The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “He landed on his head. Crushed his skull. All right, it could happen from six floors. He could also break both arms and legs, have internal injuries, and still live. That could happen, too. It couldn’t happen from thirty-four floors. That’s the first thing that bothered me: a suicide from the sixth floor. It’s like trying to blow your brains out with a BB gun.

  “The second thing was this: When jumpers go out, from a window, ledge, balcony, whatever, they usually drop straight down. I mean, they just take one giant step out into space. They don’t really leap. Practically all the jumpers I’ve seen have landed within six feet of the side of the building. They usually squash on the sidewalk. When they go from a really high place, maybe their bodies start to windmill. But even then they hit the sidewalk or, at the most, crush in the top of a parked car. But I’ve never seen any who were more than, say, six or seven feet out from the side of the building. Kipper’s body was almost ten feet away.”

  I puzzled that out.

  “Perce, you mean someone threw him over?”

  “Who? There were four other people in that house—remember? Kipper weighed about one-sixty. None of the women could have lifted him over that terrace wall and thrown him so he landed ten feet from the side of the building. And the only man, the butler, is so fat it’s all he can do to stand up. Maybe Kipper just took a flying leap.”

  “An old man like that?”

  “It’s possible,” he said stubbornly. “The third thing is even flimsier than the first two. It’s that suicide note. It said: ‘I am sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.’ Get it? ‘Caused.’ Please forgive me for something I’ve done. That note sounds to me like he’s referring to something he did in the past, not something he was planning to do in a few minutes. Also, the note is perfectly legible, written in straight lines with a steady hand. Not the kind of handwriting you’d expect from a guy so mixed up in his skull that a few minutes later he was going to take a high dive from his terrace. But again, it’s possible. I told you it’s flimsy. All the things that bug me are flimsy.”

  “I don’t think they are,” I said hotly. “I think they’re important.”

  He gave me a half-smile, looked at his watch, and began to stow away his cigarette case and lighter.

  “Listen,” I said desperately, “where do we go from here?”

  “Beats me,” he said.

  “Can’t you—” I began.

  “Reopen the case?” he said. “No way can I do that on the evidence we’ve got. If I even suggested it, my loot would have me committed. You’re the Chief Investigator—so investigate.”

  “But I don’t know where to start,” I burst out. “I know I should talk to the Kipper family and servants, but I don’t know what excuse I can give them for asking questions.”

  “Tell them what you told me,” he advised. “Say you’re collecting information to justify the insurance claim. They’ll buy it.”

  “You didn’t,” I pointed out.

  “They’re not as cynical as I am,” he said, grinning. “They’ll believe what you tell them. Just remember what I said about lying. Keep it simple; don’t try to gussy it up. While you’re nosing around, I’ll see what I can find out about how Marty Reape died. From what you told me, it’s probably been closed as an accident—but you never know. Keep in touch. If anything turns up, you can always reach me at that number you’ve got or leave a message and I’ll call back. Can I call you at Tabatchnick and whatever?”

  I thought about that.

  “Better not, Perce,” I said. “I’d rather keep our, uh, relationship confidential.”

  “Sure,” he said. “I understand.”

  “I’ll give you my home phone number. I’m in almost every night.”

  “That’ll do fine.”

  He copied my number in a little notebook he carried. It was black pinseal with gold corners. Like all his possessions, it looked smart and expensive.

  I paid the bill, left a tip, and we walked toward the door.

  “I still don’t think it was a suicide,” I said.

  “You may be right,” he said mildly. “But thinking something and proving it are entirely different. As any cop can tell you.”

  We put on our coats and moved out onto the sidewalk. He was wearing a navy blue chesterfield and a black homburg. A dandy.

  “Thanks for the dinner, Josh,” he said. “Real good.”

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  “Which way you going?” he asked.

  “Ninth Avenue. I’ll catch a downtown bus. I live in Chelsea.”

