Tenth Commandment (12 page)

'Want something?' the painter demanded.

'Do you know what happened to the furniture in this office?'

'Ask the manager,' he said.

'Is this office for rent?'

'Ask the manager.'

'And where will I find the manager?'

'Downstairs.'

'Could you tell me his name?'

He didn't answer.

In the rear of the lobby was a steel door with a square of cardboard taped to it: MANAGER'S OFFICE. I opened the door with some effort. A flight of steel steps led steeply downward. I descended cautiously, hanging on to the gritty banister. A gloomy, cement-lined corridor stretched away to the back of the building. The ceiling was a maze of pipes and ducts. At the end of this tunnel was a scarred wooden door. I pushed in.

It was like going into a prisoner's cell. The only thing lacking was bars. Cement ceiling, walls, floor. No windows. The furniture looked like tenants' discards.

There were two people in that cubbyhole. A very attractive Oriental girl clattered away at an ancient Underwood, pausing occasionally to brush her long black hair away from her face. A small brown man sat behind the larger desk, talking rapidly on the telephone in a language I could not identify. There was a neat brass plate on his desk: CLARENCE NG, MANAGER.

Neither of the occupants had looked at me when I entered. I waited patiently. Mr Ng rattled on in his incomprehensible language, then suddenly switched to English.

'The same to you, schmuck!' he screamed, and banged 98

down the phone. Then he looked at me.

'Ah, may I be of service, sir?' he asked softly.

'Perhaps you can help me,' I said. 'I'm looking for Martin Reape, Room 910. But his office is completely empty.'

'Ah,' he said. 'Mr Reape is no longer with us.'

'Oh?' I said, 'Well, could you tell me where he moved?'

'Ah,' Mr Ng said, 'Mr Reape did not move. Mr Reape is dead.'

'Dead?' I cried. 'Good heavens! When did this happen?'

'Two days ago. Mr Reape fell under a subway train. You were, ah, a friend of his?'

'A client,' I said. 'This is terrible. He had some very important papers belonging to me. Do you know what happened to his files?'

'His, ah, widow,' Mr Ng said. 'She arrived yesterday and removed everything.'

'And you let her?' I exclaimed.

The manager turned his palms upwards and shrugged.

'A man's widow is entitled to his possessions.'

'But are you certain it was the widow?'

'Ah, Mr Reape owed two months' back rent,' Mr Ng said smoothly. 'The woman paid.'

'That doesn't prove she was actually his widow,' I said angrily.

The Oriental girl stopped typing, but didn't turn to look at me.

'It was her all right,' she said. 'I saw them together in the lobby once, and he introduced us.'

'You see?' Mr Ng said triumphantly. 'The widow.'

'Do you happen to have her phone number?'

'Ah, regrettably no.'

'The home address then?'

'Also, no.'

'Surely it was on his lease?' I said.

'No lease,' Mr Ng said. 'We rent by the month.'

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'Well, I'll look it up in the phone book then,' I said.

Mr Ng paused for just a second. 'Ah, no,' he said sadly,

'Mr Reape had an unlisted number.'

I thanked Mr Ng and left. I walked through that dank tunnel and was almost at the stairway when I heard a shouted 'Hey, you!' I turned. The Oriental girl was running towards me.

'Ten bucks,' she said.

'What?' I said.

'Ten bucks,' she repeated. 'For the Reapes' address.'

She plucked the bill from my fingers and was already flying back down the tunnel.

'It's in the phone book,' she called.

I had little doubt but that Mr Ng would get his share of the money.

I had to walk two blocks before I could find a Manhattan telephone directory. I opened it with some trepidation, fearing that I had been twice gulled. But it was there: the 49th Street office and another on 93rd Street.

I took an uptown bus on Eighth Avenue, still smarting at the ease with which I and my money had been parted.

The Reapes lived on Sorry Street, between Somber and Gaunt. The tallest building on the block appeared to be a welfare hotel; most of the brownstones had been converted to rooming houses, with drawn shades at the windows instead of curtains; and the basement stores all had front windows tangled with dusty ivy, drooping ferns, and scrawny philodendrons. Graffiti was everywhere, much of it in Spanish. I wondered what puta meant.

