Tenth Commandment

5

Thursday morning: alive, bubbling, laughing aloud. Cleo hadn't wanted to upset her mother by staying the night, but I'd awakened steeped in her recent presence. I sang in the shower ('O Sole Mio'), looked out the window, and nodded approvingly at the pencil lines of rain slanting down steadily. Nothing could daunt my mood. I wore rain-344

coat and rubbers to work, and carried my umbrella. It was the type of bumbershoot that extends with the press of a button in the handle. Very efficient, except that when a stiff wind was blowing, it cracked open and seemed to lift me a few inches off my feet.

However, I arrived at the TORT building without misadventure and set to work planning my day's activities.

My first call was to Glynis Stonehouse. She came to the phone, finally, and didn't sound too delighted to hear from me. I acted the young, innocent, optimistic, bouncy investigator, and I told her I had uncovered new information about her father's disappearance that I'd like to share with her. Grudgingly, she said that she could spare me an hour if I came immediately.

I thanked her effusively, ran out of TORT and, miraculously, given the weather, hailed a cab right in front of the building.

In the Stonehouse hallway the formidable Olga Eklund relieved me of hat, coat, rubbers, and umbrella, and herded me into that beige living room where Glynis Stonehouse reclined in one corner of the velvet sofa, idly leafing through a magazine. Nothing about her posture or manner suggested worry.

If she made an error, it was in her greeting.

'Oh,' she said, 'Mr Bigg. Do sit down.'

Too casual.

I sat down, opened my briefcase, and began to rummage through it.

'Miss Stonehouse,' I said enthusiastically, 'I think I'm making real progress. You'll recall that I told you I had discovered your father had been suffering from arsenic poisoning prior to his disappearance? Well, I've definitely established how he was being poisoned. The arsenic was being added to his brandy!'

I handed her copies of the chemical analyses. She looked 345

at them. I don't believe she read them. I plucked them from her fingers and replaced them in my briefcase.

'Isn't that wonderful?' I burbled on. 'What a break!'

'I suppose so,' she said in her husky, low-pitched voice.

'But what does it mean?'

'Well, it means we now know how the poison was administered.'

'And what will you do next?'

'That's obvious, isn't it?' I said, laughing lightly. 'Find the source of the poison. You can't buy arsenic at your local drugstore, you know. So I must check out everyone involved to see who had access to arsenic trioxide.'

I stared at her. I thought there would be a reaction.

There wasn't.

She sighed deeply.

'Yes,' she said, 'I suppose you will have to keep digging and digging until you discover the. . what do the police call it?. . the perpetrator? You'll never give up, will you, Mr Bigg?'

'Oh no!' I said heartily. 'I'm going to stick to it. Miss Stonehouse, may I speak to Effie Dark for a few moments? I'd like to find out who had access to your father's brandy.'

She looked at me.

'Yes,' she said dully, 'talk to Mrs Dark. That's all right.'

I smiled my thanks, bent to reclasp my briefcase. Before I could stand, she said:

'Mr Bigg, why are you doing this?'

I shook my head, pretending puzzlement.

'Doing what, Miss Stonehouse?'

'All these questions. This — this investigation.'

'I'm trying to find your father.'

Her body went slack. She melted. That's the only way I can describe it. Suddenly there was no complete outline around her. Not only in her face, which sagged, but in her limbs, her flesh. All of her became loose and without 346

form. It was a frightening thing to see. A dissolution.

'He was a dreadful man,' she said in a low voice.

I think I was angered then. I tried to hide it, but I'm not certain I succeeded.

'Yes,' I said, 'I'm sure he was. Everyone says so. An awful person. But that's not important, is it?'

She made a gesture. A wave of the hand. A small, graceful flip of dismissal. Of defeat.

Effie Dark was seated at the white enamelled table, an emptied coffee cup before her. There was a redolence, and it took me a few seconds to identify it: the air smelled faintly of brandy.

She looked up listlessly as I entered, then smiled wanly.

'Mr Bigg,' she said, and pulled out a chair for me. 'It's nice to see a cheerful face.'

'What's wrong, Effie?' I asked, sitting down.

'Problems?'

' O h. . ' she said, sighing, 'there's no light in this house any more. The missus, she's taken to her bed and won't get out of it.'

'She's ill?'

'Sherry-itis. And Miss Glynis is as down as I've ever seen her. I even called Powell, thinking a visit from him might help things. But he says he must avoid negative vibrations.

That means he's scared misery might be catching. W e l l. . '

she said, sighing again, 'I was figuring on retiring in a year or two. Maybe I'll do it sooner.'

'What will you do, Effie?' I asked softly.

'Oh, I'll make do,' she said, drawing a deep breath. 'I have enough. It's not the money that worries me, it's the loneliness.'

'Move somewhere pleasant,' I suggested. 'Warm, sunny weather. Maybe Florida or California. You'll make new friends.'

Suddenly she perked up. Those little blueberry eyes twinkled in her muffin face. She lifted one plump arm and 347

poked fingers into the wig of marcelled yellow-white hair. I could have sworn I heard her dentures clacking.

'I might even find myself a husband,' she said, looking at me archly. 'What do you think of that, Mr Bigg. Think I'm too fat?'

' "Pleasantly plump" is the expression, Effie. There are many men who appreciate well-endowed women.'

'Well-endowed?' she spluttered. 'How you do go on!

You're medicine for me, Mr Bigg, you truly are. See? I'm laughing for the first time in days. But I don't suppose you stopped by just to make a silly old woman happy. You need some help?'

'Thank you,' I said gratefully. I lowered my voice.

'Effie, is the door locked to Professor Stonehouse's study?'

