Tenth Commandment (17 page)

'No, sir, not to my knowledge. It's something I'll have to check out.'

He thought about this a long time.

'Ugly,' he said finally. There was no disgust in his voice, no note of disappointment in the conduct of the human race. It was just a judicial opinion: 'Ugly.'

'Yes, sir.'

'What would be the motive?' he asked. 'Presuming what you believe is true, why would anyone in the Stonehouse family wish to poison him?'

'That I don't know, sir. Perhaps it had something to do with the will. The missing will. Mr Teitelbaum, can a person draw up his own will?'

He stared at me.

'A holographic will?' he said. 'In the handwriting of the testator? Properly drawn and properly witnessed? Yes, it would be valid. With several caveats. A husband, for instance, could not totally disinherit his wife. A testator could not make bequests contrary to public policy. To finance the assassination of a president, for example. And so forth. There are other requirements best left to the expertise of an attorney. But a simple will composed by the testator could be legal.'

'With what you know about Professor Stonehouse, sir, do you think he was capable of drawing up such a document?'

He didn't hesitate.

'Yes,' he said. 'He would be capable. In fact, it would be likely, considering the kind of man he was. You think that's what he did?'

'I just don't know,' I admitted. 'It's certainly possible.

Did you ask Mrs Stonehouse if her husband had dealings with any other attorneys?'

'I asked,' he said, nodding. 'She said she knew of none.

That doesn't necessarily mean he didn't, of course. He was a very secretive man. Mr Bigg, I find this whole matter 141

increasingly disturbing. I told you I feared Professor Stonehouse was dead. I had nothing to base that belief on other than a feeling, instinct, a lifetime of dealing with the weaknesses of very fallible human beings. Your news that Professor Stonehouse was the victim of poisoning only confirms that belief.' He paused. 'We have both used the term "victim." You do not suppose, do you, that the poisoning could have been accidental?'

'I don't think so, sir.' We sat awhile in silence. 'Mr Teitelbaum,' I said, 'do you want me to continue the investigation?'

'Yes,' he said, in such a low voice that it came out a faint

'Ssss.'

'You don't feel the matter of the arsenic poisoning should be reported to the police?'

He roused, a little, and sat up straighter in his chair.

'No, not as yet. Continue with your inquiries.'

I walked down to the main floor, hoping to have a moment to chat with Yetta Apatoff. But Mr Orsini was just coming through the main entrance, the door held ajar for him by a worshipful aide, and two more bobbing along in his wake.

'Josh,' he cried, grabbing my arm. 'I've got a new one you'll love!'

He pulled me close. His aides clustered around, twittering with eagerness.

'This very short man is sitting in a bar,' Orsini said, 'and down at the other end he sees this great big gorgeous blonde by herself. Get the picture?'

When it was over I stumbled back to my office, called Ardis, and asked her to meet me on 74th and Amsterdam in twenty minutes, about 1.45. Next I rang up the Stonehouse residence and asked if I could come by at 2.00 p.m., to talk to the maid, Olga Eklund, and to pick up a photograph of Professor Stonehouse to be used on reward posters. This was a ruse to get into the house again. I spoke 142

to Glynis Stonehouse; she told me that she and her mother would be happy to see me.

I grabbed a gyro and a Coke on my way to meet Ardis.

She was on the north-west corner, waiting for me.

'Thank God! You're on time! I had one of the nurses cover for me, but if Stolowitz calls in and I'm not at my desk, he'll go crazy.'

'Thank you, Ardis,' I said in a low voice, handing her an envelope. 'A big help.'

'Any time,' she said, whisking the envelope out of sight.

'You're in the neighbourhood, give me a call. We'll have lunch — or whatever.'

'I'll do that,' I said.

I walked south on Central Park West to the Stonehouse apartment house and went through the business of identifying myself to the man behind the desk.

The door to 17-B was opened by a Valkyrie. She lacked only a horned helmet. This was undoubtedly Olga Eklund.

She was almost a foot taller than I, broad in the shoulders and hips, with long, sinewy arms and legs. Her head seemed no wider than her strong neck, and beneath her black uniform I imagined a hard torso, muscle, and tight skin flushed with health.

