Tenth Commandment

5

Yetta Apatoff was on the phone, but gave me a warm smile and a flutter of fingers as I passed. I fluttered in return.

Workmen were busy in the corridor outside my office, moving a desk, swivel chair, lamp, and other accessories into position. A telephone installer was on his knees at the baseboard, running a wire to connect with my office phone.

I sat at my desk and went over the latest additions to my file of pending requests for investigation. I divided the stack into two piles: those I felt could be answered by Mrs Kletz, and those it would be necessary to handle myself. I then went through those I had delegated to my new assistant and scrawled in the margins the sources where she could obtain the information required.

I had started going through the Manhattan Yellow 231

Pages, but was dismayed by the number of chemical laboratories listed and decided to entrust my new assistant with a sensitive assignment. I left a typed note, asking her to call each of the labs listed and say that she represented the attorneys handling the estate of the late Professor Yale Stonehouse. A question had arisen concerning a cheque the Professor had written to the lab without any accompanying voucher. She was to ask each laboratory to consult their files to establish the date of billing and the purpose for which the money was paid.

On my way out I stopped at Yetta Apatoff's desk to tell her that my assistant would be in at eleven. She giggled.

'Oh, Josh,' she said, 'she's so big and you're so small.

It's so funny seeing the two of you together.'

'Yes, yes,' I said impatiently. 'But I'm sure you and everyone else in the office will get used to it.'

'So funny! ' she repeated, squinching up her face in mirth. I wished she hadn't done that; it gave her the look of a convulsed porker.

I told her I'd return in plenty of time to take her to lunch at one o'clock. She nodded, still giggling as I left. It seemed to me she was exhibiting a notable lack of sensitivity.

I took a cab up to the Kipper townhouse, pondering what I might say to Tippi if I got the opportunity and how I might draw her out on matters not pertaining to my alleged inventory of her late husband's estate. I could devise no devilishly clever ploy, and decided my best approach was to appear the wide-eyed innocent.

Chester Heavens answered my ring at the outside iron gate. 'Good morning, sah,' he said, friendly enough.

'Good morning, Chester. I trust I am not causing any inconvenience by dropping by without calling first?'

'Not at all, sah,' he said, ushering me into the looming entrance hall and holding out his hands for my hat and coat. 'Mom is breakfasting in the dining room. If you'll

just wait a moment, sah, perhaps I should inform her of your arrival.'

I waited, standing, until he returned. 'Mom asks if you would care to join her for a cup of coffee, sah?'

'I'd like that very much.'

Mrs Kipper was seated at the head of a long table. In the centre was a silver bowl of camellias and lilies. She held a hand out to me as I entered.

'Good morning, Mr Bigg,' she said, smiling. 'You're out early this morning.'

'Yes, ma'am,' I said moving forward quickly to take her hand. 'I'm anxious to finish up. Almost as anxious, I imagine, as you are to see the last of me.'

'Not at all,' she murmured. 'You've had breakfast?'

'Oh yes, ma'am.'

'But surely you'll join me for a cup of coffee?'

'Thank you I'd like that.'

'Chester, will you clear these things away, please, and bring Mr Bigg a cup. And more hot coffee.'

'Yes, mom,' he said.

'Now you sit next to me, Mr Bigg,' Tippi said, gesturing towards the chair on her right. 'I've always enjoyed a late, leisurely breakfast. It's really the best meal of the day — is it not?' Her manner seemed patterned after Loretta Young or Greer Garson.

I must admit she made a handsome picture, sitting erect at the head of that long, polished table: Portrait of a Lady.

In pastels. She was wearing a two-layer nightgown peignoir, gauzy and flowing, printed with pale gardenias.

She seemed born to that splendid setting. If the Kipper sons had been telling the truth, if she had the background they claimed, she had effected a marvellous transformation. The silver-blonde hair was up, and as artfully coiffed as ever. No wrinkles in that half-century old face; its mask-like crispness hinted of a plastic surgeon's 'tucks.'

The brown eyes with greenish flecks showed clear whites, the nose was perfectly patrician, the tight chin carried high.

I felt a shameful desire to dent that assured exterior by risking her ire.

'Mrs Kipper,' I said, 'a small matter has come up concerning your late husband's estate, and we hoped you might be able to help us with it. During an inventory of your husband's office effects, a bill was found in the amount of five hundred dollars, submitted by a certain Martin Reape. It is marked simply: "For services rendered." We haven't been able to contact this Mr Reape or determine the nature of the services he rendered. We hoped you might be able to assist us.'

I was watching her closely. At my first mention of Martin Reape, her eyes lowered suddenly. She stretched out a hand for her coffee cup and raised it steadily to her lips. She did not look at me while I concluded my question, but set the cup slowly and carefully back into the centre of the saucer with nary a clatter.

It was a remarkable performance, but a calculated one.

She should not have taken a sip of coffee in the midst of my question, and she should have, at least, glanced at me as I spoke. Roscoe Dollworth had told me: 'They'll take a drink, light a cigarette, bend over to retie their shoelace — anything to stall, to give themselves time to think, time to lie believably.'

'Reape?' Mrs Kipper said finally, meeting my eyes directly. 'Martin Reape? How do you spell that?'

'R-e-a-p-e.'

She thought for a moment.

'Nooo,' she said. 'The name means nothing to me. Have you found it anywhere else in his records?'

'No, ma'am.'

Did I see relief in her eyes or did I just want to see it there as evidence of guilt?

'I'm afraid I can't help you,' she said, shaking her head 234

'My husband was involved in so many things and knew so many people with whom I was not acquainted.'

I loved that '. . people with whom I was not acquainted.' So much more aristocratic than '. . people I didn't know.' I was horribly tempted to ask her how Las Vegas was the last time she saw it. Instead, I said. .

'I understand your husband was very active in charitable work, Mrs Kipper.'

'Oh yes,' she said sadly. 'He gave generously.'

'So Mr Knurr told me,' I said.

