“How nice!” she warbled. “I was hoping for company and here you are!”
“Here I am, indeed, ma’am,” I said, taking her limp hand. “I was sorry to hear you have been indisposed, but you look marvelously well now.”
“Oh, I feel so good” she said, patting the couch next to her. I sat down obediently. “My signs changed and now I feel like a new woman.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
I watched her reach forward to fill her glass with a tremulous hand. She straightened back slowly, took a sip, looking at me over the rim with those milkglass eyes flickering. The mop of blonde curls seemed frizzier than ever. She touched the tip of her nose as one might gently explore a bruise.
“Would you care for anything, Mr. Bigger?” she asked. “A drink? Coffee? Whatever?”
“Bigg, ma’am,” I said. “Joshua Bigg. No, thank you. Nothing for me. Just a few minutes of your time if you’re not busy.”
“All the time in the world,” she said, laughing gaily.
She was wearing a brightly printed shirtwaist dress with a wide, ribbon belt. The gown, the pumps, the makeup, the costume jewelry: all too young for her. And the flickering eyes, warbling voice, fluttery gestures gave a feverish impression: a woman under stress. I felt sure she was aware of what was going on.
“Mrs. Stonehouse,” I said, “I wish I had good news to report about your husband, but I’m afraid I do not.”
“Oh, let’s not talk about that,” she said. “What’s done is done. Now tell me all about yourself.”
She looked at me brightly, eyes widened. If she wasn’t going to talk about her vanished husband, I was stymied. Still, for the moment, it seemed best to play along.
“What would you like to know about me, ma’am?”
“You’re a Virgo, aren’t you?”
“Pisces,” I told her.
“Of course,” she said, as if confirming her guess. “Are you married?”
“No, Mrs. Stonehouse, I am not.”
“Oh, you must be,” she said earnestly. “You must listen to me. And you must because I have been so happy in my own marriage, you see. A family is a little world. I have my husband and my son and my daughter. We are a very close, loving family, as you know.”
I looked at her helplessly. She had deteriorated since I first met her; now she was almost totally out of it. I thought desperately how I might use her present mood to get what I wanted. “I’m an orphan, Mrs. Stonehouse,” I said humbly. “My parents were killed in an accident when I was an infant.”
Surprisingly, shockingly, tears welled up in those milky eyes. She stifled a sob, reached to grip my forearm. Her clutch was frantic.
“Poor tyke,” she groaned, then lunged for her glass of sherry.
“I was raised by relatives,” I went on. “Good people. I wasn’t mistreated. But still…So when you speak of a close, loving family, a little world—I know nothing of all that. The memories.”
“The memories,” she said, nodding like a broken doll. “Oh yes, the memories…”
“Do you have a family album, Mrs. Stonehouse?” I asked softly, and, to my surprise, she responded by producing the album with unexpected rapidity.
What followed was a truly awful hour. We pored over those old photographs one by one while Ula Stonehouse provided running commentary, rife with pointless anecdotes. I murmured constant appreciation and made frequent noises of wonder and enjoyment.
Wedding Pictures: the tall, gaunt groom towering over the frilly doll-bride. An old home in Boston. Glynis, just born, naked on a bearskin rug. Childhood snapshots. Powell Stonehouse at ten, frowning seriously at the camera. Picnics. Outings. Friends. Then, gradually, the family groups, friends, picnics, outings—all disappearing. Formal photographs. Single portraits. Yale, Ula, Glynis, Powell. Lifeless eyes. A family moving toward dissolution.
When Mrs. Stonehouse leaned forward to refill her glass, I rapidly removed a recent snapshot of Glynis from the album and slipped it into my briefcase before she sat back again. “Remarkable,” I said, as if I were riveted to the book. “Really remarkable. Happy times.”
She looked at me, not seeing me.
“Oh yes,” she said. “Happy times. Such good babies. Glynis never cried. Never. Powell did, but not Glynis. It’s over.”