I had fantasized flaxen tresses. They existed, but had been woven into a single braid, thick as a hawser, and this plait had been wound around and around atop her head, giving her a gleaming crown that added another six inches to her impressive height. The eyes, as I had fancied, were a deep-sea blue, the whites as chalky as milk. She wore no makeup, but the full lips were blooming, the complexion a porcelainized cream.

She gave such an impression of bursting good health, of strength and vitality, that it made me shrink just to look at her. She seemed of a different species, someone visiting from Planet 4X-5-6-Gb, to demonstrate to us earthlings our sad insufficiencies.

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'Mr Bigg,' she asked in the sultry, throbbing voice that had conjured up all those exciting images when I had heard it on the phone.

'Yes,' I said. 'You must be Miss Eklund.'

'Yah,' she said. 'Hat? Coat?'

She hung my things away in the hall closet. I followed her down the long corridor. She moved with a powerful, measured tramp. Beneath the skirt, rounded calves bunched and smoothed. She had the musculature of a trapeze artist, marble under suede. I was happy she hadn't offered to shake hands.

Mrs Ula Stonehouse and Glynis were waiting for me in the living room. There was a tea service on one of the small cocktail tables, and at their urging I accepted a cup of tea from the efficient Olga Eklund.

'I'm sorry I have no news to report,' I told mother and daughter. 'I have discovered nothing new bearing on the Professor's disappearance.'

'Mother said you asked about Father's health,' Glynis said. 'His illness last year. Did you speak to his doctor?'

She was curled into one corner of the long couch, her splendid legs tucked up under her.

'Yes, I spoke to Dr Stolowitz,' I said, addressing both of them. 'He wouldn't reveal the exact nature of the illness, but I gathered it was some kind of flu or virus. Tell me, was anyone else in the family ill at the same time the Professor was sick?'

'Let me think,' Mrs Stonehouse said, cocking her head.

'That was last year. Oh yes. I had a cold that lasted and lasted. And poor Effie was sniffling for at least a week.

Glynis, were you sick?'

'Probably,' the daughter said in her husky voice. 'I don't really remember, but I usually get at least one cold when winter comes. Does this have anything to do with my father's disappearance, Mr Bigg?'

'Oh no,' I said hastily. 'I just wanted to make certain he 144

was in good health on January 10th. And from what you and Dr Stolowitz have told me, he apparently was.'

Glynis Stonehouse looked at me a moment. I thought she was puzzled, but then her face cleared.

'You're trying to determine if he might have had amnesia?' she asked. 'Or be suffering some kind of temporary mental breakdown?'

'Yes,' I said, 'something like that. But obviously we can rule that out. Mrs Stonehouse, I wonder if you'd mind if I talked to your maid for a few moments. Just to see if she might recall something that could help.'

'Not at all,' Glynis Stonehouse said before her mother could answer. 'She's probably in the kitchen or dining room. You know the way; go right ahead. I've already instructed Olga to tell you whatever you want to know.'

'Thank you,' I said, rising. 'You're very kind. It shouldn't take long. And then there are a few more things I'd like to discuss with you ladies, if I may.'

I found the maid in the dining room, seated at one end of the long table. She was reading Prevention.

'Hi,' I said brightly. 'Miss Stonehouse said it was all right if I talked to you in private. May I call you Olga?'

'Yah,' she said.

She sat erect, her straight spine not touching the back of the chair; seated, she still towered over me.

'Olga,' I said, 'I work for the family's attorneys and I'm investigating the disappearance of Professor Stonehouse. I was hoping you might be able to help me.'

She focused those turquoise eyes on mine. It was like a dentist's drill going into my pupils. I mean I was pierced.

'How?' she said.

'Do you have any idea what happened to him?'

'No.'

'I realize you weren't here the night he disappeared, but had you noticed anything strange about him? I mean, had he been acting differently?'

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'No.'

'At the time he disappeared, he was in good health?'

She shrugged.

'But he had been sick last year? Right? Last year he was very ill?'

'Yah.'

'But then he got better.'

'Yah.'

I sighed. I was doing just great. Yah, no, and one shrug.

'Olga,' I said, 'you work here from one o'clock to nine, six days a week — correct?'

'Yah.'

'You serve the afternoon lunch and dinner?'

'Yah.'

'Did he eat anything special no one else ate?'

'No.'

