When I got back to my office, Mrs. Gertrude Kletz was seated at her new desk in the corridor. She was on the phone, making notes. I thought, gratified, that she looked very efficient indeed. I went to my own desk, sat down in my coat and hat, and made rapid, scribbled notes of my conversation with Mrs. Tippi Kipper. My jottings could not convey the flavor of our exchange, but I wanted to make certain I had a record of her denial of knowing Martin Reape, her admission of heavy contributions to the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, and the anger she had exhibited when she learned of my meeting with Knurr.
I was just finishing up when my new assistant came into the office, carrying a spiral-bound stenographer’s pad.
“Good morning, Mrs. Kletz,” I said.
“Good morning, Mr. Bigg.”
We beamed at each other. She was wearing a tentlike flannel jumper over a man-tailored shirt. I asked her if her desk, chair, telephone, and supplies were satisfactory, and she said they were.
“Did you get all my notes?” I asked her. “Did they make sense to you?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “No problems. I found the lab that did business with Professor Stonehouse.”
“You didn’t?” I said, surprised and delighted. “How many calls did it take?”
“Fourteen,” she said casually, as if it was a trifle. A treasure, that woman! “They did two chemical analyses for Professor Stonehouse.” She handed me a note. “Here’s all the information: date and cost and so forth. They didn’t tell me what the analyses were.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I know what they were. I think. Thank you, Mrs. Kletz.”
“On the other research requests—I’m working on those now.”
“Good,” I said. “Stick with it. If you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask me.”
“Oh, I won’t be afraid,” she said.
I didn’t think she would be—of anything. I made a sudden decision. From instinct, not reason.
“Mrs. Kletz,” I said, “I’m going out to lunch at one and will probably be back in an hour or so. If you get some time, take a look at the Kipper and Stonehouse files. They’re in the top drawer of the cabinet. I’d like your reaction.”
“All right,” she said placidly. “This is interesting work, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes,” I agreed enthusiastically. “Interesting.”
I took off my coat and hat long enough to wash up in the men’s room. Then I put them on again, took up my shopping bag, and sallied forth to take Yetta Apatoff to lunch.
Fifteen minutes later we were seated at a table for two in the Chinese restaurant on Third Avenue. I ordered eggrolls, wonton soup, shrimp with lobster sauce, and fried rice. After all, it was a birthday celebration. Before the eggrolls were served, I withdrew the gift-wrapped package from the shopping bag and presented it to Yetta.
“Many happy returns,” I said.
“Oh, Josh,” she said, her eyes moons, “you shouldn’t have. I had no idea…!” She tore at the gift-wrapped package with frantic fingers. When she saw the contents, her mouth made an O of delighted surprise.
“Josh,” she breathed, “how did you know?” Understandably triumphant due to the lead I’d just taken over Hooter in the Apatoff Stakes, I nonetheless managed to smile modestly and flirt sheepishly for the rest of the meal. The warmth of Yetta’s grasp as we parted definitely promised an escalation of our relationship in the very near future.
As I approached my office, I noticed Mrs. Kletz was poring over a file on her corridor desk. She was so engrossed that she didn’t look up until I was standing next to her.
“Which one is that?” I asked, gesturing toward the folder.
“The Kipper case. I’m almost finished with it. People,” she intoned with a sweetly sad half-smile. She wasn’t saying, “The horror of them,” she was saying, “The wonder of them.”
“Yes,” I said. “Come into my office, please, when you’re finished with it.”
I hung away my coat and hat and called Ada Mondora and asked for a meeting with Mr. Teitelbaum. She said she’d get back to me.
Mrs. Kletz had left on my desk the research inquiries she had answered, using the sources I had supplied. She’d done a thorough job and I was satisfied. I typed up first-draft memos to the junior partners and associates who had requested the information and left them for Mrs. Kletz to do the final copies. She came into my office as I was finishing, carrying the Kipper file.
“Sit down, Mrs. Kletz,” I said, motioning toward my visitor’s chair. “I have just one more rough to do and I’ll be through. You did a good job on these, by the way.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
It was one of the few times in my life I had been called “Sir.” I found it an agreeable experience.
I finished the final draft and pushed the stack across the desk to my assistant.
“I’ll need two finished copies on these,” I said. “Do what you can today and the rest can go over to Monday.” I drew the Kipper file toward me and rapped it with my knuckles. “Strictly confidential,” I said, staring at her.
“Oh yes. I understand.”
“What do you think of it all?”
“Mr. Bigg,” she said, “is it always the one you least suspect?”
I laughed. “Don’t try to convince the New York Police Department of that. They believe it’s always the one you most suspect. And they’re usually right. Who do you suspect?”
“I think the widow and the preacher are in cahoots,” she said seriously. “I think they were playing around before the husband died. He suspected and hired that private detective to make sure. When he had the evidence, he decided to change his will. So they killed him.”
I looked at her admiringly.
