The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I’m sure it’s nothing you shouldn’t hear. Mr. Bigg, Godfrey has been a close friend for many years, and has been a great help since my husband’s death. You may speak freely in front of him.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said submissively. “There is nothing confidential about it. At present, your attorneys are engaged in striking a tentative total value for your late husband’s estate. This includes stocks, bonds, miscellaneous investments, personal property, and so forth. The purpose of this is for filing with the proper Federal and State authorities for computation of the estate tax.”

  “Godfrey?” she asked, looking to him.

  “Yes,” he said, “that’s correct. Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. In this case, Tippi, I’m afraid you’re going to be unpleasantly surprised by what Caesar demands.”

  “Well, we’d like our computation of assets to be as accurate as possible,” I continued. “It sometimes happens that the IRS and State Tax Bureau make estimates of the value of an estate that are, uh, in variance with those of the attorneys submitting the will to probate.”

  “You mean they’re higher,” Pastor Knurr said with his rueful laugh.

  “Frequently,” I agreed. “Naturally, as the attorneys of record, we hope to keep estate taxes to their legal minimum. I have been assigned the task of determining the value of this home, its furnishings, and your late husband’s personal possessions.”

  Knurr settled back in his armchair. He took a pipe and tobacco pouch from the side pocket of his jacket. He began to pack the pipe bowl, poking the tobacco down with a blunt forefinger.

  “This is interesting,” he said. “How do you determine the value of a house like this, Mr. Bigg?”

  That one was easy.

  “Current market value,” I said promptly. “How much you could expect to receive if it was put up for sale. Other factors would be the current property tax assessment and comparison with the value of other houses in the neighborhood. When it comes to furnishings, things get a little more complicated. We would like to base our evaluation on the original purchase cost minus depreciation—to keep the total value as low as possible, you understand—but the IRS usually insists on replacement value. And that, in these inflationary times, can sometimes be much more than the original cost.”

  “I should think so,” Mrs. Kipper said sharply. “Why, some of my beautiful things couldn’t be bought for double what I paid for them. And some simply can’t be replaced at any price.”

  “Tippi,” Knurr said, lighting his pipe with deep drags, “don’t tell the tax people that!”

  I paused, looking at him, while he got his pipe evenly lighted to his satisfaction. He used three matches in the process. His tobacco smoke smelled of fruit and wine.

  The Reverend Godfrey Knurr was a few inches short of six feet. He was a stalwart man, bulging the shoulders and sleeves of his hairy tweed jacket. He wore gray flannel slacks and oxblood moccasins. A checked gingham shirt was worn without a tie, but buttoned all the way up. Still, it revealed a strong, corded neck. He had square hands with short fingers.

  His hair and beard were slate-colored. The beard was not full; it was mustache and chin covering, cut straight across at the bottom. It was trimmed carefully around full, almost rosy lips. He had steady, brown, no-nonsense eyes, and a nose that was slightly bent. It was not a conventionally handsome face, but attractive in a craggy, masculine way. A lived-in face. His age, I estimated, was in the early forties, which would make him about ten years younger than Mrs. Kipper. He moved well, almost athletically, and had an erect carriage and forceful gestures.

  I turned my attention back to the widow.

  “My assignment,” I said, “will necessitate my taking a complete inventory of the furnishings, I’m afraid. I don’t expect to do that today, of course. It may take several days. I’ll do my best not to inconvenience you, ma’am, and I’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible while I’m here. Today, I hope merely to make a preliminary survey, count the number of rooms, and plan how best to proceed with the inventory. Is that acceptable to you, Mrs. Kipper?”

  “Damn!” she said fretfully. “I wish this was all over with.”

  She took another cigarette from a porcelain box on the table beside her. I sprang to my feet and rushed to light it.

  “Thank you,” she said, looking at me amusedly. “You’re very polite. You don’t smoke?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Drink?”

  “Occasionally,” I said. “Wine mostly.”

  “For thy stomach’s sake,” Knurr rumbled.