I didn’t dare ask what she meant by that.
“Emanations,” she went on. “And visits beyond. I know it’s over.”
“Mrs. Stonehouse,” I asked anxiously, “are you feeling well?”
“What?” she said. “Well,” she said, passing a faltering hand across her brow, “perhaps I should lie down for a few moments. So many memories.”
“Of course,” I said, rising. “I’ll call Olga.”
I found her seated at the long dining room table, leafing through Popular Mechanics.
“Olga,” I said, “I think Mrs. Stonehouse needs you. I think she’d like to rest for a while.”
“Yah?” she said. She rose, yawned, and stretched. “I go.”
In the kitchen Effie was at the enormous stove, stirring something with a long wooden spoon. Her porky face creased into a grin.
“Mr. Bigg!” she said. “How nice!”
She put the spoon aside, clapped a lid on the pot, and wiped her hands on her apron. She gestured toward the white enameled table and we both drew up chairs.
“Effie,” I said, “how are you? It’s good to see you again.”
That was true, and it was a comfort to be honest again. She was such a jolly tub of a woman.
“Getting along,” she said. “You look a little puffy around the gills. Not sick, are you?”
“No,” I said, “I’m okay. But I’ve been talking to Mrs. Stonehouse. I’m a little shook.”
“Yes,” she said, wagging her head dolefully. “I know what you mean. Worse every day.”
“Why?” I asked. “What’s happening to her?”
She frowned. “I don’t rightly know. Her husband disappearing, I guess. Powell moving out. And the way Glynis has been acting. I suppose it’s just too much for her.”
“How has Glynis been acting?”
“Strange,” Effie said. “Snappish. Cold. Goes to her room and stays there. Never a smile.”
“Is this recent?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Just since your last visit.”
She looked at me shrewdly. I decided to plunge ahead. If she repeated what I was saying to Glynis, so much the better. So I told Effie what I knew about the arsenic. She listened closely, then nodded when I had finished.
“Are you a detective?” she asked.
“Sort of,” I said. “Chief Investigator for the legal firm representing Professor Stonehouse.”
“You don’t suspect me of poisoning him, do you?”
“Never,” I lied. “Not for a minute.”
“Glynis?”
We stared at each other. I wondered if her silence was meant to imply consent, and decided to act as if it did.
“I must establish that Glynis had the means,” I said. “You just can’t go out and buy arsenic at Rexall’s. And to do that, I need the name of the medical laboratory where she worked as a secretary.”
“I’d rather not,” she said quickly.
“I was going to ask Mrs. Stonehouse, but she’s in no condition to answer questions. Effie, I need the name.”
Once again we stared at each other.
“It’s got to be done,” I said.
“Yes,” she agreed sadly.
After a while she got up and lumbered from the kitchen. She came back in a few minutes with a slip of paper. I glanced at it briefly. Atlantic Medical Research, with the address and phone number.
“I had it in my book,” Effie explained, “in case we had to reach her at work.”
“When did she stop working there?”
She thought a moment.
“Maybe June or July of last year.”
About the time Professor Stonehouse became ill.
“Did she
just quit or was she fired?”
“She quit, she told us. Said it was very boring work.”
“Effie, did you ever hear her mention a man named Godfrey Knurr? He’s a minister.”
“Godfrey Knurr? No.”
“Is Glynis a religious woman?”
“Not particularly. They’re Episcopalian. But I never thought was especially religious. But she’s deep.”
“Oh yes,” I agreed, “she’s deep all right. Before her father’s disappearance, was she in a good mood?”
Mrs. Dark pondered that.
“I’d say so,” she said finally. “She started changing after the Professor disappeared and in the last week she’s gotten much worse.”
“Me,” I said. “I’m troubling her. I told her I knew her father had been poisoned.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did. Of course I didn’t tell her I thought she had done it.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Dig deeper. Try to find out what happened to the Professor. Effie, what kind of a car do the Stonehouses own?”