She nodded, staring at me with bright eyes.

'You have a key?'

Again the nod.

I thought for a moment. 'What I'd like you to do is this: I'll wait here while you go out and unlock the door to the study and then come back. I'll go into the study. You'll be here, so you won't see me enter. I'll only be a few minutes.

No more than five. I swear to you I will not remove anything from the study. Then I will come back here to say goodbye, and you can relock the study door. That way, if you're ever asked any questions, you can say truthfully that you never saw me in the study, didn't see me go in or come out.'

She considered that for a while.

'Glynis is here,' she said. 'In the living room, I think.

And the Sexy Swede is wandering around someplace.

Either of them could catch you in there.'

'I know,' I said.

'I hope I'm doing the right thing,' she said.

When I was inside the study, I closed the door softly behind me. I went directly to the wall where the model ship 348

hulls were displayed. I moved along the bottom row, rapping on the hulls gently with a knuckle. Some sounded solid, some hollow. I found the Prince Royal in the middle of the third row. I stood on tiptoe to lift the Prince Royal plaque off picture hooks nailed into the wall.

I carried the model hull to the desk and set it on top of the littered papers and maps. I switched on the desk lamp. I picked up a pencil and tapped the hull form twice. It sounded hollow. So far so good.

I grasped the hull and lifted gently. It came away. As easily as that. Just came right off. I was astonished, and looked to see what had been holding it to the plaque. Eight small magnets, inch-long bars, four inset into the hull and four in the plaque. They gripped firmly enough to hold the hull when the tablet was on the wall, but released with a slight tug.

Of course I was more interested in the papers folded inside. Most were thin, flimsy sheets, of the weight used for carbon copies. I unfolded them carefully, handling them by the corners. The top four sheets were not typed, but handwritten. It took me awhile to read it through. The writing was as crabbed, mean, and twisted as the man himself.

I, Yale Emerson Stonehouse, being of sound mind and body …

It was all there: the holographic last will and testament of the missing Professor Stonehouse. He started by making specific cash bequests. Fifty thousand to his alma mater, and twenty thousand to Mrs Effie Dark, which I was happy to see. Then there were a dozen cash bequests to cousins and distant relatives, none of whom was to receive more than a thousand dollars, and one of whom was to inherit five bucks. Olga Eklund got one hundred.

The bulk of his estate was to be divided equally between his wife, Ula Stonehouse, and his son, Powell Stonehouse.

The will specifically forbade his daughter, Glynis 349

Stonehouse, from sharing in his estate because she had

'deliberately and with malice aforethought' attempted to cause his death by adding arsenic trioxide to his brandy. In proof of which, he was attaching to this will copies of chemical analyses made by Bommer amp; Son and a statement by Dr Morris Stolowitz that Professor Stonehouse had indeed been suffering from arsenic poisoning.

In addition, the will continued, if the testator was found dead by violence or by what appeared to be an accident, he demanded the police conduct a thorough investigation into the circumstances of his demise, with the knowledge that his daughter had tried to murder him once and would quite possibly try again, with more success.

The will had been witnessed by Olga Eklund and Wanda Chard. I could understand the loopy maid signing anything the Professor handed her and promptly forgetting it.

But Wanda Chard?

I carefully folded up the papers on their original creases, tucked them back into the hull of the Prince Royal, reattached hull to plaque, and wiped both with my handkerchief. Then, holding the tablet by the edges with my fingertips, I rehung it on the wall, adjusted it so it was level, and returned to the kitchen.

'Thank you, Effie,' I said, bending to kiss her cheek.

She looked up at me. I thought I saw tears welling.

'It's the end of everything, isn't it?' she asked.

I couldn't lie to her.

'Close to it,' I said.

I went back into the living room. Glynis Stonehouse was standing at one of the high windows, staring down at the rain-lashed street. She turned when she heard me come into the room.

'Finished?' she asked.

'Finished,' I said. 'Mrs Dark tells me your mother isn't feeling well. I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Stonehouse.

Please convey to her my best wishes and hope for her quick recovery.'

'Thank you,' she said.

She stood tall and erect. She had recovered her composure. She looked at me steadily, and there was nothing in her appearance to suggest that she knew how close she was to disaster.

'I'll keep you informed of the progress of my investigation, Miss Stonehouse.'

'Yes,' she said levelly, 'you do that.'

She was so strong. Oh, but she was strong! If she had weakened, briefly, that weakness was gone now; she was resolute, determined to see it through. I admired her. She was a woman of intelligence and must have known she was in danger, walking the edge. I bade her a dignified good day, then hightailed it across town to the Kipper manse.

Chester Heavens greeted me with his usual aplomb, but I sensed a certain reticence, almost a nervousness in his replies to my chatter about his health, the weather, etc. We were standing in the echoing entrance hall when I became aware of raised voices coming from behind the closed doors of the sitting room.

'Mom is at home, sah,' the butler informed me gravely, looking over my head.

'So I hear,' I said. 'And Mr Knurr?'

He nodded slowly.

I hid my pleasure.

'Chester,' I said, 'I won't stay long. This may be my last visit.'

'Oh?' he said. 'I am sorry to hear that, sah.'

'Just a few little things to check out,' I told him.

He bowed slightly and moved away towards the kitchen.

I stood at the front door and looked towards the rear of the house. The doorway could not be seen from the kitchen. Then I moved to the elevator. That was in plain view of anyone in the kitchen or pantry.

I saw Mrs Bertha Neckin standing at the sink. She glanced up and I waved to her, but she didn't respond.