I gave up. The Silent Swede. Garbo was a chatterbox compared to this one.

'All right, Olga,' I said, beginning to rise. 'You've been very kind, and I want to -'

Her hand shot out and clamped on my arm, instantly cutting off the circulation. She drew me to her. I instinctively resisted the force. Like trying to resist a Moran tugboat. She pulled me right up to her. Then her lips were at my ear. I mean I could feel her lips on my ear, she clutched me so tightly.

'He was being poisoned,' she whispered.

The warm breath went tickling into my ear, but I was too stunned to react. Was this the breakthrough I needed?

'By whom?' I asked.

'I could have saved him,' she said.

I stared.

For answer to my unspoken question she solemnly raised the health and diet magazine and pointed to it.

She meant Stonehouse was sick of commercial-food processing, like everyone else.

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In the living room Glynis and her mother were as I left them. Mrs Stonehouse was licking the rim of a filled glass.

'Nothing,' I said, sighing. 'It's very frustrating. Well

. . . I'll keep trying. The only member of the family I haven't spoken to, Mrs Stonehouse, is your son. He was here the night his father disappeared. Perhaps he can recall something...'

They gave me his address and unlisted phone number.

Then I asked to see any family photos they might have, and presently I was sitting nervously on the couch between the two women, and we went through the stack of photos slowly. It was an odd experience. I felt sure I was looking at pictures of a dead man. Yale Stonehouse was, or had been, a thin-faced, sour man, with sucked-in cheeks and lips like edges of cardboard. The eyes accused and the nose was a knife. In the full-length photos, he appeared to be a skeleton in tweed, all sharp angles and gangling. He was tall, with stooped shoulders, carrying his head thrust forward aggressively.

'Height?' I asked.

'Six feet one,' Mrs Stonehouse said.

'A little shorter than that, Mother,' Glynis said quietly.

'Not quite six feet.'

'Colour of hair?'

'Brownish,' Ula said.

'Mostly grey,' Glynis said.

We finally selected a glossy 8 x 10 publicity photo. I thanked Ula and Glynis Stonehouse and assured them I'd keep them informed of the progress of my investigation.

Downstairs, I asked the man behind the desk if he had been on duty the night Yale Stonehouse had walked out the apartment house, never to be seen again. He said No, that would be Bert Lord, who was on duty from 4.00 p.m. to midnight. Bert usually shows up around 3.30 to change into his uniform in the basement, and if I came back in 147

fifteen or twenty minutes, I'd probably be able to talk to him.

So I walked around the neighbourhood for a while, trying to determine Professor Stonehouse's possible routes after he left his apartment house.

There was an IND subway station on Central Park West and 72nd Street. He could have gone uptown or downtown.

He could have taken a crosstown bus in 72nd Street that would have carried him down to 57th Street, across to Madison Avenue, then uptown to East 72nd Street.

He could have walked over to Columbus Avenue and taken a downtown bus.

He could have taken an uptown bus on Amsterdam.

A Broadway bus would have taken him to 42nd Street and eastward.

A Fifth Avenue bus, boarded at Broadway and 72nd Street, would have taken him downtown via Fifth to Greenwich Village.

The Seventh Avenue IRT could have carried him to the Bronx or Brooklyn.

Or a car could have been waiting to take him anywhere.

When I returned to the apartment house precisely seventeen minutes later, there was a different uniformed attendant behind the desk.

'Mr Lord?' I asked.

'That's me,' he said.

I explained who I was and that I was investigating the disappearance of Professor Stonehouse on behalf of the family's attorneys.

'I already told the cops,' he said. 'Everything I know.'

'I realize that,' I said. 'He left the building about 8.45 on the night of January 10th — right?'

'That's right,' he said.

'Wearing hat, overcoat, scarf?'

'Yup.'

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'Didn't say anything to you?'

'Not a word.'

'But that wasn't unusual,' I said. 'Was it? I mean, he wasn't exactly what you'd call a sociable man, was he?'

'You can say that again.'

I didn't. I said, 'Mr Lord, do you remember what the weather was like that night?'

He looked at me. He had big, blue, innocent eyes.

'I can't recall,' he said. 'It was a month ago.'

I took a five-dollar bill from my wallet, slid it across the marble-topped desk. A chapped paw appeared and flicked it away.