

'What's with this shh shit?' she demanded.

I got her inside my apartment. She was moving now with deliberate and exaggerated caution.

I switched on the overhead light. I draped our coats and hats over a chairback. She looked around the living room.

I awaited her reaction. There was none. She flopped into my armchair.

'Come sit on my lap,' she said with a vulpine grin.

I began to stammer, but she grabbed my wrist, drew me to her with surprising strength, and plunked me down on to her soft thighs.

She kissed me. My toes curled. Inside shoes and the rubbers I had neglected to remove.

'Mmm,' she said. 'That's better. Much better.'

She wriggled around, pulled me tighter on to her lap.

She had a muscled arm around my neck. She pressed our cheeks together. 'The last time I saw Paris,' she sang.

'Perdita,' I said, giving it one last try, 'I can't understand how you can endure doing the work you do. I mean, you've got so much personality and, uh, talent and experience. Why do you stay on as a maid for Tippi Kipper?'

'It's a breeze,' she said promptly. 'The pay is good. And I get meals and my own apartment. My own telephone.

What should I be doing — selling gloves in Macy's?'

'But still, it must be boring.'

'Sometimes yes,' she said. 'Sometimes no. Like any other job.'

'Is Mrs Kipper, ah, you know, understanding?'

'Oh sure,' she said, laughing. 'I get away with murder.

That Chester Heavens would like to bounce my ass right out of there, and Mrs Neckin called me "the spawn of the devil." They'd both like me out of there, but Tippi will never can me. Never.'

'Why not?'

'Give us another kissy,' she said.

I gave her another kissy.

'You're learning,' she said. 'Listen, Tippi plays around as much as I do. And she knows I know it.'

'Plays around now or before? I mean, when her husband was alive?'

'Oh shit, Josh, she's always played around. As long as I've been there. That'll be four years come April.'

226

'How do you know?'

'How do I know? Oh, you poor, sweet, innocent lamb.

You think I don't smell the grass on her and see her underwear and notice her hair is done a different way when she comes home from what she said was a bridge party?

Listen, a woman knows these things. A maid especially.

Scratches on her back. Fingerprints on her ass. Oh, she's making it; no doubt about that. Listen, Josh, I'm out of joints. You got any Scotch?'

'Well. . uh, sure,' I said. 'But are you certain you want — '

'Get me a Scotch,' she commanded.

I got her a drink.

'Where's yours?' she asked.

'We'll share this one,' I said.

'A loving cup,' she said. 'And then the yum-yum.

Where's the bed?'

'In the bedroom.'

'Not yet,' she said, shaking a reproving finger at me.

'Don't be in such a rush, tiger.'

'I'm really not,' I assured her. 'I mean, it's not what you — '

She grabbed my arm and pulled me down on to her lap again. I went to my fate willingly.

'So cute,' she said drowsily. 'You really are cute.'

'Tippi isn't making it with Knurr, is she?'

'Ho-ho-ho,' Perdita Schug said. 'Is she ever. Two, three times a week, at least. He's very big in her life right now.

Even in the house — can you beat that? I mean it. And while Sol was alive, too. The two of them in the elevator.

How does that grab you? Did you ever make it in an elevator, Josh?'

'No, I never have.'

'Me neither,' she said sorrowfully. 'But once in a closet,'

she said brightening. 'The funny thing i s. . ' Her voice trailed away.

'What's the funny thing?' I asked.

'I could have him like that,' she said, trying to snap her fingers. But they just slid over each other. 'Knurr, I mean.

He's warm for my form. Always coming on strong. Copping a feel when she isn't looking. The guy's a cocksman.

A religious cocksman. Now I'm ready for yum-yum.'

She found the bedroom. I didn't turn on the bedside lamp; there was enough illumination coming from the hallway. She looked around dazedly, put a hand against the wall to support herself. She turned her back to me.

'Unzip,' she said.

Obediently, I drew the long zipper down to her waist.

She shrugged the dress off her shoulders, let it fall to the floor, stepped out of it. She was wearing bra, panties, sheer black pantyhose. She shook her head suddenly, flinging her short flapper-cut about in a twirl.

'I'm zonked,' she announced.

She plumped down suddenly on the bed, fell back, raised her legs high in the air.

'Peel me,' she said.

There were a lot of other questions I wanted to ask her about Tippi Kipper and the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, but somehow this didn't seem the right time. I peeled off her pantyhose.