There was no doubt at all that this was news to her, and came as something of a shock. She took another sip of coffee. This time the cup clattered back into the saucer.

'Oh?' she said tonelessly. 'I didn't know that you and Godfrey had discussed my husband's charities.'

'Oh my yes,' I said cheerfully. 'The Reverend was kind enough to invite me down to Greenwich Village to witness his activities there. He's a remarkable man.'

'He certainly is,' she said grimly. She took up her cigarette case, extracted and tapped a cigarette with short, angry movements. I was ready with a match. She smacked the cigarette into her mouth, took quick, sharp puffs. Now she was Bette Davis.

'What else did you and Godfrey talk about?' she asked.

'Mostly the boys he was working with and how he was trying to turn their physical energy and violence into socially acceptable channels.'

'Did he say anything about me?' she demanded. The mask had dropped away. I saw the woman clearly.

I hesitated sufficiently long so that she would know I was lying.

'Why, no, ma'am,' I said mildly, my eyes as wide as I could make them. 'The Reverend Knurr said nothing about you other than that you and your husband had made generous contributions to his programme.'

Something very thin, mean, and vitriolic came into that wrinkle-free face. It became harder and somehow menacing. All I could think of was the face of Glynis Stonehouse when I told her I knew of her father's poisoning.

'Oh yes,' she said stonily. 'We contributed. Take a look at Sol's cancelled cheques. You'll see.'

I could not account for her anger. It did not seem justified simply by the fact that I had had a private conversation with the Reverend Knurr. I decided to flick again that raw nerve ending.

'He did say how difficult it had been for you,' I said earnestly. 'I mean your husband's death.'

'So you did talk about me,' she accused.

'Briefly,' I said. 'Only in passing. I hope some day, Mrs Kipper, you'll tell me about your experiences in the theatre. I'm sure they must have been fascinating.'

She hissed.

'He told you that?' she said. 'That I was in the theatre?'

'Oh no,' I said. 'But surely it's a matter of common knowledge?'

'Well. . maybe,' she said grudgingly.

'As a matter of fact,' I said innocently, 'I think I heard it first from Herschel and Bernard Kipper.'

'You've been talking to them? ' she said, aghast.

'Only in the line of duty,' I said hastily. 'To make a preliminary inventory of your late husband's personal effects in his office. Mrs Kipper, I'm sorry if I've offended you. But the fact of your having been in the theatre doesn't seem to me to be degrading at all. Quite the contrary.'

'Yes,' she said tightly. 'You're right.'

'Also,' I said, 'as an employee of a legal firm representing your interest, you can depend upon my rectitude.'

'Your what? '

'I don't gossip, Mrs Kipper. Whatever I hear in connection with a client goes no farther than me.'

She looked at me, eyes narrowing to cracks.

'Yeah,' she said, and I wondered what had happened to

'Yes.' Then she asked: 'What a client tells a lawyer, that's confidential, right?'

'Correct, Mrs Kipper. It's called privileged information.

The attorney cannot be forced to divulge it.'

Those eyes widened, stared at the ceiling.

'Privileged information,' she repeated softly. 'That's what I thought.'

Knowing she believed me to be an attorney, I awaited some startling confession. But she was finished with me.

Perhaps Knurr had told her I was not a member of the bar.

In any event, she stood suddenly and I hastened to rise and move her chair back.

'Well, I'm sure you want to get on with your work, Mr Bigg,' she said, extending her hand, the lady again.

'Yes, thank you,' I said, shaking her hand warmly. 'And for the coffee. I've enjoyed our talk.'

She sailed from the room without answering, her filmy robes floating out behind her.

'Have a good day,' I called after her, but I don't think she heard me.

I felt I had to spend some time in the townhouse to give credence to my cover story, so I took the elevator up to the sixth floor. I went into the empty, echoing party room and wandered about, heels clacking on the bare floor. I was drawn to those locked French doors. I stood there, looking out on to the terrace from which Sol Kipper had made his fatal plunge.

Small, soiled drifts of snow still lurked in the shadows.

There were melting patches of snow on tables and chairs.

The outdoor plants were brown and twisted. It was a mournful scene, a dead, winter scene.

He came up here, or was brought up here, and he leaped, or was thrown, into space. Limbs flailing. A boneless dummy flopping down. Suicide or murder, no 237

man deserved that death. It sent a bitter, shocking charge through my mouth, as when you bite down on a bit of tinfoil.

I felt, I knew, it had been done to him, but I could not see how. Four people in the house, all on the ground floor.

Four apparently honest people. And even if they were all lying, which of them was strong enough and resolute enough? And how was it done? Then, too, there was that suicide note…

Depressed, I descended to the first floor. I stuck my head into the kitchen and saw Chester Heavens and Mrs Bertha Neckin seated at the pantry table. They were drinking coffee from the same silver service that had just graced the dining room table.

Chester noticed me, rose immediately, and followed me out into the entrance hall where I reclaimed my hat and coat.

'Thank you, Chester,' I said. 'I hope I won't be bothering you much longer.'

'No bother, sah,' he said. He looked at me gravely. 'You are coming to the end of your work?'

His look was so inscrutable that for a moment I wondered if he knew, or guessed, what I was up to.

'Soon,' I said. 'It's going well. I should be finished with another visit or two.'

He nodded without speaking and showed me out, carefully trying the lock on the outer gate after I left.

I hailed a cab on Fifth and told the driver to drop me at the corner of Madison Avenue and 34th Street. From there I walked the couple of blocks to the ladies' wear shop to buy the green sweater for Yetta Apatoff. I described Yetta's physique as best I could, without gestures, and the kind saleslady selected the size she thought best, assuring me that with a sweater of that type, too small was better than too large, and if the fit wasn't acceptable, it could be exchanged. I had it gift-wrapped and then put into a shopping bag that effectively concealed the contents.

