The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  Percy Stilton looked around. He spotted the handsome, marble-topped sideboard with a display of crystal decanters. He went over, inspected the offerings, selected a captain’s decanter bearing a porcelain label: BRANDY. He brought it back to the dining room table, poured a healthy wallop into the dregs of Tippi Kipper’s coffee cup.

  “Drink up,” he ordered.

  She drained it, holding the cup with trembling hands. He poured in another shot, set the bottle on the table close to her. She dug, fumbling, into her empty cigarette pack. Percy offered his case, then held his lighter for her again. He didn’t look at me. There was no triumph in his manner.

  “Mrs. Kipper,” he said, “I’ve been as honest with you as I know how. As of this moment there is no warrant out for your arrest. But I think it’s time we talked about you, your legal position, and your future.”

  “Now comes the crunch,” she said bitterly.

  “Correct,” he said equably. “Now comes the crunch. We’re going to pick up Godfrey Knurr; you know that. We’re going to lean on him. Do you really think he’s going to remain steadfast and true? Come on, Mrs. Kipper, you know better than that. He’s going to sing his rotten little heart out. Before he’s through, the whole thing will be your idea. You seduced him, you planned the murder of your husband; he was just the innocent bystander. You know that’s how he’s going to play it. That’s the kind of man he is.”

  She rose abruptly, scraping her chair back on the polished parquet floor. She stood leaning forward, knuckles on the table: a chairman of the board addressing a meeting of hostile executives. But she was not looking at us. She was staring between us, down the length of that gleaming table, the translucent china, the silver candelabrum. Wealth. Gentility. Security.

  “The first one in line makes the best deal,” Detective Percy Stilton said softly.

  Her eyes came back to him slowly.

  “Talk business,” she said harshly.

  We had her then, I knew, but Perce didn’t change expression or vary his polite, solicitous manner.

  “This is how I suggest it be done,” he said. “We didn’t come to you; you came to us. You called Mr. Bigg at the law firm that represented your late husband, and Mr. Bigg then contacted me. But you made the initial move. You volunteered. Mr. Bigg and I will so testify.”

  He looked at me. I nodded violently.

  “What was my motive for calling in the cops?” she asked.

  “You wanted to see justice done,” Stilton said.

  She shook her head. “It won’t wash,” she said.

  “Duress,” I said. “Physical assault. Knurr threatened you. So you went along with his plan. But now you’re afraid for your life.”

  Percy looked at me admiringly.

  “Yeah,” Tippi Kipper said, “that’s just how it was. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t go along. I’ll take off my makeup and you can get a color picture of this.” She pointed at the puffy bruise on her cheek. “He punched me out,” she said furiously. “He has a wicked temper, and that’s the truth. I was afraid for my life.”

  “Beautiful,” Percy said. “It fits.”

  “You think the DA will believe it?” she asked anxiously.

  Stilton leaned back, crossed his knees again, lighted another cigarette.

  “Of course not,” he said, “he’s no dummy. But he’ll go along. You’re going to be his star witness, clearing up three homicides and probably four. So he’ll play ball. We’re giving him something.”

  “What do you think I’ll draw?” she asked him.

  “Bupkes,” he said. “Time suspended and probation. You’ll walk.”

  “And the prostitution arrest?” she demanded.

  “Buried,” Stilton said. “Nothing to the press. You have my word on that.”

  She took a deep breath, looked around that lovely room as if she might never see it again.

  “Well…” she said, “I guess we better get the show on the road. Can I get dressed?”

  “Of course,” Percy said, “but I’ll have to go upstairs with you. I hope you understand.”

  We all moved out into the entrance hall. Chester Heavens, Perdita Schug, and Mrs. Neckin were gathered in a tight little group in the corridor to the kitchen. They watched, shocked, as their mistress and the detective entered the elevator. I retrieved my hat and coat and left hurriedly. I didn’t want to answer their questions.

  Lou, behind the wheel of the blue Plymouth, saw me coming. He leaned across to the passenger’s side and rolled down the window.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “They’ll be coming out soon.”

