The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  The second floor consisted of a large, mirrored ballroom, with a raised platform at one end for a band or entertainment. Straight chairs lined the walls, and there were connecting bathrooms and a small dressing room for the ladies.

  Chester Heavens had his apartment on this floor. It consisted of a bedroom, small study, and bathroom. The furnishings revealed no more than the man himself. Everything was clean, neat, squared away. Almost precise. No photographs. Few books. A radio and a small, portable TV set. The paintings on the walls were empty landscapes.

  “Very nice,” I said politely.

  Then I asked the butler if the house was ever filled, if all those bedrooms were ever used. He said they had been, when the first Mrs. Kipper was alive, during the holiday season. Then all the Kipper children and their children and sometimes cousins, aunts, and uncles came to spend a week or longer. There were big dinners, dances, parties. There was confusion, noise, and laughter.

  “But not after Mr. Kipper remarried?” I asked.

  “No, sah,” he said, his face expressionless. “The family no longer gathers.”

  On the ground floor, in addition to the entrance hall and sitting room which I had already seen, were the formal living room, dining room, kitchen and pantry. I took a quick look through the French doors of the dining room at the patio. It looked even more forlorn that it had from six floors up.

  Then Chester Heavens led me back along the corridor to the kitchen and pantry area. I had thought the kitchen in the Stonehouse apartment was large; this one was tremendous, with a floor area that must have measured 15 X 25 feet. It looked like a hotel or restaurant kitchen, with stainless steel fixtures and appliances, and utensils of copper and cast iron hanging from overhead racks.

  There were four doors leading from the kitchen. One was the entrance from the corridor which we used. A swinging door led to the dining room. A rear door, glass paneled, allowed access to the patio. The fourth door was heavily bolted and chained, and had a peephole. Chester told me it opened onto the alleyway and was used for deliveries.

  “Mrs. Neckin is off today,” the butler said in his soft voice, “but perhaps you would care to meet the other member of our staff.”

  He led the way into the pantry. It was large enough to accommodate a square oak table and four high-backed oak chairs. Seated in one of the chairs, leafing idly through the afternoon Post, was a vibrant young lady who looked up pertly as we entered.

  “Mr. Bigg,” Chester said formally, “may I present our maid, Miss Perdita Schug. Perdita, this gentleman is Mr. Joshua Bigg. Stand up, girl, when you’re meeting a guest of this house.”

  She rose lazily to her feet, smiling at me.

  “How do you do, Miss Schug,” I said.

  “I do all right,” she said saucily. “And you can call me Perdita. Everyone else does. Except Chester here, and I won’t tell you what he calls me!”

  He looked at her with the first emotion I had seen him exhibit—disgust.

  “Watch your tongue, girl,” he said wrathfully, and in reply she stuck out her tongue at him.

  He turned away. I nodded at Perdita, smiling, and started to follow the butler. Then a buzzer sounded and I heard a sharp click. Chester looked up at the monitor mounted on the wall. It had two rows of indicators in a glass case. When a servant was summoned from anywhere in the house, the monitor buzzed and an indicator clicked up to show a white square. A label was pasted on the glass above each square showing in which room the button had been pushed. I counted the labels. Thirty-two.

  “They’ll want their tea now, I expect,” Chester said. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Bigg. Get the tray ready, Perdita.”

  I was standing in the pantry entrance. There was plenty of room, but Perdita brushed closely by.

  “Pardon me,” she said blithely, “but duty calls.”

  She took a plate from the refrigerator and whisked away the damp cloth covering it. The sandwiches were crustless and about the size of postage stamps. She put the plate on a doily on a large silver serving tray, then added a silver teapot, china cups and saucers, spoons, silver creamer and sugar bowl. She turned the light up under a teakettle on the range and, while the water was coming to a boil, dumped four teaspoons of tea into the pot, making no effort to measure it exactly. All her movements were deft and sure.

  Chester returned and examined the tray.

  “Napkins,” he snapped.

  Perdita opened the cupboard and added two small, pink linen napkins to the tray.

