Sherman Street was absolutely no different from any other in Athens: a solid culvert of row houses, jammed together, all of the same uninspired design, all three stories high, either clapboard or covered with counterfeit brick siding.
I found 113 Sherman Street. I climbed the three steps to the stoop, pushed the bell, heard it ring inside the house, and waited.
The door opened a cautious crack.
“Miss Goldie Knurr?” I asked, taking off my hat.
“I’m not buying anything,” she said sharply.
“I don’t blame you, ma’am,” I said, smiling so widely that my face ached. “Prices being the way they are. But I’m not selling anything. It’s about your brother, Godfrey Knurr.”
The door was flung open.
“He’s dead!” the woman wailed.
“Oh no,” I said hastily. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I saw him, uh, yesterday, and he’s healthy and, uh, in fine shape.”
“Law,” she said, pressing a fist into her soft bosom, “you gave me such a start. Come in, sir.”
She let me into a hallway, paused to lock, chain, and bolt the door, then turned to face me.
“You saw Godfrey yesterday?” she said in a voice of marvel: Robert Browning asking, “Ah, did you once see Shelley plain…?”
“I did indeed, ma’am.”
“And he’s all right?”
“As far as I could tell, he’s in excellent health. He has a beard now. Did you know?”
“A beard?” she cried. “Think of that! Did he give you a message for me?”
“Ah…no,” I said softly. “But only because I didn’t tell him I was coming to see you. May I tell you about it?”
“Of course you may!” she said loudly, recalling her duties as a hostess with a guest in the house. “Here, let me take your coat and hat, and you come into the parlor and we’ll have a nice chat. A cup of tea? Would you like a nice cup of tea?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but no. I just finished my breakfast.”
I waited while she hung my hat and coat on brass hooks projecting from an oak Victorian rack with a long, silvered mirror, lidded bench, and places for umbrellas with shallow pans to catch the dripping. Then I proffered my business card.
“Leopold Tabatchnick, ma’am,” I said, “of New York. Attorney-at-law.”
“He’s not in any trouble, is he?” she asked anxiously, scarcely glancing at the card.
“None whatsoever,” I assured her, reclaiming my card. “Please let me tell you what this is all about.”
“Oh, law,” she said, pressing a fist into her bosom again, “I’m just so discombobulated. It’s been so long since I’ve heard from Godfrey. Do come in and sit down, Mr.—what was that name?”
“Tabatchnick. Leopold Tabatchnick.”
“Well, you just come in and sit down, Mr. Leopold,” she said, “and tell me what brings you to Gary.”
She led the way into the parlor. There were the bright colors missing from outdoor Gary. Red, green, blue, yellow, purple, pink, orange, violet: all in chintz run wild. The sofa, chairs, pillows, even the tablecloths were flowers and birds, butterflies and sunrises. Parrots on the rug and peonies in the wallpaper. Everything blazing and crashing. Overstuffed and overwhelming. The room stunned the eye, shocked the senses: a funhouse of snapping hues in prints, stripes, checks, plaids. It was hard to breathe.
Goldie Knurr was just as overstuffed and overwhelming. Not fat, but a big, solid-soft woman, as tall as Godfrey and just as husky. She was dressed for a garden party in a flowing gown of pleats and flounces, all in a print of cherry clumps that made her seem twice as large and twice as imposing.
Sixty-five at least, I guessed, with that rosy, downy complexion some matrons are blessed with: the glow that never disappears until the lid is nailed down. I saw the family resemblance; she had Godfrey’s full, tender lips, his steady, no-nonsense brown eyes, even the masculine cragginess of his features.
Her figure was almost as broad-shouldered as her brother’s, but softened, plumpish. Her hands were chubby. The hair, which might have been a wig—although I suspected she might call it a “transformation”—was bluish-white, elaborately set, and covered with a scarcely discernible net.
