The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Really?” she said, pleasantly surprised. “Well, I’ll do what I can.”

  “Effie, who buys the liquor for the family—the whiskey, wine, beer, and so forth?”

  “I do. I call down to the liquor store on Columbus Avenue and they deliver it.”

  “And after they deliver it, where is it kept?”

  “Well, I always make certain the bar in the living room is kept stocked with everything that might be needed. Plenty of sherry for you-know-who. The reserve I keep right here in the kitchen. In the bottom cupboard.”

  “And the Professor’s brandy? That he drank every night?”

  “I always kept an extra bottle or two on hand. God forbid we should ever run out when he wanted it!”

  “How long did a bottle last him, Effie? The bottle in his study, I mean?”

  “Oh, maybe ten days.”

  “So he finished about three bottles of cognac a month?”

  “About.”

  “And those bottles were kept in the kitchen cupboard?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who put a fresh bottle in the Professor’s study?”

  “He’d come in here and fetch it himself. Or I’d take it to him if he had a dead soldier. Or like as not, Glynis would bring him a new bottle.”

  “And there was usually a bottle of Rémy Martin in the living room bar as well?”

  “Oh no,” she said, laughing. “The brandy in there is Eye-talian. The Professor kept the good stuff for himself.”

  He would, I thought, gleeful at what I had learned.

  “One more question, Effie,” I said. “Very important. Please think carefully and try to recall before you answer. In the month or so before the Professor disappeared, do you remember bringing a fresh bottle of brandy to his study?”

  She was silent.

  “No,” she said finally, “I didn’t bring him any. Maybe Glynis did, or maybe he came into the kitchen and got it himself. Wait a minute. I’m on the kitchen extension; it’ll just take me a minute to check.”

  She was gone a short while.

  “That’s odd,” she said. “I was checking the cupboard. I remember having two bottles in there. There’s one there now and one unopened bottle in the Professor’s study.”

  “Do you recall buying any new bottles of Rémy Martin in the month or six weeks before the Professor disappeared?”

  Silence again for a moment.

  “That’s odd,” she repeated. “I don’t remember buying any, but I should have, him going through three bottles a month. But I can’t recall ordering a single bottle. I’ll have to go through my bills to make sure.”

  “Could you do that, Effie?”

  “Be glad to,” she said briskly. “Now I’ve got to ring off; something’s beginning to scorch.”

  “You’ve been very kind,” I said hurriedly. “A big help.”

  “Really?” she said. “That’s nice.”

  We hung up.

  If I had been Professor Stonehouse, learning I was a victim of arsenic poisoning, I would have set out to discover how it was being done and who was doing it. And, I was certain, he had discovered who had been doing the fiddling.

  It was then getting on to 6:00 P.M. I had no idea how long it would take me to get uptown in the storm, so I donned rubbers, turned up the collar of my overcoat, pulled my hat down snugly, and started out. I said goodnight to the security guard and stepped outside.

  I was almost blown away. This was not one of your soft, gentle snowfalls with big flakes drifting down slowly in silence and sparkling in the light of streetlamps and neon signs. This was a maelstrom, the whole world in turmoil. Snow came whirling straight down, was blown sideways, even rose up in gusty puffs from drifts beginning to pile up on street corners.

  There were at least twenty people waiting for the Third Avenue bus. After a wait that seemed endless but was probably no more than a quarter-hour, not one but four buses appeared out of the swirling white. I wedged myself aboard the last one. The ride seemed to take an eternity. At 69th, five other passengers alighted and I was popped out along with them. I fought my way eastward against the wind, bent almost double to keep snow out of my face.

  And there, right around the corner on Second Avenue, was a neon sign glowing redly through the snow: MOTHER TUCKER’S.

  “Bless you, Mother,” I said aloud.

  Perdita was there, in the front corner of the bar, perched on a stool, wearing a black dress cut precariously low. Her head was back, gleaming throat exposed, and she was laughing heartily at something the man standing next to her had just said. The place was jammed in spite of the weather, but Perdita was easy to find.

