He picked up his drink and led the way to a small table in a far corner. I followed with my bottle of beer and a glass.
That was the difference between us: I would have asked the bartender, “Is it all right if we take a table?”
I must admit it was more comfortable sitting in the soft chairs, walls at our backs. We sat at right angles to each other, but we turned slightly so we were facing each other more casually.
Knurr rattled on for a while, gabbing mostly about inconsequential things like the weather, a cold he was trying to shake, how every year at this time he began to yearn for warmer climes, a hot sun, a sandy beach, etc.
I looked into his eyes as he spoke. I nodded occasionally. Smiled. It was the oddest feeling in the world—sitting drinking, exchanging idle talk, with a murderer.
How had I thought a killer would be different—disfigured with a mark perhaps? That would be too easy. As it was, I had to keep reminding myself of who Knurr was and what he had done. But all I was conscious of was the normality of our conversation, its banality. “A miserable day.” “Oh yes, but they say it may clear tonight.”
Finally he stopped chattering. He put both elbows on the table, scrubbed his face with his palms. He sighed and looked off into the emptiness of the room.
“I counsel a great many people,” he said, talking to the air. “As I told you, mostly women. Occasionally they come to feel that my interest in them is not purely in their immortal souls. They assume I have, uh, a more personal interest. You understand?”
“Of course,” I said. “It must lead to difficulties.”
“It does indeed,” he said, sighing. “All kinds of difficulties. For instance, they demand more of my time than I am willing to give, or can give, for that matter.”
I made sympathetic noises.
“Would you believe,” he went on, “that some of my—well, I was about to say patrons, but not all of them are that. For want of a better word, let’s call them clients.”
“How about dependents?” I suggested.
He looked at me sharply to see if I was being sarcastic. I was not. He punched my upper arm lightly.
“Very good, Joshua,” he said. “Dependents. I like that. Much better than clients. Well, as I was saying, occasionally some of my dependents become jealous of others, believing I am devoting too much time to them. I don’t mean to imply selfishness on their part, but I have found that most unhappy people, women and men, are inclined to be self-centered, and when sympathetic interest is expressed, they want more and more. Sympathy becomes an addiction, and they resent it when others share. That’s what my disagreement with Mrs. Kipper was about. I am currently counseling other women, of course, and she felt I was not devoting enough time to her and her problems.”
It wasn’t a clumsy lie, but it seemed to me unnecessarily complex. There was no need for him to explain at all. But having started, he should have kept it simple.
I looked at him as he signaled the bartender for another round of drinks. He did have an imperious way about him, lifting a hand and gesturing curtly.
“How is your social club coming along?” I asked.
“What?” he said vaguely. “Oh, fine, fine. The barkeep put a shade too much vermouth in that last martini. I hope this one will be drier.”
The bartender himself brought the drinks over to our table, but did not hover. Knurr sipped eagerly.
“Much better,” he smiled with satisfaction, relaxing and sliding down a bit in his chair. “Dry as dust.”
He was certainly a craggily handsome man, brooding and intense. I could understand why women were attracted to him; he radiated vigor and surety. The slightly bent nose and steady brown eyes gave the appearance of what is known as “a man’s man.” But the slaty beard framed rosy, almost tender lips that hinted of a soft vulnerability.
“I hope you and Mrs. Kipper parted friends,” I said.
He gave a short bark of hard laughter. “Oh, I think I persuaded the lady,” he said with a smile.
I didn’t like that smile; it was almost a smirk. Did it mean that the photo of Glynis Stonehouse and the Mrs. Kletz letter had gone for naught?
I considered what he knew about me—or guessed. I thought my cover in the Kipper case was still intact, that he accepted my role of law clerk making a preliminary inventory of the estate. In the Stonehouse matter, Glynis would have told him of my investigation into her father’s disappearance. He knew that I had uncovered the arsenic poisoning. What he did not know, I felt sure, was that I was aware of his intimate relationship with Glynis.
