The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Thank you,” I said, rising. “You’re very kind. It shouldn’t take long. And then there are a few more things I’d like to discuss with you ladies, if I may.”

  I found the maid in the dining room, seated at one end of the long table. She was reading Prevention.

  “Hi,” I said brightly. “Miss Stonehouse said it was all right if I talked to you in private. May I call you Olga?”

  “Yah,” she said.

  She sat erect, her straight spine not touching the back of the chair; seated, she still towered over me.

  “Olga,” I said, “I work for the family’s attorneys and I’m investigating the disappearance of Professor Stonehouse. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

  She focused those turquoise eyes on mine. It was like a dentist’s drill going into my pupils. I mean I was pierced.

  “How?” she said.

  “Do you have any idea what happened to him?”

  “No.”

  “I realize you weren’t here the night he disappeared, but had you noticed anything strange about him? I mean, had he been acting differently?”

  “No.”

  “At the time he disappeared, he was in good health?”

  She shrugged.

  “But he had been sick last year? Right? Last year he was very ill?”

  “Yah.”

  “But then he got better.”

  “Yah.”

  I sighed. I was doing just great. Yah, no, and one shrug.

  “Olga,” I said, “you work here from one o’clock to nine, six days a week—correct?”

  “Yah.”

  “You serve the afternoon lunch and dinner?”

  “Yah.”

  “Did he eat anything special no one else ate?”

  “No.”

  I gave up. The Silent Swede. Garbo was a chatterbox compared to this one.

  “All right, Olga,” I said, beginning to rise. “You’ve been very kind, and I want to—”

  Her hand shot out and clamped on my arm, instantly cutting off the circulation. She drew me to her. I instinctively resisted the force. Like trying to resist a Moran tugboat. She pulled me right up to her. Then her lips were at my ear. I mean I could feel her lips on my ear, she clutched me so tightly.

  “He was being poisoned,” she whispered.

  The warm breath went tickling into my ear, but I was too stunned to react. Was this the breakthrough I needed?

  “By whom?” I asked.

  “I could have saved him,” she said.

  I stared.

  For answer to my unspoken question she solemnly raised the health and diet magazine and pointed to it.

  She meant Stonehouse was sick of commercial-food processing, like everyone else.

  In the living room Glynis and her mother were as I left them. Mrs. Stonehouse was licking the rim of a filled glass.

  “Nothing,” I said, sighing. “It’s very frustrating. Well…I’ll keep trying. The only member of the family I haven’t spoken to, Mrs. Stonehouse, is your son. He was here the night his father disappeared. Perhaps he can recall something…”

  They gave me his address and unlisted phone number. Then I asked to see any family photos they might have, and presently I was sitting nervously on the couch between the two women, and we went through the stack of photos slowly. It was an odd experience. I felt sure I was looking at pictures of a dead man. Yale Stonehouse was, or had been, a thin-faced, sour man, with sucked-in cheeks and lips like edges of cardboard. The eyes accused and the nose was a knife. In the full-length photos, he appeared to be a skeleton in tweed, all sharp angles and gangling. He was tall, with stooped shoulders, carrying his head thrust forward aggressively.

  “Height?” I asked.

  “Six feet one,” Mrs. Stonehouse said.

  “A little shorter than that, Mother,” Glynis said quietly. “Not quite six feet.”

  “Color of hair?”

  “Brownish,” Ula said.

  “Mostly gray,” Glynis said.

  We finally selected a glossy 8 X 10 publicity photo. I thanked Ula and Glynis Stonehouse and assured them I’d keep them informed of the progress of my investigation.

  Downstairs, I asked the man behind the desk if he had been on duty the night Yale Stonehouse had walked out the apartment house, never to be seen again. He said No, that would be Bert Lord, who was on duty from 4:00 P.M. to midnight.

  Bert usually showed up around 3:30 to change into his uniform in the basement, and if I came back in fifteen or twenty minutes, I’d probably be able to talk to him.

  So I walked around the neighborhood for a while, trying to determine Professor Stonehouse’s possible routes after he left his apartment house.

