Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  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 359

  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?'

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  '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.

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  '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 w
ay 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.'

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  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.

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  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 c
ame 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.

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  '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.'