Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

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

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

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

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

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

  I turned to him.

  'You signed the cheques?' I said.

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

  'Sure I signed. So, so, so?'

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

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

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

  Each merely said. 'For services rendered.'

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

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

  'Nope, nope, nope.'

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

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

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

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

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

  'Thank you very much,' I said.

  'Sure, bubi,' she chirped.

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

  'Yes?' she said.

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

  'Yes. Who's this?'

  'Joshua Bigg. You probably don't -'

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

  'Yes . . . well . . . how are you?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'I accept,' she said promptly.

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

  She laughed merrily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She was wearing a red plaid coat with a stocking hat pulled down to her eyes. The wind and fast walking had rosied her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. She looked very 192

  fetching and I told her so. She smiled shyly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'About eight. Is that all right?'

  'Eight is fine. See you then.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Correct?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I wanted to stroke it.

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

  'Cleo,' I said softly.

  Her eyes opened.

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

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

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

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

  When do you need it?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Of course they were, to take you in. But s t i l l . . . '

  'Yes,' I said. ' S t i l l . . . '

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

  'Another drink?' I asked finally.

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

  'A nightcap?' I said.

  'Right,' she said approvingly.

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

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

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

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

  'I think you'd like it.'

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

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

  'What kind of a kite should I buy?'

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

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

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

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

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

  4

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

  I had brought in a container of black coffee and an apple strudel. I made phone calls over my second breakfast. The Reverend Godfrey Knurr agreed to show me his club that day, and Glynis Stonehouse said she would see me. She said her mother was indisposed, in bed with a virus. (A sherry virus, I thought — but didn't say it.) Despite the wretched weather I got up to the West 70s in half an hour. Glynis Stonehouse answered the door. We went down that long corridor again, into the living room. I noticed that several of the framed maps and naval battle scenes had disappeared from the walls, to be replaced by bright posters and cheery graphics. Someone did not ex-198

  pect Professor Stonehouse to return.

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

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

  'I hope he was — co-operative?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'What is your impression?'

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

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

  That moved her. She was astonished.

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

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

  'No. Never.'

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

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

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

  She pondered a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Perhaps,' she said.

  Noncommittal.

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

  'Why, yes. She's in the kitchen.'

  A definite answer. What a relief.

  'May I speak to her for a moment?'

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

  When I entered the kitchen, Effie was seated at the centre table, smoking a cigarette and leafing through the morning Daily News. She looked up as I came in, and her 200

  bright little eyes crinkled up with pleasure.

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

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

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