  “Mr. Bigg,” the butler said to me, “Mrs. Kipper asked if you were still in the house, and when I said you were, she requested that I inquire if you would care for a cup of tea or coffee.”

  “That’s very kind of her,” I said. “Coffee would be fine. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “No trouble, sah,” he assured me. “Perdita, make enough for all of us. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve served.”

  The copper kettle was steaming now, and the butler filled the teapot. Then he lifted the tray up before him with both hands. He had to carry it extended at some distance; his stomach intruded. He moved down the corridor at a stately pace.

  Perdita was no more than an inch or two taller than I. A dark, flashing button of a woman. Shiny black hair cut as short and impudently as a flapper’s. Sparkling eyes. Her long tongue kept darting between small white teeth and wet lips. I watched her as she assembled our belowstairs treat.

  She was formed like a miniature Venus. Almost as plump as that marble Cupid in the entrance hall. Creamy skin. In a steamy fantasy, I saw her wearing an abbreviated satin skirt, tiny lace apron and cap, pumps, a shocking décolletage—the classic French maid from the pages of La Vie Parisiènne. She frightened me with her animal energy, but I was attracted to her.

  She came into the pantry bringing a plate of macaroons. She fell into the chair across the table from me. She put an elbow on the tabletop, cupped her chin in a palm. She stared at me, eyes glittering.

  “You’re cute,” she said.

  “Thank you, Perdita,” I said, trying to laugh. “You’re very kind.”

  “I am not kind,” she protested. “I’m just telling you the truth. I always say what I feel—straight out. Don’t you?”

  “Well…not always,” I said judiciously. “Sometimes that’s difficult to do without hurting people.”

  “What do you think of me—straight out?”

  I was rescued by the return of Chester Heavens. He sat down heavily at the oak table. He ate three macaroons swiftly; one, two, three.

  “The coffee is ready,” he said. “Perdita, will you do the honors?”

  She rose, passed behind his chair. She stroked the back of his sleekly combed hair. He reached up to knock her hand away, but she was already in the kitchen.

  “Please excuse the girl, sah,” he said to me. “She has a certain wildness of spirit.”

  Perdita returned with the percolator and we sat having our coffee and macaroons. I wondered how to bring them around to a discussion of Sol Kipper’s plunge.

  “Sad times, sah,” Chester said, wagging his big head dolefully. “Mr. Kipper was the best of marsters.”

  “A doll,” Perdita said.

  “It was a tragedy,” I said. “I don’t know the details, but it must have been very distressing to all of you.”

  Then they started reliving those horror-filled moments beginning when they heard the crash and thump on the patio. What they told I had already learned from Percy Stilton. Like him, I was convinced they were telling as much of the truth as they knew.

  “And there were only the four of you in the house when it happened?” I asked.

  “Five, sah,” Chester said. “Counting poor Mr. Kipper.”

  “The janitor wasn’t here then?”

  “Oh no, sah. It was in the afternoon. He comes only in the morning.”

  “Terrible,” I said. “What an awful experience. And Mrs. Kipper fainted, you say?”

  “Just fell away,” Perdita said, nodd
ing. “Just crumpled right up. And Mrs. Neckin started screeching.”

  “Weeping, girl,” the butler said reprovingly.

  “Whatever,” the maid said. “She was making enough noise.”

  “You all must have been terribly upset,” I said, “when you heard the noise, rushed out, and saw him.”

  The butler sighed.

  “A bad few moments, sah,” he said. “Girl, are there more macaroons? If not, there is a pecan ring. Bring that. Yes, sah, it was a bad few moments. The marster was dead, Mrs. Kipper had fainted, Mrs. Neckin was wailing—it was a trouble to know what to do.”

  “But then the Reverend Knurr rang the bell?” I prompted.

  “Exactly, sah. That gentleman waiting outside was our salvation. He took charge, Mr. Bigg. Called the police department, revived Mrs. Kipper, moved us all into the sitting room and served us brandy. I don’t know what we would have done without him.”

  “He seems very capable,” I said, my attention wandering because Perdita had brought the pecan ring to the table. She was standing next to me, cutting it into wedges. Her soft hip was pressed against my arm.