She sat me down in an armchair so soft that I felt swallowed. When she came close, I smelled lavender sachet, sweetly cloying. I hoped she wouldn’t take a chair too near, but she did. She sat upright, spine straight, ankles crossed, hands clasped in her lap.
“Yes, Mr. Leopold?” she said, beaming.
“Tabatchnick, ma’am,” I murmured. “Leopold Tabatchnick. Miss Knurr, I represent a legal firm on retainer to the Stilton Foundation of New York. You’ve heard of the Stilton Foundation, of course?”
“Of course,” she said, still beaming. Her voice was warm, burbling, full of aspirates. A very young, hopeful voice.
“Well, as you probably know, the Stilton Foundation makes frequent grants of large sums of money to qualified applicants in the social sciences for projects we feel will benefit humanity. Your brother, the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, has applied for such a grant. He desires to investigate the causes of and cures for juvenile delinquency. He seems well qualified to conduct such a research project, but because the amount of money involved is considerable, we naturally must make every effort to investigate the background, competence, and character of the applicant. And that is why I am here today.”
She was dazzled. I was not sure she had quite understood everything I had thrown at her, but she did grasp the fact that her brother might be granted a great deal of money if this funny little man in the wrinkled suit lost in her best armchair gave him a good report.
“Of course,” she gasped. “Any way I can help…”
“I understand yours was a large family, Miss Knurr. Five children, and—”
“Five happy children,” she interrupted. “And five successful children. Not one of us on welfare!”
“Most commendable,” I murmured. “About Godfrey, could you tell me if—”
“The best,” she said firmly. “Absolutely the best! We all knew it. There was no jealousy, you understand. We were all so proud of him. He was the tallest and strongest and most handsome of the boys. Star of the football team, president of his high school class, captain of me debating team, good marks in every subject. Everyone loved him—and not just the family. Everyone! You’ll find that no one has a bad word to say about Godfrey Knurr. We all knew that he was destined for great things, and that’s just the way it turned out.”
She sat back, smiling, nodding, panting slightly, pleased with the panegyric she had just delivered.
But I couldn’t let it go at that. This was the woman who instinctively suspected sudden death when her brother’s name was first mentioned, who asked if he was in trouble when she learned I was a lawyer, who apparently hadn’t seen or heard from the favored brother in years. It didn’t jibe with the dream she had recalled.
“Then he was never in any, ah, trouble as a boy?”
“Absolutely not!” she said definitely, then decided to amend that. “Oh, there were a few little things you might expect from a high-spirited youngster. But nothing serious, I do assure you.”
“He had friends?”
“Many! Many! Godfrey was very popular.”
“With his teachers as well as his peers?”
“Oh, law, yes,” she said enthusiastically. “He was such a good student, you see. So quick to learn. The other boys, they talked about going into the mills and things like that. But Godfrey would never be satisfied with that. He aimed for higher things. That boy had ambition.”
It was the unreserved love of a sister for a handsome, talented younger brother. I found it hard to break through that worship.
“Miss Knurr,” I said, “about Godfrey’s choice of the ministry as a career—was he very religious as a boy?”
Lucky shot. Up to that point her answers had been prompt and glib. Now she paused before answering. She was obviously giving some tho
ught to framing her reply, and when she spoke the timbre of her voice had changed. I thought her uncertain, if not fearful.
“Well…” she said finally, “ours was a God-fearing family. Church every Sunday morning without fail, I can tell you! I can’t say that Godfrey was any different from the rest of us children as far as religion was concerned. But when he announced he was going to study for the ministry, we were all very happy. Naturally.”
“Naturally,” I said. “And the other boys, Godfrey’s brothers, did they really go into the mills?”
“No,” she said shortly, “they never did. They were both drafted, of course, and Gaylord decided to stay in the army. Gordon owns a gas station in Kentucky.”
“And Godfrey became a minister,” I said encouragingly. “Your church is in the neighborhood?”