When I got back to my office, Mrs Gertrude Kletz was seated at her new desk in the corridor. She was on the phone, making notes I thought, gratified, that she looked very efficient indeed. I went to my own desk, sat down in my coat and hat, and made rapid, scribbled notes of my conversation with Mrs Tippi Kipper. My jottings could not convey the flavour of our exchange, but I wanted to make certain I had a record of her denial of knowing Martin Reape, her admission of heavy contributions to the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, and the anger she had exhibited when she learned of my meeting with Knurr.

I was just finishing up when my new assistant came into the office, carrying a spiral-bound stenographer's pad.

'Good morning, Mrs Kletz,' I said.

'Good morning, Mr Bigg.'

We beamed at each other. She was wearing a tent-like flannel jumper over a man-tailored shirt. I asked her if her desk, chair, telephone, and supplies were satisfactory, and she said they were.

'Did you get all my notes?' I asked her. 'Did they make sense to you?'

'Oh yes,' she said. 'No problems. I found the lab that did business with Professor Stonehouse.'

'You didn't?' I said, surprised and delighted. 'How many calls did it take?'

'Fourteen.' she said casually, as if it was a trifle. A treasure, that woman! 'They did two chemical analyses for Professor Stonehouse.' She handed me a note. 'Here's all the information: date and cost and so forth. They didn't tell me what the analyses were.'

'That's all right,' I said. 'I know what they were. I think.

Thank you, Mrs Kletz.'

'On the other research requests — I'm working on those now.'

'Good,' I said. 'Stick with it. If you have any questions, 239

don't be afraid to ask me.'

! Oh, I won' t be afraid,' she said.

I didn't think she would be — of anything. I made a sudden decision. From instinct, not reason.

'Mrs Kletz,' I said, 'I'm going out to lunch at one and will probably be back in an hour or so. If you get some time, take a look at the Kipper and Stonehouse files.

They're in the top drawer of the cabinet. I'd like your reaction.'

'All right,' she said placidly. 'This is interesting work, isn't it?'

'Oh yes,' I agreed enthusiastically. 'Interesting.'

I took off my coat and hat long enough to wash up in the men's room. Then I put them on again, took up my shopping bag, and sallied forth to take Yetta Apatoff to lunch.

Fifteen minutes later we were seated at a table for two in the Chinese restaurant on Third Avenue. I ordered eggrolls, wonton soup, shrimp with lobster sauce, and fried rice. After all, it was a birthday celebration. Before the eggrolls were served, I withdrew the gift-wrapped package from the shopping bag and presented it to Yetta.

'Many happy returns,' I said.

'Oh, Josh,' she said, her eyes moons, 'you shouldn't have. I had no idea. .!' She tore at the gift-wrapped package with frantic fingers. When she saw the contents, her mouth made an O of delighted surprise.

'Josh,' she breathed, 'how did you know? '

Understandably triumphant due to the lead I'd just taken over Hooter in the Apatoff Stakes, I nonetheless managed to smile modestly and flirt sheepishly for the rest of the meal. The warmth of Yetta's grasp as we parted definitely promised an escalation of our relationship in the very near future.

As I approached my office, I noted Mrs Kletz was poring over a file on her corridor desk. She was so 240

engrossed that she didn't look up until I was standing next to her.

'Which one is that?' I asked, gesturing towards the folder.

'The Kipper case. I'm almost finished with it. People,'

she intoned with a sweetly sad half-smile. She wasn't saying, 'The horror of them,' she was saying, 'The wonder of them.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Come into my office, please, when you're finished with it.'

I hung away my coat and hat and called Ada Mondora and asked for a meeting with Mr Teitelbaum. She said she'd get back to me.

Mrs Kletz had left on my desk the research inquiries she had answered, using the sources I had supplied. She'd done a thorough job and I was satisfied. I typed up first-draft memos to the junior partners and associates who had requested the information and left them for Mrs Kletz to do the final copies. She came into my office as I was finishing, carrying the Kipper file.

'Sit down, Mrs Kletz,' I said, motioning towards my visitor's chair. 'I have just one more rough to do and I'll be through. You did a good job on these, by the way.'

'Thank you, sir,' she said.

It was one of the few times in my life I had been called

'Sir.' I found it an agreeable experience.

I finished the final draft and pushed the stack across the desk to my assistant.

'I'll need two finished copies on these,' I said. 'Do what you can today and the rest can go over to Monday.' I drew the Kipper file towards me and rapped it with my knuckles.

'Strictly confidential,' I said, staring at her.

'Oh yes. I understand.'

'What do you think of it all?'

'Mr Bigg,' she said, 'is it always the one you least suspect?'

I laughed. 'Don't try to convince the New York Police Department of that. They believe it's always the one you most suspect. And they're usually right. Who do you suspect?'

'I think the widow and the preacher are in cahoots.' she said seriously. 'I think they were playing around before the husband died. He suspected and hired that private detective to make sure. When he had the evidence, he decided to change his will. So they killed him.'

I looked at her admiringly.

'Yes,' I said, nodding, 'that's my theory, and it's a — it's an elegant theory that explains most of the known facts.

After Sol Kipper died, Marty Reape tried blackmail. But he underestimated their determination, or their desperation. So he was killed. His widow inherited his files, including his copies of the Kipper evidence. She sold the evidence, or part of it, or perhaps she made copies, realizing what a gold mine she had. She got greedy, so she had to be eliminated, too. Does that make sense?'

'Oh yes. Tippi and Knurr, they were only interested in Mr Kipper's money. But with the evidence he had, he could get a divorce, and her settlement would have been a lot less than she'll inherit now. So they murdered the poor man.'

'It's an elegant theory,' I repeated. 'There's just one thing wrong with it: they couldn't have done it.'

'I've been puzzling that out,' she said frowning. 'Is it positive there was no one else in the house?'

'A hired killer? The servants say that no one came in and they saw no one leave. The police were there soon after Sol died, and they searched the house thoroughly and found no one.'

'Could they be lying? The servants? For money?'

