Tenth Commandment (26 page)

'You can depend on it,' she said almost grimly. 'I don't blab.'

'Good,' I said, rising. 'Would you like to start tomorrow or would you prefer to begin on Monday?'

'Tomorrow will be fine,' she said, heaving herself upright. 'Will you be here then?'

'Probably,' I said, thinking about my Friday schedule.

'If not, I'll leave instructions for you on my desk. Will that be satisfactory?'

'Sure,' she said equably.

I stood on tiptoe to help her on with that ridiculous coat.

Then we shook hands, smiling, and she was gone. I 215

thought her a very serene, reassuring woman, and I was grateful to Hamish Hooter, I'd never tell him that, of course.

The moment Mrs Kletz had departed, I called Hooter's office. Fortunately he was out, but I explained to his assistant what was needed: a desk, chair, typewriter, wastebasket, stationery and supplies, phone, etc., all to be installed in the corridor directly outside my office door. By eleven o'clock the following morning.

'Mr Bigg!' the assistant gasped in horror. I knew her: a frightened, rabbity woman, thoroughly tyrannized by her boss. 'We cannot possibly provide all that by tomorrow morning.'

'As soon as possible, then,' I said crisply. 'My assistant was hired with the approval of the senior partners.

Obviously she needs a place to work.'

'Yes, Mr Bigg,' she said submissively.

I hung up, satisfied. Today, a temporary assistant.

Soon, a full-time secretary. A larger office. Then the vvorrld!

I spent the remainder of the afternoon at my desk.

Outside, the snow had thickened; TORT employees with radios in their offices reported that three to five inches of snow were predicted before the storm slackened around midnight. Word came down from upstairs that because of the snowfall anyone who wished to leave early could do so.

Gradually the building emptied until, by 5.00 p.m., it was practically deserted, the noise stilled, corridors vacant. I stayed on. It seemed foolish to go home to Chelsea and then journey uptown to meet Perdita Schug at Mother Tucker's at 7.00. So I decided to remain in the office until it was time for my dinner date.

I got up and looked out into the main hallway. The lights had already been dimmed and the night security guard was seated at Yetta Apatoff's desk. Beyond him, through the glass entrance doors, I saw a curtain of snow, 216

torn occasionally by heavy gusts.

I went back into my office, wishing that Roscoe Dollworth had left a bottle of vodka hidden in desk or file cabinet. A hopeless wish, I knew. Besides, on a night like that, a nip of brandy would be more to my liking. Now if only I had -

I sank slowly into my chair, suddenly realizing what it was that had puzzled me about Professor Yale Stonehouse's study: the bottle of Rémy Martin on the silver salver was new, uncorked, still sealed. That meant, apparently, that it had been there since the night he disappeared.

There was a perfectly innocent explanation, of course: he had finished his previous bottle the night before and had set out a fresh bottle, intending to return when he left the Stonehouse apartment on the night of 10 January.

There was another explanation, not so innocent. And that was that Professor Stonehouse had been poisoned not by doctored cocoa, but by arsenic added to his brandy. He had both cocoa and brandy every night before retiring.

The lethal dose could have been added in either. And if he had discovered the source, it might account for the sealed bottle in his study.

I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes past 5.30 — a bad time to call. But I had to know. I dialled the Stonehouse apartment.

'Yah?' Olga Eklund said.

'Hi, Olga,' I said. 'This is Joshua Bigg.'

'Yah.'

'How are you?'

'Is not nice,' she said. 'The weather.'

'No, it looks like a bad storm. Olga, I wonder if I could talk to Mrs Dark for a moment — if it isn't too much trouble.'

'I get her,' she said stolidly.

I waited impatiently for almost three minutes before Mrs 217

Dark came on the line.

'Hello, dearie,' she said brightly.

'Effie,' I said. 'I'm sorry to bother you at this hour. I know you must be busy with the evening meal.'

'No bother. Everything's cooking. Now it's just a matter of waiting.'

'I have a few more little questions. I know you'll think they're crazy, but they really are important, and you could be a big help in discovering what happened to the Professor.'

'Really?' she said, pleasantly surprised. 'Well, I'll do what I can.'

'Effie, who buys the liquor for the family — the whisky, wine, beer, and so forth?'

'I do. I call down to the liquor store on Columbus Avenue and they deliver it.'

'And after they deliver it, where is it kept?'

'Well, I always make certain the bar in the living room is kept stocked with everything that might be needed. Plenty of sherry for you-know-who. The reserve I keep right here in the kitchen. In the bottom cupboard.'

'And the Professor's brandy? That he drank every night?'

'I always kept an extra bottle or two on hand. God forbid we should ever run out when he wanted it!'

'How long did a bottle last him, Effie? The bottle in his study, I mean?'

'Oh, maybe ten days.'

'So he finished about three bottles of cognac a month?'

'About.'

'And those bottles were kept in the kitchen cupboard?'

'That's right.'

'Who put a fresh bottle in the Professor's study?'

'He'd come in here and fetch it himself. Or I'd take it to him if he had a dead soldier. Or like as not, Glynis would bring him a new bottle.'

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'And there was usually a bottle of Rémy Martin in the living room bar as well?'

'Oh no,' she said, laughing. 'The brandy in there is Eye-talian. The Professor kept the good stuff for himself.'

He would, I thought, gleeful at what I had learned.

'One more question, Effie,' I said. 'Very important.