  “I’ll walk you over,” he said, and we headed westward.

  “Don’t give up on this one, Josh,” he said, suddenly earnest. “I can’t do it; my plate is full. But I’ve got the feeling someone is jerking us around, and I don’t like it.”

  “I’m not going to give up,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “And thanks for meeting with me and filling me in.

  “Listen,” he added hesitantly, “if what you think turns out to be right, and someone snuffed Sol Kipper and pushed Marty Reape under a train, then they’re not nice people—you know? So be careful.”

  “Oh sure. I will be.”

  “You carry a piece?” he asked suddenly.

  It was a few seconds before I understood what he meant.

  “Oh no,” I said. “I don’t believe in violence.”

  He sighed deeply.

  “And a little child shall lead them,” he said. “Good night, Josh.”

  8

  I AWOKE THE NEXT morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Although Detective Stilton had insisted that all we had were unsubstantiated suspicions, what he had told me confirmed my belief that the death of Sol Kipper was not a suicide. And I was convinced that Stilton, despite his cautious disclaimers, felt the same way.

  It had snowed slightly overnight; there was a light, powdery dusting on sidewalks and cars. But it was melting rapidly as the new sun warmed. The sky was azure; the air sparkled. It suited my mood perfectly, and as I set out for my appointment with the missing Yale Stonehouse’s doctor, I took the weather as an augury of a successful day.

  Dr. Stolowitz had his offices on the street floor of a yellow brick apartment house that towered over neighboring brownstones. I arrived at 8:15. His receptionist was tall, lanky, with a mobcap of frizzy red curls. Her thin features seemed set in a permanent expression of discontent. I noticed her extremely long, carmined fingernails and a bracelet of a dozen charms on her bony wrist that jangled when she moved. She greeted me with something less than warmth.

  “Joshua Bigg to see Dr. Stolowitz,” I said, smiling hopefully.

  “You’re early,” she snapped. “Sit down and wait.”

  So I sat down and waited, coat and hat on my lap.

  At precisely 8:25, another nurse came out—a little one this time—and beckoned to me.

  “Doctor will see you now,” she said.

  The man standing behind the littered desk was of medium height, stocky, with a heavy belly bulging in front of his short white jacket. He was wearing rimless spectacles with thick lenses that gave him a popeyed look. He was smoking a black cigar; the air was rancid with fumes.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” I said.

  “Five minutes,” he snapped. “No more.”

  “I understand that, sir.”

  “Just what is your connection with Yale Stonehouse?” he demanded.

  “As I explained to you on the phone,” I said patiently, “I’m investigating the Professor’s disappearance.”

  “Are you a private detective?” he said suspiciously.

  “No, sir,” I said. “I am employed by the Professor’s attorneys. You may check with Mrs. Stonehouse if you wish.”

  He growled.

  He hadn’t asked me to be seated.

  “All right,” he said. “Ask your questions. I may answer and I may not.”

  “Could you tell me when Professor Stonehouse consulted you, sir?”

  He
picked up a file from his desk and flipped through it rapidly, the cigar still clenched between his teeth.

  “Seven times during October and November of last year. Do you want the exact dates of those visits?”

  “No, sir, that won’t be necessary. But Mrs. Stonehouse told me his illness started late last summer.”

  “So?”

  “But he did not consult you until October?”

  “I just told you that,” he said peevishly.

  “Could you tell me if Professor Stonehouse consulted any other physician prior to coming to you?”

  “Now how the hell would I know that?”

  “He mentioned no prior treatment?”

  “He did not.”

  “Doctor,” I said, “I don’t expect you to tell me the nature of the Professor’s illness, but—”

  “Damned right I won’t,” he interrupted.

  “But could you tell me if the Professor’s illness, if untreated, would have proved fatal?”

  His eyes flickered. Then he ducked his head, looked down, began to grind out his cigar butt in an enormous crystal ashtray. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly mild.