I took the elevator up to the fifth floor and went swiftly into Tippi Kipper's dressing room. I set down my briefcase and began searching. It wasn't hard to find: a cedar-smelling box of filigreed wood with brass corners. It appeared to be of Indian handicraft. It was tucked under a stack of filmy lingerie in a bottom dresser drawer. I may have blushed when I handled those gossamer garments.

The box was unlocked and filled with a carelessly tossed pile of notes. There were jottings on his personal stationery, on sheets from notepads, on raggedly torn scrap paper, and one on a personal cheque of Solomon A.

Kipper, made out to Tippi Kipper in the amount of 'Ten zillion dollars and all my love' and signed 'Your Sol.'

I scanned the notes quickly. My heart cringed. Most were love letters from an old man obviously obsessed to the point of dementia by a much younger woman whose seductive skills those notes spelled out in explicit detail.

And there were notes of apology.

'I am sorry, babe, if I upset you.' Wasn't so bad for starters, but then I came across 'Please forgive me for the way I acted last night. I realize you had a headache, but I couldn't help myself, you looked so beautiful.' As I read on, a pattern of increasing desperation, dependence, and humiliation emerged.

'Can you ever forgive me?' Then, 'Here is a little something for you to make up for what I said last night. Am I forgiven?'

It was punishment, reading those revelations of a dead man. I stole two of them:

'Tippi, I hope you will pardon me for the pain I caused you.' And, 'My loving wife, please forgive me for all the trouble I made. I promise you that you'll never again have any reason to doubt my everlasting love for you.'

Those two, I thought, would serve as suicide notes as well as the one found prominently displayed in the master bedroom after Sol Kipper's plunge.

I tucked the two notes into my briefcase, closed and replaced the box, and then went up the rear staircase to the sixth floor. I entered the party room, went over and stood with my back against the locked French doors leading to the terrace.

I looked at my watch. I allowed fifteen seconds for the act of throwing Kipper over the wall. Then I started running. I went down the rear staircase as fast as I could. I dashed along the fifth-floor corridor to the main staircase. I went bounding down rapidly, swinging wildly around the turns. I came down to the entrance hall, rushed over to the front door. I looked at my watch, gasping. About ninety seconds. He could have made it. Easily.

There was no one about, and no sounds from the sitting room. I found my outer garments and donned them and went out into the chill rain without saying goodbye to Chester. I walked towards Fifth Avenue, intending to catch a cab. I was almost there when who should fall into step alongside but the Reverend Godfrey Knurr.

'Joshua!' he said, moving under the shelter of my umbrella. 'This is nice. Chester told us you were about. If you say this is good weather for ducks, I may kick you!'

He was bright again, his manner jaunty.

I didn't panic. I knew he had been waiting for me, but in a way I couldn't understand, I welcomed the confrontation. Maybe I thought of it as a challenge.

'Pastor,' I said, 'good to see you again. I didn't want to interrupt you and Mrs Kipper.'

He rolled his eyes in burlesque dismay.

'What an argument that was,' he said carefully, taking my arm. 'Want to hear about it?'

'Sure.'

He looked about.

'Around the corner,' he said. 'Down a block or so. Posh 353

hotel. Nice cocktail lounge. Quiet. We can talk — and keep dry. On the outside at least.'

A few minutes later we were standing at the black vinyl, padded bar in the cozy lounge of the Stanhope, the room dimmed by rain-streaked windows in which the Metropolitan Museum shimmered like a Monet. We were the only customers, and the place was infused with that secret ambience of a Manhattan bar on a rainy day, comfortably closed and begging for quiet confessions.

Knurr ordered a dry Beefeater martini up, with lemon peel. I asked for a bottle of domestic beer. When our drinks were served, he glanced around the empty room.

'Let's take a table,' he said.

He picked up his drink and led the way to a small table in a far corner. I followed with my bottle of beer and a glass.

That was the difference between us: I would have asked the bartender, 'Is it all right if we take a table?'

I must admit it was more comfortable sitting in the soft chairs, walls at our backs. We sat at right angles to each other, but we turned slightly so we were facing each other more casually.

Knurr rattled on for a while, gabbing mostly about inconsequential things like the weather, a cold he was trying to shake, how every year at this time he began to yearn for warmer climes, a hot sun, a sandy beach, etc.

I looked into his eyes as he spoke. I nodded occasionally. Smiled. It was the oddest feeling in the world — sitting drinking, exchanging idle talk, with a murderer.

How had I thought a killer would be different — disfigured with a mark perhaps? That would be too easy.

As it was, I had to keep reminding myself of who Knurr was and what he had done. But all I was conscious of was the normality of our conversation, its banality. 'A miserable day.' 'Oh yes, but they say it may clear tonight.'

Finally he stopped chattering. He put both elbows on the 354

table, scrubbed his face with his palms. He sighed and looked off into the emptiness of the room.

!I counsel a great many people, ' he said, talking to the air. 'As I told you, mostly women. Occasionally they come to feel that my interest in them is not purely in their immortal souls. They assume I have, uh, a more personal interest. You understand?'

'Of course,' I said. 'It must lead to difficulties.'

'It does indeed,' he said, sighing. 'All kinds of difficulties. For instance, they demand more of my time than I am willing to give, or can give, for that matter.'

I made sympathetic noises.

'Would you believe,' he went on, 'that some of my — well, I was about to say patrons, but not all of them are that. For want of a better word, let's call them clients.'

'How about dependants?' I suggested.

He looked at me sharply to see if I was being sarcastic. I was not. He punched my upper arm lightly.

' Very good, Joshua,' he said. 'Dependants. I like that.