“A Mercedes.”
“Do they keep it in a garage over on 66th Street and West End?”
“Why, yes. The garage people bring it over when we need it. How did you know?”
“I’ve been looking around.”
“You surely have,” she said. “Have you found the will yet?”
“Not yet. But I think I know where it is.”
“I don’t see why it’s so important,” she said. “If he’s dead and didn’t leave a will, the money goes to his wife and children anyway, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, “but if he left a will, he might have disinherited one of them.”
“Could he do that?”
“Probably. With good cause. Like attempted murder.”
“Oh,” she said softly, “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Effie, can I count on your discretion about all this?”
She put a fat forefinger alongside a fatter nose.
“Mum’s the word,” she said.
I rose, then bent swiftly to kiss her apple cheek.
“Thank you,” I said. “I know it’s not pleasant. But we agreed, it’s got to be done. One last question: will Miss Glynis be in tonight? Did she say?”
“She said she’s going to the theatre. She asked for an early dinner.”
“Uh-huh. So she’ll be leaving about when?”
“Seven-thirty,” Mrs. Dark said. “At the latest.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. “You’ve been very kind.”
I had a Big Mac and a Coke before I returned to the office. Yetta Apatoff was on the phone when I entered the TORT building. She blew me a kiss. I’m afraid I responded with a feeble gesture. Her scarf had come awry and the diving neckline of the green sweater now revealed a succulent cleavage. I wondered nervously when Mr. Teitelbaum or Mr. Tabatchnick would instruct their respective secretaries to order Yetta to cover up.
Mrs. Kletz had left a note on my desk; she was indeed out distributing the reward posters to the taxi garages and had left me a copy of the poster. It looked perfect.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon typing out reports of my morning’s activities and adding them to the Stonehouse file, along with the photocopies of the chemical analyses. Then I hacked away at routine inquiries until about 4:00 P.M., when I dialed the number of the Children’s Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat Clinic in the Manhattan phone book and asked to speak to the director.
“Who is calling, please?” the receptionist asked.
“This is the Metropolitan Poison Control Board,” I said solemnly. “It concerns your drug inventory.”
A hearty voice came on the line almost instantly.
“Yes, sir!” he said. “How may I be of service?”
“This is Inspector Waldo Bommer of the Metropolitan Poison Control Board. In view of the recent rash of burglaries of doctors’ offices, clinics, hospitals, laboratories, and so forth, we are attempting to make an inventory of the establishments that keep poisonous substances in stock.”
“Narcotics?” he said. “We have nothing like that. This is a clinic for underprivileged youngsters.”
“What we’re interested in is poisons,” I said. “Arsenic, strychnine, cyanide: things of that sort.”
“Oh, heavens no!” he said, enormously relieved. “We have nothing like that in stock.”
“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”
My second call, to Atlantic Medical Research, was less successful. I went through my Poison Control Board routine, but the man said, “Surely you don’t expect me to reveal that information on the phone to a complete stranger? If you care come around with your identification, we’ll be happy to operate.”
He hung up.
It wasn’t 5:00 P.M. yet, but I packed my briefcase with the Kipper and Stonehouse files, yanked on my hat and coat, and sallied forth. Yetta was not on the phone. She held out a hand stop me.
“Josh,” she said, pouting, “you didn’t even notice.”
“I certainly did notice,” I said. “The sweater looks lovely, Yetta.”
“You like?” she said, arching her chest.
“Fine,” I said, swallowing. “And the scarf is just right.”
“Oh, this old thing,” she giggled, swinging it farther aside. It just gets in my way when I type. I think I’ll take it off.”
Which she did. I looked about furtively. There were people the corridor. Was I a prude? I may very well have been.
“Josh,” she said eagerly, “you said we might, you know, go out some night together.”