  “He is that, sah,” Chester said, selecting the wedge with the most pecans on top and shoving it into his mouth. “A fine gentleman.”

  “Oh fine,” Perdita said, giggling. “Just fine!”

  “Watch your tongue, girl,” he said warningly again, and again she stuck out her tongue at him. It seemed to be a ritual.

  “I gather the Reverend is a frequent visitor,” I said musingly, pouring myself another half-cup of coffee. “Where is his church?”

  “He does not have a regular parish, sah,” the butler said. “He provides personal counseling and works with the poor young in Greenwich Village. Street gangs and such.”

  “But he is a frequent visitor?” I repeated.

  “Oh yes. For several years.” Here the butler leaned close to me and whispered, “I do believe Mrs. Kipper is now taking religious instruction, sah. From Reverend Knurr. Since the death of her husband.”

  “The shock,” I said.

  “The shock,” he agreed, nodding. “For then it was brought home to her the shortness of life on this earth, and the eternity of life everlasting. And only those who seek the love of the Great God Jehovah shall earn the blessing thereof. Yea, it is written that-only from suffering and turmoil of the spirit shall we earn true redemption and forgiveness for our sins.”

  Then I knew what his passion was.

  The monitor buzzer sounded again and I welcomed it. I stood up.

  “I really must be going,” I said. “Chester, I appreciate your invaluable assistance. As I told you, I shall be back again. I will call first. If it is inconvenient for you or Mrs. Kipper, please tell me and I’ll schedule another time.”

  Perdita preceded me along the corridor to the entrance hall. I watched her move. She helped me on with my coat.

  “Bundle up,” she said, pulling my collar tight. “Keep warm.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Thursday is my day off,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “We all have our private phones,” she said. “I’m in the book. Schug. S-c-h-u-g.”

  Back home that evening in my favorite chair, eating a spaghetti Mug-o-Lunch, I scribbled notes to add to the Kipper file and jotted a rough report of my conversations with Dr. Stolowitz and Ardis Peacock.

  I was interrupted in my work by a phone call. I was delighted to hear the voice of Detective Percy Stilton. His calling proved he was sincere in his promise to cooperate. I was almost effusive in my greetings.

  “Whoa,” he said. “Slow down. I got nothing great to tell you. I checked on Marty Reape. Like I figured, they closed it out as an accident. No witnesses came forward to say otherwise. What did they expect? In this town, no one wants to get involved. One interesting thing though: he had a sheet. Nothing heavy or they would have pulled his PI license. But he was charged at various and sundry times. Simple assault; charges dropped. Attempted extortion; charges dropped. Trespassing; no record of disposal. That tell you anything?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, I asked around,” Perce said. “This Reape apparently was a cruddy character. But they didn’t find any great sums of money on the corpse. And they didn’t find anything that looked like legal evidence of any kind. And that’s about it. You got anything?”

  I told him how I had gone to Reape’s office looking for the evidence, left out how I had been conned by Mr. Ng; I described the mourners at The Dirty Shame. He laughed.

  I told him I thought that someone had got to Blanche Reape before me, because she had money to pay the office rent and pick up the bill for the funeral party.

  “Well…yes,” Stilton said cautiously. “That listens. I can buy that. If the case was still open, I’d go over and lean on the lady and see if I could find out where those greenies came from. But I can’t, Josh. She sounds like a wise bimbo, and if I throw my weight around, she might squeal. Then it gets back to the brass, and my loot wants to know what I’m doing working on a closed case. Then my ass is out on a branch, just hanging there. You understand?”

  “Of course I understand,” I said, and told him I didn’t think there was anything we could do about Mrs. Reape other than rifling her apartment in hopes that she still had the evidence that got her husband killed. And burglary was out of the question.

  Then I told Stilton all about my afternoon visit to the Kipper townhouse. He listened carefully, never interrupting until I mentioned that I had asked Chester Heavens if Sol Kipper had cried out while he was falling, and the butler said they hadn’t heard a thing until the awful sounds of the body thumping to earth.