  She saw me almost the instant I saw her. She slid off the barstool with a very provocative movement and rushed to embrace me with a squeal of pleasure, burying me in her embonpoint.

  “Josh!” she cried, and then made that deep, growling sound in her throat to signify pleasure. “I never, never, never thought you’d show up. I just can’t believe you came out in all this shit to see little me.” Her button eyes sparkled, her tongue darted in and out between wet lips. “You poor dear, we must get you thawed out. Col, see if you can get a round from Harry.”

  “What’s your pleasure, sir?” her companion asked politely.

  “Scotch please, with water.”

  We introduced ourselves. He was Clyde Manila—Colonel Clyde Manila. Perdita called him Col, which could have meant in his case either Colonel or Colonial.

  A bearded bartender, working frantically, heard the call, paused, and cupped his ear toward Colonel Manila.

  “More of the same, Harry, plus Scotch and water.”

  Harry nodded and in a few moments set the drinks before us. I reached for my wallet but Harry swiftly extracted the required amount from the pile of bills and change on the bar in front of the Colonel.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “The next one’s on me.”

  “Forget it,” Perdita advised. “The Col’s loaded. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

  “I mean to be,” he said, swallowing half his drink in one enormous gulp. “No use trying to get home on a night like this—what?” His tiny eyes closed in glee.

  He was genially messy in effect—white walrus mustache, swollen boozy nose, hairy tweed hacking jacket, all crowned with an ill-fitting ginger toupee.

  “I’m awfully hungry,” I said. “Perdita, do you think there’s any chance of our getting a table?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Col, talk to Max.”

  Obediently he moved away, pushing his way through the mob.

  “A pleasant place,” I said to Perdita, who was winking at someone farther down the bar.

  “This joint?” she said. “A home away from home. You can always score here, Josh. Remember that: you can always score at Mother Tucker’s. Here comes Col.”

  I turned to see Colonel Manila waving wildly at us.

  “He’s got a table,” Perdita said. “Let’s go.”

  “Is he going to eat with us?” I asked.

  “Col? No way. He never eats.”

  I wanted to thank him for obtaining a table for us, but missed him in the crush.

  At the table she said, “I want another drink, and then I want a Caesar salad, spaghetti with oil and garlic, scampi, and a parfait for dessert.”

  I cringed from fear that I might not have enough to pay for all that. I do not believe in credit cards.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked.

  “Who knows?” she said. “I’ve been here since one o’clock this afternoon.”

  A waitress appeared in a T-shirt that said “Rat is Beautiful.” We settled on a drink for Perdita and the waitress left.

  “Don’t worry about the check,” Perdita said breezily. “Colonel Manila will pay.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said indignantly. “I invited you. He doesn’t have to pay for our dinner.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “He likes to buy me things. I told you—he’s loaded. Ligh
t my cigarette.”

  Talking to her was no problem; it was only necessary to listen. She babbled through our second round of drinks, through her gargantuan meal and a bottle of Chianti. I tried, several times, to bring the conversation around to the Kipper household, saying such things as: “I imagine this is better food than Mrs. Neckin’s.” But Perdita picked up on none of these leads; her monologue would not be interrupted. I gave up and asked for a check, but the waitress assured me, “It’s been taken care of.”

  “I told you,” Perdita said, laughing. “The Colonel’s always doing things like that for me. He thinks it buys him something.”

  “And does it?” I asked her.

  “Sure,” she said cheerfully. “What do you think? Let’s go back to the bar.”

  This was not really necessary as she was quite drunk already. We rejoined the Colonel, and the idea of going to Hoboken for clams was raised. I said I wouldn’t. Two young men came and whispered in Perdita’s ear and she told them to bug off. They disappeared quickly. The noise was incredible.

  Colonel Clyde Manila was seated, lopsided, on Perdita’s barstool. The moment he saw us, he slid off and bowed to Perdita.

  “Keeping it warm f’you, dear lady,” he said, in a strangled voice.

  “Colonel,” I shouted, “I want to thank you for your kindness. The dinner was excellent.”