  “Is she going to spill?”

  I nodded.

  “It figures,” he said. “That Perce, he’s something. I’m glad we’re on the same side. If he was on the wrong, he’d end up owning the city.”

  Then we waited in silence. I didn’t want to get into the car. I wanted to look at that pure sky, breathe deeply in the sharp, tangy air. I didn’t want to think about what had just happened. I wanted to savor the wide, wide world.

  They came out in about fifteen minutes. Tippi Kipper was wearing a belted mink coat that seemed to go around her three times. She was hatless, carrying an oversized black alligator purse. She had removed her makeup. The bruise was hideous. Percy Stilton was carrying a small overnight case of buttery pigskin.

  He opened the back door of the Plymouth for her. She climbed in without looking at me. Perce put the little suitcase in the front seat. Then he took me by the elbow, led me aside.

  “End of the line for you, Josh,” he said.

  “Can’t I—” I started, but he shook his head regretfully and interrupted.

  “It’s all official from now on,” he said. “I’ll call you as soon as we get something. Where will you be?”

  “Either at the office or home. Perce, promise you’ll call.”

  “Absolutely,” he vowed. “I’ll keep you up on things. You deserve all the credit.”

  “Thank you,” I said faintly.

  He looked at me narrowly.

  “They were divorced, weren’t they?” he said. “Knurr and that Sylvia? And she and the old priest are a couple of whackos. Am I right?”

  I nodded miserably.

  He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “You’re good,” he said, “but not that good. Never try to scam a scammer.”

  I watched the Plymouth pull away, Stilton sitting next to Tippi Kipper in the back seat. When the car had turned the corner and disappeared, I walked over to Fifth Avenue and headed south. I decided to walk down to the TORT building.

  I should have been exultant but I wasn’t. It was the morality of what I had done that was bothering me. All that chicanery and deceit. I would have committed almost any sin to demolish Godfrey Knurr, but conniving in the escape of Tippi Kipper from justice was more than I had bargained for. And I had connived. I had worked almost as hard as Percy Stilton to convince her to betray Knurr. It had to be done. But as Perce had said, she was going to walk. An accomplice to murder. Was that fair? Was that justice?

  I realized I didn’t really know what “justice” meant. It was not an absolute. It was not a color, a mineral, a species. It was a human concept (what do animals know of justice?) and subject to all the vagaries and contradictions of any human hope.

  How can you define justice? It seemed to me that it was constant compromise, molded by circumstance.

  I would make a terrible judge.

  The brisk walk downtown refreshed my spirits. The sharp air and exercise were cleansing. By the time I signed in with the security guard at the TORT building, I had come to terms with what I had done. I was still regretful, but guilt was fading. I reckoned that if all went well, in a few weeks I would be proud of my role in bringing the Reverend Godfrey Knurr to justice—whatever that was.

  Mrs. Gertrude Kletz had left me a sheaf of notes and a stack of requests for investigations and research. I set to work with
pleasure, resolutely turning my mind from me Kipper and Stonehouse cases and concentrating on my desk work.

  I labored all afternoon with no breaks except to rise occasionally to stretch, walk into the corridor to loosen my knees. I accomplished a great deal, clearing my desk of most of the routine matters and making a neat list of those that would require personal investigation.

  Shortly before 5:00 P.M., after trying to resist the urge, I called Percy Stilton’s office. I was told he was “in conference” and could not come to the phone, so I assumed the interrogation of Tippi Kipper was continuing.

  I put away the Kipper and Stonehouse files, emptying my cruddy briefcase. I considered buying a new one. Perhaps an attaché case, slender and smart. But that battered briefcase had been left to me by Roscoe Dollworth and I was superstitious enough to believe it had magical properties: good luck and wisdom.

  I left the TORT building at about 5:50, remembering to take with me the wrapped red kite, string, and winder. I signed out, walked over to Broadway and took a bus down to West 23rd Street. I went directly to Woody’s Restaurant, trying to recall how long it had been since I had enjoyed a decent dinner.