  There was an IND subway station on Central Park West and 72nd Street. He could have gone uptown or downtown.

  He could have taken a crosstown bus on 72nd Street that would have carried him down to 57th Street, across to Madison Avenue, then uptown to East 72nd Street.

  He could have walked over to Columbus Avenue and taken a downtown bus.

  He could have taken an uptown bus on Amsterdam.

  A Broadway bus would have taken him down to 42nd Street and eastward.

  A Fifth Avenue bus, boarded at Broadway and 72nd Street, would have taken him downtown via Fifth to Greenwich Village.

  The Seventh Avenue IRT could have carried him to the Bronx or Brooklyn.

  Or a car could have been waiting to take him anywhere.

  When I returned to the apartment house precisely seventeen minutes later, there was a different uniformed attendant behind the desk.

  “Mr. Lord?” I asked.

  “That’s me,” he said.

  I explained who I was and that I was investigating the disappearance of Professor Stonehouse on behalf of the family’s attorneys.

  “I already told the cops,” he said. “Everything I know.”

  “I realize that,” I said. “He left the building about 8:45 on the night of January 10th—right?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “Wearing hat, overcoat, scarf?”

  “Yup.”

  “Didn’t say anything to you?”

  “Not a word.”

  “But that wasn’t unusual,” I said. “Was it? I mean, he wasn’t exactly what you’d call a sociable man, was he?”

  “You can say that again.”

  I didn’t. I said, “Mr. Lord, do you remember what the weather was like that night?”

  He looked at me. He had big, blue, innocent eyes.

  “I can’t recall,” he said. “It was a month ago.”

  I took a five-dollar bill from my wallet, slid it across the marble-topped desk. A chapped paw appeared and flicked it away.

  “Now I remember,” Mr. Bert Lord said. “A bitch of a night. Cold. A freezing rain turning to sleet. I remember thinking he was some kind of an idiot to go out on a night like that.”

  “Cold,” I repeated. “A freezing rain. But he didn’t ask you to call a cab?”

  “Him?” he said. He laughed scornfully. “No way. He was afraid I’d expect tow bits for turning on the light over the canopy.”

  “So he just walked out?”

  “Yup.”

  “You didn’t see which way he headed?”

  “Nope. I couldn’t care less.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lord.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I went directly home, arrived a little after 5:00 P.M., changed into chino slacks and an old sports jacket, and headed out to eat. And there was Captain Bramwell Shank in his wheelchair in the hallway, facing the staircase. He whirled his chair expertly when he heard my door open.

  “What the hell?” he said. “I been waiting for you to come home, and you been inside all the time!”

  “I got home early,” I explained. “Not so long ago.”

  “I been waiting,” he repeated.

  “Captain,” I said, “I’m hungry and I’m going out for something to eat. Can I knock on your
door when I come back? In an hour or so?”

  “After seven,” he said. “There’s a rerun of Ironsides I’ve got to watch. After seven o’clock is okay. Nothing good on till nine.”

  Woody’s on West 23rd was owned and managed by Louella Nitch, a widowed lady whose late husband had left her the restaurant and not much else. She was childless, and I think she sometimes thought of her clientele as her family. Most of the customers were from the neighborhood and knew each other. It was almost a club. Everyone called her Nitchy.

  When I arrived on the blowy Monday night, there were only a dozen drinkers in the front room and six diners in back. But the place was warm, the little lamps on the tables gleamed redly, the juke box was playing an old and rare Bing Crosby record (“Just a Gigolo”), and the place seemed a welcoming haven to me.

  Louella Nitch was about forty and the skinniest woman I had ever seen. She was olive-skinned and she wore her hair cut short, hugging her scalp like a black helmet. Her makeup was liberally applied, with dark eyeshadow and precisely painted lips. She wore hoop earrings, Victorian rings, necklaces of baroque medallions and amulets.

  She was seated at the front of the bar when I entered, peering at a sheaf of bills through half-glasses that made her small face seem even smaller: a child’s face.