Much better than clients. Well, as I was saying, occasionally some of my dependants become jealous of others, believing I am devoting too much time to them. I don't mean to imply selfishness on their part, but I have found that most unhappy people, women and men, are inclined to be self-centred, and when sympathetic interest is expressed, they want more and more. Sympathy becomes an addiction, and they resent it when others share. That's what my disagreement with Mrs Kipper was about. I am currently counselling other women, of course, and she felt I was not devoting enough time to her and her problems.'

It wasn't a clumsy lie, but it seemed to me unnecessarily complex. There was no need for him to explain at all. But having started, he should have kept it simple.

I looked at him as he signalled the bartender for another round of drinks. He did have an imperious way about him, lifting a hand and gesturing curtly.

'How is your social club coming along?' I asked.

'What?' he said vaguely. 'Oh, fine, fine. The barkeep put a shade too much vermouth in that last martini. I hope this one will be drier.'

The bartender himself brought the drinks over to our table but did not hover. Knurr sipped eagerly.

' Much better,' he smiled with satisfaction, relaxing and sliding down a bit in his chair. 'Dry as dust.'

He was certainly a craggily handsome man, brooding and intense. I could understand why women were attracted to him; he radiated vigour and surety. The slightly bent nose and steady brown eyes gave the appearance of what is known as 'a man's man.' But the slaty beard framed rosy, almost tender lips that hinted of a soft vulnerability.

'I hope you and Mrs Kipper parted friends,' I said.

He gave a short bark of hard laughter. 'Oh, I think I persuaded the lady,' he said with a smile.

I didn't like that smile; it was almost a smirk. Did it mean that the photo of Glynis Stonehouse and the Mrs Kletz letter had gone for naught?

I considered what he knew about me — or guessed. I thought my cover in the Kipper case was still intact, that he accepted my role of law clerk making a preliminary inventory of the estate. In the Stonehouse matter, Glynis would have told him of my investigation into her father's disappearance. He knew that I had uncovered the arsenic poisoning. What he did not know, I felt sure, was that I was aware of his intimate relationship with Glynis.

'That was my last visit to the Kipper home,' I offered.

'The expert appraisers will take over now.'

'Oh?' he said in a tone of great disinterest. 'Well, I suppose you have plenty of other things to keep you busy.'

'I certainly do,' I said enthusiastically. 'I've been ordered to devote all my time to a case involving a man who disappeared without leaving a will.'

'That sounds interesting,' he said casually, taking a sip 356

of his martini. 'Tell me about it.'

I imagined that was what fencing must be like: lunge, parry, thrust.

'There's not much to tell,' I said. 'Just what I've said: a man disappeared — it's been two months now — and no will has been found. The legal ramifications are what make the case so fascinating. All the assets are in his name alone. So it will require a petition to the court to free living expenses for his family.'

'And if he never shows up again?'

'That's the rub,' I said, laughing ruefully as I tried to recall what Mr Teitelbaum had told me about applicable law. 'I think that five years must elapse before a missing person's estate can go to probate.'

'Five years!' he exclaimed.

'Minimum.' I said. I laughed merrily. 'It would be a lot simpler if the missing man's body turned up. If he is, indeed, dead, as everyone is beginning to suspect. But I'm boring you with all this.'

'Not at all,' he said genially. 'Good talk for a rainy afternoon. So if the missing man turned up dead, his estate could be distributed to his legal heirs at once?'

Got him, I thought with some satisfaction.

'That's right,' I said airily. 'Once proof of death is definitely established, the man's will goes to probate.'

'And if no will exists — or can be found?'

'Then the estate is divided under the laws of intestacy. In this case, it would go to his wife, daughter, and son.'

'Is it a sizeable estate?' he asked slowly.

Greedy bugger.

'I believe it is,' I said, nodding. 'I have no idea of the exact dollar amount involved, but I understand it's quite sizeable.'

He pulled pipe and tobacco pouch from his jacket pocket. He held them up to me.

'You don't mind?'

'Not at all,' I said. 'Go right ahead.'

I watched and waited while he went through the deliberate ceremony of filling his pipe, tamping the tobacco down with a blunt forefinger, lighting up, tilting back his head and blowing a long plume of smoke at the ceiling.

'The law is a wonderful thing,' he said with a tight smile.

'A lot of money there. I mean in the practice of law.'

'Yes, sir, there certainly is.'

'Sometimes I think justice is an impossible concept,' he went on, puffing away. 'For instance, in the case you were describing, I would think the very fact of the man's disappearance for two months would be enough to allow his family to share in his estate. He left voluntarily?'

'As far as we know.'

'No letter or message to his lawyer?'

'No, nothing like that. And no evidence of foul play. No evidence at all. He may still be alive for all we know.

That's why the law requires a diligent search and a five-year grace period. Still, it's murder on the family.' I couldn't resist, but, then, neither could he.

'It surely is,' he murmured, a wee bit too fervently.

'However,' I said, sinking the hook as deeply as I could,

'if the body is discovered, regardless of whether he died a natural death or was a victim of accident or foul play, the estate goes to probate.' I thought I had said enough and changed the subject abruptly. 'Pastor, did you tell me you were from Chicago originally?'

'Not the city itself,' he said, meeting my gaze. 'A suburb. Why do you ask?'

'I have a cousin who lives there, and he's invited me out for a visit. I've never been in Chicago and wondered if I'd like it.'

'You'll find a lot to do there,' he said tonelessly.

'Did you like it?' I persisted.

'For a while,' he said. 'I must confess, Joshua, I get bored easily. So I came on to New York.'

'New worlds to conquer?' I asked.

'Exactly,' he said with a wry grin.

'And you haven't regretted it?'

'Once or twice,' he said, still grinning, 'at three in the morning.'

