Tenth Commandment (22 page)

I walked over from the TORT building, starting out at 2.30, heading due west on 38th. I strolled down Fifth Avenue to 35th, where I made a right into the garment district and continued over to Seventh. The garment centre in Manhattan is quintessentially New York. From early in the morning till late at night it is thronged, jammed, packed. The rhythm is frantic. Handtrucks and 182

pedestrians share the sidewalks. Handtrucks, pedestrians, taxis, buses, private cars, and semi-trailers share the streets. There is a cacophony that numbs the mind: shouts, curses, the bleat of horns, squeal of brakes, sirens, bells, whistles, the blast of punk rock from the open doors of music shops, the demanding cries of street vendors and beggars.

I suppose there were streets in ancient Rome similar to these, and maybe in Medieval European towns on market day. It is a hurly-burly, a wild tumult that simply sweeps you up and carries you along, so you find yourself trotting, dashing through traffic against the lights, shouldering your way through the press, rushing, rushing. Senseless and invigorating.

Kipmar's executive offices were decorated in neutral tones of oyster white and dove grey, the better to accent the spindles of gaily coloured yarns and bolts of fabrics displayed in lighted wall niches. There were spools of cotton, synthetics, wools, silks, rayon, and folds of woven solids, plaids, stripes, checks, herringbones, satins, metallics, and one incredible bolt of a gossamer fine as a spider's web and studded with tiny rhinestones. This fabric was labelled with a chaste card that read: STAR WONDER.

Special Order. See Mr Snodgrass.

At the end of the lobby a young lady was seated behind a desk that bore a small sign: RECEPTIONIST. She was on the phone, giggling, as I approached, and I heard her say, 'Oh, Herbie, you're just awful! ' She covered the mouthpiece as I halted in front of her desk.

'Yes, sir?' she said brightly. 'How may I help you?'

'Joshua Bigg,' I said, 'to see Mr Kipper. I was told to ask for Miss Gregg.'

'Which Mr Kipper, sir?'

'Both Mr Kippers.'

'Just a moment, sir,' she said. Then, sotto voce, 'Don't go away, Herbie.' She pushed some buttons and said prim-183

ly, 'Mr Joshua Biggs to see Mr Kipper. Both Mr Kippers.'

She listened a moment, then turned to me with a divine smile. 'Please take a seat, sir. Miss Gregg will be with you in a moment.'

I sat in one of the low leather sling chairs. True to her word, Miss Gregg came to claim me in a moment. She was tall, scrawny, and efficient. I knew she was efficient because the bows of her eyeglasses were attached to a black ribbon that went around her neck.

'Mr Bigg?' she said with a glassy smile. 'Follow me, please.'

She preceded me through a labyrinth of corridors to a door that bore a small brass plate: H. KIPPER, PRES.

'Thank you,' I said to her.

'Thank you, sir,' she said, ushered me in, then closed the door gently behind me.

It was a corner office. Two walls were picture windows affording a marvellous view of upper Manhattan. The floor was carpeted deeply, almost indecently. The desk was a slab of black marble on a chrome base — more table than desk. Two men stood behind the desk.

I had an initial impression that I was seeing double or seeing identical twins. They were in fact merely brothers, but Herschel and Bernard Kipper looked alike, dressed alike, shared the same speech patterns, mannerisms, and gestures; during the interview that followed I was continually confused, and finally looked between them when I asked my questions and let him answer who would.

Both were men of medium height, and portly. Both had long strands of thinning hair combed sideways over pink scalp. Their long cigars were identical.

Both were clad in high garment district fashion in steel-grey, raw silk suits. Only their ties were not identical.

When they spoke their voices were harsh, phlegmy, with a smokers' rasp, their speech rapid, assertive. They asked me to be seated, although they remained standing, firmly 184

planted, smoking their cigars and staring at me with hard, wary eyes.

Once again I explained that I was engaged in a preliminary inventory of their father's estate, and had come to ascertain if he had left any personal belongings in the offices.

'I understand he maintained a private office here,' I added softly. 'Even after his retirement.'

' W e l l . . . sure,' one of them said. 'Pop had an office here.'

'But no personal belongings,' the other said. 'I mean, Pop's desk and chairs and all, the furnishings, they belong to the company.'