  “An ingrown toenail can be fatal if untreated.”

  “But when Professor Stonehouse stopped coming to see you, was he cured?”

  “He was recovering,” he said, the ill-tempered note coming back into his voice.

  “Was his illness contagious?”

  “What’s this?” he said angrily, “a game of Twenty Questions?”

  “I am not asking you to tell me the specific illness, Doctor,” I said. “Just whether or not it was contagious.”

  He looked at me shrewdly.

  “No, it was not a venereal disease,” he said. “That’s what you’re really asking, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. What would you say was the Professor’s general mental attitude?”

  “A difficult, cantankerous patient.” (Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!) “But if you mean did he exhibit any symptoms of mental disability not connected with his illness, the answer is no, he did not.”

  He didn’t realize what he had just revealed: that there were symptoms of mental disorder connected to the Professor’s ailment.

  “Did he ever, in any way, give you a hint of indication that he intended to desert his wife and family?”

  “He did not.”

  “Would you characterize your patient’s illness as a disease, Doctor?”

  He looked at the clock on the wall.

  “Your five minutes are up,” he said. “Goodbye, Mr. Bigg.”

  I put on my coat in the outer office. Three or four people were waiting to see the doctor.

  “Thank you very much,” I said to the receptionist, giving her my best little-boy smile. It doesn’t always work, but this time it did; she thawed.

  “He’s a bear, isn’t he?” she whispered.

  “Worse,” I whispered back. “Is he always like that?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Always,” she said. “Listen, may I ask you a personal question?”

  “Five feet, three and three-eighths inches,” I said, and waved goodbye.

  I stopped at the first phone booth I came to and called the office. I left a message for Thelma Potts telling her that I was engaged in outside work and would call later to let her know when I’d be in.

  I took the Broadway bus down to 49th Street and walked over to the decrepit building where Marty Reape had his office. His name was still listed on the lobby directory, but when I got to the ninth floor, the door to Room 910 was open and a bearded man in stained painter’s overalls was busy scraping with a razor blade at the outside of the frosted glass panel. Half of the legend, MARTIN REAPE: PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS, was already gone.

  I stood behind the painter and peeked through the open door. The room was totally bare. No desk, chair, file cabinet, or anything else. Just stained walls, dust-encrusted window, cracked linoleum on the floor.

  “Want something?” the painter demanded.

  “Do you know what happened to the furniture in this office?”

  “Ask the manager,” he said.

  “Is this office for rent?”

  “Ask the manager.”

  “And where will I find the manager?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “Could you tell me his name?”

  He didn’t answer.

  In the rear of the lobby was a steel door with a square of cardboard taped to it: MANAGER’S OFFICE. I opened the door with some effort. A flight of steel steps led steeply downward. I descended cautiously, hanging on to the gritty banister. A gloomy, cement-lined corridor stretched away to the back of the building. The ceiling was a maze of pipes and ducts. At the end of this tunnel was a scarred wooden door. I pushed in.

  It was like going into a prisoner’s cell. The only thing lacking was bars. Cement ceiling, walls, floor. No windows. The furniture looked like tenants’ discards. There were two people in that cubbyhole. A very attractive Oriental girl clattered away at an ancient Underwood, pausing occasionally to brush her long black hair away from her face. A small brown man sat behind the larger desk, talking rapidly on the telephone in a language I could not identify. There was a neat brass plate on his desk: CLARENCE NG, MANAGER.

  Neither of the occupants had looked at me when I entered. I waited patiently. Mr. Ng rattled on in his incomprehensible language, then suddenly switched to English.

  “The same to you, shmuck!” he screamed, and banged down the phone. Then he looked at me.

  “Ah, may I be of service, sir?” he asked softly.

  “Perhaps you can help me,” I said. “I’m looking for Martin Reape, Room 910. But his office is completely empty.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Mr. Reape is no longer with us.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Well, could you tell me where he moved?”

