“A good chance,” she said on me extension. “I’ll bet my left tit he never told her he was married. A guy like him wouldn’t be that stupid. And when you tell her about Glynis Stonehouse, it’ll just confirm what she read in that poison-pen letter Josh sent her. She’ll be burning. He played her for a sucker. She’s a woman who’s been around the block twice. Her ego’s not going to let him make her a patsy. I’m betting she’ll pull the rug on him.”
“Yeah,” Stilton said slowly. “And we can always try the publicity angle on her, just happen to mention we know about her prostitution arrest. She’s a grand lady now; she’d die if that got in the papers.”
“Let’s go after her,” I urged. “Really twist.”
He made up his mind.
“Right,” he said, “we’ll do it. Go in early before she’s had a chance to put herself together. Josh, I’ll meet you outside the Kipper place at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Got that? Bring all the paper, especially that marriage license.”
“I’ll be there,” I promised.
“We’ll break her,” he said, beginning to get excited by the prospect. “No rough stuff. Kid gloves. Very sincere and low-key. Treat a whore like a lady and a lady like a whore. Who said that, Josh?”
“I’m not sure. It sounds like Lord Chesterfield.”
“Whoever,” he said.
“If you believe that, Perce,” Maybelle Hawks said, “it makes me a lady.”
We all laughed, talked for a moment of how we should dress for our confrontation with Tippi Kipper, and then said goodnight.
I went immediately to my kitchen and began to eat ravenously. I cleaned out the refrigerator. I had three fried eggs, a sardine and onion sandwich, almost a quart of milk, a pint of chocolate ice cream. Then, still hungry, I heated up a can of noodle soup and had that with two vanilla cupcakes and half a cucumber.
Belching, I undressed and went into the shower. The water was blessedly hot. I soaped and rinsed three times, washed my hair, shaved, and doused myself with cologne.
Groaning with contentment, I rolled into bed about 1:00 A.M. It may have been my excitement, or perhaps that sardine and onion sandwich, but I did not fall asleep immediately. I lay on my back, thinking of what we would do in the morning, what we would say to Tippi Kipper, how important it was that we should break her.
I did not pray to God because, although I am a religious man, I did not much believe in prayer. What was the point—since God must know what is in our hearts? But I felt my lies and low cunning would be pardoned if they succeeded in bringing down Godfrey Knurr.
He was an abomination. As Jesse Karp had said, Knurr went bulling his way through life, all shoulders and elbows. He just didn’t care; that was what I could not forgive. He exemplified brute force and brute morality. I felt no guilt for what I was trying to do to him.
Just before I fell asleep, I remembered Cleo Hufnagel. I realized, groaning, that she had been out of my thoughts for days. I felt guilt about that.
7
ON SATURDAY, THE MARCH sky was hard, an icy blue whitened by a blurry sun, and in the west a faded wedge of morning moon. Not a cloud. But an angry wind came steadily and swirled the streets.
I took a cab uptown and marveled at how sharp the city looked, chopped out, everything standing clear. The air was washed clean, and pierced.
I was wearing my good pinstripe suit, vested, with a white shirt and dull tie. Stilton and I had agreed to dress like undertakers: conservative, solemn, but sympathetic. Men to be trusted.
A dusty-blue Plymouth was parked in front of the Kipper townhouse. Behind the wheel was a carelessly dressed giant of a man with a scraggly blond mustache that covered his mouth. Percy sat beside him, looking like a judge. He motioned me into the back seat. I climbed in, closed the door. I held my scruffy briefcase on my lap.
“Josh,” Perce said, “this slob is Lou, my partner.”
“Good morning, Lou,” I said.
“Got all the paper?” Stilton asked.
“Everything,” I said, feeling slightly ill.
“Good,” he said. “When we get inside, let me do the spiel. You follow my lead. Just nod. You’re the shill. Got that?”
“I understand.”
“Act sincere,” he said. “You can act sincere, can’t you?”
“Of course,” I said in a low voice.
“Sure you can,” he said. I knew he was trying to encourage me and I appreciated it. “Don’t worry, Josh, this is going down. This is going to be the greatest hustle known to living man. A classic.”