I found it difficult to resist the man's charm. For one brief instant I doubted all I had learned about him, all I had imagined.

I tried to analyze why this should be so, why I was fighting an admiration for the man. Most of it, I thought, was due to his physical presence. He was big, strong, stalwart: everything I was not. And he was decisive, daring, resolute.

More than that, he really did possess an elemental power. Behind the bright laugh, the bonhomie, the intelligence and wit, there was naked force, brute force. I realized then how much I wanted him to like me.

Which meant that I feared him. It was not a comforting realization.

We finished our drinks without again alluding to either the Kipper or Stonehouse matters. Knurr insisted on paying for the drinks. He left a niggardly tip.

He said he had an appointment uptown, and since I was returning to the TORT building, we parted company under the hotel marquee. We shook hands and said we'd be in touch.

I watched him stride away up Fifth Avenue, erect in the rain. He seemed indomitable. I tried to get a cab, then gave up and took a downtown bus. It was crowded, damp, and smelled of mothballs. I got back to my office a little after one o'clock and stripped off wet hat, coat, and rubbers. I stuck my dripping umbrella in the wastebasket.

I called Stilton's office and was told he couldn't come to the phone at the moment. I left my number, asking that he call back. Then I sat staring at the blank wall and ignoring the investigation requests filling my IN basket.

I was still thinking about the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. I acknowledged that the resentment I felt towards him could be traced to my feeling that he took me lightly, that he patronized me. The glib lies and little arm punches, the genial pats on shoulder and knee, and that bright, insolent laugh. That he considered me a lightweight, a nuisance perhaps, but of no consequence bore out my worst fears about myself. I strove to keep in mind that by attacking my self-esteem, he was attempting to gain control over me.

I opened the Kipper and Stonehouse files and reread only those notes pertaining to Godfrey Knurr. He seemed to move through both affairs like a wraith. I suspected him to be the prime mover, the source, the instigator of all the desperate events that had occurred. I had enough notes about the man: his strength, determination, charm, etc. I even had a few titbits on his background.

But I knew almost nothing about the man himself, who he was, what drove him, what gave him pleasure, what gave him pain. He was a shadow. I had no handle on him.

I could not explain what he had done yesterday or predict what he might do tomorrow.

I was looking for a label for him and could not find it.

And realizing that, I was increasingly doubtful of ensnaring him with our cute tricks and sly games. He was neither a cheap crook nor a cynical confidence man. What he was, I simply did not know. Yet.

My reverie was broken by Percy Stilton returning my call. He was speaking rapidly, almost angrily.

'The Kipper case hasn't been reopened,' he said. 'Not yet it hasn't. The loot didn't think I had enough, and bucked it to the Captain. God only knows who he'll take it to, but I don't expect any decision until tomorrow at the earliest. I hope your bosses are using their juice. I had my partner call Knurr last night and pretend he was the cabdriver who drove Stonehouse to the boat basin. Knurr 360

wouldn't bite. Hung up, as a matter of fact. He's toughing it out.'

'Yes,' I said, 'I'm beginning to think we're not going to panic him.'

I told Stilton about my unearthing the Stonehouse will, then detailed the contents.

'Nice,' he said. 'That wraps up Glynis. But Jesus, you didn't lift the will, did you? That would ruin it as evidence.'

'No,' I assured him, 'I left it where it was. But I did steal something else.'

I described the notes Sol Kipper had written to his wife, and how the two I had purloined could perfectly well have served as suicide notes.

'Good work, Josh,' Percy said. 'You're really doing a professional job on this — tying up all the loose ends.'

I was pleased by his praise.

'Something else,' I said. 'I had a long talk with Knurr.

We had a couple of drinks together.'

I reported the substance of our conversation.

'I don't think that photo of Glynis Stonehouse and the poison-pen letter did a bit of good.'

'No,' Stilton said, 'I don't think so either. He got Tippi calmed down and he's going his merry way.'

'Another t h i n g. . ' I said, and told the detective how I had fed Knurr information about laws regarding the disposition of the estate of a missing man.

'Uh-huh,' Percy said. 'You figure that will get him to dump the body? If he's got it?'

'That's what I hoped,' I said. 'Now I'm not so sure he's going to react the way we want him to. Perce, Knurr is a mystery man. I'm not certain we can manipulate him.'

'Yeah,' he said, sighing. 'If he doesn't spook, and if he can keep his women in line, we're dead.'

'There's one possibility,' I said. 'A long shot.'

'What's that?'

'I've been going through all my notes on Knurr.

Remember that interview we had with Bishop Oxman? He gave us the name of Knurr's next-of-kin. Goldie Knurr. A sister.'

'And?'

'What if she's not his sister? What if she's his wife?'

Silence for a moment.

'You're right,' Stilton said finally. 'A long shot.'

'We've got to try it,' I insisted. 'You've got the address?

I think it was in Athens, Indiana.'

He found it in his notebook and I carefully copied it down as he read it to me.

'You're going to give her a call?' Percy asked.

'That wouldn't do any good,' I said. 'If he listed her as a sister, she probably has orders to back him up if anyone inquires.'

'So?'

'So,' I said, making up my mind at that precise instant,

'I think I better go out there and talk to the lady.'

That was what I had to do. I knew it on the spur of the moment. I booked a seat on American to Chicago through the office agency. I had no time to ask permission of Teitelbaum or Tabatchnick. I had no time to listen to Orsini as I tore out of the building.

As luck had it, he was coming in as I left, surrounded by his entourage. I attempted to sneak by, but Orsini's glittering eyes saw everything. A hand shot out and clamped my arm. I looked at the diamond flashing on his pinkie. I looked at the glossy manicured fingernails. My eyes rose to note the miniature orchid in his lapel: an exquisite flower of speckled lavender.