'I don't believe they're lying, and the detective who did the police investigation doesn't think they are either. If they were in on it, they would all have to be in on it. That means five people engaged in a murder conspiracy. I can't see it. The more people involved, the weaker the chain.

Too many opportunities for continuing blackmail. Tippi and Knurr are too smart for that. I think it happened the way they told it: four people on the ground floor when Sol Kipper went to his death.'

She sighed. 'Leaving a suicide note,' she said.

'Yes, there's that, too.'

'What will you do now?'

'Well, I — ' I stopped suddenly. What would I do now? 'I don't know,' I confessed to Mrs Kletz. 'I don't know what more I can do. I can follow Tippi or the Reverend Knurr. I can definitely establish that they are having an affair. But what good will that do? It won't bring me any closer to learning how the murder of Sol Kipper was engineered.

And I'm just as convinced as you are that it was murder.'

'Chicago,' she said.

'What?'

'In your notes, Mr Bigg. The Reverend told you he was from the Chicago area. Then the Kipper sons told you that they thought Tippi came from Chicago.'

I took a deep breath. 'Thank you, Mrs Kletz,' I said fervently. 'That's exactly the sort of thing I hoped you might spot. I've been too close to this thing, but you came to it fresh. All right, maybe they're both from the Chicago area. What does that prove? Probably nothing. Unless they knew each other before they ended up in New York.

Even that might not mean anything unless. . '

'Unless,' she said, 'they had been involved together in something similar.'

'Back in Chicago?'

'Yes.'

'Yes,' I agreed. 'It's not much, but it might be sufficient to convince the NYPD to reopen their investigation.

They've got resources and techniques to unravel this thing a lot faster than I could hope to. Meanwhile, I'll try to dig 243

up what I can on the Chicago background of Tippi and Knurr. It may prove to be nothing, but I've got to — '

The phone rang. Mr Teitelbaum was free now.

Ada Mondora clinked her gypsy jewellery at me and smiled pertly as I stood before her desk.

'I hear someone had a nice lunch today,' she said archly.

'News does get around, doesn't it?' I said.

'What should we talk about?' she demanded. 'Torts?

Yetta just loves her sweater.'

I groaned.

'I think my bet is safe,' Ada said complacently. 'I'm betting on you. Thelma will just die when she hears about the sweater.'

'Thelma Potts? She's betting on Hooter?'

'Didn't you know?' Ada asked innocently, widening those flashing eyes and showing her brilliant white teeth.

'As a matter of fact, Thelma and I have a private bet.

Lunch at the Four Seasons. I know exactly what I'm going to order.'

When I entered Mr Teitelbaum's office, he was seated, as usual, behind his enormous desk, his pickled hands clasped on top. He motioned me to an armchair, asked for a report on the Stonehouse investigation.

Consulting my notes, I capsuled the results of my inquiries as briefly and succinctly as I could. I told him that I first suspected the nightly cup of cocoa was the means by which Professor Stonehouse was poisoned, but I now realized it was the brandy in the Professor's study. I reported that Stonehouse had submitted two substances for analysis at a chemical laboratory.

'I will try to obtain copies of those analyses, sir,' I said.

'I'd be willing to bet the arsenic was put into the Professor's cognac.'

'By whom?'

I told him about my interviews with Powell Stonehouse and Wanda Chard, and my last meeting with Glynis 244

Stonehouse. I said that Powell seemed to have easiest access to the poison, via Wanda Chard, but since he was banished from his father's home during the period of the poisoning, it seemed unlikely that he was the culprit, unless he was working in collusion with one or more of the other members of the household.

'You think that likely?' Mr Teitelbaum asked in his surprisingly vigorous voice.

'No, sir.'

'Surely not the wife then? On her own?'

'No, sir.'

'The servants?'

'No, sir,' I said sighing, 'The daughter. But I must tell you, I have absolutely no proof to support that suspicion. I don't know where she could have obtained the arsenic. I don't know what her motive might possibly have been.'

'Do you think her mentally unbalanced?'

'No, sir, I do not. Mr Teitelbaum, it might help if you could explain to me what happens legally in this case. I mean, what happens to the assets of the missing man?'

It was his turn to sigh. He entwined his leathery fingers, looked down on his clasped hands on the desktop as if they were a ten-legged animal, a kind of lizard perhaps, that had nothing to do with him.

'Mr Bumble said that the law is an ass,' he said. 'I might amend that to say that the law is usually half-ass.'

A lawyer's joke, I laughed dutifully.

'The laws concerning the estate of a missing person are somewhat involved,' he continued sharply. 'Common law, as approved by the Supreme Court in 1878 in the case of Davie versus Briggs, establishes a presumption of death after seven years. However, the Stonehouse case must be adjudicated under the statutes of New York State, of which there are two applying to this particular situation.'

I stifled a groan and settled a little deeper into my armchair. I was in for a lecture, when all I had wanted was a 245

one-sentence answer.

'The Estates, Powers and Trusts Law allows a presumption of death after five years of continuous absence, providing — and this is one of the reasons I requested you make a thorough investigation — providing that the missing person was exposed to a specific peril of death and that a diligent search was made prior to application that declaration of presumed death be issued by the court. At that point, after five years, assuming the two conditions I have just stated have been observed, the missing person may be presumed dead and his will submitted to probate. But if, subsequent to those five years, he suddenly appears, he may legally claim his estate. Thus, "diligent search" is of paramount importance in the presumption of his death.

Are you following me, Mr Bigg?'

'Yes, sir,' I said. 'I think so.'

'On the other hand,' Mr Teitelbaum said with great satisfaction, and I realized that, to a lawyer, 'On the other hand' contains as much emotional impact as 'I love you'

would to a layman.

'On the other hand,' he continued, 'the Surrogate's Court Procedure Act, dealing with the administration of the estates of missing persons, provides that not until ten years after the date of disappearance does the missing person lose all interest in his property. The estate is then distributed to his heirs by will or the laws of intestacy. This is simply a statute of limitations on the time in which a missing person may claim his estate. After those ten years, he is, to all intents and purposes, legally dead, although he may still be alive. If he shows up in person after those ten years, he owns nothing.'