“That was my last visit to the Kipper home,” I offered. “The expert appraisers will take over now.”
“Oh?” he said in a tone of great disinterest. “Well, I suppose you have plenty of other things to keep you busy.”
“I certainly do,” I said enthusiastically. “I’ve been ordered to devote all my time to a case involving a man who disappeared without leaving a will.”
“That sounds interesting,” he said casually, taking a sip of his martini. “Tell me about it.”
I imagined that was what fencing must be like: lunge, parry, thrust.
“There’s not much to tell,” I said. “Just what I’ve said: a man disappeared—it’s been two months now—and no will has been found. The legal ramifications are what make the case so fascinating. All the assets are in his name alone. So it will require a petition to the court to free living expenses for his family.”
“And if he never shows up again?”
“That’s the rub,” I said, laughing ruefully as I tried to recall what Mr. Teitelbaum had told me about applicable law. “I think that five years must elapse before a missing person’s estate can go to probate.”
“Five years!” he exclaimed.
“Minimum,” I said. I laughed merrily. “It would be a lot simpler if the missing man’s body turned up. If he is, indeed, dead, as everyone is beginning to suspect. But I’m boring you with all this.”
“Not at all,” he said genially. “Good talk for a rainy afternoon. So if the missing man turned up dead, his estate could be distributed to his legal heirs at once?”
Got him, I thought with some satisfaction.
“That’s right,” I said airily. “Once proof of death is definitely established, the man’s will goes to probate.”
“And if no will exists—or can be found?”
“Then the estate is divided under the laws of intestacy. In this case, it would go to his wife, daughter, and son.”
“Is it a sizable estate?” he asked slowly.
Greedy bugger.
“I believe it is,” I said, nodding. “I have no idea of the exact dollar amount involved, but I understand it’s quite sizable.”
He pulled pipe and tobacco pouch from his jacket pocket. He held them up to me.
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Go right ahead.”
I watched and waited while he went through the deliberate ceremony of filling his pipe, tamping the tobacco down with a blunt forefinger, lighting up, tilting back his head and blowing a long plume of smoke at the ceiling.
“The law is a wonderful thing,” he said with a tight smile. “A lot of money there. I mean in the practice of law.”
“Yes, sir, there certainly is.”
“Sometimes I think justice is an impossible concept,” he went on, puffing away. “For instance, in the case you were describing, I would think the very fact of the man’s disappearance for two months would be enough to allow his family to share in his estate. He left voluntarily?”
“As far as we know.”
“No letter or message to his lawyer?”
“No, nothing like that. And no evidence of foul play. No evidence at all. He may still be alive for all we know. That’s why the law requires a diligent search and a five-year grace period. Still, it’s murder on the family.” I couldn’t resist, but, then, neither could he.
“It surely is,” he murmured, a wee
bit too fervently.
“However,” I said, sinking the hook as deeply as I could, “if the body is discovered, regardless of whether he died a natural death or was a victim of accident or foul play, the estate goes to probate.” I thought I had said enough and changed the subject abruptly. “Pastor, did you tell me you were from Chicago originally?”
“Not the city itself,” he said, meeting my gaze. “A suburb. Why do you ask?”
“I have a cousin who lives there, and he’s invited me out for a visit. I’ve never been in Chicago and wondered if I’d like it.”
“You’ll find a lot to do there,” he said tonelessly.
“Did you like it?” I persisted.
“For a while,” he said. “I must confess, Joshua, I get bored easily. So I came on to New York.”
“New worlds to conquer?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he said with a wry grin.
“And you haven’t regretted it?”
“Once or twice,” he said, still grinning, “at three in the morning.”
I found it difficult to resist the man’s charm. For one brief instant I doubted all I had learned about him, all I had imagined.
I tried to analyze why this should be so, why I was fighting an admiration for the man. Most of it, I thought, was due to his physical presence. He was big, strong, stalwart: everything I was not. And he was decisive, daring, resolute.