'Josh!' he cried gaily. 'Just the man I wanted to see! I've got a joke you're going to love.'

He glanced smilingly around his circle of sycophants, and they drew closer, already composing their features into expressions of unendurable mirth.

'There's this little guy,' Romeo Orsini said, 'and he goes up to this tall, beautiful, statuesque blonde. And he says to her, " I ' m going to screw you." And she says — '

'Heard it,' I snapped. 'It's an old joke and not very good.'

I jerked my arm from his grip, pushed my way through the circle of aides, and stalked from the building. I didn't look back, but I was conscious of the thunderous silence I had left behind.

I wasted no time in wondering why I had dealt so rudely with Orsini or how it would affect my career at TORT. I was too intent on reaching my bank before it closed, on trying to estimate the balance in my account and how much cash would be required for my trip to Chicago.

Luckily, I was covered, and soon was in a cab heading through the Midtown Tunnel towards Kennedy after a hurried trip home to pack.

The flight to Chicago was the only chance to relax in much too long, and I decided to enjoy it. I even laughed at the terrible movie and wolfed down the mystery meat. We touched down in Chicago without incident and, as I walked into the terminal, I found O'Hare Airport to be crowded, noisy, and frantic as Mother Tucker's on East 69th Street in Manhattan. Where, I thought with rueful longing, even at that moment Perdita Schug and Colonel Clyde Manila were probably well along on their Walpurgisnacht.

I wandered about the terminal for a while, continually touching my newly fattened wallet and feeling for my return ticket at irregular intervals. I finally found my way to where cabs, limousines, and buses were available.

Obviously a cab to Athens would cost too much. I approached a uniformed chauffeur leaning against the fender of a black behemoth which seemed to have twice as many windows as any gas-driven vehicle deserved.

The driver looked at me without interest, his sleepy eyes 363

taking in my wrinkled overcoat, shapeless hat, and the sodden suitcase pressed under my arm. His only reaction was to switch a toothpick from the right corner of his mouth to the left.

'Do you go to Athens?' I asked.

'Where?'

'Athens. It's in Indiana.' I had looked it up in the office atlas.

'Never heard of it,' he said.

'It's between Gary and Hammond.'

' Where between Gary and Hammond?'

'I don't know,' I confessed.

'Then I don't go there,' he said.

The toothpick switched back again. I know when I've been dismissed. I wandered over to the bus area. There was a uniformed driver leaning against a bus marked Gary-Hammond, gazing about with total disinterest. I decided I'd like to have the toothpick concession at O'Hare Airport, but at least he didn't shift it when I addressed him:

'Could you tell me if I can take this bus to Athens?'

'Where?'

'Athens, Indiana.'

'Where is that?'

'Between Gary and Hammond. It's an incorporated village.'

He looked at me doubtfully.

'Population 3,079 in 1939,' I added helpfully.

'No shit?' he said. 'Between Gary and Hammond?'

I nodded.

'You stand right there,' he told me. 'Don't move.

Someone's liable to steal you. I'll be right back.'

He went over to the dispatcher's desk and talked to a man chewing a toothpick. The bus driver gestured. Both men turned to stare at me. Then the dispatcher unfolded a map. They both bent over it. Another uniformed bus 364

driver came along, then another, and another. Finally there were five men consulting the map, waving their arms, arguing in loud voices, their toothpicks waggling like mad.

The driver came back to me.

'Yeah,' he said, 'I go to Athens.'

'You learn something every day,' I said cheerfully.

'Nothing important,' he said.

An hour later I was trying to peer through a misted window as the bus hurtled southeastward. I saw mostly darkness, a few dumps of lights, flickering neon signs.

And then, as we crossed the state line into Indiana, there were rosy glows in the sky, sudden flares, views of lighted factories and mills, and one stretch of highway seemingly lined with nothing but taverns, junkyards, and adult book stores.

About ninety minutes after leaving O'Hare Airport, with frequent stops to discharge passengers, we pulled off the road at a street that seemed devoid of lighting or habitation.

'Athens,' the driver called.

I struggled from my seat, lifted my suitcase from the overhead rack, and staggered down the aisle to the door.

I bent to look out.

'This is Athens?' I asked the driver.

'This is it,' he said. 'Guaranteed.'

'Thank you,' I said.

'You're welcome,' he said.

I stood on a dark corner and watched the bus pull away, splashing me from the knees downward. All I could feel was regret at not staying aboard that bus to the end of the line, riding it back to O'Hare, and returning to Manhattan by the earliest available flight. Cold, wet, miserable.

After a long despairing wander I came to what might be called, with mercy, a business district. Most of the stores were closed, with steel shutters in place. But I passed a drugstore that was open, a mom-and-pop grocery store, 365

and at last — O Lord, I gave thanks! — a liquor store.

'A pint of brandy, please,' I said to the black clerk.

He inspected me.

'Domestic?' he said.

'Anything,' I said. 'Anything at all.'

He was counting out my change when I asked if there were any hotels in the immediate area.

'One block down,' he said, pointing. 'Then two blocks to the right. The New Frontier Bar and Grill.'

'It's a hotel?'

'Sure,' he said. 'Up above. You want to sleep there tonight?'

'Of course.'

'Crazy,' he said, shaking his head.

I followed his directions to the New Frontier Bar and Grill. It was a frowsy beer joint with a dirty front window, a few customers at the bar with blue faces from the TV set, and a small back room with tables.

The bartender came right over; it was downhill. The whole floor seemed to slope towards the street.

'Scotch and water, please,' I said.

'Bar Scotch?'

'All right.'