'And during those ten years, sir? Can his dependants draw on his assets?'

'A temporary administrator, appointed by the court, preserves the assets of the estate, pays the required taxes, supports the missing person's family, and so forth. But

once again, a diligent search must be made to locate the missing person.'

'Now I am confused, sir,' I said. 'Apparently, under the first law you mentioned, a missing person can be declared dead after five years. Under the second law, it requires ten years before the estate can be divided amongst his heirs.'

'A nice point,' Mr Teitelbaum said. 'And one that has occasioned some heated debate amongst our younger attorneys and clerks to whom I assigned the problem. My personal opinion is that the two statutes are not necessarily contradictory. For instance, in the second case, under the Surrogate's Court Procedure Act, during the ten-year administration of the estate, the administrator or any interested person may petition for probate of the will by presenting sufficient proof of death. I would judge,' he added dryly, 'that the finding of the body would constitute sufficient proof.'

'Uh, well, sir,' I said, trying to digest all this, 'what is going to happen to the Stonehouse family, exactly?'

'I would say,' he intoned in his most judicial tones,

'after reviewing the options available, that they would be wise to file for relief under the SCPA and accept in good spirit the appointment of a temporary administrator of Professor Stonehouse's estate. That is the course I intend to urge upon Mrs Stonehouse. However, in all honesty, Mr Bigg, I must confess that I have not been moving expeditiously in this matter. Mrs Stonehouse and the children, while hardly individually wealthy, have sufficient assets of their own to carry them awhile without fear of serious privation. Their apartment, for instance, is a co-operative, fully paid for, with a relatively modest maintenance charge. I have, in a sense, been dragging my feet on an application for appointment of a temporary administrator until we can prove to the court that a diligent search for Professor Stonehouse has indeed been made. Also, I am quite disturbed by what you have told me of the attempted 247

poisoning. I would like to see that matter cleared up before a court application is made. I would not care to see an allowance paid to a family member who might have been, ah, criminally involved in the Professor's disappearance.'

'No, sir,' I said. 'I wouldn't either. Another point: supposing that an administrator is appointed for a period of ten years and nothing is heard from Professor Stonehouse during that time. Then his will goes to probate?'

'That is correct.'

'And if no will can be found?'

'Then the division of his estate would be governed by the laws of intestacy.'

'Could he disinherit his wife? If he left a will, I mean?'

'Doubtful. Disinheriting one's spouse is not considered in the public interest. However, he might disinherit his wife with a clear reason provable in a court of law.'

'Like trying to poison him?'

'That might be sufficient reason for disinheritance,' he acknowledged cautiously. 'Providing incontrovertible proof was furnished.'

'The same holds true for his son and daughter, I presume?'

Mr Ignatz Teitelbaum took a deep breath.

'Mr Bigg,' he said, 'the laws of inheritance are not inviolable. Even an expertly drawn will is not a sacred document. Anyone can sue, and usually does. Ask any attorney. These matters are usually settled by compromise, give-and-take. Litigation frequently results. When it does, out-of-court settlements are common,'

'May I pose a hypothetical question, sir?'

'You may,' he said magisterially.

'Suppose a spouse or child attempts to inflict grievous bodily harm upon the head of the family. The head of the family has proof of the attempt and disinherits the spouse or child in a holographic will that includes proof of the attempt upon his life. The head of the family disappears.

But the will is never found. At the end of ten years, or earlier if the body is discovered, the estate is then divided under the laws of intestacy. The guilty person would then inherit his or her share?'

'Of course,' he said promptly. 'If the will was never found, and proof of the wrongdoing was never found.'

'If the body was discovered tomorrow, sir, how long would it take to probate the will?'

'Perhaps a year,' he said. 'Perhaps longer if no will existed.'

Then he was silent. He unlatched his fingers, spread his brown hands out on the desktop. His head was lowered, but his bright eyes looked up at me sharply.

'You think the body will be discovered tomorrow, Mr Bigg?' he asked.

'I think it will be discovered soon, sir,' I said. 'I don't believe whoever did this has the patience to wait ten years.'

'You're assuming a second will was drawn,' he said.

'Perhaps the head of the family never got around to it.

Perhaps his original will is in existence and still valid.'

I hadn't considered that possibility. It stunned me. But after pondering it a moment, it seemed unlikely to me.

After getting the results of those chemical analyses, Professor Yale Stonehouse would surely write a new will or amend the original. It was in character for him to do that.

He was an ill-natured, vindictive man; he would not take lightly an attempt to poison him.

'One final request, Mr Teitelbaum,' I said. 'I am convinced that when Professor Stonehouse left his home on the night of January 10th, he went somewhere by cab or in a car that was waiting for him. It was a raw, sleety night; I don't think he'd wait for a bus or walk over to the subway. I can't do anything about a car waiting for him, but I can attempt to locate the cab he might have taken. All taxi drivers are required to keep trip sheets, but it would be an enormous task checking all the trip sheets for that

night, even if the taxi fleet owners allowed me to, which they probably wouldn't. What I'd like to do is have posters printed up, bearing the photograph of Professor Stonehouse and offering a modest reward for any cabdriver who remembers picking him up at or near his home on the night of January 10th. I admit it's a very long shot. The posters could only go in the garages of fleet owners, and there are many independent cabowners who'd never see them. Still, there is a chance we might come up with a driver who remembers taking the Professor somewhere on that particular night.'

'Do it,' he said immediately. 'I approve. It will be part of that "diligent search" the law requires.'

He started to say more, then stopped. He brought two wrinkled forefingers to his thin lips and pressed them, thinking.

'Mr Bigg,' he said finally, 'I think you have conducted this investigation in a professional manner, and I wish to compliment you.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'However,' he said sonorously, 'it cannot be openended.

