Tenth Commandment

6

I called Marty Reape when I returned to my office. No answer. I wondered if he was meeting with his other customers.

I took off my jacket and started hacking away at inquiries that had been submitted by junior partners and associates. Most of these could be handled with a single phone call or a letter, or a look into Roscoe Dollworth's small library of dictionaries, atlases, almanacs, census reports, etc.

What was the Hispanic population of the Bronx in 1964?

How long does it take to repaint a car?

In what year was penicillin discovered?

Who was the last man to be electrocuted in New York State?

What are the ingredients of a Molotov cocktail?

I tried twice to call Marty Reape. Ada Mondora called to say I had an appointment with the Stonehouse family. I was to be at their apartment on Central Park West and 70th Street at 8.00 p.m.

It was then about 4.30. I decided that instead of going home I would do better to have my dinner midtown, then go to West 70th Street. I checked my wallet, then I called Yetta Apatoff.

'Oh, Josh,' she said. 'I wish you'd called sooner. I would have loved to, but just a half-hour ago Hammy asked me to have dinner with him.'

'Hammy?'

'Hamish. Hamish Hooter.'

She called him Hammy.

'Yes, well, I'm sorry you can't make it, Yetta. I'll try another time.'

'Promise?' she breathed.

'Promise.'

So I worked in the office until 6.30. I called Marty Reape twice more. No reply. I tried him again before I left the restaurant, where I ate alone. Again there was no answer. I began to fear that he had concluded a deal with his other customers.

I had time to spare, so I walked to 42nd Street, boarded a Broadway bus, and rode up to West 70th Street. Then I walked over to Central Park West. The sky was murky; a light drizzle was beginning to fall. Wind blew in sighing gusts and smelled vaguely of ash. A fitting night to investigate a disappearance.

The Stonehouses' apartment house was an enormous, pyramidal pile of brick. Very old, very staid, very expensive. The lobby was all marble and mirrors. I waited while the uniformed deskman called to learn if I would be received.

'Mr Bigg to see Mrs Stonehouse,' he announced. Then he hung up and turned to me. 'Apartment 17-B.'

The elevator had been converted to self-service, but the walls and ceiling were polished walnut with bevelled oval mirrors; the Oriental carpet had been woven to fit.

Seventeen-B was on the Central Park side. I rang the bell and waited for a long time. Finally the door was opened by a striking young woman. She smiled.

'Mr Bigg?' she said. 'Good evening, I'm Glynis Stonehouse.'

She hung my coat in a foyer closet. Then she led me down a long, dimly lighted corridor lined with antique maps and scenes of naval battles. I saw why it had taken so long to answer the door. It was a hike to the living room.

The apartment was huge.

She preceded me into a living room larger than my apartment. I had a quick impression of a blaze in a tiled fireplace, chairs and sofas of crushed velvet, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park. Then Glynis Stonehouse was leading me towards a smallish lady curled in the corner of an overstuffed couch, holding a half-filled wineglass. There was a bottle of sherry on the glass-topped table before her.

'My mother,' Glynis said. Her voice was low-pitched, husky, and almost toneless.

'Mrs Stonehouse,' I said, making a little bow. 'I'm Joshua Bigg from Mr Teitelbaum's office. I'm happy to meet you.'

'My husband's dead, isn't he?' she said. 'I know he's dead.'

I was startled by her words, but even more shocked by her voice. It was trilly and flutelike.

'Mother,' Glynis said, 'there's absolutely no evidence of that.'

'I know what I know,' Mrs Stonehouse said. 'Do sit down, Mr Bigg. Over there, where I can look at you.'

'Thank you.' I took the chair she had indicated. I was thankful that my feet touched the floor, though only just.

'Have you dined?' she asked.

'Yes, ma'am, I have.'

'So have we, she said brightly, 'and now I'm having a glass of sherry. Glynis isn't drinking. Glynis never drinks.

Do you, dear?'

'No, Mother,' the daughter said patiently. 'Would you care for something, Mr Bigg?'

'A glass of sherry would be welcome,' I said. 'Thank you.'

Glynis got a glass from a bar cart and filled it from her mother's bottle. She handed it to me, then seated herself at the opposite end of the couch. She was graceful and controlled.

'Mr Teitelbaum told Mother you will be investigating my father's disappearance.'

'Yes,' I said. 'We believe the police have done everything they possibly can, but surely it will do no harm to go over it again.'