He poured me what I thought was an enormous portion until I realized the bottom of the shot glass was solid and at least a half-inch thick.

'I understand you have a hotel here,' I said.

He looked at me, then bent over the bar to inspect me closely, paying particular attention to my shoes.

'A hotel?' he said. 'You might call it that.'

'Could you tell me your rates?'

He looked off into the middle distance.

'Five bucks,' he said.

'That seems reasonable,' I said,

'It's right next door. Up on flight. The owner's on the desk. Tell him Lou sent you.'

I quaffed my Scotch in one meagre gulp, paid, walked outside, and climbed the narrow flight of stairs next door.

The owner-clerk, also black, was seated behind a desk inclosed in wire mesh. There was a small hinged judas window in front.

He was a husky man in his fifties, I judged, wearing a T-shirt with a portrait of Beethoven printed on the front.

He was working a crossword puzzle in a folded newspaper.

He didn't look up. 'Five bucks an hour,' he said. 'Clean sheets and running water. Payable in advance.'

'I'd like to stay the night,' I said. 'To sleep. Lou sent me.'

He wouldn't look up. 'What's an ox with three letters?'

he said. 'With a long tail and short mane.'

'Gnu,' I said. 'G-n-u.'

Then he looked up at me.

'Yeah,' he said, 'that fits. Thanks. Twenty for the night.

Payable in advance.'

He opened the window to take the bill and slide a key on a brass medallion across to me.

'Two-oh-nine,' he said. 'Right down the hall. You're not going to do the dutch, are you?'

'Do the dutch?'

'Commit suicide?'

'Oh no,' I protested. 'Nothing like that.'

'Good,' he said. 'What's a four letter word meaning a small child?'

'Tyke,' I suggested.

Oh, what a dreadful room that was! So bleak, so tawdry. It was about ten feet square with an iron bed that had once been painted white. It appeared to have the promised clean sheets — threadbare but clean — but on the lower third of the bed, the sheet and a sleazy cotton blanket had been covered with a strip of black oilcloth. It took me awhile to puzzle that out. It was for customers too drunk or frantic to remove their shoes.

I immediately ascertained that the door could be double-locked from the inside and that there was a bolt, albeit a cheap one. There was a stained sink in one corner, one straight-backed kitchen chair and a small maple table, the top scarred with cigarette burns. There was no closet, but hooks had been screwed into the walls to compensate, and a few wire coathangers depended from them.

I went into the corridor to prowl. I found a bathroom smelling achingly of disinfectant. There was a toilet, sink, bathtub with shower. I used the toilet after latching the door with the dimestore hook-and-eye provided, but I resolved to shun the sink and tub.

I went back to my room and hung up my hat and overcoat on a couple of the hooks. After a great deal of struggling, I opened the single window. A chill, moist breeze came billowing in, still tainted with sulphur. It didn't take long to realize that there was no point in sitting around in such squalor, and soon I had reclaimed my hat and coat and headed back downstairs.

'Going to get something to eat,' I said to the owner-clerk, trying to be hearty and cool simultaneously.

'A monkey-type creature,' he said. 'Five letters.'

'Lemur,' I said.

The New Frontier Bar and Grill had gained patrons during my absence; most of the barstools were occupied, and there were several couples, including a few whites, at tables in the back room. All the men were big, wide, powerfully built, with rough hands, raucous laughs, and thundering angers that seemed to subside as soon as they flared.

I was pleased to note the bartender remembered what I drank.

'Scotch?' he asked as if it were a statement of fact.

'Please. With water on the side.'

When he brought my drink, I asked him about the possibility of getting sandwiches and a bag of potato chips.

'I'm a little fandangoed at the moment,' he said. 'When I get a chance, I'll make them up for you — okay?'

'Fine,' I said. 'No rush.'

I looked around, sipping my shot glass of whisky. The monsters on both sides of me were drinking boilermakers, silently and intently, staring into the streaked mirror behind the bar. I did not attempt conversation; they looked like men with grievances.

I turned back to my own drink and in a moment felt a heavy arm slide across my shoulders.

'Hi, sonny,' a woman's voice said breezily.

'Good evening,' I said, standing. 'Would you care to sit down?'

'Sit here, Sal,' the man next to me offered. 'I got it all warmed up for you. I'm going home.'

'You do that, Joe,' said the woman, and a lot of woman she was, too, 'for a change.'

They both laughed. Joe winked at me and departed.

'Buy a girl a drink?' Ms Sal asked, swinging a weighty haunch expertly atop the barstool.

'A pleasure,' I said.

'Can I have a shot?' she asked.

'Whatever you like.'

'A shot. Beer makes me fart.'

I nodded sympathetically.

'Lou!' she screamed, so loudly and so suddenly that I leaped. 'The usual. I've got a live one here.'

She dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes from a stuffed purse. I struck a match for her.

'Thanks, sonny,' she said. She took a deep inhalation and the smoke just disappeared. I mean, I didn't see it come out anywhere.

She was a swollen, bloated woman in her middle forties.

She looked like the kind of girl who could never be surprised, shocked, or hurt; she had seen it all — twice at least.

The bartender brought her drink: a whisky with a small beer chaser.

Sal looked me up and down.

'You work in the steel mills, sonny?'

'That Sal,' the bartender said to me, 'she's a card.'

'Oh no,' I said to her. 'I'm not from around here. I'm from New York.'

'You could have fooled me,' she said. 'I would have sworn you were a puddler.'

'Come on, Sal,' the bartender said.

'That's all right,' I told him. 'I know the lady is pulling my leg. I don't mind.'

She smacked me on the back, almost knocking me off the stool.