  “Josh!” she said. “Where have you been? You know, I dreamed about you the other night.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I took the stool next to her and ordered a beer. She told me about her dream: she was attending a wedding and I stood waiting for the bride to come down the aisle; I was the groom.

  “What about the bride?” I asked. “Did you get a look at her?”

  She shook her head regretfully. “I woke up before she came in. But I distinctly saw you, Josh. You’re not thinking of getting married, are you?”

  “Not likely,” I said. “Who’d have a runt like me?”

  She put a hand on my arm. “You think too much about that, Josh. You’re a good-looking man; you’ve got a steady job. Lots of girls would jump at the chance.”

  “Name one,” I said.

  “Are you serious?” she said, looking at me closely. “If you are, I could fix you up right now. I don’t mean a one-night stand. I mean a nice, healthy, goodhearted neighborhood girl who wants to settle down and have kids. How about it? Should I make a call?”

  “Well, uh, not right now, Nitchy,” I said. “I’m just not ready yet.”

  “How old are you—twenty-eight?”

  “Thirty-two,” I confessed.

  “My God,” she said, “you’ve only got two years to go. Statistics prove that if a man isn’t married by the time he’s thirty-four, chances are he’ll never get hitched. You want to turn into one of those old, crotchety bachelors I see mumbling in their beer?”

  “Oh, I suppose I’ll get married one of these days.”

  I think she sensed my discomfort, because she abruptly changed the subject.

  “You here for a drink, Josh, or do you want to eat? I’m not pushing, but the chef made a nice beef stew, and if you’re going to eat, I’ll have some put aside for you before the mob comes in and finishes it.”

  “Beef stew sounds great,” I said. “I’ll have it right now. Can I have it here at the bar?”

  “Why not?” she said. “I’ll have Hettie set you up. There’s a girl for you, Josh—Hettie.”

  “Except she outweighs me by fifty pounds.”

  “That’s right,” she said, laughing raucously. “They’d be peeling you off the ceiling!”

  The stew was great.

  I was putting on my parka when Louella Nitch came hurrying over.

  “So soon?” she asked.

  “Work to do,” I lied, smiling.

  “Listen, Josh,” she said, “I wasn’t just talking; if you want to meet a nice girl, let me know. I mean it.”

  “I know you mean it, Nitchy,” I said. “You’re very kind. But I’ll find my own.”

  “I hope so,” she said sadly. Then she brightened. “Sure you will. Remember my dream? Every time you’ve come in here you’ve been alone. But one of these days you’re going to waltz through that door with a princess on your arm. A princess!”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  2

  MR. TABATCHNICK, DUSTING FISH feed from his fingers, looked at me as if he expected the worst.

  “And exactly how, Mr. Bigg,” he asked in that trumpeting voice, “were you able to gain entrance to the Kipper household?”

  I wished he hadn’t asked that question. But I couldn’t lie to him, in case Mrs. Tippi Kipper called to check on my cover story. So I admitted I had claimed to be engaged in making an inventory of the Kipper estate. I had feared he would be angered to learn of my subterfuge. Instead, he seemed diverted. At least all those folds and jowls of his bloodhound face seemed to lift slightly in a grimace that might have been amusement.

  But when he spoke, his voice was stern.

  “Mr. Bigg,” he said, “when a complete inventory of the estate is submitted to competent authorities, it must be signed by the attorney of record and, in this case, by the co-executor. Who just happens to be me. Failure to disclose assets, either deliberately or by inadvertence, may constitute a felony. Are you aware of that?”

  “I am now, sir,” I said miserably. “But I didn’t intend to make the final, legal inventory. All I wanted to do was—”

  “I am quite aware of what you wanted to do,” he said impatiently. “Get inside the house. It wasn’t a bad ploy. But I suggest that if Mrs. Kipper or anyone else questions your activities in the future, you state that you are engaged in a preliminary inventory. The final statement, to which I must sign my name, will be compiled by attorneys and appraisers experienced in this kind of work. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Just one thing, sir. In addition to this Kipper matter, I am also looking into something for Mr. Teitelbaum. The disappearance of a client. Professor Yale Stonehouse.”