  Those pale little eyes seemed to have become glassy. “Good show,” he said.

  “May I buy you a drink, sir?” I asked.

  “Good show,” he said.

  “Oh, don’t be such a pooper, Josh,” Perdita said. “Come dance with me.”

  She clasped me in her arms, closed her eyes, began to shuffle me about. “I just love Viennese waltzes,” Perdita Schug said dreamily.

  “I think that’s ‘Beautiful Ohio,’” I said.

  “Nasty brutes,” Colonel Manila said. He was at my shoulder, staggering after us around the minuscule dance floor. “They smell, y’know. Did you ever sheep a shear?” I had suspected that he was Australian.

  “The last time I saw Paris,” Perdita crooned in my ear. “Let’s you and me make yum-yum.”

  “Perdita,” I said, “I really—”

  “Can we go to your place?” she whispered.

  “Oh no. No, no, no. Really. I’m afraid that wouldn’t—”

  “Where is your place?”

  “Miles from here. Way downtown. West side.”

  “Where is your place?” she said. “Yum-yum.”

  “Way downtown,” I started again.

  “Col!” she screamed. “We’re going.”

  “Good show,” he said.

  We came out of Mother Tucker’s and turned our backs to a vindictive wind that stung with driven snow. Manila motioned and we went plodding after him around the corner onto 69th Street. He halted at a car and began to fumble in his coat pockets for his keys. We all piled into the front, Perdita sitting in the middle.

  “A joint,” the Colonel said.

  “Oh no, sir,” I said. “I thought it was a very pleasant restaurant.”

  Perdita, already fishing in her purse, got out a fat, hand rolled cigarette, both ends twisted.

  She lighted it, took a deep drag, and held it out to the Col. He took a tremendous drag and half the cigarette seemed to disappear in a shower of sparks.

  “Now then,” the Colonel said. He handed the joint back to Perdita, then busied himself with switches and buttons. In a few moments he had the headlights on, engine purring, the heater going. The snow on the windows began to melt away.

  “Whiskey,” the Colonel said, like a drillmaster rapping out commands.

  Perdita twisted around, got onto her knees on the front seat, and leaned far over into the rear Compartment. Her rump jutted into the air. Colonel Manila slapped it lightly.

  “There’s a gel,” he said affectionately.

  She flopped back to her original position with a full decanter and three tumblers, all in cut crystal. She poured us all drinks, big drinks, then set the decanter on the floor between her feet.

  I knew we would be stopped: I knew the police would arrest us. I could imagine the charges. Perhaps, I thought hopefully, I might get off with three years because of my youthful appearance and exemplary record.

  Nothing of the sort happened. The Colonel drove expertly. Even after he turned on the radio to a rock-and-roll station and kept banging the steering wheel with one palm in time to the music, still he smoked, drank, stopped for traffic lights, negotiated turns skillfully, and pulled up right in front of my door, scrunching the limousine into a snowbank. I laughed shrilly.

  “Well, this has certainly been a memorable evening,” I said, listening to the quaver in my voice. “I do want to thank—”

  “Out,” Perdita Schug growled, nudging me. “Let’s go.”

  I stumbled out hastily into the snow. She came scrambling after me. I looked back in at Colonel Clyde Manila. He waggled fingers at me. I waggled back. Perdita slammed the car door, then took my arm in a firm, proprietary grip.

  “Up we go,” she said gaily.

  It was then around midnight. I think. Or it could have been ten. Or it might have been two. Whatever it was, I hoped Mrs. Hermione Hufnagel, Cleo, Captain Bramwell Shank, Adolph Finkel, and Madame Zora Kadinsky were all behind locked doors and sleeping innocently in their warm beds.

  “Shh,” I said to Perdita Schug, leading her upstairs. I giggled nervously.

  “What’s with this shh shit?” she demanded.

  I got her inside my apartment. She was moving now with deliberate and exaggerated caution.

  I switched on the overhead light. I draped our coats and hats over a chairback. She looked around the living room. I awaited her reaction. There was none. She flopped into my armchair.