More than that, he really did possess an elemental power. Behind the bright laugh, the bonhomie, the intelligence and wit, there was naked force, brute force. I realized then how much I wanted him to like me.
Which meant that I feared him. It was not a comforting realization.
We finished our drinks without again alluding to either the Kipper or Stonehouse matters. Knurr insisted on paying for the drinks. He left a niggardly tip.
He said he had an appointment uptown, and since I was returning to the TORT building, we parted company under the hotel marquee. We shook hands and said we’d be in touch.
I watched him stride away up Fifth Avenue, erect in the rain. He seemed indomitable. I tried to get a cab, then gave up and took a downtown bus. It was crowded, damp, and smelled of mothballs. I got back to my office a little after one o’clock and stripped off wet hat, coat, and rubbers. I stuck my dripping umbrella in the wastebasket.
I called Stilton’s office and was told he couldn’t come to the phone at the moment. I left my number, asking that he call back. Then I sat staring at the blank wall and ignoring the investigation requests filling my In basket.
I was still thinking about the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. I acknowledged that the resentment I felt toward him could be traced to my feeling that he took me lightly, that he patronized me. The glib lies and little arm punches, the genial pats on shoulder and knee, and that bright, insolent laugh. That he considered me a lightweight, a nuisance perhaps, but of no consequence bore out my worst fears about myself. I strove to keep in mind that by attacking my self-esteem, he was attempting to gain control over me.
I opened the Kipper and Stonehouse files and reread only those notes pertaining to Godfrey Knurr. He seemed to move through both affairs like a wraith. I suspected him to be the prime mover, the source, the instigator of all the desperate events that had occurred. I had enough notes about the man: his strength, determination, charm, etc. I even had a few tidbits on his background.
But I knew almost nothing about the man himself, who he was, what drove him, what gave him pleasure, what gave him pain. He was a shadow. I had no handle on him. I could not explain what he had done yesterday or predict what he might do tomorrow.
I was looking for a label for him and could not find it. And realizing that, I was increasingly doubtful of ensnaring him with our cute tricks and sly games. He was neither a cheap crook nor a cynical confidence man. What he was, I simply did not know. Yet.
My reverie was broken by Percy Stilton returning my call. He was speaking rapidly, almost angrily.
“The Kipper case hasn’t been reopened,” he said. “Not yet it hasn’t. The loot didn’t think I had enough, and bucked it to the Captain. God only knows who he’ll take it to, but I don’t expect any decision until tomorrow at the earliest. I hope your bosses are using their juice. I had my partner call Knurr last night and pretend he was the cabdriver who drove Stonehouse to the boat basin. Knurr wouldn’t bite. Hung up, as a matter of fact. He’s toughing it out.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m beginning to think we’re not going to panic him.”
I told Stilton about my unearthing the Stonehouse will, then detailed the contents.
“Nice,” he said. “That wraps up Glynis. But Jesus, you didn’t lift the will, did you? That would ruin it as evidence.”
“No,” I assured him, “I left it where it was. But I did steal something else.”
I described the notes Sol Kipper had written to his wife, and how the two I had purloined could perfectly well have served as suicide notes.
“Good work, Josh,” Percy said. “You’re really doing a professional job on this—tying up all the loose ends.”
I was pleased by his praise.
“Something else,” I said. “I had a long talk with Knurr. We had a couple of drinks together.”
I reported the substance of our conversation.
“I don’t think that photo of Glynis Stonehouse and the poison-pen letter did a bit of good.”
“No,” Stilton said, “I don’t think so either. He got Tippi calmed down and he’s going his merry way.”
“Another thing…” I said, and told the detective how I had fed Knurr information about laws regarding the disposition of the estate of a missing man.
“Uh-huh,” Percy said. “You figure that will get him to dump the body? If he’s got it?”