  “I am aware of that,” he said magisterially.

  “In addition to my regular duties,” I reminded him. “So far, I have been able to keep up with my routine assignments. But the Kipper and Stonehouse cases are taking more and more of my time. It would help a great deal if I had the services of a secretary. Someone to handle the typing and filing.”

  He stared at me.

  “Not necessarily full time,” I added hastily. “Perhaps a temporary or part-time assistant who could come in a few days a week or a few hours each day. Not a permanent employee. Nothing like that, sir.”

  He sighed heavily. “Mr. Bigg,” he said, “you would be astounded at the inevitability with which part-time or temporary assistants become permanent employees. However, I think your request has some merit. I shall discuss the matter with the other senior partners.”

  I was about to ask for a larger office as well, but then thought better of it. I would build my empire slowly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tabatchnick,” I said, gathering up my file. “One final question: I’d like your permission to speak to the two Kipper sons, the ones who are managing the textile company.”

  “Why not?” he said.

  “And what story do you suggest I give them, sir? As an excuse for talking to them about the death of their father?”

  “Oh…” he said, almost dreamily, “I’ll leave that to you, Mr. Bigg. You seem to be doing quite well—so far.”

  I called Powell Stonehouse. It was the second time I had tried to reach him that morning. A woman had answered the first call and told me that he was meditating and could not be disturbed. This time I got through to him. I identified myself, explained my interest in the disappearance of his father, and asked when I could see him.

  “I don’t know what good that would do,” he said in a stony voice. “I’ve already told the cops everything I know.”

  “Yes, Mr. Stonehouse,” I said, “I’m aware of that. But there’s some background information only you can supply. It won’t
take long.”

  “Can’t we do it on the phone?” he asked.

  “I’d rather not,” I said. “It concerns some, uh, rather confidential matters.”

  “Like what?” he said suspiciously.

  He wasn’t making it easy for me.

  “Well…family relationships that might have a bearing on your father’s disappearance. I’d really appreciate talking to you in person, Mr. Stonehouse.”

  “Oh…all right,” he said grudgingly. “But I don’t want to spend too much time on this.”

  The bereaved son.

  “It won’t take long,” I assured him again. “Any time at your convenience.”

  “Tonight,” he said abruptly. “I meditate from eight to nine. I’ll see you for an hour after nine. Don’t arrive before that; it would have a destructive effect.”

  “I’ll be there after nine,” I promised. “I have your address. Thank you, Mr. Stonehouse.”

  “Peace,” he said.

  That caught me by surprise. Peace. I thought that had disappeared with the Flower Children of the 1960s.

  My next call was to butler Chester Heavens at the Kipper townhouse. I told him I’d like to come by at 2:00 P.M. to continue my inventory, if that was satisfactory. He said he was certain it would be, that “mom” had left orders that I was to be admitted whenever I asked.

  I went out to lunch at 1:00 P.M., had a hotdog and a mug of root beer at a fast-food joint on Third Avenue. Then I walked back to Madison and took another look in the window of that dress shop. The green sweater was still there.

  I arrived at the Kipper home ahead of time and walked around the block until it was 2:00 P.M. Then I rang the bell at the iron gate. I was carrying my briefcase, with pens, notebook, and rough plans I had drawn from memory of the six townhouse floors.

  Chester Heavens let me in, looking like an extremely well-fed mortician. He informed me that Mrs. Kipper was in the sitting room with the Reverend Godfrey Knurr and a few other close friends. Mrs. Bertha Neckin and Perdita Schug were in the kitchen, preparing tea for this small party.

  “You are most welcome to join us there, sah, if you desire a cup of coffee or tea,” the butler said.

  I thanked him but said I’d prefer to get my inventory work finished first. Then I’d be happy to join the staff in the kitchen. He bowed gravely and told me to go right ahead. If I needed any assistance, I could ring him from almost any room in the house.