The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  When I told them about the attempted assault on me the previous evening, Detective Stilton paused, his last forkful of steak halfway to his mouth, and stared at me. Then he devoured the final bite, pushed his plate away, and reached for his cigarette case.

  I told them how I had shadowed Godfrey Knurr, how he had traveled up to that West Side garage, met a woman, and how the two of them drove northward in a black Mercedes-Benz.

  “But it wasn’t Tippi Kipper,” I said. “It was Glynis Stonehouse.”

  I finished my hamburger and looked up. Detective Percy Stilton had lighted his cigarette. He was puffing calmly, looking into the space over my head. Maybelle Hawks had also finished her dinner despite my earthshaking news. She was patting her lips delicately with her napkin.

  “Good steak,” was all she said.

  Stilton’s eyes came down slowly until he was staring at me.

  “Roll me over,” he sang softly, “in the clover. Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again.”

  “Coffee?” the waitress asked.

  We agreed and added brandy to the order. Nothing was said until the waitress moved away. Then Detective Stilton struck the top of the table with his palm. Cutlery jumped.

  “That fucker,” Stilton cried. “That fucker!”

  “Easy, babe,” Maybelle Hawks said. “Don’t get physical.”

  “You think…?” I said.

  “Sheet,” the detective said disgustedly. “It’s him. It’s got to be him. I don’t know how he managed the Kipper snuff or what he did with Stonehouse, but it’s him, it’s got to be him. And he thinks he’s going to stroll, chuckling.”

  “He’s doing all right so far,” Belle said dryly.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “But it’s all guesswork.”

  Stilton ground out his cigarette, half-smoked, and immediately lighted another.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Guesswork. No hard evidence. Right. Well, I’ll tell you, Josh, sometimes it goes like that. You got the guy cold but you can’t prove.”

  “What do you do then?”

  He put his head far back, blew smoke at the ceiling.

  “Well…” he said slowly, “I know a couple of guys who owe me. Not cops,” he added hurriedly. “Just friends from my old neighborhood. They like to go hunting.”

  I looked at him, puzzled.

  “They could take this Knurr hunting with them,” he said. “In the forest. Lots of trees upstate. Accidents happen all the time. Hunting accidents.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?” Stilton demanded harshly.

  “Perce,” I said, “I don’t believe in brute force and brute morality. I don’t believe they rule the world. I don’t believe they’re what make history and form the future. I just don’t believe that. I can’t believe that, Perce. Look at me. I’m a shrimp. If brute force is what it’s all about, then I haven’t got a chance, I’m dead already. Also, I don’t want to believe it. If brute morality is the law of survival, then I want to be dead. I don’t want to live in a world like that because it would just be nothing, without hope and without joy.”

  Stilton stared at me, his eyes wide.

  “You’re a pisser,” he said finally.

  “That’s the way I feel,” I said.

  Maybelle Hawks reached across the table and put a hand on my arm.

  “I’m with you, babe,” she said softly.

  The detective leaned back and lighted another cigarette.

  “And the meek shall inherit the earth,” he said tonelessly.

  “I didn’t say that,” I told him angrily. “I want to nail Godfrey Knurr as much as you do. More maybe. He played me for a fool. I’m not meek about it at all. I’m not going to let him escape.”

  “And just how do you figure to nail him?”

  “I’ve got a good brain—I know I have. Knurr isn’t going to stroll away. Right now I can’t tell you exactly how I’m going to nail him, but I know I will. Guile and cunning. That’s what I’m going to use against him. Those are the only weapons of a persecuted minority. And that is how I consider myself: a member of the minority of shorts.”

  “All right, Josh,” Stilton said. “We’ll play it your way—for the time being. Tomorrow I’ll see what the machine’s got on the Reverend Godfrey Knurr.”

  “And Tippi Kipper,” I reminded him.

  “Right. You’re going ahead with those posters?”

  “First thing tomorrow.”