'No personal possessions?' I persisted. 'Jewellery? A set of cufflinks he might have kept in his desk? Photographs?

Silver frames?'

'Sure,' one of them said. 'Pop had photographs.'

'We took them,' the other one said. 'They were of our mother, and Pop's mother and father.'

'And all us kids,' the other said. 'And his grandchildren.

In plain frames. No silver or anything like that. And one photograph of her. She can have it.'

'The bitch!' the other Kipper son said wrathfully.

I had pondered how I might introduce the subjects of Tippi and the will without seeming to pry. I needn't have fretted.

'I assume you're referring to the widow?' I said.

'I said bitch,' one of them said, 'and I mean bitch!'

'Listen,' the other said, 'we're not complaining.'

'We're not hurting,' his brother agreed. 'But that gold-digger getting a piece of the company is what hurts.'

'Who knows what that birdbrain might do?'

'She might dump her shares.'

'Upset the market.'

'Or waltz in here and start poking around.'

'She knows zilch about the business.'

'She could make plenty of trouble, that fake.'

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'I understand,' I said carefully, 'that she was formerly in the theatre?'

'The theatre!' one of them cried.

'That's a laugh!' the other cried.

'She was a nightclub dancer.'

'A chorus girl.'

'All she did was shake her ass.'

'And she wasn't very good at that.'

'Probably hustling on the side.'

'What else? Strictly a horizontal talent.'

'She played him like a fish.'

'She knew a good thing when she saw one, and she landed him.'

'And made his life miserable.'

'Once the contract was signed, no more nice-nice.'

'Unless she got what she wanted.'

'The house, which they didn't need, and clothes, cars, cruises, jewellery — the works. She took him good.'

'It hurt us to see what was going on.'

'But he wouldn't listen. He just wouldn't listen.'

'Uh,' I said, 'I understand she also persuaded your father to make contributions to charity. A certain Reverend Godfrey K n u r r . . . ? '

'Him!'

'That gonniff!'

'Hundreds!'

'Thousands!'

'To his cockamamie club for street bums.'

'Pop wasn't thinking straight.'

'Couldn't see how they were taking him.'

'Even after he's dead and gone.'

'But you probably know that.'

I didn't know it. Didn't know to what he was referring.

But I didn't want to reveal my ignorance by asking questions.

' W e l l . . . ' I said judiciously, 'it's not the first time it's 186

happened. An elderly widower. A younger woman. Does she have family?'

'Who the hell knows?' one of them said.

'She came out of nowhere,' the other said. 'A drifter.

Chicago, I think. Somewhere near there.'

'She doesn't talk about it.'

'He met her in Vegas.'

'Went out there on one of those gambling junkets and came back with a bride. Some bride! Some junket!'

'He lost!'

'We all lost.'

'A chippie.'

'A whore.'

'Everyone could see it but him. Pussy-whipped.'

'An old man like that. Our father. Pussy-whipped.'

'It hurt.'

They glowered at me accusingly. I ducked my head and made meaningless jottings in my notebook, pretending their anger was worth recording. Though I had learned more than I had hoped, there were questions I wanted desperately to ask, but I didn't dare arouse their suspicions.

'Well,' I said, 'I think that covers the matter of your father's personal belongings. There is one additional thing you may be able to help me with. A claim for a thousand dollars has been filed against the estate by an individual named Martin Reape. We have been unable to contact Mr Reape, and we wondered if either of you is acquainted with him or knows the reason for the claim.'

Again they looked at each other. Then shook their heads.

'Martin Reape?'

'Never heard of him.'

'We thought it might possibly be a business expense. Is there any w a y . . . ?'

'Sure. It can be checked out.'

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'We got everything on film.'

'We can tell you if he was a supplier, a customer, or whatever. Heshie, give Al Baum a call.'

Heshie picked up a silver-coloured phone.

'Get me Al Baum,' he snapped. Then, in a moment,

'Al? Herschel. I'm sending you down a lawyer. He wants to check into a certain individual. To see if he's on our books. You understand? Right. Al, give him every possible co-operation.'

He hung up.

'That's Al Baum, our comptroller,' he said to me. 'He's on the 31st floor. If we've got this guy — what's his name?'

'Martin Reape.'