“Well, uh, we certainly shall,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Dinner, maybe the theatre or ballet.” The image of Yetta Apatoff at a performance of Swan Lake shriveled my soul. “But I’ve been so busy, Yetta. Not only during the day, but working at home in the evening as well.”
“Uh-huh,” she said speculatively. She was silent a moment as I stood there awkwardly, not knowing how to break away. It was clear she was summing me up and coming to a decision.
“Lunch maybe?” she said.
“Oh absolutely,” I said. “I can manage lunch.”
“Tomorrow,” she said firmly.
“Tomorrow?” I said, thinking desperately of how I might get out of it. “Well, uh, yes. I’ll have to check my schedule. I mean, let’s figure on lunch, and if I have to postpone you’ll understand, right?”
“Oh sure,” she said.
Coolness there. Definite coolness.
I waved goodbye and stumbled out. I felt guilt. I had led her astray. And then I was angry at my own feeling of culpability. What, actually, had I done? Bought her a few lunches. Given her a birthday present. I assured myself that I had never given her any reason to believe I was…It was true that I frequently stared at her intently, but with her physical attributes and habit of wearing knitted suits a size too small, that was understandable.
Such were my roiling thoughts as I departed the office that Monday evening, picking up a barbecued chicken, potato salad, and a quart of Scotch on the way home. Back in Chelsea, I ate and drank with an eye on the clock. I had to be across the street from the Stonehouse apartment at 7:15 at the latest, and I intended to proceed to the Upper West Side at a less-frenzied pace than my recent forays.
Clad in my fleece-lined anorak, I made it there in plenty of time and assumed my station. It was a crisp night, crackling, the air filled with electricity. You get nights like that in New York, usually between winter and spring, or between summer and fall, when suddenly the city seems bursting with promise, the skyline a-sparkle with crystalline clarity.
As I walked up and down the block, always keeping the doorway of the Stonehouse apartment house in view, I could glimpse the twinkling towers of the East Side across the park, and the rosy glow of midtown. Rush of traffic, blare of horns, drone of airliners overhead. Everything seemed so alive. I kept reminding myself I was
investigating what was fast emerging as a violent death, but it was difficult.
I had been waiting exactly twenty-three minutes when she came out, wearing the long, hooded mink coat I’d seen in the garage.
When she paused outside the lighted apartment lobby for a moment, I was able to see her clearly as she raised and adjusted her hood. Then she started off, walking briskly. I thought I knew where she was going; despite Mrs. Dark’s information, it was not the theatre. I went after her. Not too close, not too far. Just as Roscoe Dollworth had taught me, keeping to the other side of the street when possible, even moving ahead of her. It was an easy tail because as we walked west and south a few blocks, I became more and more certain that she was taking me back to that garage on West 66th Street.
Crossing Broadway, she went west on 69th Street, keeping to the shadowed paths of a housing development. A man coming toward her paused and said something, but she didn’t give him a glance, or slow down her pace. When she crossed West End Avenue, heading toward the lighted garage, I hurried to catch up, staying on the other side of the street and moving about a half-block southward. I could see her waiting in the entrance of the garage. I stopped the first empty cab that came along.
“Where to?” the driver asked, picking up his trip sheet clamped to a clipboard. He was a middle-aged black.
“Nowhere,” I said. “Please start your clock and we’ll just wait.”
He put the clipboard aside and turned to stare at me through the metal grille.
“What is this?” he said.
“See that woman over there? Across the street, ahead of us? In the fur coat?”
He peered.
“I see her,” he said.
I had learned from my previous experience.
“My wife,” I said. “I want to see where she’s going. I think someone’s going to pick her up.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “There’s not going to be any trouble, is there?”
“No,” I said, “no trouble.”
“Good,” he said. “I got all I can handle right now.”
We sat there, both of us staring at the figure of Glynis Stonehouse across the street. The meter ticked away.
The Tenth Commandment Page 28