  “Would you care for a glass of wine now, Mr. Bigg?”

  “Oh no, thank you, Mrs. Kipper. I’d really like to get started on my preliminary inspection.”

  “In a minute or two,” she said. “How long have you been with Mr. Tabatchnick?”

  “About six years.”

  “Married?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “No?” she said, widening her eyes theatrically. “Well, we’ll have to do something about that!”

  “Now, Tippi,” Godfrey Knurr said, groaning, “don’t start playing matchmaker again.”

  “What’s so wrong with that?” she flashed out at him. “Sol and I were so happy together, I want everyone to be that happy.”

  Godfrey Knurr winked at me.

  “Watch out for us, Mr. Bigg,” he said with his brisk laugh. “Tippi brings them together and I marry them. It’s a partnership.”

  “Oh, Godfrey,” she murmured, “you make it all sound so—so coldblooded.”

  “Cold blood—hot marriage,” he said. “An ancient Greek proverb.”

  “Which you just made up,” she said.

  “That’s right,” he allowed equably, and now they both laughed.

  “I wonder if I might—” I started.

  “Well, if you won’t have a drink, Mr. Bigg,” the widow said, “I think the Reverend and I shall. The usual, Godfrey?”

  “Please,” he said.

  I looked at him and I thought he shrugged a bit in resignation.

  I did not believe Mrs. Kipper was being deliberately obstructive. She would let me inspect her home—in her own good time. She wanted to make it perfectly clear to me that she was mistress of this house, and her wish was law, no matter how foolish or whimsical others might think her. So I waited patiently while drinks were served.

  Mrs. Kipper pushed a button at the end of a long extension cord. We waited in silence for a moment before the obese butler came stepping quietly into the room.

  “Mom?” he asked.

  “Drinks, Chester,” she said. “The usual for the Reverend and me. Mr. Bigg isn’t indulging.”

  “Yes, mom,” he said gravely and moved out silently. For his size, he was remarkably light on his feet. His movements were almost delicate.

  While he was gone, Mrs. Kipper began talking about the preview of an art exhibit at a Madison Avenue gallery she had attended the previous evening. Although she looked at me occasionally, ostensibly including me in the conversation, most of her remarks were directed to Knurr. In other words, she did not ignore me, but made little effort to treat me as other than a paid employee to whom one could be polite without being cordial. That was all right; it gave me a chance to observe the lady.

  She was silver blonde, pretty in a flashy way, with her hair up and meticulously coiffed. Not a loose end or straggle. She had a really excellent, youthful figure: slender arms and smashing legs, artfully displayed by her short, sleeveless shift of buttery brown velvet. She had a small, perfect nose, and cat’s eyes with a greenish tinge. Her thin lips had been cleverly made up with two shades of rouge to appear fuller.

  It was a crisp face, unlined, with tight skin over prominent cheekbones. I wondered if that seamless face and perfect nose owed anything to a plastic surgeon’s skill. She kept her sharp chin slightly elevated, and even when laughing she seemed to take care lest something shatter.

  I thought she would make a
brutal and vindictive enemy.

  Chester came in with the drinks. They appeared to be a Scotch and soda for Knurr and a dry martini straight up for Mrs. Kipper. She spoke before the butler left the room.

  “Chester,” she said, “Mr. Bigg wishes to inspect the house, top to bottom. Will you escort him about, please? Show him anything he wishes to see?”

  “Yes, mom,” the butler said.

  I rose hastily to my feet, gripping my briefcase.

  “Mrs. Kipper,” I said, “thank you for your kindness and hospitality. I appreciate your cooperation. Mr. Knurr, it’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

  He stood up to shake my hand.

  “Hope to see you again, Mr. Bigg,” he said. “Good luck on your inventory.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I followed the mountainous bulk of Chester out of the room. He closed the doors behind us, but not before I heard the laughter, quickly hushed, of Mrs. Tippi Kipper and the Reverend Godfrey Knurr.

  The butler paused in the entrance hall and turned to face me.

  “You wish to see all the rooms, sah?”