  “Take my advice: don’t describe Stonehouse on the posters. If you do, you’ll get a million calls from smart-asses. Just run his picture and give the address of his apartment house. Then, if you get any calls, you can check how legit they are by asking the caller to describe Stonehouse.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Also,” Stilton went on, “check out those chemical analyses Stonehouse had made. Go to the lab, blow some smoke. Get copies of the analyses. You think the arsenic was in the brandy, and you’re probably right. But you need paper. Find that clinic where Glynis does volunteer work. See if they have any arsenic.”

  I was scrawling rapid memoranda in my little notebook. “Anything else?” I asked him.

  “If the clinic doesn’t work out, try to discover where she worked previously. Maybe they had arsenic.”

  “I don’t even know how long ago she worked there,” I said. “Maybe a year or two, or longer.”

  “So?” Percy Stilton said. “It’s possible.”

  “Do you know when Glynis met Godfrey Knurr?” Maybelle Hawks asked.

  “No, I don’t,” I confessed. “I’ll try to find out.”

  “Uh-huh,” Stilton said. “And while you’re at it, try to get us a recent photograph of Glynis.”

  “What for?”

  “Oh, I don’t rightly know,” he said lazily.

  I made a note: Gly foto.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “I don’t know how much time you can put in on this thing,” Perce said, “but it would help if you could keep tabs on Knurr. Just to get some idea of the guy’s schedule. Where he goes, who he sees. Especially where he goes when he and Glynis take off in that black Mercedes from the West Side garage. That’s another thing: try to find out if it’s his car.”

  “It’s not. Knurr owns a battered VW,” I said.

  “Sure,” Stilton said genially. “He would. Fits right in with his image of a poor-but-honest man of the cloth. He’s probably got a portfolio of blue-chip stocks that would knock your eye out. Well, that’s about all I can think of, Josh.” He looked at Maybelle Hawks. “You think of anything else, babe?”

  “Not at the moment,” she said. “I’d feel a lot surer about this whole thing if we could figure out how Knurr and Tippi put Sol Kipper over that railing. Also the suicide note.”

  “You’re a wise old fox,” he told her. “Give it some thought. I’ll bet you’ll come up with something.”

  “I wish I could say the same about you,” she murmured. “Tonight.”

  “Try me,” he said.

  “I intend to,” she said. “Josh, many thanks for the dinner. And you just keep right on. You’re going to crash this; I know you are.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Perce, would you be willing to give me your home telephone number?”

  “Sure,” he said immediately, and did.

  I waited with them until they got a cab. Maybelle swooped to kiss my cheek.

  “I want to see more of you, Josh,” she said. “Promise?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “You’ll come up and have dinner with us? I’m really a very good cook. Right, Perce?”

  He flipped a palm back and forth.

  “So-so,” he said.

  “Bastard,” she said.

  I walked home slowly, ashamed. I was embarrassed at confessing how I saw myself as a member of the persecuted minority of the short.

  Still, it was true. You may believe I was obsessed by my size. Let me tell how I felt. I have already commented on t
he rewards society offers to men of physical stature. The tall are treated with respect; the short earn contempt or amusement. This is true only of men. “Five-foot-two, eyes of blue” is still an encomium for a female. Our language reflects this prejudice. A worthy person is said to be “A man you can look up to.” An impecunious man is suffering from “the shorts.” To be short-tempered is reprehensible. To short-circuit is to frustrate or impede. A shortfall is a deficiency.

  Thus does our language reflect our prejudice. And the philosophy that I had in a moment of weakness divulged to Belle and Perce reflected my deepest feelings about being a midget. From my size, or lack of it, came my beliefs, dreams, ideas, emotions, fantasies, reactions. All of which would be put to the test whether I liked it or not, in the rocky week ahead.

  2

  I ARRIVED AT TORT the next morning before 9:00 A.M. My In basket was piled high with requests for investigations and research, but after shuffling through them, I decided that most could be handled by Mrs. Kletz and the rest could wait.

  Shortly before ten, I phoned Gardner & Weiss, who did all the job printing for Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum. I spoke directly to Mr. Weiss and explained what I wanted on the Stonehouse reward posters.