'He's dead,' Mrs Ula Stonehouse said.

'Ma'am,' I said, 'according to Mr Teitelbaum, you believed your husband had met with an accident and was suffering from amnesia.'

'I did think that,' she said, 'but I don't anymore. He's dead. I had a vision.'

Glynis Stonehouse was inspecting her fingernails. I took out a notebook and pen. 'I hate to go over events which I'm sure are painful to you,' I said. 'But it would help if you could tell me exactly what happened the evening the Professor disappeared.'

Mrs Stonehouse did most of the talking, her daughter correcting her now and then or adding something in a quiet voice. I took notes as Mrs Stonehouse spoke, but it was really for effect, to impress them how seriously Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum regarded their plight.

I glanced up frequently from my scribbling to stare at Mrs Stonehouse.

As she talked, sipping her sherry steadily and leaning forward twice to refill her glass, her eyes, as pale as milk glass, flickered like candle flames. She had a mop of frizzy blonde curls, a skin of chamois, and a habit, or nervous tic, of touching the tip of her retrousse nose with her left forefinger. Not pushing it, just touching it as if to make certain it was still there.

She had fluttery gestures, and was given to quick expressions — frowns, smiles, pouts, moues — that followed one another so swiftly that her face seemed in constant motion. She was dressed girlishly in chiffon. In her tucked-up position she was showing a good deal of leg.

She spoke rapidly, as if anxious to get it all out and over with. That warbling voice rippled on and on, and after a while it took on a singsong quality like a child's part rehearsed for a school play.

On the 10th of January the Stonehouse family had dinner at 7.00 p.m. Present were Professor Yale Stonehouse, wife Ula, daughter Glynis, and son Powell.

The meal was served by the live-in cook-housekeeper, Mrs Effie Dark. The maid, Olga Eklund, was away on her day off.

Glynis Stonehouse left the dinner table early, at about 8.00, to get to a performance of Man and Superman at the Circle in the Square. After dinner the family moved into the living room. At about 8.30, Professor Stonehouse went into his study. He came back to the living room a few minutes later and announced he was going out. He walked down the long corridor to the foyer. Later it was determined he had taken his hat, scarf, and overcoat. Mrs Stonehouse and her son heard the outer door slam. The deskman in the lobby remembered that the Professor left the building at approximately 8.45.

He was never seen again.

This recital finished, mother and daughter looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for an instant solution.

'Has Professor Stonehouse attempted to communicate with you since his disappearance?'

'No,' Glynis said. 'Nothing.'

'Was this a common occurrence — the Professor going out at that hour? For a walk, say?'

'No,' Mrs Stonehouse said. 'He never went out at night.'

'Rarely,' Glynis corrected her. 'Once or twice a year he went to a professional meeting. But it usually included a dinner, and he left earlier.'

'He didn't say where he was going when he left on the evening of 10th January?'

'No,' Mrs Stonehouse said.

'You didn't ask, ma'am?'

The mother looked to her daughter for help.

'My father was — ' she began, then said, 'My father is a difficult man. He didn't like to be questioned. He went his own way. He was secretive.'

'Would you say there was anything unusual in his behaviour at dinner that night?'

This time daughter looked to mother.

'Nooo,' Mrs Stonehouse said slowly. 'He didn't say much at the table, but then he never said much.'

'So you'd say this behaviour that evening was entirely normal? For Professor Stonehouse,' I added hastily.

They both nodded.

'All right,' I said. 'There are a few things I'd like to come back to, but first I'd like to hear what happened after the Professor left.'

At my request Mrs Stonehouse took up her story again.

She and her son, Powell, stayed in the living room, watched a Beckett play on Channel 13, had a few drinks.

Mrs Dark came in about 10.30 to say goodnight and went to her room at the far end of the apartment.

They did not begin to become concerned about the Professor's whereabouts until 11.00 p.m. They called the deskman in the lobby, who could only report that Stonehouse had left the building at 8.45 and hadn't returned.

They awoke Mrs Dark to ask if the Professor had mentioned anything to her about where he was going. She said he hadn't, but she shared their concern and joined them in the living room, wearing a robe over her nightgown. They then called some of the Professor's professional associates, apologizing for the lateness of the hour. No one had seen him or heard from him. He had no friends other than professional associates.