The responsibility of this office is, of course, first and foremost to our clients. In this case we are representing the missing Professor Stonehouse and his family. I cannot hold off indefinitely the filing of an application for the appointment of a temporary administrator of the Professor's estate. It would not be fair to the family. Can you estimate how much more time you will require to complete your investigation?'

'No, sir,' I said miserably. 'I can't even guarantee that I will ever complete it.'

He nodded regretfully.

'I understand,' he said. 'But I cannot shirk our basic responsibility. Another week, Mr Bigg. I'm afraid that's all I can allow you. Then I must ask you to drop your inquiries into this, uh, puzzling and rather distasteful affair.'

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him to go ahead with his legal procedures, but to let me continue digging. But in all honesty I didn't know what more I could do in the Stonehouse case after I placed those reward posters in taxi garages. Where did I go from there? I didn't know.

Mrs Gertrude Kletz had left a memo in the roller of my typewriter. It read:

Mr Bigg, your notes on the Kipper case question why Tippi was so upset when you told her you had a private meeting with Rev. Knurr. Well, if the two of them are in on this together, as you and I think, it would be natural for her to be upset because they are both guilty, and so must depend on each other. But they would be suspicious as neither of them are dumb, as you said, the other might reveal something or even connive to turn in the other, like when thieves fall out. I should think that if two people are partners in a horrible crime, they would begin to look at each other with new eyes and wonder. Because they both depend on each other so much, and they begin to doubt and wonder. I hope you know what I mean as I do not express myself very well.

G. K.

I knew what she meant, and I thought she might be right. If Tippi and Knurr were beginning to look at each other with 'new eyes,' it might be the chink I could widen, an opportunity I could exploit.

I called Percy Stilton. The officer who answered said formally, 'Detective Stilton is not available.' I gave my name and requested that he ask Detective Stilton to call me as soon as possible.

My second call was to Mrs Effie Dark. I chatted awhile with that pleasant, comfortable lady, and she volunteered the information I sought.

'Mr Bigg,' she said, 'I checked my liquor store bills, and Professor Stonehouse didn't order any Remy Martin for 251

almost two months before he disappeared. I don't know why, but he didn't.'

'Thank you, Effie,' I said gratefully. 'Just another brick in the wall, but an important one.'

We exchanged farewells and hung up. It was then late Friday afternoon, the business world slowing, running down. There is a late Friday afternoon mood in winter in New York. Early twilight. Early quiet. Everything fades.

Melancholy sweeps in. One remembers lost chances.

I sat there in my broom-closet office, the files of the Kipper and Stonehouse cases on my desk, and stared at them with sad, glazed eyes. So much passion and turbulence. I could not encompass it. Worse, I seemed to have been leeched dry of inspiration and vigour. All those people involved in those desperate plots. What were they to me, or I to them? It was a nonesuch with which I could not cope, something foreign to my nature.

Me, a small, quiet, indwelling, nonviolent man. Suddenly, by the luck and accident that govern life, plunged into this foreign land, this terra incognita. What troubled me most, I think, was that I had no compass for this terrain. I was blundering about, lurching, and more than discovering the truth, I wanted most to know what drove me and would not let me put all this nastiness aside.

Finally, forcing myself up from the despair towards which I was fast plummeting, I packed the Kipper and Stonehouse folders into my briefcase, dressed in coat, scarf, hat, turned off the lights, and plodded away from the TORT building, the darkness outside seeming not half as black as that inside, not as forbidding, foreboding.

I did arrive home safely. I changed to casual clothes, then built a small blaze in the fireplace. After that luncheon, I was not hungry, but I had a cup of coffee and a wedge of pecan coffee ring. I sat there, staring into the flames. The file folders on the Kipper and Stonehouse cases were piled on the floor at my feet. My depression was 252

again beginning to overwhelm me. I was nowhere with my first big investigation. I was a mild, out-of-place midget in a world of pushers and shovers. And I was alone.

I was alone, late on a Friday evening, wondering as we all must, who I was and what I was, when there came a hesitant tapping at my door. I rose, still frowning with my melancholic reverie, and opened the door to find Cleo Hufnagel, her features as sorrowful as mine. I think it would not, at that moment, have taken much for us to fall into each other's arms, weeping:

'Here,' she said stiffly, and thrust into my hands a sealed manila envelope.

'What is this?' I said bewilderedly.

'The information you wanted on arsenic.'

I felt the thickness of the envelope.

'Oh, Cleo,' I said, 'I didn't want you to do the research.

I just wanted the sources: where to look.'

'Well, I did it,' she said, lifting her chin. 'I thought it might — might help you. Good night.'

She turned to go. I reached out hastily, put a hand on her arm. She stopped, but she wouldn't look at me.

'Cleo, what is it?' I asked her. 'You seem to be angry with me.'

'Disappointed,' she said in a low voice.

'All right — disappointed. Have I offended you in any way? If I have, I apologize most sincerely. But I am not aware of — '

I stopped suddenly. Adolph Finkel!

'Cleo,' I started again, 'we said we wanted to be friends.

I know I meant it and I think you did, too. There must be honesty and openness between friends. Please, come inside, sit down, and let me tell you what happened. Give me that chance. If, after I have explained, you still wish to leave and never speak to me again, that will be your decision. But at least it will be based on facts.'

I concluded that lawyer's argument and drew her gently into my apartment, closing and locking the door behind us. I got her into the armchair where she sat upright, spine straight, hands clasped in her lap. She stared pensively into the dying flames.

'Could we have a drink?' I asked. 'Please? I think it might help.'

She gave the barest nod and I hastened to pour us two small glasses of brandy. I pulled a straight-back chair up close to her and leaned forward earnestly, drink clasped at my knees.

'Now,' I said, 'I presume you are disappointed in me because of something Adolph Finkel may have alleged about my, uh, visitor this morning. Is that correct?'

Again, that brief, cold nod.