'If we've got this Martin Reape on our books, Al will put him on the screen and see if we owe him.

Okay?'

I stood up.

'Gentlemen,' I said, 'you've been very kind, and I appreciate it.'

'You filed for probate yet?'

'Well, uh, I think you better talk to Mr Tabatchnick about that. He's handling it personally.'

' S u r e . . . what else? Uncle Leo and Pop were old friends.

They go way back together.'

'Give Uncle Leo our best.'

'I'll do that,' I said. 'Thank you again for your time and trouble.'

I got out of there. They were still standing shoulder to shoulder behind the desk, still furious. Their cigars were much shorter now. The marble top was littered with white ash.

The 31st floor was different from the executive enclave on the 34th. Wood floors were carpeted with worn runners, walls were tenement green, chipped and peeling.

There was no receptionist; directly in front of the elevators 188

began a maze of flimsy metal cubicles. There was constant noise here; banging and clattering, shouted questions and screamed answers, and a great scurrying to and fro. Large office machines, some with keyboards, some with hidden keys clacking, some quiescent, burping forth a sheet or two of paper at odd moments.

I approached a desk where a young black man was shuffling through an enormous pile of computer printout.

He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and a steel comb pushed into his Afro.

'I beg your pardon,' I said timidly.

He continued his rapid riffling of the folded stack of paper before him.

'I beg your pardon,' I said, louder.

He looked up.

'Say what?' he said.

'I'm looking for Mr Baum. I wonder if -'

'Al!' he bawled at me. 'Oh you, Al! Someone here!'

I drew back, startled. Before I knew what was happening, my elbow was gripped. A little butterball of a man had me imprisoned.

'Yes, yes, yes?' he spluttered. 'Al Baum. What, what, what?'

'Joshua Bigg, Mr Baum,' I said. 'I'm the -'

'Who, who, who?' he said. 'From Lupowitz?'

'No, no, no,' I said. It was catching. 'From Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum. Mr Herschel Kipper just called and asked -'

'Right, right, right,' he said. 'Follow me. This way. Just follow me. Don't trip over the cables.'

He darted away and I went darting after him. We rushed into an enormous room where tall grey modules were lined up against the walls, all with tape reels whirling or starting and stopping.

'Computers,' I said foolishly.

'No, no, no,' Baum said rapidly. 'Data processing and 189

retrieval. Payrolls, taxes, et cetera, but mostly inventory.

Hundreds of yarns, hundreds of fabrics: all coded. What's this gink's name?'

'Reape,' I said. 'Martin Reape. R-e-a-p-e.'

I scurried after him into a cramped corner office where a young lady sat before a keyboard and what appeared to be a large television screen.

'Josie,' Baum said, 'look up a Martin Reape. R-e-a-p-e.'

He turned to me. 'What is he?' he asked. 'A supplier?

Buyer? What, what, what?'

'I don't know,' I said, feeling like an idiot. 'You may have paid him for something. A supplier. Call him a supplier.'

Josie's fingers sped over the keyboard. Mr Baum and I leaned over her shoulder, watching the screen. Suddenly printing began to appear, letter by letter, word by word, left to right, then down to the next line, with a loud chatter. Finally the machine stopped. The screen showed seven payments of five hundred dollars each. The payee was Martin Reape, the address was his 49th Street office.

The first payment was made in August of the previous year. The last payment was made one week prior to the death of Sol Kipper.

'There he is,' Al Baum said. 'That what you wanted?'

'Yes,' I said, feeling a fierce exaltation. 'Would it be possible to see the cancelled cheques?'

'Why not?' he said. 'We got everything on film. Josie?'

She pushed more buttons. The screen cleared, then was filled with a picture of the Kipmar Textile cheques made out to Martin Reape. I leaned closer to peer. All the cheques had been signed by Albert Baum, Comptroller.

I turned to him.

'You signed the cheques?' I said.

I must have sounded accusing. He looked at me pityingly.

'Sure I signed. So, so, so?'

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'Do you remember what it was for? I mean, why was Martin Reape paid that money?'

He shrugged. 'I sign a thousand cheques a week. At least. Who can remember? Josie, let's see the bills.'

She pushed more buttons. Now the bills appeared on the screen. They had no printed heading, just the typewritten name and address of Martin Reape. Each was for $500.