By 11.30 they all were worried and uncertain what they should do. They were hesitant about calling the police. If they called and he walked in a few minutes later, he'd be furious.

'He had a violent temper,' Glynis said.

Glynis returned from the theatre a little after midnight and was told of her father's absence. She suggested they call the garage to see if Stonehouse had taken out his car.

Powell called and was informed that the car was still parked there.

The four of them waited until 2.00 a.m. and then called the local precinct. The officer they spoke to told them that it would not be a matter for the Missing Persons Bureau until the Professor was absent for 24 hours, but meanwhile he would check accident reports and hospital emergency rooms. He said he'd call them back.

They waited, awake and drinking coffee, until 3.20

when the police officer called and told them there were no reports of accidents involving Professor Stonehouse or anyone answering his description.

There seemed to be nothing more they could do. The next day they made more phone calls, and Powell rang the bells of neighbours and even walked around the neighbourhood streets, asking at newsstands and all-night restaurants. No one had seen his father or anyone like him.

After twenty-four hours had passed, they reported the Professor as a missing person to the New York Police Department, and that was that.

I took a deep breath.

'I don't like to take so much of your time on this first meeting,' I said. 'I hope you'll allow me to come back again, or call as questions occur to me.'

'Of course,' Glynis Stonehouse said. 'And take as much time as you like. We're anxious to do anything we can to help.'

'Just a few questions then,' I said, looking at her. 'Did your father have any enemies? Anyone who might harbour sufficient ill-will t o. . '

I let that trail off, but she didn't flinch. Then again, she didn't look like the flinching type.

Glynis Stonehouse was taller than her mother. A compact body, curved with brio. Tawny hair hung sleekly to her shoulders. She had a triangular face with dark eyes of denim blue. Wide, sculpted lips with a minimum of rouge.

She was wearing a simple shift, thin stuff that touched breast, hip, thigh. No jewellery.

I had the impression of a lot of passion there, kept under disciplined control. The dark eyes gave nothing away, and she rarely smiled or frowned. She had the habit of pausing, very briefly, before answering a question. Just a half-beat, but enough to convince me she was giving her replies extra thought.

'No, Mr Bigg,' she said evenly. 'I don't believe my father had enemies who hated him enough to do him harm.'

'But he did have enemies?' I persisted.

'There are a lot of people who disliked him. He was not an easy man to like.'

'Oh, Glynis,' her mother said sorrowfully.

'Mr Bigg might as well know the truth, Mother; it may help his investigation. My father was — is a tyrant, Mr Bigg. Opinionated, stubborn, dictatorial, with a very low boiling point. Constantly suing people for the most ridiculous reasons. Of course he had enemies, at the University and everywhere else he went. But I know of no one who disliked him enough to — to do him injury.'

I nodded and looked at my notes.

'Mrs Stonehouse, you said that just before leaving the apartment, Professor Stonehouse went into his study?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'Do you know what he did in there?'

'No. The study is his private room.'

'Off-limits to all,' Glynis said. 'He rarely let us in.'

'He let you in, Glynis,' her mother said.

'He even cleaned the room himself,' Glynis went on. 'He was working on a book and didn't want his papers disturbed.'

'A book? What kind of a book?'

'A history of the Prince Royal, a famous British battleship of the seventeenth century.'

'Has your father published anything before?'

'A few monographs and articles in scholarly journals.

He's also an habitual writer of letters to the newspapers.

Would you care for more sherry, Mr Bigg?'

'No, thank you. That was delicious. Mrs Stonehouse, your son is not here tonight?'

'No,' she said. 'He's…'

She didn't finish that, but leaned forward to fill her glass.

'My brother doesn't live here,' Glynis said evenly.

'Powell has his own place in the Village. He stayed over the night Father disappeared because we were all so upset.'

'Your brother and father didn't get along?' I asked.

'Well enough,' she said. 'Powell comes to dinner two or three times a week. In any event, the relations between my father and brother have nothing to do with your investigation.'

'Powell tried so hard,' her mother mourned.

Glynis leaned far across the couch to put a hand on her mother's arm. Her body was stretched out, almost 60

reclining. I saw the bold rhythm of thigh, hip, waist, bosom, shoulder…

'We all tried hard, Mother,' she said softly.

I closed my notebook, put it away. 'I think I've asked you ladies enough questions for one evening. But before I leave, if I may, I'd like to see Professor Stonehouse's study, and I'd like to talk to your housekeeper for a few minutes.'