“Yes,” I said, nodding, “that’s my theory, and it’s a—it’s an elegant theory that explains most of the known facts. After Sol Kipper died, Marty Reape tried blackmail. But he underestimated their determination, or their desperation. So he was killed. His widow inherited his files, including his copies of the Kipper evidence. She sold the evidence, or part of it, or perhaps she made copies, realizing what a gold mine she had. She got greedy, so she had to be eliminated, too. Does that make sense?”
“Oh yes. Tippi and Knurr, they were only interested in Mr. Kipper’s money. But with the evidence he had, he could get a divorce, and her settlement would have been a lot less than she’ll inherit now. So they murdered the poor man.”
“It’s an elegant theory,” I repeated. “There’s just one thing wrong with it: they couldn’t have done it.”
“I’ve been puzzling that out,” she said frowning. “Is it positive there was no one else in the house?”
“A hired killer? The servants say that no one came in and they saw no one leave. The police were there soon after Sol died, and they searched the house thoroughly and found no one.”
“Could they be lying? The servants? For money?”
“I don’t believe they’re lying, and the detective who did the police investigation doesn’t think they are either. If they were in on it, they would all have to be in on it. That means five people engaged in a murder conspiracy. I can’t see it. The more people involved, the weaker the chain. Too many opportunities for continuing blackmail. Tippi and Knurr are too smart for that. I think it happened the way they told it: four people on the ground floor when Sol Kipper went to his death.”
She sighed. “Leaving a suicide note,” she said.
“Yes, there’s that, too.”
“What will you do now?”
“Well, I—” I stopped suddenly. What would I do now? “I don’t know,” I confessed to Mrs. Kletz. “I don’t know what more I can do. I can follow Tippi or the Reverend Knurr. I can definitely establish that they are having an affair. But what good will that do? It won’t bring me any closer to learning how the murder of Sol Kipper was engineered. And I’m just as convinced as you are that it was murder.”
“Chicago,” she said.
“What?”
“In your notes, Mr. Bigg. The Reverend told you he was from the Chicago area. Then the Kipper sons told you that they thought Tippi came from Chicago.”
I took a deep breath. “Thank you, Mrs. Kletz,” I said fervently. “That’s exactly the sort of thing I hoped you might spot. I’ve been too close to this thing, but you came to it fresh. All right, maybe they’re both from the Chicago area. What does that prove? Probably nothing. Unless they knew each other before they ended up in New York. Even that might not mean anything unless…”
“Unless,” she said, “they had been involved together in something similar.”
“Back in Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “It’s not much, but it might be sufficient to convince the NYPD to reopen their investigation. They’ve got resources and techniques to unravel this thing a lot faster than I could hope to. Meanwhile, I’ll try to dig up what I can on the Chicago background of Tippi and Knurr. It may prove to be nothing, but I’ve got to—”
The phone rang. Mr. Teitelbaum was free now.
Ada Mondora clinked her gypsy jewelry at me and smiled pertly as I stood before her desk.
“I hear someone had a nice lunch today,” she said archly.
“News does get around, doesn’t it?” I said.
“What should we talk about?” she demanded. “Torts? Yetta just loves her sweater.”
I groaned.
“I think my bet is safe,” Ada said complacently. “I’m betting on you. Thelma will just die when she hears about the sweater.”
“Thelma Potts? She’s betting on Hooter?”
“Didn’t you know?” Ada asked innocently, widening those flashing eyes and showing her brilliant white teeth. “As a matter of fact, Thelma and I have a private bet. Lunch at the Four Seasons. I know exactly what I’m going to order.”
When I entered Mr. Teitelbaum’s office, he was seated, as usual, behind his enormous desk, his pickled hands clasped on top. He motioned me to an armchair, asked for a report on the Stonehouse investigation.
Consulting my notes, I capsuled the results of my inquiries as briefly and succinctly as I could. I told him that I first suspected the nightly cup of cocoa was the means by which Professor Stonehouse was poisoned, but I now realized it was the brandy in the Professor’s study. I reported that Stonehouse had submitted two substances for analysis at a chemical laboratory.
“I will try to obtain copies of those analyses, sir,” I said. “I’d be willing to bet the arsenic was put into the Professor’s cognac.”
“By whom?”
I told him about my interviews with Powell Stonehouse and Wanda Chard, and my last meeting with Glynis Stonehouse. I said that Powell seemed to have easiest access to the poison, via Wanda Chard, but since he was banished from his father’s home during the period of the poisoning, it seemed unlikely that he was the culprit, unless he was working in collusion with one or more of the other members of the household.
“You think that likely?” Mr. Teitelbaum asked in his surprisingly vigorous voice.
“No, sir.”
“Surely not the wife then? On her own?”
“No, sir.”
“The servants?”
“No, sir,” I said sighing. “The daughter. But I must tell you, I have absolutely no proof to support that suspicion. I don’t know where she could have obtained the arsenic. I don’t know what her motive might possibly have been.”
“Do you think her mentally unbalanced?”
“No, sir, I do not. Mr. Teitelbaum, it might help if you could explain to me what happens legally in this case. I mean, what happens to the assets of the missing man?”