  “Please. I’m going to be taking an inventory of the furnishings. Not today, but during several visits. So you’ll be seeing a lot of me. I’ll try not to be too much of a nuisance.”

  He looked at me, puzzled.

  “To figure the value of the estate,” I explained. “For taxes.”

  “Ah, yes,” the big man said, nodding. “Many beautiful, expensive things. You shall see. This way, sah.”

  He led the way along the corridor at the rear of the hall. He stopped before a conventional door and swung it open. Within was a sliding steel gate, and beyond that a small elevator. Chester opened the gate, allowed me to enter, then followed me in. He slid the gate closed; the outer door closed automatically, and I immediately became conscious of his sweet cologne. The butler pressed a button, a light came on in the elevator, and we began to ascend, slowly.

  “How long have you been with the Kippers?” I asked curiously.

  “Seventeen years, sah.”

  “Then you knew the first Mrs. Kipper?”

  “I did indeed, sah. A lovely lady. Things have—”

  But then he stopped and said nothing more, staring straight ahead at the steel gate.

  The elevator halted abruptly. Chester pushed the gate aside and opened the outer door. He stepped out and held the door open for me.

  “The sixth floor, sah.”

  I looked around.

  “The main staircase doesn’t come up this high?”

  “It does not, sah. The main staircase stops on the fifth floor. But there is a back staircase, smaller, that comes all the way up. Also the elevator, of course.”

  I opened my briefcase, took out my notebook, and prepared to make what I hoped would appear to be official jottings.

  This was the party room Detective Stilton had described to me, a single chamber that occupied the front half of the building. I noted bistro tables and chairs, a giant TV set, hi-fi equipment, a clear central area obviously used for dancing, a movie projector, etc.

  “This room is used for entertaining?” I asked.

  “Quite so, sah.”

  “And those two doors?”

  “That one to the rear staircase, and that one to a lavatory,” he said, pronouncing it lavoratree.

  “Mrs. Kipper does a lot of entertaining?”

  “Not since Mr. Kipper’s passing, sah. But she has said she will now begin again. A buffet dinner is planned for next week.”

  I wondered if I detected a note of disapproval in his voice, but when I glanced at him, he was staring into space with those opaque eyes, expressionless as a blind man’s.

  I walked toward the rear of the room. Two sets of French doors opened onto the terrace. I could see the potted plants, trees, and outdoor furniture Stilton had mentioned. I tried the knob of one of the doors. It was locked.

  “Mrs. Kipper has ordered these doors to be kept locked, sah,” Chester said in sepulchral tones. “Since the accident.”

  “Could I take a quick look outside, please? Just for a moment?”

  He hesitated, then said, “As you wish, sah.”

  He had a heavy ring of keys attached to a thin chain fastened to his belt. He selected a brass key with no fumbling about and unlocked the door. He followed me out onto the terrace. I wandered around, making quick notes: 4 otdr tbls, 8 mtl chrs, cktl tbl, 2 chse lngs, 2 endtbls, plnts, trees, etc.

  I walked to the rear of the terrace. The cement wall had recently been repainted.

  “This is where the accident happened?” I asked.

  He nodded dumbly. I thought he had paled, but it may have been the hard outdoor sunlight on his face.

  I leaned over cautiously and looked down. I didn’t care what Perce had said, it seemed to me I was a long way up, and no one could survive a fall from that height.

  Directly below was the ground floor patio, with more outdoor furniture, and in the rear a small garden now browned and desolate. The patio was paved with tiles, as described. I could see where Sol Kipper had landed, because bright new tiles had replaced those broken when he hit.

  I think that was the first time I really comprehended what I was doing. I was not merely trying to solve an abstract puzzle; I was trying to determine how a human being had met his death. That withered garden, those smashed tiles, the drop through empty space—now it all seemed real to me: the dark figure pinwheeling down, arms and legs outspread, wind whipping his clothing, ground rushing up, sickening impact…

  “Did he cry out?” I asked in a low voice.