  “Come sit on my lap,” she said with a vulpine grin.

  I began to stammer, but she grabbed my wrist, drew me to her with surprising strength, and plunked me down onto her soft thighs.

  She kissed me. My toes curled. Inside shoes and the rubbers I had neglected to remove.

  “Mmm,” she said. “That’s better. Much better.”

  She wriggled around, pulled me tighter onto her lap. She had a muscled arm around my neck. She pressed our cheeks together. “The last time I saw Paris,” she sang.

  “Perdita,” I said, giving it one last try, “I can’t understand how you can endure doing the work you do. I mean, you’ve got so much personality and, uh, talent and experience. Why do you stay on as a maid for Tippi Kipper?”

  “It’s a breeze,” she said promptly. “The pay is good. And I get meals and my own apartment. My own telephone. What should I be doing—selling gloves in Macy’s?”

  “But still, it must be boring.”

  “Sometimes yes,” she said. “Sometimes no. Like any other job.”

  “Is Mrs. Kipper, ah, you know, understanding?”

  “Oh sure,” she said, laughing. “I get away with murder. That Chester Heavens would like to bounce my ass right out of there, and Mrs. Neckin called me ‘the spawn of the devil.’ They’d both like me out of there, but Tippi will never can me. Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “Give us another kissy,” she said.

  I gave her another kissy.

  “You’re learning,” she said. “Listen, Tippi plays around as much as I do. And she knows I know it.”

  “Plays around now or before? I mean, when her husband was alive?”

  “Oh shit, Josh, she’s always played around. As long as I’ve been there. That’ll be four years come April.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do I know? Oh, you poor, sweet, innocent lamb. You think I don’t smell the grass on her and see her underwear and notice her hair is done a different way when she comes home from what she said was a bridge party? Listen, a woman knows these things. A maid especially. Scratches on her back. Fingerprints on her ass. Oh, she’s making it; no doubt about that. Listen, Josh, I’m out of joints. You got
any Scotch?”

  “Well…uh, sure,” I said. “But are you certain you want—”

  “Get me a Scotch,” she commanded.

  I got her a drink.

  “Where’s yours?” she asked.

  “We’ll share this one,” I said.

  “A loving cup,” she said. “And then the yum-yum. Where’s the bed?”

  “In the bedroom.”

  “Not yet,” she said, shaking a reproving finger at me. “Don’t be in such a rush, tiger.”

  “I’m really not,” I assured her. “I mean, it’s not what you—”

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me down onto her lap again. I went to my fate willingly.

  “So cute,” she said drowsily. “You really are cute.”

  ‘Tippi isn’t making it with Knurr, is she?”

  “Ho-ho-ho,” Perdita Schug said. “Is she ever. Two, three times a week, at least. He’s very big in her life right now. Even in the house—can you beat that? I mean it. And while Sol was alive, too. The two of them in the elevator. How does that grab you? Did you ever make it in an elevator, Josh?”

  “No, I never have.”

  “Me, neither,” she said sorrowfully. “But once in a closet,” she said brightening. “The funny thing is…” Her voice trailed away.

  “What’s the funny thing?” I asked.

  “I could have him like that,” she said, trying to snap her fingers. But they just slid over each other. “Knurr, I mean. He’s warm for my form. Always coming on strong. Copping a feel when she isn’t looking. The guy’s a cocksman. A religious cocksman. Now I’m ready for yum-yum.”

  She found the bedroom. I didn’t turn on the bedside lamp; there was enough illumination coming from the hallway. She looked around dazedly, put a hand against the wall to support herself. She turned her back to me.

  “Unzip,” she said.

  Obediently, I drew the long zipper down to her waist. She shrugged the dress off her shoulders, let it fall to the floor, stepped out of it. She was wearing bra, panties, sheer black pantyhose. She shook her head suddenly, flinging her short flapper-cut about in a twirl.

  “I’m zonked,” she announced.

  She plumped down suddenly on the bed, fell back, raised her legs high in the air.