  “Ah,” Mr. Ng said. “Mr. Reape did not move. Mr. Reape is dead.”

  “Dead?” I cried. “Good heavens! When did this happen?”

  “Two days ago. Mr. Reape fell under a subway train. You were, ah, a friend of his?”

  “A client,” I said. “This is terrible. He had some very important papers belonging to me. Do you know what happened to his files?”

  “His, ah, widow,” Mr. Ng said. “She arrived yesterday and removed everything.”

  “And you let her?” I exclaimed.

  The manager turned his palms upward and shrugged. “A man’s widow is entitled to his possessions.”

  “But are you certain it was the widow?”

  “Ah, Mr. Reape owed two months’ back rent,” Mr. Ng said smoothly. “The woman paid.”

  “That doesn’t prove she was actually his widow,” I said angrily.

  The Oriental girl stopped typing, but didn’t turn to look at me.

  “It was her all right,” she said. “I saw them together in the lobby once, and he introduced us.”

  “You see?” Mr. Ng said triumphantly. “The widow.”

  “Do you happen to have her phone number?”

  “Ah, regrettably no.”

  “The home address then?”

  “Also, no.”

  “Surely it was on his lease?” I said.

  “No lease,” Mr. Ng said. “We rent by the month.”

  “Well, I’ll look it up in the phone book then,” I said.

  Mr. Ng paused for just a second. “Ah, no,” he said sadly. “Mr. Reape had an unlisted number.”

  I thanked Mr. Ng and left. I walked through that dank tunnel and was almost at the stairway when I heard a shouted “Hey, you!” I turned. The Oriental girl was running toward me.

  “Ten bucks,” she said.

  “What?” I said.

  “Ten bucks,” she repeated. “For the Reapes’ address.”

  She plucked the bill from my fingers and was already flying back down the tunnel.

  “It’s in the phone book,” she called.

  I had little doubt but that Mr. Ng would
get his share of the money.

  I had to walk two blocks before I could find a Manhattan telephone directory. I opened it with some trepidation, fearing that I had been twice gulled. But it was there: the 49th Street office and another on 93rd Street.

  I took an uptown bus on Eighth Avenue, still smarting at the ease with which I and my money had been parted.

  The Reapes lived on Sorry Street, between Somber and Gaunt. The tallest building on the block appeared to be a welfare hotel; most of the brownstones had been converted to rooming houses, with drawn shades at the windows instead of curtains; and the basement stores all had front windows tangled with dusty ivy, drooping ferns, and scrawny philodendrons. Graffiti was everywhere, much of it in Spanish. I wondered what puta meant.

  The Reapes’ house was one of the better buildings, a three-story structure of gray stone, now greasy and chipped. There were few remnants of its former elegance: a fancily carved lintel, beveled glass in the door panels, an ornate brass escutcheon around the knob.

  I pushed the bell alongside M. REAPE and waited. Nothing.

  I tried again. Still no answer. I tried once more, with no result. When I went back down to the sidewalk, an elderly lady with blue hair was just starting up the steps. She was laden down with two heavy bags of groceries.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” I asked.

  She looked at me, frightened and suspicious.

  “Just up to the front door,” I said. “Then I’ll go away.”

  “Thank you, young man,” she said faintly.

  I carried her bags up and left them beside the inner door. When I came out again, she had negotiated only three steps, pausing on each to catch her breath.

  “Asthma,” she said, clutching her chest. “It’s bad today.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said sympathetically. “I wonder if you—”

  “Sometime it’s like a knife,” she said, wheezing. “Cuts right through me.”

  “I’m sure it’s painful,” I said. “I’m looking for—”

  “Didn’t get a wink of sleep last night,” she said. “Cough, cough, cough.”

  “Mrs. Reape,” I said desperately. “Mrs. Martin Reape. She lives here. I’m trying to find her.”

  The suspicion returned.

  “What do you want with her?” she demanded. “You’re too sawed off to be a cop.”