  “Son of a bitch,” Percy said again.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, “except that I should have asked that question and didn’t. You’re okay, Josh.”

  I was pleased. I finished my report and we agreed I had discovered nothing that shed any additional light.

  “Except that religious angle,” Perce said. “Knurr being a minister and that fat butler sounding like a religious fanatic.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Haven’t the slightest,” he admitted cheerfully. “But it’s interesting. You’re going to keep on with it, Josh?”

  “Oh sure,” I said. “I’m going back there as often as I can. I want to talk to the cook-housekeeper, and I’d like to look around a little more. How do you like my cover story?”

  “Fantastic,” he said. “You’re becoming a hell of a liar.”

  “Thank you,” I said faintly.

  10

  I SLEPT LATE ON Saturday morning and woke to find it was snowing: big fat flakes that were piling up rapidly. But the radio reported it would taper off by noon, and temperatures were expected to rise to the upper 30s.

  I had a large breakfast and spent the day in the apartment, housecleaning and thinking about the cases.

  In the early evening I showered and, in honor of the occasion, shaved. I dressed in a white oxford cloth shirt with a maroon rep tie, a navy blue blazer, gray flannel slacks, and polished black moccasins. Now I looked like a prep school student—but I was used to that.

  I was tucking a white handkerchief into my breast pocket when someone knocked on my front door.

  “Who is it?” I called before unlocking.

  “Finkel,” came the reply.

  I opened the door, smiling, and motioned Adolph Finkel inside. He was the fourth-floor tenant who lived across the hall from Madame Zora Kadinsky.

  “Uh, good evening, Bigg,” he said. “I guess we’re supposed to help Shank get downstairs.”

  I glanced at my watch.

  “We have a few minutes,” I said. “How about a drink to give us strength?”

  “Well…don’t go to any bother.” But he let me press some Scotch on him.

  “Happy days,” I said.

  “You’re all dressed up,” he said
sadly. “I worked today and didn’t have time to change.”

  “You look fine,” I assured him.

  He looked down at himself.

  “The manager told me I shouldn’t wear brown shoes with a blue suit,” he said. “The manager said it doesn’t look right for a shoe salesman to wear brown shoes with a blue suit. Of course, it’s a ladies’ shoestore where I work…but still. What do you think, Bigg?”

  “Maybe black shoes would look better.”

  “I could go up and change,” he said earnestly. “I have a pair of black shoes.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” I said. “I doubt if anyone will notice.”

  He was tall, six-one at least, and exceedingly thin, with rounded shoulders, bent neck, head pecked forward like a hungry bird. He had a wild mass of kinky, mouse-colored hair hanging over a low brow. His complexion was palely blotched, washed-out. He had hurt eyes.

  Apology was in his voice and in his manner. There is an ancient story of two men condemned to be shot to death. One spits in the face of his executioner. His companion reproves him, saying, “Don’t make trouble.” That was Adolph Finkel.

  “Uh, do you think the party will be in Mrs. Hufnagel’s apartment,” he asked me, “or in Cleo’s?”

  “I really don’t know. Probably Mrs. Hufnagel’s.”

  “Uh, I suppose you go out with a lot of women?”

  I laughed. “What gave you that idea, Finkel? No, I don’t go out with a lot of women.” Madame Kadinsky had been right. He was trying to discover if I had any interest in Cleo Hufnagel. “There is one,” I said. “A girl at my office. She’s lovely.”

  He beamed—or tried to. It was a mistake; it revealed his teeth.

  Finkel and I took Captain Shank downstairs in his wheelchair. It wasn’t as difficult as I feared it would be; we just tilted the chair back onto its big wheels and let it roll down, a step at a time. Finkel gripped the handles in back and I went ahead, trying to lift the footrest sufficiently to cushion the jars as the chair bumped down. It would have been a lot easier without Shank’s roared commands. He carried wine I had bought.

  When we arrived at the second-floor hallway, the three women, having heard our pounding descent, were waiting for us. I had been in error; the door to Cleo Hufnagel’s apartment was open, and it was obvious the party would be held there.