  As usual, Nitchy was on duty, looking especially attractive in her exotic, gypsy way. I told her so and she tapped her fingers against my cheek.

  “No princess tonight, Josh?” she asked.

  “Not tonight,” I said, smiling tiredly.

  I think she caught my mood, because she ushered me to a small table in a quiet corner and left me alone. I had two Scotch-and-waters, a club steak, baked potato, string beans, salad, a bottle of beer, coffee and brandy.

  When I left, I was subdued, thoughtful, content. I carried the kite back to my apartment and settled in to wait. I tried to read but ended up with a copy of Silas Marner on my lap, staring into the cold fireplace and trying to make sense of everything that had happened in the last month.

  I came to no great conclusions, was subject to no great revelations. I tried to understand what motives, what passions, might drive apparently sane men and women to commit the act of murder. I could not comprehend it, and feared the fault was mine: I was not emotional enough, not feeling enough to grasp how others of hotter blood, of stronger desires, might be driven to kill.

  I was a mild little man, temperate, reflective. Nothing in my life was dramatic except what was contributed by others. It seemed incredible that I could survive in a world of such fiery wants and insatiable appetites.

  When the phone rang at about 8:20, I did not leap to answer it, but moved slowly, calmly. I think I may have been dreading what I expected to hear.

  “Josh?” Stilton’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Percy. She spilled. Everything. It went down the way you figured. She doesn’t know exactly how he did it—a karate chop or a hunk of pipe. She didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know. Ditto Martin Reape and his wife. Knurr just told her not to worry, he’d take care of everything.”

  “And he did,” I said.

  “Yes,” Perce said. “Jesus, I’m tired. Anyway, we’re organized now. There’s a team up at the Stonehouse apartment, looking for the will. Another at Knurr’s place in the Village. And another staked out at his houseboat. We’re also going into the Kipper townhouse. I don’t think they’ll find anything there, but you never can tell.”

  “No hairs?” I said. “Dust? Crumbs of tobacco?”

  “Come on,” Stilton said, laughing. “You know that was all bullshit.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Anyway, we’ve got a fistful of warrants. Lou and I are going up to the houseboat. Want to drag along?”

  I came alive.

  “I certainly do,” I said.

  “Pick you up at your place,” Percy said. “Josh, do us a favor?”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “We’re starved: Get us some sandwiches, will you? And maybe a six-pack?”

  “That’s easy,” I said. “What kind of sandwiches?”

  “Anything. We’ll pay you.”

  “Nonsense. This will be on Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We’ll be outside your place in half an hour.”

  I had secured the sandwiches and was waiting on the sidewalk when the dusty-blue Plymouth pulled up, Lou driving. I climbed into the back seat. I handed the brown paper bag to Stilton, up front.

  “I got them at a deli on Tenth Avenue,” I said. “Roast beef on white with mayonnaise, and bologna on rye with mustard. Two of each. And a cold six-pack of Miller’s. Is that all right?”

  “Plasma,” Lou groaned. “Plasma!”

  They dived into the bag and ripped tabs from the beer cans. Percy turned sideways, talking to me as he ate.

  “We got the Stonehouse will,” he said. “They’re going through Glynis’s personal stuff now. She wasn’t there. Her mother says she went to a matinee this afternoon. She’s probably with Knurr. No sign of the two of them yet. If we haven’t picked them up by midnight, we’ll put out an all-precincts, then gradually expand it if needed.”

  “They’re searching Knurr’s social club on Carmine Street?” I asked.

  “Oh sure,” Stilton said. “Found a lot of official records. He was doing all right. How does half a mil grab you?”

  “Incredible,” I said.

  “Ah well,” Lou mumbled, starting another half-sandwich, “he was a hard worker.”

  “What about Chester Heavens’ house diary?”

  “Got it,” Percy said. “Also Tippi’s collection of notes her husband wrote her. Josh, the DA will want all the paper you’re holding. Monday morning will be time enough.”

  “Does Tippi have legal counsel?”

  “She does now,” he said. “Not from your firm. Some hotshot criminal lawyer. He and the DA’s man are kicking it around right now, sewing up the deal. Lots of screaming.”