“Two blocks south on Versailles Street,” she said, pronouncing it “Ver-sales.” “It’s St. Paul’s. The pastor then was the Reverend Stokes. He’s retired now.”
“And who took his place?” I asked.
“Reverend Dix,” she said stonily. “A black.” Then she brightened. “Would you like to see our family album? Pictures of all of us?” She rose briefly, left the room, and returned with the album. Then she sat down on a posy-covered sofa and motioned me to sit beside her.
What is it about old snapshots that is so sad? Those moments in sunshine caught forever should inspire happiness and fond memories. But they don’t. There is a dread about them. The snapshots of the Knurr family weren’t photographs so much as memento mori.
We finished the album and I turned back to the section devoted to photographs of Godfrey.
“Who is this he’s with?” I pointed at a snapshot of two stalwart youths in football uniforms standing side by side, legs spread, hands on hips. The boy alongside Godfrey Knurr was a black.
“Oh, that’s Jesse Karp,” she said, and I thought she sniffed. “He’s principal of our high school now—would you believe it?”
“They were close friends?”
“Well…they were friends, I guess.”
“And this priest with Godfrey—is he the Reverend Stokes?”
“That’s right. He helped Godfrey get into the seminary. He helped Godfrey in so many ways. The poor man…”
I looked up.
“I thought you said he’s retired?”
“Oh, he is. But doing, ah, poorly.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“You’re not planning to talk to him, are you?”
“I wasn’t planning to, no, ma’am.”
“Well, he’s not all there—if you know what I mean.”
“Ah. Too bad. Senile?”
“Not exactly,” she said, examining the pink nails on her plump fingers. “I’m afraid the Reverend Stokes drinks a little more than is good for him.”
“What a shame,” I said.
“Isn’t it?” she said earnestly. “And he was such a fine man. To end his days like that…So if you do talk to him, Mr. Leopold, please keep that in mind.”
“Tabatchnick,” I murmured. “I certainly shall.”
I turned to a page of six snapshots, each showing a young, confident Godfrey with a muscular arm about the shoulders of a different and pretty girl. The posture was possessive.
“He seems to have been popular with girls,” I observed.
“Oh law!” she cried. “You have no idea! Calling him at all hours. Hanging around outside the house. Sending him notes and all. Popular? I should say! No flies on Godfrey Knurr.”
One of the six photos showed Godfrey with a girl shorter and younger than the others. Long, long flaxen hair fell to her waist. Even in the slightly out-of-focus snapshot she looked terribly vulnerable, unbearably fragile. I looked closer. One of her legs was encased in a heavy iron brace.
“Who is this girl?” I asked casually, pointing.
“Her?” Goldie Knurr said too quickly. “Just one of Godfrey’s friends. I don’t recall her name.”
It was the first time she had actually lied to me. She was not a woman experienced in lying, and something happened to her voice; it weakened, became just a bit tremulous.
I closed the album.
“Well!” I said heartily. “That was certainly interesting, and I thank you very much, Miss Knurr, for your kind cooperation. I think I’ve learned what I need.”
“And Godfrey will get the money?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, that isn’t my decision to make, Miss Knurr. But I’ve certainly discovered nothing today that will rule against it. Thank you for your time and hospitality.”
She helped me on with my coat, handed me my hat, went through the rigmarole of unlocking the door. Just before I left, she said…
“If you see Godfrey again, Mr. Leopold…”
“Yes?”
“Tell him that he owes me a letter,” she said, laughing gaily.
I went next to McKinley High School. It occupied an entire block with its playgrounds and basketball courts. As I marched up the front steps, the plate glass door opened and a black security guard, uniformed and armed with a nightstick, came out to confront me.
“Yes?” he said.
“Could you tell me if Mr. Jesse Karp is principal of this school?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“I’d like to talk to him if I could.”
“You have an appointment?”
“No, I don’t,” I admitted.
“Better call or write for an appointment,” he advised. “Then they know you’re coming—see? And you go right in.”