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ll send a messenger for the photograph and copy. How many do you want?”

  I had no idea. “A hundred,” I said.

  “Wednesday,” he said.

  “This afternoon,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said sadly. “Oh, oh, oh.”

  “It’s a rush job. We’ll pay.”

  “Without saying,” he told me. “You want to see a proof first?”

  “No. I trust you.”

  “You do?” he said.

  “By one o’clock this afternoon?”

  “I’ll try. Only because you said you trust me. The messenger’s on his way.”

  I dug out the photograph of Professor Stonehouse and typed the copy for the poster: REWARD! A generous cash award will be paid to any cabdriver who can prove he picked up this man in the vicinity of Central Park West and 70th Street on the night of January 10th, this year. Then I added the TORT telephone number and my extension.

  As usual, Thelma Potts was seated primly outside the office of Mr. Leopold Tabatchnick.

  “Miss Potts!” I cried, “you’re looking uncommonly lovely this morning.”

  “Oh-oh,” she said. “You want something.”

  “Well, yes. I have a friend who needs legal advice. I wondered if I could have one of Mr. Tabatchnick’s cards to give him.”

  “Liar,” she said. “You want to pretend you’re Mr. Tabatchnick.”

  I was astonished. “How did you know?” I asked her.

  “How many do you need?” she asked, ignoring my question.

  As I was leaving she dunned me for a dollar for the sick kit. I handed it over.

  “Still betting on Hamish Hooter?” I asked her.

  “I only bet on sure things,” she said loftily.

  When Gertrude Kletz came in I called her into my office and showed her the photograph of Professor Stonehouse and the reward copy. I explained that she should expect the posters to be delivered by Gardner & Weiss in the early afternoon. Meanwhile, she could begin compiling a list of taxi garages, which she could get from the Yellow Pages.

  “Or from the Hack Bureau,” she said.

  I looked at her with admiration.

  “Right,” I said. I told her the posters would have to be hand-carried to the garages and, with the permission of the manager, displayed on walls or bulletin boards.

  “I’ll need sticky tape and thumbtacks,” she said cheerfully. The Kipper file had hooked her; now the Stonehouse case had done the same. I could see it in her bright eyes. Her face was burning with eagerness.

  I told her I was off to the lab to check into Stonehouse’s tests, and that by the time I got back, she’d probably be out distributing the posters. I put on hat and coat, grabbed up my briefcase, and rushed out, waving at Yetta as I sailed past.

  She was wearing the green sweater I had given her, but curiously this failed to stir me.

  The chemical laboratory was on Eleventh Avenue near 55th Street. I took a cab over. Bommer & Son, Inc., was on the fourth floor of an unpretentious building set between a sailors’ bar (BIG BOY DRINKS 75 CENTS DURING HAPPY HOUR, 9 TO 2 A.M.) and a gypsy fortune teller (READINGS, PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE, SICKNESS). The elevator was labeled FREIGHT ONLY, so I climbed worn stairs to the fourth floor, the nose-crimping smell of chemicals becoming more intense as I ascended.

  The receptionist in the outer office was typing away at Underwood’s first model. She stopped.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Bommer, please.”

  In a few moments a stoutish man wearing a stained white laboratory coat flung himself into the office.

  “Yes?” he demanded in a reedy voice.

  The receptionist pointed me out. He came close to me, peering suspiciously at my face. I thought him to be in the sixties—possibly the 1860s.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Waldo Bommer?”

  “Yes.”

  I proffered Mr. Tabatchnick’s card. He held it a few inches from his eyes and read it aloud: “Leopold H. Tabatchnick. Attorney-at-Law.” He lowered the card. “Who’s suing?” he asked me.

  “No one,” I said. “I just want a moment of your time. I represent the estate of Professor Yale Stonehouse. Among his papers is a canceled check made out to Bommer & Son, with no accompanying voucher. The government is running a tax audit on the estate, and it would help if you could provide copies of the bill.”

  “Come with me,” he said abruptly.