“That’s what I hoped,” I said. “Now I’m not so sure he’s going to react the way we want him to. Perce, Knurr is a mystery man. I’m not certain we can manipulate him.”
“Yeah,” he said, sighing. “If he doesn’t spook, and if he can keep his women in line, we’re dead.”
“There’s one possibility,” I said. “A long shot.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been going through all my notes on Knurr. Remember that interview we had with Bishop Oxman? He gave us the name of Knurr’s next-of-kin. Goldie Knurr. A sister.”
“And?”
“What if she’s not his sister? What if she’s his wife?”
Silence for a moment.
“You’re right,” Stilton said finally. “A long shot.”
“We’ve got to try it,” I insisted. “You’ve got the address? I think it was in Athens, Indiana.”
He found it in his notebook and I carefully copied it down as he read it to me.
“You going to give her a call?” Percy asked.
“That wouldn’t do any good,” I said. “If he listed her as a sister, she probably has orders to back him up if anyone inquires.”
“So?”
“So,” I said, making up my mind at that precise instant, “I think I better go out there and talk to the lady.”
That was what I had to do. I knew it on the spur of the moment. I booked a seat on American to Chicago through the office agency. I had no time to ask permission of Teitelbaum or Tabatchnick. I had no time to listen to Orsini as I tore out of the building.
As luck had it, he was coming in as I left, surrounded by his entourage. I attempted to sneak by, but Orsini’s glittering eyes saw everything. A hand shot out and clamped my arm. I looked at the diamond flashing on his pinkie. I looked at the glossy manicured fingernails. My eyes rose to note the miniature orchid in his lapel: an exquisite flower of speckled lavender.
“Josh!” he cried gaily. “Just the man I wanted to see! I’ve got a joke you’re going to love.”
He glanced smilingly around his circle of sycophants, and they drew closer, already composing their features into expressions of unendurable mirth.
“There’s this little guy,
” Romeo Orsini said, “and he goes up to this tall, beautiful, statuesque blonde. And he says to her, ‘I’m going to screw you.’ And she says—”
“Heard it,” I snapped. “It’s an old joke and not very good.”
I jerked my arm from his grip, pushed my way through the circle of aides, and stalked from the building. I didn’t look back, but I was conscious of the thunderous silence I had left behind.
I wasted no time in wondering why I had dealt so rudely with Orsini or how it would affect my career at TORT. I was too intent on reaching my bank before it closed, on trying to estimate the balance in my account and how much cash would be required for my trip to Chicago. Luckily, I was covered, and soon was in a cab heading through the Midtown Tunnel toward Kennedy after a hurried trip home to pack.
The flight to Chicago was the only chance to relax in much too long, and I decided to enjoy it. I even laughed at the terrible movie and wolfed down the mystery meat. We touched down in Chicago without incident and, as I walked into the terminal, I found O’Hare Airport to be crowded, noisy, and frantic as Mother Tucker’s on East 69th Street in Manhattan. Where, I thought with rueful longing, even at that moment Perdita Schug and Colonel Clyde Manila were probably well along on their Walpurgisnacht.
I wandered about the terminal for a while, continually touching my newly fattened wallet and feeling for my return ticket at irregular intervals. I finally found my way to where cabs, limousines, and buses were available. Obviously a cab to Athens would cost too much. I approached a uniformed chauffeur leaning against the fender of a black behemoth which seemed to have twice as many windows as any gas-driven vehicle deserved.
The driver looked at me without interest, his sleepy eyes taking in my wrinkled overcoat, shapeless hat, and the sodden suitcase pressed under my arm. His only reaction was to switch a toothpick from the right corner of his mouth to the left.
“Do you go to Athens?” I asked.
“Where?”
“Athens. It’s in Indiana.” I had looked it up in the office atlas.
“Never heard of it,” he said.
“It’s between Gary and Hammond.”
The Tenth Commandment Page 34