“This is about the record of a former student of McKinley High,” I said desperately. “Couldn’t you ask?”
He stared at me. Sometimes it’s an advantage to be diminutive; I obviously represented no threat to him.
“I’ll call up,” he said. “You stay here.”
He went back inside, used a small telephone fixed to the wall. He was out again in a moment.
“They say to write a letter,” he reported. “Records of former students will be forwarded—if you have a good reason for wanting them. Please enclose a stamped, self-addressed envelope.”
I sighed.
“Look,” I said, “I know this is an imposition and I apologize for it. But could you make another call? Please? Try to talk to Mr. Karp or his assistant or his secretary. The student I want to ask about is Godfrey Knurr. That’s K-n-u-r-r. I’d like to talk to Mr. Karp personally about Godfrey Knurr. Please try just one more time.”
“Oh man,” he said, “you’re pushing it.”
“If they say no, then I’ll go away and write a letter. I promise.”
He took a deep breath, then made up his mind and went back to the inside telephone. This time the conversation took longer and I could see him waiting as he was switched from phone to phone. Finally he hung up and came out to me.
“Looks like you clicked,” he said.
A few moments later, through the glass door, I saw a tall skinny lady striding toward us. The guard opened the door to let me enter just as she came up.
“To see Mr. Karp?” she snapped.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, taking off my hat. “I’d like to—”
“Follow me,” she commanded.
The guard winked and I trailed after that erect spine down a waxed linoleum corridor and up two flights of stairs. Not a word was spoken. From somewhere I heard a ragged chorus of young voices singing “Frère Jacques.”
We entered a large room with a frosted glass door bearing the legend: PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE. My conductress led the way past three secretaries, typing away like mad, and ushered me to the doorway of an inner office. The man inside, standing behind a desk piled high with ledgers and papers, looked up slowly.
“Mr. Karp?” I said.
“That’s right,” he said. “And you?”
I had my business card ready.
“Leopold Tabatchnick, sir,” I sang out. “Attorney-at-law. New York City.”
He took the p
roffered card, inspected it closely. “And you want information about Godfrey Knurr?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
I launched into the Stilton Foundation spiel. Through it all he stared at me steadily. Then he said:
“He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
I almost collapsed. But I should have known it had to happen eventually. “Yes,” I said, nodding dumbly, “he’s in trouble.”
“Bad?”
“Bad enough,” I said.
“Had to happen,” he said.
He went to the door of his office and closed it. He took my hat and coat, hung them on an old-fashioned bentwood coat tree. He gestured me to the worn oak armchair, then sat down in a creaking swivel chair behind his jumbled desk. He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, and regarded me gravely.
“What’s your real name?” he asked.
I decided to stop playing games.
“Joshua Bigg,” I said. “I’m not a lawyer, but I really do work for that legal firm on the card. I’m the Chief Investigator.”
“Chief Investigator,” he repeated, nodding. “Must be important to send you all the way out from New York. What’s the problem with Godfrey Knurr?”
“Uh, it involves women.”
“It would,” he said. “And money?”
“Yes,” I said, “and money. Mr. Karp, if you insist, I will tell you in detail what the Reverend Godfrey Knurr is implicated in, and what he is suspected of having done. But, because of the laws of slander, I’d rather not. He has not been charged with any crimes. As yet.”
“Crimes?” he echoed. “It’s come to that, has it? No, Mr. Bigg, I really don’t want to know. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious. Well…what can I tell you?”
“Anything about the man that will help me understand him.”
“Understand Godfrey Knurr?” he said, with a hard grin that had no mirth to it. “No way! Besides, I can’t tell you about the man. We lost touch when he went away to the seminary.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“Once,” he said. “When he came back to visit his sister years and years ago. He looked me up and we had a few drinks together. It was not what you’d call a joyous reunion.”
“Well, can you tell me about the boy? Maybe it would help me understand what he’s become.”
The Tenth Commandment Page 36