'You're okay, sonny,' she said in a growly voice. 'I like you.'

'Thank you,' I said.

'What the hell you doing in Gary?'

'Gary?' I said, fear soaring. 'I thought this was Athens.

Isn't this Athens, Indiana?'

'Athens?' she said. She laughed uproariously, rocking back and forth on her barstool so violently that I put out an arm to assist her in case she should topple backwards.

'Jesus Christ, sonny,' she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, 'this place hasn't been called Athens in years. It was absorbed by Gary a long time ago.'

'But it was Athens?' I insisted.

'Oh sure. It was Athens when I was a kid, more years ago than I want to remember. What the hell you doing in Athens?'

'I work for a law firm in New York,' I said. 'It's a matter of a will. I'm trying to locate a beneficiary whose last address was given as Athens, Indiana.'

'No shit?' she said, interested. 'An inheritance?'

'Oh yes.'

'A lot of money?'

'It depends on what you mean by a lot of money,' I said cautiously.

'To me,' she said, 'anything over twenty bucks is a lot of money.'

'It's more than twenty bucks.'

'What's the name?'

'Knurr,' I said. 'K-n-u-r-r. A woman. Goldie Knurr.'

'Goldie Knurr?' she repeated. 'No,' she said, shaking her head, 'never heard of her. Lou!' she screamed. When the bartender came over, she asked, 'Ever hear of a woman named Goldie Knurr?'

He pondered a moment, frowning.

'Can't say as I have,' he said.

'Buy me a double,' Sal said to me, 'and I'll ask around for you.'

When she returned she slid on to the barstool again, spanked her empty glass on the bar.

'What the hell's your name?' she demanded.

'Josh.'

'My name's Sal.'

'I know. May I buy you a drink, Sal?'

She pretended to consider the offer.

'Well. . all right, if you insist.' She signalled the bartender, holding up two fingers. 'Bingo,' she said. 'I found a guy who knows Goldie Knurr. Or says he does.

See that old swart in the back room? The grey-hair, frizzy-haired guy sitting by himself?'

I turned, 'I see him,' I said.

'That's Ulysses Tecumseh Jones,' she said. 'Esquire.

One year younger than God. He's been around here since there was a here. He says he knew the Knurr family.'

'You think he'll talk to me?' I asked.

'Why not?' she said. 'He's drinking beer.'

'Mr Jones?' I said, standing alongside his table with my drink in one hand, a stein of beer in the other.

He looked up at me slowly. Sal had been right: he had to be ninety, at least. A mummy without wrappings. Skin of wrinkled tar paper, rheumy eyes, hands that looked like something tossed up by the sea and dried on hot sands.

'Suh?' he said dimly.

'Mr Jones,' I said, 'my name is Joshua Bigg and I — '

'Joshua,' he said. 'Fit the battle of Jericho.'

'Yes, sir,' I said, 'and I would appreciate it if we could share a drink and I might speak to you for a few moments.'

I proffered the stein of beer.

'I take that kindly,' he said, reaching. 'Set. Sal says you asking about the Knurrs?'

'Yes, sir,' I said, sliding on to the banquette next to him.

The ancient sipped his beer. He told me a story about his old army sergeant. He cackled.

'What war was that, sir?' I asked.

' O h. . ' he said vaguely. 'This or that.'

'About the Knurrs?' I prompted him.

'It was about '58,' he said, not bothering to tell me which century. 'On Sherman Street that was. Am I right?

Sherman Street?'

'You're exactly right, sir,' I said. 'That's the address I have. One-thirteen Sherman Street.'

'If nominated, I will not run,' he recited. 'If elected, I will not serve.'

'That's wonderful,' I marvelled. 'That you remember.'

'I still got all my nuts,' he said, nodding with satisfaction. He suddenly grinned. No teeth. No dentures.

Just pink gums.

'This was in 1958?'

'Nineteen and fifty-eight,' he said. 'Maybe long before.

I tell you something funny about that family, suh. They was all G's. Everybody in that family had a name with a G.'

'Goldie Knurr,' I said. 'Godfrey Knurr.'

'Zactly,' he said. 'The father, George Knurr. The mother, Gertrude Knurr. Three other tads. Two sons: 372

Gaylord Knurr and Gordon Knurr. Another daughter: Grace Knurr.'

'You've got an incredible memory, sir.'

'I sure do,' he said. 'Ain't nothing wrong with my nuts.'

'What happened to them'?' I asked. ' T h e Knurr family?'

' O h. . ' he said, 'the old folks, George and Gertrude, they died, as might be expected. The kids, they all went away, also as might be expected. Goldie, I hear tell, is the only one around still.'

It was not good news. If this old man's memory was accurate, Goldie Knurr was indeed the sister of my target.

'Mr Jones,' I said, 'how is it you know so much about the Knurr family?'

'Oh,' he said slowly, 'I used to do this and that around their house. Little jobs, you know. And my third wife, Emily that was — no, Wanda; yes, the third was Wanda — she was like a mother to the kids.'

'You don't recall anything about Godfrey Knurr, do you, Mr Jones?' I asked. 'One of the sons?'

'Godfrey Knurr?' he repeated, his eyes clouding. 'That would be the middle boy. Became a preacher man, he did.

Left town. Can't blame him for that.'

'No indeed.' I said fervently, 'I really can't. You don't remember anything else about Godfrey? Anything special?'

'Smart young one,' he said. 'Big and strong. Liked the girls. Played football. Something…'

He stopped suddenly.

'Something?' I prompted.

'I don't rightly recall.'

'Something good or something bad?'

He stared at me with eyes suddenly clear and piercing and steady.

'I don't rightly recall,' he repeated.