'Of course,' Glynis said, rising. I followed her over to a door on the far side of the room. It opened into a dining room, cold and austere, lit dimly.

There were two doors in the opposite wall, one the swinging type used in kitchens.

'That one to the kitchen?' I asked.

'Yes.'

'And the other one to your father's study?'

'That's correct.'

'Your mother told me that your father went into his study before he went out. But they couldn't have seen where he went. He might have gone into the kitchen.'

'You're very sharp, Mr Bigg,' she said. 'Mrs Dark was still cleaning up in here after dinner, and she saw him go into his study.'

Glynis opened the study door, reached in to turn on the light, then stood aside. I stepped forward to look in. For a moment I was close to her. I was conscious of her scent. It wasn't cologne or perfume; it was her. Warm, womanly, stirring. I walked forward into the study.

'I won't disturb anything,' I said.

'I'm afraid we already have,' she said. 'Looking for Father's will.'

'You didn't find it?' I said.

She shook her head, shiny hair swinging. 'We found his passbook and cheque book, but no will.'

'Did your father have a safe deposit box?'

'Not at either of the banks where he has his savings and cheque accounts.'

'Miss Stonehouse, are you sure a will exists?'

'Oh, it exists,' she said. 'Or did. I saw it. I don't mean I read it. I just saw it on his desk one night. It was four or five pages and had a light blue backing. When Daddy saw me looking at it, he folded it up and put it in a long envelope. "My will," he said. So I know it did exist.'

'Does your mother know what's in it?'

'No. Father never discussed money matters with her. He just gave her an allowance and that was that.'

'Did your father give you an allowance, Miss Stonehouse?'

She looked at me levelly.

'Yes,' she said, 'he did.'

'And your brother?'

'No,' she said. 'Not since he moved out.' Then she added irritably, 'What has all this to do with my father's disappearance?'

'I don't know,' I said truthfully, and turned back to the study.

It was a squarish chamber with a high-beamed ceiling.

There was another tiled fireplace, built-in bookcases, large cabinets for oversized books, magazines, journals, rolled-up maps.

There was a club chair upholstered in maroon leather, with a hassock to match. Alongside it was a drum table with a leather top chased with gold leaf. A silver tray on the drum table, bearing a new bottle of Remy Martin cognac, sealed, and two brandy snifters. A green-shaded floor lamp stood in back of the chair.

In the centre of the study was a big desk with leather top and brass fittings, littered with papers, charts, maps, books, pencils and pens in several colours. Also, a magnifying glass, a pair of dividers, and a device that looked like an antique compass.

But it was the far wall that caught my eye. It was covered, from chair rail to ceiling, with model hull forms. I don't know whether you've ever seen hull models. They're made of hardwood, the hull sliced longitudinally. The flat side is fixed to the plaque. Each plaque bore a brass plate with the ship's name and date of construction. I stepped closer to examine them. I had never seen so many in one place, and never any as lovely.

Glynis had noted my interest. 'Father had them made by a man in Mystic, Connecticut. When he dies, there won't be anyone left in the country who can carve hull models from the plans of naval architects.'

'They're handsome,' I said.

'And expensive.'

But if that room had something to tell me, I couldn't hear it. I turned towards the door.

'Your father didn't have a safe?' I asked.

'No,' she said. 'And the drawers of his desk were unlocked.'

'Did he usually leave them unlocked?'

'I really don't know. Mrs Dark might.'

I was wondering if she'd want to be present while I questioned Mrs Dark, but I needn't have worried. She led me into the brightly lighted kitchen and said to the woman there: 'Effie, this is Mr Bigg. He's looking into Father's disappearance for the lawyers. Please answer his questions and tell him whatever he wants to know. Mr Bigg, this is Mrs Effie Dark. When you're finished here, I'm sure you can find your way back to the living room.' Then she turned and left.

Mrs Dark was a tub of a woman with three chins and a bosom that encircled her like a pneumatic tube. She had sausage arms, and ankles that lopped over nurse's shoes.

Stuck in that roly-poly face were bright little eyes, shiny as blueberries in a pie. Her hips were so wide, I knew she had to go through doors sideways.

'Mrs Dark,' I said, 'I hope I'm not disturbing you?'

'Why no,' she said. 'I'm just waiting for the water to boil, and then I'm going to have a nice cup of tea. Would you like one?'