The Reapes' house was one of the better buildings, a three storey structure of grey stone, now greasy and chipped. There were few remnants of its former elegance: a fancily carved lintel, bevelled glass in the door panels, an ornate brass escutcheon around the knob.

I pushed the bell alongside M. REAPE and waited.

Nothing. I tried again. Still no answer. I tried once more, 100

with no result. When I went back down to the sidewalk, an elderly lady with blue hair was just starting up the steps.

She was laden down with two heavy bags of groceries.

'May I help you, ma'am?' I asked.

She looked at me, frightened and suspicious.

'Just up to the front door,' I said. 'Then I'll go away.'

'Thank you, young man,' she said faintly.

I carried her bags up and left them beside the inner door.

When I came out again, she had negotiated only three steps, pausing on each one to catch her breath.

'Asthma,' she said, clutching her chest. 'It's bad today.'

'Yes, ma'am,' I said sympathetically. 'I wonder if you -'

'Sometimes it's like a knife,' she said, wheezing. 'Cuts right through me.'

'I'm sure it's painful,' I said. 'I'm looking for -'

'Didn't get a wink of sleep last night,' she said. 'Cough, cough, cough.'

'Mrs Reape,' I said desperately. 'Mrs Martin Reape. She lives here. I'm trying to find her.'

The suspicion returned.

'What do you want with her?' she demanded. 'You're too sawed off to be a cop.'

'I'm not a cop,' I assured her. 'It's about her husband's insurance.'

That hooked her.

'Did he leave much?' she whispered.

'I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that. I'm sure you understand. But I think Mrs Reape will be happy to see me.'

' W e l l . . . ' the old lady said, sniffing, 'she ain't exactly hurting from what I hear. Unless I miss my guess, young man, you'll find her at The Dirty Shame. That's a saloon on the next block towards Broadway.'

The Dirty Shame was one long, reasonably clean room, with a few tables and booths in the rear. But most of the action was at the bar. When I entered there was no doubt 101

that a party was in progress. There must have been at least forty men and women in attendance.

The air was clotted with smoke and the din was continuous — shouts, laughter, snatches of song — competing with a juke box playing a loud Irish jig. Two bartenders were hustling and the bartop was awash. A beefy, red-faced celebrant clamped an arm about my shoulders.

'Friend of Marty's?' he bawled.

'Well, actually, I'm -'

'Step right u p , ' he shouted, thrusting me towards the bar. 'Blanche is picking up the tab.'

A glass of beer was handed to me over the heads of the mob. My new friend slapped me heartily on the back; half my beer splashed out. Then he turned away to welcome another newcomer.

It was a raffish crew that filled The Dirty Shame. They all seemed to know each other. I moved slowly through the throng, looking for the widow.

I finally found her, surrounded by a circle of mourners who were trying to remember the words of 'When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.' She was a suety woman with a mass of carroty hair, heavily made up. She wore a white moustache of beer foam. Her widow's weeds were of some thin, shiny material, straining at the seams and cut low enough in front to reveal the exuberant swell of a freckled bosom which had been heavily powdered.

'Mrs Reape,' I said, when she paused for breath, 'I'd like to express my -'

'What?' she yelled, leaning down to me from her stool.

'I can't hear you with all this fucking noise.'

'I want to tell you how sorry I -'

'Sure, sure,' she said, patting my shoulder. 'Very nice.

Hey, your glass is empty! Tim, let's have a biggie over here! You a friend of Marty's?'

'Well, actually,' I said, 'I was a client.'

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Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought her smile froze and became a grimace, wet lips stretched to reveal teeth too perfect to be her own.

'A client?' she repeated. 'Well, he didn't have many of those.'

She started to turn away, and I went on with a rush, fearing to lose her.

'Mrs Reape,' I said hurriedly, 'I went up to your husband's office, but everything's been -'

'Yeah,' she said casually, 'I cleaned the place out. He had a bunch of junk there, but I got a couple of bucks from the ragpicker.'

'What about his records?' I asked. 'The files? He had some important paper of mine.'

'No kidding?' she said, her eyes widening. 'Jeez, I'm real sorry about that. I threw all that stuff out in the gobbidge last night.'

'Then it might be in the garbage cans in front of your house?' I said helpfully.

'Nah,' she said, not looking at me. 'They collected early this morning. All that paper's in the city insinuator by now.'