Lou spoke for the first time.
“The world is composed of five elements,” he stated. “Earth, air, fire, water, and bullshit.”
“You’re singing our song, baby,” Percy told him. “Okay, Josh, let’s do it.”
Chester Heavens came to the door.
“Gentlemen?” he said somberly.
“Good morning, Chester,” I mumbled.
“Morning,” Percy said briskly. “I am Detective Percy Stilton of the New York Police Department. I believe we’ve met before. Here is my identification.”
He flipped open his leather, held it up. Heavens peered at it.
“Yes, sah,” he said. “I remember. How may I be of service?”
“It’s important we see Mrs. Kipper,” Stilton said. “As soon as possible. She’s home?”
Chester hesitated a moment, then surrendered.
“Please to step in,” he said. “I’ll speak with mom.”
We waited in that towering entrance hall. Heavens had disappeared into the dining room and closed the door. We waited for what I thought was a long time. I fidgeted, but Stilton stood stolidly. Finally Chester returned.
“Mom will see you now,” he said, expressionless. “She is at breakfast. May I take your things?”
He took our coats and hats, hung them away. He opened the door to the dining room, stood aside. Percy entered first. As I was about to go in, Chester put a soft hand on my arm.
“Bad, sah?” he whispered.
I nodded.
He nodded, too. Sorrowfully.
She was seated at the head of that long, shining table. Regal. Wearing a flowing, lettuce-green peignoir. But her hair was down and not too tidy. Moreover, as I drew closer, I saw her face was slightly distorted, puffy. Staring, I saw that the left cheek from eye to chin was swollen, discolored. She had attempted to cover the bruise with pancake makeup, but it was there.
Then I understood Godfrey Knurr’s smarmy comment: “I think I persuaded the lady.”
Stilton and I stood side by side. She stared at us, unblinking. She did not ask us to sit down.
“Ma’am,” Percy said humbly, “I am Detective—”
“I know who you are,” she said sharply. “We’ve met. What do you want?”
“I am engaged in an official investigation of the Reverend Godfrey Knurr,” Stilton said, still apologetic. “I hoped you would be willing to cooperate with the New York Police Department and furnish what information you can.”
She turned her eyes to me.
“And what are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Mr. Bigg asked to come along, ma’am,” Percy said swiftly. “The request for an investigation originated with his legal firm.”
She thought about that. She didn’t quite believe, but she didn’t not believe. She wanted to learn more.
“Sit down then,” she said coldly. “Both of you. Coffee?”
“Not for me,” Perce said, “thank you, Mrs. Kipper. You, Mr. Bigg?”
“Thank you, no,” I said.
We drew up chairs, Stilton on her right, me on her left. We had her surrounded, hemmed in. I don’t think she expected that.
She shook a cigarette from an almost empty pack. Stilton was there with his lighter before I could make a move. I think his courtesy reassured her. She blew smoke at the ceiling.
“Well,” she said, “what’s this all about?”
“Ma’am,” Stilton said, hunchi
ng forward earnestly, “it’s a rather involved story, so I hope you’ll bear with me. About two weeks ago the NYPD received a request from the police department of Gary, Indiana, asking us to determine if the Reverend Godfrey Knurr was in our area. A warrant had been issued for his arrest. Two warrants, actually.”
“Arrest?” she cried. “What for?”
“One was for blackmail, Mrs. Kipper. Allegedly, for a period of many years, Knurr has been blackmailing an elderly clergyman in the neighborhood where he grew up. The other warrant was for desertion.”
We were both watching closely. She may have been an actress, but she couldn’t conceal her reaction to that. The hand that held the cigarette began to quiver; she put her wrist on the table to steady it. Her face paled; the bruise stood out, a nasty blue. She leaned forward to pour herself more coffee.
Maybelle Hawks had been right; she hadn’t known.
“Desertion?” she asked casually, and I noted that the charge of blackmail hadn’t stirred her at all.