  “No, sah,” Chester said in a voice as quiet as mine. “We heard nothing until the poor mon hit.”

  I shivered.

  “Cold out here,” I said. “Let’s go in.”

  Apparently Chester didn’t enjoy using stairs, up or down, for we rode the elevator to the fifth floor.

  “On this floor,” Chester said, “we have the master bedroom, with two bathrooms, and Mrs. Kipper’s dressing room. Also, the maid has her apartment on this floor, the better to be able to assist Mrs. Kipper. In addition, Mr. Kipper had a small private office on this floor. As you can see, sah, the main staircase stops here.”

  We went through all the rooms, or at least looked in at them, with me busily making notes. I was particularly interested in the master bedroom, an enormous chamber with furniture in cream-colored French provincial decorated with painted vines and flowers. Two bathrooms were connected to the bedroom, and another door led to Mrs. Kipper’s dressing room.

  This was a squarish area with a full-length, three-way mirror; a chaise longue covered in pink satin; a littered dresser, the mirror surrounded by electric bulbs; an antique phone on an ormolu-mounted table; and a brass serving cart with a small selection of bottles, glasses, and bar accessories. Two walls of the room were louvered folding doors.

  “Mrs. Kipper’s wardrobe, sah,” Chester said. “Do you wish to see?”

  “Oh no,” I said hastily. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “A hundred pairs of shoes,” he remarked drily.

  There were two unused rooms on the fifth floor. One, Chester explained, had originally been the nursery, and the other had been the children’s playroom.

  “Before your time, I imagine,” I said.

  “Yes, sah,” Chester said gravely. “My father was in service with the Kipper family at that time.”

  I looked at him with new interest.

  “What is your last name, Chester?” I asked.

  “Heavens,” he said.

  I thought at first that was an exclamation of surprise, but then he said, “Chester Heavens, sah,” and I knew that we had something else in common.

  “The maid is Perdita Schug,” he continued, “and Mrs. Bertha Neckin is our cook and housekeeper. That is our permanent staff, sah. We three have our apartments here. In addition, the house is serviced by a twice-a-week cleaning crew and a janitor who comes in for a few hours each morn
ing for garbage removal, maintenance chores, and jobs of that nature. Temporary staff are employed as needed for special occasions: large dinners, parties, dances, and so forth.”

  “Thank you, Chester,” I said. Then, to convince him I was not interested in information or gossip extraneous to my assignment, I said, “The furnishings in the apartments of the permanent staff—are they owned by Mrs. Kipper?”

  “Oh yes, sah. The furniture is, yes. We have a few personal possessions. Pictures, radios, bric-a-brac—things of that sort.”

  “I understand,” I said, making quick notes.

  We descended via elevator to the fourth floor. This level, Chester told me, was totally uninhabited. But all the rooms were furnished, all the doors unlocked. There were four bedrooms (each with its own bathroom) that had been used by the Kipper children. In addition, there were two large guest bedrooms, also with baths. There was also a sewing room, a. completely equipped darkroom that had been used by one of the Kipper sons with an interest in photography, and one room that seemed designed and furnished with no particular activity in mind.

  “What is this room?” I asked.

  “Just a room, sah,” Chester said casually, and I found myself repeating silently what Detective Stilton and Godfrey Knurr had already said: “A terrible waste of space.”

  The third floor appeared to be a little more lived-in. It included a comfortable, wood-paneled library-den which, Chester said, had frequently been used by the late Sol Kipper to entertain old friends at pinochle or gin rummy games, or just to have a brandy and cigar after dinner.

  Also on this floor was the apartment of the cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Bertha Neckin. It was a snug suite with bright Indian rugs on polished parquet floors and a lot of chintz. Framed photographs were everywhere, mostly of children.

  There were two more guest bedrooms on the third floor and one long chamber across the front of the house illuminated by two bow windows. This was called the “summer room” and was furnished with white wicker, circus and travel posters on the walls and, at one end, a little stage for the production of puppet shows, an enthusiasm, Chester told me, of all the Kipper children when they were young. I liked that room.