'Do you remember, if -'

But then I was shouldered out of the way.

I left my stein on a table and slipped away from The Dirty Shame as inconspicuously as I could.

I put in a call to the office. Yetta Apatoff said no one had been looking for me.

'Josh, did you see that sweater I happened to mention to you?' she inquired.

I told her I had seen it and thought it lovely.

'It's so revealing,' she said, giggling. 'I mean, it doesn't leave anything to the imagination.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' I said. 'Exactly. Listen. Yetta, I won't be in until after lunch in case anyone wants me.

Okay?'

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'Sure, Josh,' she said. 'And green's really my colour — don't you think?'

I finally got off the phone.

I arrived on West 74th Street with time to spare. I took up my station across the street from the office of Dr Morris Stolowitz and down the block towards Columbus Avenue. The redheaded receptionist came out a few minutes after noon. I scurried across the street and walked directly towards her.

I lifted my head with a start of surprise. Then I stopped.

I tipped my hat.

'We meet again,' I said, smiling.

She stopped, too, and looked down at me.

'Why, it's Mr Bigg,' she said. 'Listen, I hope you weren't insulted this morning. You know, when I asked you a personal question?'

'I wasn't insulted,' I assured her. 'People are always commenting on my size. In a way, it's an advantage; they never forget my name.'

'Mine neither,' she said. 'Not that my name is so great.

People are always making jokes about it.'

'What is your name?'

'Peacock, Ardis Peacock.'

'Ardis Peacock? Why, that's a lovely name. The peacock is a beautiful bird.'

'Yeah,' she said, 'with a big tail. You live around here?'

'No, just taking care of business. I'm getting hungry and thought I'd grab something to eat. Any good places in the neighbourhood?'

'Lots of them,' she said. 'There's a McDonald's on 71st Street and Amsterdam, and a Bagel Nosh on the east side of Broadway. But I usually go around the corner to Columbus Avenue. There's all kinds of restaurants there — Mexican, Indian, Chinese, whatever.'

'Sounds good,' I said. 'Mind if I walk along with you?'

'Be my guest,' she said.

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We started back towards Columbus.

'Ever think of getting elevator shoes?' she asked me.

'Oh, I've thought of it, but they'd only give me another inch or so. Not enough to make a real difference. What I need is stilts.'

'Yeah,' she said, 'it's a shame. I mean, here I am a long drink of water, and I think it's a drag. You should be taller and I should be shorter. But what the hell.'

'You carry it well,' I told her. 'You've got good posture, and you're slender. Like a model.'

'Yeah?' she said, pleased. 'No kidding?'

We ate at the Cherry Restaurant on Columbus Avenue, between 75th and 76th streets. Ardis ordered shrimp with lobster sauce. I had ham and scrambled eggs with home fries.

'That boss of yours gave me a hard time this morning,' I said casually.

'Don't let it get you down,' she advised. 'He gives everyone a hard time. Me, especially. Sometimes I think he's got the hots for me.'

'Shows he's got more sense than I thought,' I said.

'Hey, hey! ' she said. She turned and pushed me playfully. Almost off the stool.

'What was it all about?' she asked. 'That Stonehouse guy you mentioned on the phone?'

'That's the one,' I said. 'He was seeing Dr Stolowitz in October and November of last year. Remember him?'

'Do I ever!' she said. 'What a crab. Always complaining about something. He had to wait, or the office was too cold, or the Doc's cigars were stinking up the place. He was a real pain in the you know where.'

'Stolowitz should be happy he wasn't sued,' I said. 'This Stonehouse is always suing someone.'

'Is he suing you?'

'Not me personally,' I said, 'but maybe the outfit I work for.' Then I launched into the scenario I had contrived.

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'I'm an investigator with the claims division of a health insurance company. Isley Insurance. Ever hear of us?'

'No,' she said, 'can't say that I have.'

'It's a small outfit,' I admitted. 'We specialize in health coverage for the faculties of educational institutions. You know: schools, colleges, universities — like that. Group policies. Well, this Stonehouse used to teach at New York University. He's retired now, but he's still covered because he pays the premiums personally. You follow?'

'Oh sure,' she said. 'I make out all the Medicare forms for Stolowitz. It's a pain in the you know what.'