'Cleo, that young woman is an important witness in a case I am currently investigating, and I needed information from her. Here is exactly what h a p p e n e d. . '

I think I may say, without fear of self-glorification, that I was at my most convincing best. I spoke slowly in a grave, intense voice, and I told Cleo nothing but the truth. I described my bus ride uptown in the storm, the atmosphere at Mother Tucker's, my meeting with Perdita Schug and Colonel Clyde Manila.

'It sounds like a fun place,' Cleo said faintly, almost enviously.

'Oh yes,' I said, encouraged, 'we must go there sometime.'

Then I went on to explain my failure to elicit any meaningful intelligence from Perdita during dinner, and how I had decided the evening was wasted and that I should return home alone by any means possible. I described how Perdita and the Colonel insisted on driving me in the chocolate-coloured Rolls-Royce, and how we all drank, and they smoked joints en route. I held nothing back.

'I've never tried it,' Cleo Hufnagel said reflectively. 'I'd like to.'

I tried to conceal my amazement at that. I described how Perdita Schug had forced her way into my apartment and how, after a drink, she had revealed information of inestimable value in the case under investigation.

'And then. . ' I said.

'And then?' Cleo asked sharply.

As delicately as I could, I explained what happened then.

During this part of my confession, Cleo had begun to smile, and when I described my makeshift bed and how I awoke a mass of aches and pains, she threw back her head and laughed outright. And my telling of the tender conversation in the morning, just prior to Perdita's departure, sent her into a prolonged fit of hearty guffaws and she bent over, shaking her head and wiping her streaming eyes with a knuckle.

'Then we came out into the hallway,' I said, 'and there was Adolph Finkel. I swear to you, Cleo, on our friendship, that's exactly what happened.'

'I believe you, Josh,' she said, still wiping her eyes. 'No one could have made up a story like that. How did you get her home?'

I told her how we had discovered Colonel Manila still waiting in the snowdrift, and how they had driven me to work and then gone off together.

'Will you see her again?' she asked, suddenly serious.

I thought about that.

'Cleo, I cannot promise you I will not. Things may develop in the investigation that will necessitate additional conversations with her. But I assure you, my only motive in seeking her company will be in the line of business. I have no personal interest in Perdita whatsoever. Would you like another brandy?'

'Please,' she said, and I went gratefully to replenish our glasses, fearing she might detect guilt in my face. I had told her the truth — but not the whole truth.

I came back with our drinks, pulled my chair closer, took her free hand in mine.

'Am I forgiven?' I asked.

She was looking uncommonly handsome that night. But each time I saw her I discerned new beauty. The long hair I had once thought of as only gleaming chestnut now seemed to me to have the tossing fascination of flame. The smile I had defined as pleasant but distant now appeared to me mysterious and full of promise. The thin nose was now aristocratic, the high, clear, brow bespoke intelligence, and the wide mouth, instead of being merely curvy, was now sensuous and madly desirable.

As for her figure, I could not believe I once thought her skinny. I saw now that she was elegant, supple as a willow wand, and her long arms and legs, slender hands and feet, were all of a piece, pliant and flowing. There was a fluency to her body, and I no longer thought of her as being a head taller than I. We were equals: that's what I thought.

'Of course I forgive you,' she said in that marvellously low and gentle voice. 'But there is nothing to forgive. The fault was mine. I have no claims on you. You can live as you please. I was just being stupid.'

'No, no,' I said hotly. 'You were not stupid. Are not stupid.'

'It was just t h a t. . ' she said hesitantly. 'Well, I was — I was hurt. I don't know why, but I was.'

'I would never do anything to hurt you,' I vowed.

'Never! And I haven't forgotten about the kite either. I really am going to buy a red kite for us. With string.'

She laughed. 'I'm glad you haven't forgotten, Josh,' she said, gently taking her hand from mine. 'Now do you want to talk about what I found out? About the arsenic?'

I nodded, even though at that moment I most wanted to talk about us.

She took the envelope from the floor at my feet and opened the flap. I moved the table lamp closer.

'I'll leave all of this for you to read,' she said. 'Most of it is photocopies, and photostats from medical journals and drug company manuals. Josh, it's awfully technical.

Maybe I better go over the main points, and that will be enough for you, and you won't have to read it all. That man you said was poisoned by arsenic — was he killed? I mean, was he fed a large quantity of arsenic at one time and died? Or small amounts over a period of time?'

'Small amounts,' I said. 'I think. And I don't believe he died. At least not from the arsenic.'

'Well, arsenic comes in a lot of different chemical compounds. Powders, crystals, and liquids. There's even one type that fumes in air. Pope Clement the Seventh and Leopold the First of Austria were supposed to have been assassinated by arsenic mixed in wax candles. The fumes from the candles were poisonous, and whoever breathed them died.'

'That's incredible,' I murmured, and before I could help myself I had flopped to my knees alongside her chair and taken up one of her long, slender hands again. She let me.

'I think what you're looking for, Josh, is arsenic trioxide. It's the common form and the primary material of all the arsenic compounds.'

'Yes,' I said, putting my lips to the tips of her fingers.

'Arsenic trioxide.'

'It is white or transparent glassy lumps or a crystalline powder. It is soluble if mixed slowly and used extremely sparingly. It is odourless and tasteless. A poisonous dose would be only a small pinch. There might be a very slight aftertaste.'

'Aftertaste,' I repeated, kissing her knuckles, the back of her hand, then turning it over to kiss that pearly wrist with the blue veins pulsing faintly.

'Only two- or three-tenths of a gram of arsenic trioxide can kill an adult within forty-eight hours, so you can see how a tiny amount could cause illness.' She obviously

intended to finish her lecture despite the distractions.

'Arsenic affects the red blood cells and kidneys, if I read these medical papers correctly. The symptoms vary greatly, but a victim of fatal arsenic poisoning might have headaches, vertigo, muscle spasm, delirium, and stupor.