“Oh yes,” Detective Stilton said. “Knurr was married about twenty years ago and has never been divorced or legally separated. Mr. Bigg, do you have the license?”
I plucked it from my briefcase and held it up before Tippi Kipper, making certain it did not leave my hands. She leaned forward to read it.
“Yes,” she said dully, “I see.”
Percy leaned back in his chair and folded his hands comfortably on the tabletop.
“Well,” he said, “the request from the Gary, Indiana, police was circulated, and a copy came across my desk. Ordinarily I would just file it and forget it. I’m sure you appreciate how busy we are, ma’am, and how an out-of-state request gets a very low priority on our schedule. You can understand that, Mrs. Kipper?”
I admired the way he was taking her into his confidence—even confessing a little weakness with a small chuckle.
“Oh sure,” she said, still stunned. “I can understand that.”
“But the name caught my eye,” Detective Stilton went on. “Only because I had interviewed Godfrey Knurr in connection with your husband’s unfortunate death. So I knew who he was and where I could find him.”
She didn’t say anything. She was pulling herself together, sipping her coffee and lighting another cigarette. Fussing. Doing anything to keep from looking at us.
“Then,” Stilton continued, speaking gently and almost reflectively, “before we had a chance to reply to the request from the Gary police, Mr. Bigg came to us, representing the attorneys he works for. They wanted us to dig deeper into the case of a missing client of theirs. A Professor Yale Stonehouse. He had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Well, we looked into it and discovered that prior to his disappearance he had been the victim of arsenic poisoning. Mr. Bigg?”
I whipped out the chemical analyses and held them up before her eyes. I don’t think she even read them, but she was impressed. They were official documents. I began to appreciate Detective Stilton’s insistence on such evidence. They could be true or false, but printed foolscap carried weight.
“So,” Percy went on, sighing, “we dug deeper and discovered that the poison had apparently been administered by Glynis Stonehouse, the daughter of the missing man. In addition, we found out that Glynis has been having an affair, is still having an affair, with the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. We do not know for sure, but we suspect that Professor Stonehouse has been murdered and that Knurr is deeply involved. So we are here, Mrs. Kipper, to ask you to help by telling us what you can about this man. He’s already charged with blackmail and wife desertion. It’s only a matter of time before we can bring a first-degree homicide charge against him.”
For a moment I thought we had her. She stood up, circled her chair, started to sit down again. Then she stalked off to a far corner of the room, twisting her hands. We watched her. She stood, facing a blank wall, then turned and came back. The air vibrated; you could feel it.
I had to admire her. She had been rocked, there was no doubt of that, but she rallied. I thought of the word “spunk.”
She sat down again, carelessly this time, sprawled. No longer the queen. She dug a last cigarette from the crumpled pack. Percy Stilton was there with his lighter. She inhaled deeply, let the smoke escape lazily from her nostrils.
The silver-blonde hair was damp and tangled. The profile had lost its crispness; the bruise bulged an entire side of her face. The eyes seemed muddy, the thin lips were tightened and drawn. The chin she once carried so high had come down; there was soil in the wrinkles of her neck. Her body had slackened; the breasts sagged under the peignoir, the thighs had flattened.
Is it possible to suffer from an excess of sympathy? At that moment I felt sorry for her. She was being buffeted cruelly, but was far from surrender.
“This is very, uh, distressing,” she said finally.
“I can imagine,” Detective Stilton said.
I nodded madly.
We stared at her, silent again.
“All right,” she burst out, “the man was a—a—”
“Close friend of yours?” Percy suggested.
“Not exactly,” she said quickly, already cutting her losses. “More like a—a—”
“Spiritual adviser?” I said innocently.
She looked at me sharply.
“Yeah,” she said, “spiritual adviser. For a few years. All right—bad news. Now he turns out to be a bummer. He’s wanted. But what’s it got to do with me?”
The use of the slang—the “yeah” and the “bummer” was the first indication I had that she was slipping back to her origins. The grand lady was fading.
Stilton, the gentleman, still treated her with soft politesse, leaning toward her with a manner of great solicitude.