It was his turn to sigh. He entwined his leathery fingers, looked down on his clasped hands on the desktop as if they were a ten-legged animal, a kind of lizard perhaps, that had nothing to do with him.
“Mr. Bumble said that the law is an ass,” he said. “I might amend that to say that the law is usually half-ass.”
A lawyer’s joke. I laughed dutifully.
“The laws concerning the estate of a missing person are somewhat involved,” he continued sharply. “Common law, as approved by the Supreme Court in 1878 in the case of Davie versus Briggs, establishes a presumption of death after seven years. However, the Stonehouse case must be adjudicated under the statutes of New York State, of which there are two applying to this particular situation.”
I stifled a groan and settled a little deeper into my armchair. I was in for a lecture, when all I had wanted was a one-sentence answer.
“The Estates, Powers and Trusts Law allows a presumption of death after five years of continuous absence, providing—and this is one of the reasons I requested you make a thorough investigation—providing that the missing person was exposed to a specific peril of death and that a diligent search was made prior to application that a declaration of presumed death be issued by the court. At that point, after five years, assuming the two conditions I have just stated have been observed, the missing person may be presumed dead and his will submitted to probate. But if, subsequent to those five years, he suddenly appears, he may legally claim his estate. Thus, ‘diligent search’ is of paramount importance in the presumption of his death. Are you following me, Mr. Bigg?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I think so.”
“On the other hand,” Mr. Teitelbaum said with great satisfaction, and I realized that, to a lawyer, “On the other hand” contains as much emotional impact as “I love you” would to a layman.
“On the other hand,” he continued, “the Surrogate’s Court Procedure Act, dealing with the administration of the estates of missing persons, provides that not until ten years after the date of disappearance does the missing person lose all interest in his property. The estate is then distributed to his heirs by will or the laws of intestacy. This is simply a statute of limitations on the time in which a missing person may claim his estate. After those ten years, he is, to all intents and purposes, legally dead, although he may still be alive. If he shows up in person after those ten years, he owns nothing.”
“And during those ten years, sir? Can his dependents draw on his assets?”
“A temporary administrator, appointed by the court, preserves the assets of the estate, pays the required taxes, supports the missing person’s family, and so forth. But once again, a diligent search must be made to locate the missing person.”
“Now I am confused, sir,” I said. “Apparently, under the first law you mentioned, a missing person can be declared dead after five years. Under the second law, it requires ten years before the estate can be divided amongst his heirs.”
“A nice point,” Mr. Teitelbaum said. “And one that has occasioned some heated debate amongst our younger attorneys and clerks to whom I assigned the problem. My personal opinion is that the two statutes are not necessarily contradictory. For instance, in the second case, under the Surrogate’s Court Procedure Act, during the ten-year administration of the estate, the administrator or any interested person may petition for probate of the will by presenting sufficient proof of death. I would judge,” he added dryly, “that the finding of the body would constitute sufficient proof.”
“Uh, well, sir,” I said, trying to digest all this, “what is going to happen to the Stonehouse family, exactly?”
“I would say,” he intoned in his most judicial tones, “after reviewing the options available, that they would be wise to file for relief under the SCPA and accept in good spirit the appointment of a temporary administrator of Professor Stonehouse’s estate. That is the course I intend to urge upon Mrs. Stonehouse. However, in all honesty, Mr. Bigg, I must confess that I have not been moving expeditiously in this matter. Mrs. Stonehouse and the children, while hardly individually wealthy, have sufficient assets of their own to carry them awhile without fear of serious privation. Their apartment, for instance, is a cooperative, fully paid for, with a relatively modest maintenance charge. I have, in a sense, been dragging my
feet on an application for appointment of a temporary administrator until we can prove to the court that a diligent search for Professor Stonehouse has indeed been made. Also, I am quite disturbed by what you have told me of the attempted poisoning. I would like to see that matter cleared up before a court application is made. I would not care to see an allowance paid to a family member who might have been, ah, criminally involved in the Professor’s disappearance.”
“No, sir,” I said. “I wouldn’t either. Another point: supposing that an administrator is appointed for a period of ten years and nothing is heard from Professor Stonehouse during that time. Then his will goes to probate?”
“That is correct.”
“And if no will can be found?”
“Then the division of his estate would be governed by the laws of intestacy.”
“Could he disinherit his wife? If he left a will, I mean?”
“Doubtful. Disinheriting one’s spouse is not considered in the public interest. However, he might disinherit his wife with a clear reason provable in a court of law.”
“Like trying to poison him?”
“That might be sufficient reason for disinheritance,” he acknowledged cautiously. “Providing incontrovertible proof was furnished.”
“The same holds true for his son and daughter, I presume?”
Mr. Ignatz Teitelbaum took a deep breath.
“Mr. Bigg,” he said, “the laws of inheritance are not inviolable. Even an expertly drawn will is not a sacred document. Anyone can sue, and usually does. Ask any attorney. These matters are usually settled by compromise, give-and-take. Litigation frequently results. When it does, out-of-court settlements are common.”
“May I pose a hypothetical question, sir?”
“You may,” he said magisterially.
The Tenth Commandment Page 23