Death comes from circulatory collapse. In smaller doses, over a period of time, there would probably be a low-grade fever, loss of appetite, pallor, weakness, inflammation of the nose and throat. You notice that those symptoms are quite similar to the flu or a virus, and that's why arsenic poisoning is sometimes misdiagnosed. In tiny doses over a long period of time, there is usually no delirium or stupor.'

'Stupor,' I said, touching the tip of my tongue to the palm of her hand. Her entire arm quivered, but her voice was steady as she continued.

'After repeated poisonings, loss of hair and nails may result, accompanied by hoarseness and a hacking cough.

Arsenic collects in the hair, nails, and skin. There is some evidence that Napoleon may have been poisoned with arsenic on St Helena. It was found in a lock of his hair years later.'

'Poor Napoleon,' I whispered. I craned upwards to sniff the perfume of her hair, to bury my face in the sweet juncture where neck met shoulder, to breathe her in. She, who would not brook diversion.

'An alert physician may sometimes spot a garlicky odour of breath and faeces.' She showed no evidence of slowing down. 'Also, urine analysis and gastric washings usually reveal the presence of arsenic. But the symptoms are sometimes so similar to stomach flu that a lot of doctors don't suspect arsenic poisoning until it's too late.'

'Too late,' I groaned, pushing her hair aside gently to kiss her divine ear tenderly. She trembled, a bit, but continued to read from her notes.

'Arsenic is no longer generally used in medicine, having 258

been replaced by more efficient compounds. It was formerly used in the treatment of infections, joint disease, skin lesions, including syphilis, chronic bronchitis, anaemia, psoriasis, and so forth. It's still used by veterinarians, but much less frequently than it once was.

Most uses of arsenic today are in manufacturing. It is used for hardening copper, lead, and alloys, to make paint and glass, in tanning hides, in printing and dyeing fabrics. It's also used as a pigment in painting, in weed control, for killing rodents and insects, and in fireworks.'

'Fireworks,' I breathed, touching the fine silkiness of her hair. It was as soft and evanescent as cobwebs.

'Now, as to the availability. . It's prohibited in food and drugs, and is being phased out as a weed killer. You might find it in rat poison and wood preservatives, but they'd be poisonous for their ingredients, too. Arsenic is available commercially in large wholesale quantities. It is used in manufacturing parts of car batteries, for instance.

But for uses like that, it's bought by the ton, and the government requires disclosure of the end-use. So what is a poor poisoner to do? It would be difficult to purchase an arsenic-containing product in a garden nursery or hardware store or pharmacy. It would probably be impossible.'

'Impossible,' I moaned. I was kneeling, an arm about her shoulders. The fingers of that hand touched her neck, ear, the loose strands of hair cascading down her back. My other hand stroked the arm closest to me, touched her timorously. I felt her shiver, but too soon she recovered her self-control.

'Still, arsenic trioxide is frequently used in medical and chemical laboratories for research. It is obtained from chemical supply houses by written order, and they must know with whom they are dealing. I mean, a stranger can't just write in and order a pound of arsenic. The usual order from a lab will be for 100 to 500 grammes at a time. In its crudest form, it costs about ten dollars for 250 grammes.

High-purity arsenic trioxide costs about a dollar a gramme. It seems to me that the easiest thing for a poisoner to do would be to steal a small amount of arsenic trioxide from the stock room of a research laboratory or a chemical lab at a university. Such a tiny bit is needed to kill someone that the amount stolen would probably never be noticed and — Oh, Josh!' she cried.

She dropped her research papers to the floor, slipped from the chair, fell on to her knees, twisted and flung herself into my arms. In that position, both of us kneeling, we were nearly of a height, and embraced eagerly. We kissed. Our teeth clinked. We kissed. We murmured such things as 'I never — ' and 'I didn't — ' and 'I can't — ' and 'I wouldn't — ' All of which soon became 'I wanted — ' and 'I hoped — ' and 'I wished — ' and, finally, 'I love — '

Not a sentence was finished, nor was there need for it.

After a while, weak with our osculatory explorations, we simply toppled over, fell to the floor with a thump, and lay close together, nose to nose in fact, staring into each other's eyes and smiling, smiling, smiling.

'I don't care,' Cleo Hufnagel said in her low, hesitant voice. 'I just don't care.'

'I don't either,' I said. 'About anything but us.'

'Us,' she said, wonder in her voice.

'Us,' I repeated. I smoothed the hair away from her temples, touched the smooth skin of her brow. When I pressed her yielding back, she moved closer to me, and we clove. I began to scratch her spine gently through the flannel of her jumper. She closed her eyes and purred with contentment.

'Don't stop,' she said. 'Please.'

'I do not intend to,' I said, and scratched away assiduously, widening the base of my operations to include shoulder blades and ribs.

'Oh,' she sighed. 'Oh, oh, oh. Are you a virgin, Josh?'

'No.'

260

'I am.'

'Ah?'

'But I don't want to be,' she said. Then her eyes flicked open and she looked at me with alarm. 'But not tonight,'

she added hastily.

'I understand,' I assured her gravely. 'This is grand. Just being with you.'

'And having you scratch my back is grand,' she sighed.

'That's beautiful. Thank you.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'Another brandy?'

'I don't think so,' she said thoughtfully. 'I feel just right. How old are you, Josh?'

'Thirty-two.'

'I'm thirty-four,' she said sadly.

'So?'

'I'm older than you are.'

'But I'm shorter than you are.'

She wriggled around so she could hold my face between her palms. She stared intently into my eyes.

'But that doesn't make any difference,' she said. 'Does it? My being older or your being shorter? That's not important, is it?'

'No,' I said, astonished, 'it's not.'

'I've got to tell you something awful,' she said.

'What?'

'I must get up and use your bathroom.'

When we kissed goodnight I had to lift on to my toes as she bent down. But I didn't mind that, and neither of us laughed.

'Thank you for a lovely evening,' I said.

She didn't answer, but drew her fingertips gently down my cheek. Then she was gone.