“Let me tell you what we’ve got, Mrs. Kipper,” he said. “Warrants have been issued for Knurr’s arrest and the arrest of his paramour, Glynis Stonehouse. In addition, we have search warrants for her home, his home, and his houseboat. Sooner or later we’re going to pick him up.”
“So?” she said. “Pick him up. It’s got nothing to do with me.
Percy sat back, crossed his knees, selected a cigarette from his case and lighted it with slow deliberation.
“I think it does,” he said, looking at her steadily. “I think it has a great deal to do with you. In addition to the out-of-state charges and complicity in the disappearance of Professor Stonehouse, the Reverend Godfrey Knurr will also be charged with the murder of Martin Reape.”
“Who?” she croaked. “Never heard of him.”
“No?” Stilton said. “Your late husband employed him.” He motioned toward me. “Mr. Bigg, the canceled checks, please.”
I dug into my briefcase, came up with copies of Martin Reape’s bills and the canceled checks. I showed them to her. She looked at them with smoky eyes.
“Martin Reape was a private detective,” Stilton went on inexorably. “He was pushed to his death beneath the wheels of a subway train. We have the testimony of two eyewitnesses placing the Reverend Godfrey Knurr at the scene of the homicide at the time it occurred. Reape’s widow was also murdered. We have evidence proving Knurr’s complicity in that homicide as well.”
He lied so skillfully I could hardly believe it. His lies were “throwaway” lines, spoken casually, as unemphasized as if he had mentioned “Chilly out today.” They were absolutely believable. He was stating falsehoods and giving them no importance. He was saying, “These things exist; everyone knows it.”
Tippi Kipper had gone rigid. She was motionless. Frozen. I think that if I had flicked her flesh, it would have pinged. She was in an almost catatonic state. Every time she had adjusted to a blow, thought she had countered it, Stilton had jolted her again. He kept after her, feeding her confusion.
“So,” he said, “on the basis of this and other evidence, the investigation into the circumstances of your husband’s death has been reopened, Mrs. Kipper. If you doubt that, I suggest you call the New York Police Department and verify wh
at I am saying. We now believe your husband was murdered.”
“Murdered?” she cried. Impossible! He left a suicide note.”
Detective Stilton held out a hand. I gave him the notes I had taken from Tippi Kipper’s dressing room. Percy held them up before her.
“Like these?” he asked stonily.
She glanced at them. Her face fell apart.
“Where did you get those?” she yelled.
“I, uh, obtained them,” I said.
She whirled and glared at me.
“You little prick!” she said.
I bowed my head.
“As I said,” Percy went on relentlessly, “the investigation into your husband’s murder has been reopened. We know how it was done: Knurr staying in an empty room overnight, going upstairs, killing the victim, running downstairs, going out the door only to turn around and ring the bell, coming right back in again while all of you were at the body in the backyard.”
“Ridiculous,” she said. “You’ll never prove it.”
“Oh, I think we will,” Stilton said. “We’ve filed for a search warrant for these premises. On the basis of what we’ve got, I think it will be granted. We’ll come in here and tear the place apart. The lab boys will vacuum every inch. They’ll find evidence of Godfrey Knurr spending the night in an upstairs room. Dust from his shoes, a partial fingerprint, a thread or crumbs of his pipe tobacco, maybe the weapon he used. Maybe just a hair or two. It’s impossible for a man to sleep somewhere overnight without leaving some evidence of his presence. And we’ll confiscate that house diary the butler keeps. It shows Godfrey Knurr arrived the afternoon before the day your husband was killed, with no record of his departure. Oh yes, I think we have enough for an indictment, Mrs. Kipper. Godfrey Knurr for homicide and you as accomplice. Both of you are going down the tube.”
She made gulping sounds. Stilton continued lecturing.
“And even if we can’t make it stick,” he said tonelessly, “there’s the publicity. Tabloids, radio, TV. The fashionable Mrs. Tippi Kipper, active in social and charitable affairs, with a prior arrest record for prostitution.”
I could barely hear. Her head was down. But she was saying, “Bastard, bastard, bastard…”
The Tenth Commandment Page 40