'I'd love a cup of tea,' I lied.

She heaved herself to her feet and went to the counter.

While the tea was steeping, she set out cups, saucers, and spoons for us. I held my saucer up to the light and admired its translucence.

'Beautiful,' I said.

'Nothing but the best,' she said. 'When it came to his own comfort, he didn't stint.'

'How long have you been with the Stonehouse family, Mrs Dark?'

'Since the Year One,' she said. 'I was the Professor's cook and housekeeper whilst I was married and before he was. Then my mister got took, and the Professor got married, so I moved in with him and his family.'

I watched her pour us cups of russet-coloured tea. She held her cup in both hands and savoured the aroma before she took a sip. I did the same.

'Mrs Stonehouse and Glynis told me what happened the night the Professor disappeared,' I started. 'They said they noted nothing unusual in his behaviour that night. Did you?'

She thought a moment.

'Nooo,' she said, drawling it out. 'He was about the same as usual. He was a devil.' She tasted the word on her plump lips, seemed to like it, and repeated it forcefully: 'A devil! But I wouldn't take any guff from him, and he knew it. He liked my cooking, and I kept the place nice for him.

He knew his wife couldn't run this menagerie, and his daughter wasn't interested. That's why he was as nice as pie as far as I was concerned. And he paid a good dollar, I'll say that.'

'All this on a professor's salary?'

'Oh no. No no no. He comes from old money. His grandfather and father were in shipping. He inherited a pile.'

'What was he so sore about?' I asked her. 'He seems to have hated the world.'

She shrugged her thick shoulders.

'Who can tell a thing like that? I know he had some disappointments in his life, but who hasn't? I know he got passed over for promotion at the University — that's why he resigned — and once, when he was younger, he got jilted.

But nothing important enough that I know of that would turn him into the kind of man he was. To tell you the truth, I think he just enjoyed being mean. More tea?'

'Please.'

I watched her pour and dilute with hot water. 'They've been looking for the Professor's will,' I said. 'It's missing.

Did you know that?'

'Did I? They tore my kitchen apart looking for it. Even the flour bin. Took me hours to get it tidy again.'

'Glynis told me her father cleaned his study himself.

Wouldn't let anyone in there. Is that right?'

'Recently,' she said. 'In the month before he disappeared.

Before that, he let me in to dust and straighten up. We have a cleaning crew that comes in once a week to give the place a good going-over, vacuum the rugs and wash down the bathrooms — things like that. He'd let them in his study if I was there. Then, about a month before he vanished, he wouldn't let anyone in. Said he'd clean the place himself.'

'Did he give any reason for this change?'

'Said he was working on this book, had valuable papers in there and didn't want them disturbed.'

'Uh-huh,' I said. 'Mrs Stonehouse and her daughter told me that just before he walked out on the evening of January 10th, he went into his study for a few minutes. Did you see him?'

'I did. I was in the dining room. It was Olga's night off, so I was cleaning up after dinner. He came in from the living room, went into the study, and came out a few minutes later. That was the last time I saw him.'

'Did he close the study door after he went in?'

'Yes.'

'Did you hear anything in there?'

'Like what?' she asked.

'Anything. Anything that might give me an idea of what he was doing. Thumping around? Moving furniture?'

She was silent, trying to remember. I waited patiently.

'I don't k n o w. . ' she said. 'It was a month ago. Maybe I heard him slam a desk drawer. But I couldn't swear to it.'

'That's another thing,' I said. 'The desk drawers. Did he keep them locked?'

'Yes,' she said definitely. 'He did keep them locked when he wasn't there. I remember because once he lost his keys and we had to have a locksmith come in and open the desk.'

'No one else had a key to his desk?'

'Not that I know of.'

'Effie, what happened between the Professor and his son?'

'The poor lamb,' she mourned. 'Powell got kicked out of the house.'

'Why?'

'He wouldn't get a job, and he wouldn't go back to the University to get his degree, and he was running with a wild bunch in Greenwich Village. Then the Professor caught Powell smoking pot in his bedroom, and that did it.'

'Does Powell have a job now?'

'Not that I know of.'

'How does he live?'

'I think he has a little money of his own that his grandmother left him. Also, I think Mrs Stonehouse and 66

Glynis help him out now and then, unbeknownst to the Professor.'

'When did this happen?'

'Powell getting kicked out? More than a year ago.'

'But he still comes here for dinner?'