She rolled around and wiggled beneath the bedclothes, pulled sheet and blanket up to her chin. In a moment, a slim white arm popped out and she tossed brassiere and panties on to the floor.

'Okay, tiger,' she said sleepily. 'The time is now. The moment of truth.'

I stooped to pick up her dress. I shook out the wrinkles and hung it away in the closet. I picked up her lingerie and draped it neatly over the dresser.

When I turned back to the bed, she was asleep, breathing steadily, her head turned sideways on the pillow.

I brought her shoes from the living room, set them neatly beside the bed.

I awoke the next morning with cricks in my neck, shoulders, hips, thighs, and ankles, from a rude bed I had made of two chairs. Sometimes small stature is advantageous. I staggered to my feet and, in my underwear, began to waggle, flapping my arms, shaking my legs, rotating my head on my neck, and so forth. Such is the resilience of youth that I was soon able to walk upright with just the merest hint of a limp.

Perdita still slept tranquilly, head sideways on the pillow, covers drawn up to her chin, knees bent, as I had left her. Only the slow rise and fall of the blanket proved she was not deceased.

I went into the bathroom as noisily as I could, slammed the door, sang in the shower. I brushed my teeth, decided it was unnecessary to shave, and came bouncing out, a towel wrapped demurely about my loins.

'Hello, hello, hello,' I carolled, then peeked into the bedroom. She was still sleeping.

I dressed in fresh linen and clothing, trying to make as much noise as possible. Finally dressed, I went back into the kitchen and banged around, boiling water for instant coffee. I brought two filled cups into the bedroom and set them on the bedside table. It was almost 8.30.

I sat on the bed and shook her shoulder gently. Then with more vigour. Then, I am ashamed to say, violently.

Her eyes suddenly opened. She stared at the opposite wall.

'Wha'?' she said.

'Perdita,' I said gently, 'it is I, Joshua Bigg, and you are in my apartment in Chelsea. Colonel Clyde Manila drove us here. Do you remember?'

'Sure,' she said brightly. She sat up suddenly in bed, the covers falling to her waist, and reached to embrace me. I hugged her gingerly.

'Feel all right?' I asked.

'Marvy,' she said. 'Just marvy.'

'There's coffee here. Would you like a cup?'

'Why not?' she said. 'Got any brandy?'

'I do,' I said.

'Slug me,' she said.

I went into the living room for the brandy bottle. By the time I returned, she was out of bed and in her lingerie. She drank off a little of her coffee and I topped it off with brandy. She stuck in a forefinger, stirred it around, then licked her finger.

She sat on the edge of the bed, sipping her coffee royal. I sat next to her. She turned to look at me.

'Josh,' she said tenderly, 'was I good for you?'

'You were wonderful for me.'

'I didn't make too much noise, did I?'

'Not at all,' I assured her. 'It was perfect.'

'For me, too,' she said, sighing. 'Perfect. I feel so loose and relaxed. We must get together again.'

'Absolutely,' I said.

'I'm always at Mother Tucker's on Thursday. Just drop by.'

'I will.'

'Promise?'

'I promise,' I said, kissing the tip of her nose.

She finished her coffee, took her purse, and scampered into the bathroom for a short while. She came out looking radiant, eyes sparkling, lips wet. She dressed swiftly. We put on our coats and hats.

'Kissy,' she said, turning her face up to me.

I unlocked my door, we went out into the hallway, and there was Adolph Finkel. He stared at us. He coughed once, a short, explosive blast.

'Good morning, Finkel,' I said.

'Good morning, Bigg,' he said.

He goggled at Perdita Schug.

'Hi,' she said brightly.

'Uh, hi,' he said. He nodded insanely, his head bobbing up and down on his thin neck. Then he turned and fled down the steps ahead of us.

'A neighbour,' I explained.

'Unreal,' Perdita murmured.

I had planned to get a cab, but when we came out onto the street, there was a chocolate-coloured Rolls-Royce, and Colonel Clyde Manila behind the wheel, his furred collar turned up to his ears, his black leather cap set squarely atop his gingery toupee. He was sipping from a cut-glass tumbler of Scotch.

It hadn't registered with me that it was a Rolls. I turned to Perdita in disbelief.

'He's still here?' I said. 'Waiting for you?'

'Sure,' she said. 'What do you think?'