  I followed him through a rear door into an enormous loft laboratory where five people, three men, two women, all elderly and all wearing stained laboratory coats, were seated on high stools before stone-topped workbenches. They seemed intent on what they were doing; none looked up as we passed through.

  Mr. Waldo Bommer led the way to a private office tucked into one corner. He closed the door behind us.

  “How do you stand it?” I asked him.

  “Stand what?”

  “The smell.”

  “What smell?” he said. He took in a deep breath through his nostrils. “Hydrogen sulfide, hypochlorous acid, sulfur dioxide, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. A smell? I love it. Smells are my bread and butter, mister. How do you think I do a chemical analysis? First, I smell. You see before you an educated nose.”

  He tapped the bridge of his nose. A small pugnose with trumpeting nostrils.

  “An educated nose,” he repeated proudly. “First, I smell. Sometimes that tells me all I have to know.”

  Suddenly he grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me close. I thought he meant to kiss me. But he merely sniffed at my mouth and cheeks.

  “You don’t smoke,” he said. “Right?”

  “Right,” I said, pulling back from his grasp.

  “And this morning, for breakfast, you had coffee and a pastry. Something with fruit in it. Figs maybe.”

  “Prune Danish,” I said.

  “You see!” he said. “An educated nose. My father had the best nose in the business. He could tell you when you had changed your socks. Sit down.”

  Waldo Bommer shuffled through a drawer in a battered oak file.

  “Stacy, Stone, Stonehouse,” he intoned. “Here it is. Professor Yale Stonehouse. Two chemical analyses of unknown liquids. December 14th of last year.”

  “May I take a look?” I asked.

  “Why not?”

  I scanned the two carbon-copy reports. There were a lot of chemical terms; one of them included arsenic trioxide.

  “Could you tell me what these liquids were, please?”

  He snatched the papers from my hands and scanned them. “Simple. This one, plain cocoa. This one was brandy.”

  “The brandy has the arsenic trioxide in it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t you th
ink that unusual?”

  He shrugged.

  “Mister, I just do the analysis. What’s in it is none of my business. A week ago a woman brought in a tube of toothpaste loaded with strychnine.”

  “Toothpaste?” I cried. “How did they get it in?”

  Again he shrugged. “Who knows? A hypo through the opening maybe. I couldn’t care less. I just do the analysis.”

  “Could I get copies of these reports, Mr. Bommer? For the government. The tax thing…”

  He thought a moment.

  “I don’t see why not,” he said finally. “You say this Professor Stonehouse is dead?”

  “Yes, sir. Deceased early this year.”

  “Then he can’t sue me for giving out copies of his property.”

  Ten minutes later I was bouncing down the splintering stairs with photocopies in my briefcase. I had offered to pay for the copies, and Bommer had taken me up on it. I inhaled several deep breaths of fresh air, then went flying up Eleventh Avenue. There is no feeling on earth to match a hunch proved correct. I decided to press my luck. I stopped at the first unvandalized phone booth I came to.

  “Yah?” Olga Eklund answered.

  “Olga, this is Joshua Bigg.”

  “Yah?”

  “Is Miss Glynis in?”

  “No. She’s at her clinic.”

  That was what I hoped to hear.

  “But Mrs. Stonehouse is at home?”

  “Yah.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll drop by for a few moments. She’s recovered from her, uh, indisposition?”

  “Yah.”

  “Able to receive visitors?”

  “Yah.”

  “I’ll come right over. You might mention to her that I’ll be stopping by for a minute or two.”

  I waited for her “Yah,” but there was no answer; she had hung up. Shortly afterward Olga in the flesh was taking my coat in the Stonehouse hallway.

  “I’m sorry Miss Glynis isn’t at home,” I said to Olga. “You think I might be able to call her at the clinic?”

  “Oh yah,” she said. “It’s the Children’s Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat Clinic. It’s downtown, on the East Side.”

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully. “I’ll call her there.”

  Ula Stonehouse was half-reclining on the crushed velvet couch. She was beaming, holding a hand out to me. As usual, there was a wineglass and a bottle of sherry on the glass-topped table.