'Only in the last two or three months. Mrs Stonehouse cried and carried on so and said Powell was starving, and Glynis worked on her father, too, and eventually he said it would be all right for Powell to have dinner here if he wanted to, but he couldn't move back in.'

'All right,' I said. 'Now what about Glynis? Does she work?'

'Not anymore. She did for a year or two, but she quit.'

'Where did she work?'

'I think she was a secretary in a medical laboratory.

Something like that.'

'But now she does nothing?'

'She's a volunteer three days a week in a clinic downtown. But no regular job.'

'Have many friends?'

'Seems to. She goes out a lot. The theatre and ballet and so forth. Some weeks she's out every night.'

'One particular boyfriend?'

'Not that I know of.'

'Does she ever have her friends here? Does she entertain?'

'No,' Mrs Effie Dark said sadly. 'I never see any of her friends. And there hasn't been much in the way of entertaining in this house. Not for years.'

She waved a plump hand around, gesturing towards overhead racks, the utensils, the bins and spice racks, stove, in-the-wall oven, refrigerator, freezer.

'See all this? I don't use half this stuff for months on end. But when the kids were growing up, things were different. The Professor was at the University most of the day, and this place was filled with the kids' friends. There 67

were parties and dances right here. Even Mrs Stonehouse had teas and bridge games and get-togethers for her friends. My, I was busy. But we had another maid then, a live-in, and I didn't mind. There was noise and everyone laughed. A real ruckus. Then the Professor resigned, and he was home all day. He put a stop to the parties and dances. Gradually, people stopped coming, he was such a meany. Then we began living like hermits, tiptoeing around so as not to disturb him. Not like the old days.'

I nodded and stood up.

'Effie,' I said, 'I thank you for the refreshments and for the talk.'

'I like to talk,' she said, grinning, 'as you have probably noticed. A body could climb the walls here for the want of someone to chat with.'

'Well, I enjoyed it,' I said, 'and I learned a lot. I hope you'll let me come back and chat with you again.'

'Anytime,' she said. 'I have my own telephone. Would you like the number?'

As she dictated, I wrote it down in my notebook.

'Effie,' I said in closing, 'what do you think happened to Professor Stonehouse?'

'I don't know,' she said, troubled. 'Do you?'

'No,' I said, 'I don't.'

When I went back into the living room Mrs Stonehouse was alone, still curled into a corner of the couch. The sherry bottle was empty.

'Hi there,' she fluted. She tried to touch her nose and missed.

'Hi,' I said.

'Glynis went beddy-bye,' she giggled.

I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes to ten. Early for beddy-bye.

I caught the subway on CPW, got off at 23rd Street, and walked the three blocks to my home. I kept to the kerb and I didn't dawdle. When I was inside the building, I felt that 68

sense of grim satisfaction that all New Yorkers feel on arriving home safely. Now, if a masked intruder was not awaiting me in my living room, drinking my brandy, all would be well.

It was not a would-be thief awaiting me, but Captain Bramwell Shank, and he was drinking his own muscatel.

His door was open, and he wheeled himself out into the hallway when he heard me climb the stairs.

'Where the hell have you been?' he said querulously.

'Come on in and have a glass of wine and watch the eleven o'clock news with me.'

'I think I better take a raincheck, Captain,' I said. 'I've had a hard day and I want to get to bed early.' But I went in anyway, moved laundry off a chair, and sat watching the 24-inch colour set.

'You get your invite to the party?' Captain Shank demanded, pouring himself another glass of wine.

'Yes,' I said, 'I got it.'

'Knew you would,' he said, almost cackling. 'Happened just like I said, didn't it?'

I took a sip of wine, put my head back, closed my eyes.

The local news came on, and we heard more dire predictions of New York's financial fate. We saw a tenement fire in the Bronx that killed three. We watched the Mayor hand a key to the city to a champion pizza twirler.

I was contemplating how soon I could decently leave when the news came on. The anchorman read a few small items of local interest to which I drifted off. Then he said:

'Service was halted for an hour on the Lexington Avenue IRT this evening while the body of a man was removed from the express tracks at the 14th Street station.

He apparently fell or jumped to his death at the south end of the station just as a train was coming in. The victim has tentatively been identified as Martin Reape of Manhattan.

No additional details are available at this time. And now, a message to all denture wearers. . '

'What?' I said, waking up. 'What did he say?'