  “Do you really think she’ll go free?”

  “Probably,” he said without interest. Then he looked at me closely. “Josh, it happens all the time. You give a little, take a little. That’s how the system works.”

  They finished the sandwiches and four of the beers.

  “Dee-licious,” Lou said, scrubbing his mustache with a paper napkin. “Now I’m ready for a fight or a frolic. Thanks, pal.”

  “We’re going up to the boat basin,” Stilton told me. “We’ve got a search warrant for the houseboat. There’s a car with two men on Riverside Drive at 79th Street and one guy on the dock. The three of us are going into the boat. We’ll be in touch with the others by walkie-talkie in case Knurr shows up. If the radios work.”

  “They won’t,” Lou said casually. “Let’s go.”

  We drove north on Tenth Avenue, into Amsterdam, and turned west on 79th Street. The two detectives talked baseball for most of the trip. I didn’t contribute anything.

  We parked in a bus-loading zone near West End Avenue. We got out of the car, Percy and Lou taking their radios in leather cases. They didn’t look around for the stakeout car. We walked across the park, down a dirt path. We came to the paved area and the rotunda.

  It was a ghostly place, deserted at that hour. I thought again of an archeological dig: chipped columns, dried and cracking foundation, shadowed corridor leading to the murky river. It was all so broken and crumbling. Ancient graffiti. Splits in the stone. A world coming apart.

  We walked down the steps to the promenade by the river. A few late-hour joggers, pairs of lovers tightly wrapped, solitary gays on benches, an older man frisking with his fox terrier, several roller skaters doing arabesques, a few cyclists. Not crowded, but not empty either.

  Stilton rattled the gate, calling, and when the marina manager came out from his shed to meet us, Percy and Lou showed their identification. Stilton held up the search warrant for the man to read through the fence. He let us in, pointing out

  Godfrey Knurr’s houseboat south of the entrance.

 
; We paced cautiously down planked walkways floating on pontoons. They pitched gently under our tread.

  “You said you’ve got a man on the dock?” I asked anxiously.

  The detectives laughed.

  “The guy with the dog,” Lou said.

  “Al Irving,” Stilton said. “He always takes his mutt along on a stakeout. Who’s going to figure a guy with a dog is a cop? That hound’s got the best assist record in the Department.”

  We stepped down from the wharf onto the foredeck of Knurr’s long fiberglass houseboat. There was a thick cable leading to an electric meter on the dock. The sliding doors to the cabin were locked. Lou bent to examine them.

  “Piece of cake,” he said.

  He took a leather case of picklocks from his jacket pocket. He fiddled a moment, pushed the door open. He stood aside.

  “Be my guests,” he said.

  But I noticed he had unbuttoned his coat and jacket and his hand was on his hip holster. Percy Stilton went in first. His revolver was in his hand, dangling at his side. He found the switch and turned on the lights.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  And it was. We went prowling through. Chairs, tables, couches. Drapes and upholstery in cheery plaid. Plenty of headroom. Overhead lights. Tub and shower. Hot water heater. Toilet. Lockers and cabinets. Wall-to-wall carpeting. Beds, sinks. Larger than my apartment, and more luxurious. A floating home.

  We searched all through the houseboat, stared at the twin engines, bilge pump, climbed to the sundeck, marveled at the forward stateroom and the instrument panel in the pilothouse. We ended up in the galley, looking at an electric range/oven and an upright refrigerator.

  And a horizontal chest freezer.

  It didn’t look like standard equipment. It had been jammed into one corner, tight against a bulkhead and the refrigerator. The lid was secured with a cheap hasp and small padlock.

  The two detectives looked at each other.

  “Wanna bet?” Lou asked.

  “No bet,” Percy said.

  Lou leaned down to examine the padlock.

  “Five-and-dime,” he reported. “I saw some tools in the engine room.”

  We waited, silent. Lou was back in a minute with a small claw bar. He hooked the curved end into the loop of the padlock and yanked upward. It popped with a screech of metal.