Please think carefully and try to recall before you answer.

In the month or so before the Professor disappeared, do you remember bringing a fresh bottle of brandy to his study?'

She was silent.

'No,' she said finally, 'I didn't bring him any. Maybe Glynis did, or maybe he came into the kitchen and got it himself. Wait a minute. I'm on the kitchen extension; it'll just take me a minute to check.'

She was gone a short while.

'That's odd,' she said. 'I was checking the cupboard. I remember having two bottles in there. There's one there now and one unopened bottle in the Professor's study.'

'Do you recall buying any new bottles of Rémy Martin in the month or six weeks before the Professor disappeared?'

Silence again for a moment.

'That's odd,' she repeated. 'I don't remember buying any, but I should have, him going through three bottles a month. But I can't recall ordering a single bottle. I'll have to go through my bills to make sure.'

'Could you do that, Effie?'

'Be glad to,' she said briskly. 'Now I've got to ring off; something's beginning to scorch.'

'You've been very kind,' I said hurriedly. 'A big help.'

'Really?' she said. 'That's nice.'

We hung up.

If I had been Professor Stonehouse, learning I was a victim of arsenic poisoning, I would have set out to discover how it was being done and who was doing it. And, 219

I was certain, he had discovered who had been doing the fiddling.

It was then getting on to 6.00 p.m. I had no idea how long it would take me to get uptown in the storm, so I donned rubbers, turned up the collar of my overcoat, pulled my hat down snugly, and started out. I said goodnight to the security guard and stepped outside.

I was almost blown away. This was not one of your soft, gentle snowfalls with big flakes drifting down slowly in silence and sparkling in the light of streetlamps and neon signs. This was a maelstrom, the whole world in turmoil.

Snow came whirling straight down, was blown sideways, even rose up in gusty puffs from drifts beginning to pile up on street corners.

There were at least twenty people waiting for the Third Avenue bus. After a wait that seemed endless but was probably no more than a quarter-hour, not one but four buses appeared out of the swirling white. I wedged myself aboard the last one. The ride seemed to take an eternity. At 69th, five other passengers alighted and I was popped out along with them. I fought my way eastward against the wind, bent almost double to keep snow out of my face.

And there, right around the corner on Second Avenue, was a neon sign glowing redly through the snow: MOTHER

TUCKER'S.

'Bless you, Mother,' I said aloud.

Perdita was there, in the front corner of the bar, perched on a stool, wearing a black dress cut precariously low. Her head was back, gleaming throat exposed, and she was laughing heartily at something the man standing next to her had just said. The place was jammed in spite of the weather, but Perdita was easy to find.

She saw me almost the instant I saw her. She slid off the barstool with a very provocative movement and rushed to embrace me with a squeal of pleasure, burying me in her embonpoint.

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'Josh!' she cried, and then made that deep, growling sound in her throat to signify pleasure. 'I never, never, never thought you'd show up. I just can't believe you came out in all this shit to see little me.' Her button eyes sparkled, her tongue darted in and out between wet lips.

'You poor dear, we must get you thawed out. Col, see if you can get a round from Harry.'

'What's your pleasure, sir?' her companion asked politely.

'Scotch please, with water.'

We introduced ourselves. He was Clyde Manila — Colonel Clyde Manila. Perdita called him Col, which could have meant in his case either Colonel or Colonial.

A bearded bartender, working frantically, heard the call, paused, and cupped his ear towards Colonel Manila.

'More of the same, Harry, plus Scotch and water.'

Harry nodded and in a few moments set the drinks before us. I reached for my wallet but Harry swiftly extracted the required amount from the pile of bills and change on the bar in front of the Colonel.

'Thank you, sir,' I said. 'The next one's on me.'

'Forget it,' Perdita advised. 'The Col's loaded. Aren't you, sweetheart?'

!I mean to be, ' he said, swallowing half his drink in one enormous gulp. 'No use trying to get home on a night like this — what?' His tiny eyes closed in glee.

He was genially messy in effect — white walrus moustache, swollen boozy nose, hairy tweed hacking jacket, all crowned with an ill-fitting ginger toupee.

'I'm awfully hungry,' I said. 'Perdita, do you think there's any chance of our getting a table?'

'Sure,' she said. 'Col, talk to Max.'

Obediently he moved away, pushing his way through the mob.

'A pleasant place,' I said to Perdita, who was winking at someone farther down the bar.

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'This joint?' she said. 'A home away from home. You can always score here, Josh. Remember that: you can always score at Mother Tucker's. Here comes Col.'

I turned to see Colonel Manila waving wildly at us.

'He's got a table,' Perdita said. 'Let's go.'

'Is he going to eat with us?' I asked.

'Col? No way. He never eats.'

I wanted to thank him for obtaining a table for us, but missed him in the crush.

At the table she said, 'I want another drink, and then I want a Caesar salad, spaghetti with oil and garlic, scampi, and a parfait for dessert.'

I cringed from fear that I might not have enough to pay for all that. I do not believe in credit cards.

'What are you drinking?' I asked.

'Who knows?' she said. 'I've been here since one o'clock this afternoon.'

A waitress appeared in a T-shirt that said 'Flat is Beautiful.' We settled on a drink for Perdita and the waitress left.

'Don't worry about the check,' Perdita said breezily.

'Colonel Manila will pay.'

'Absolutely not,' I said indignantly. 'I invited you. He doesn't have to pay for our dinner.'

'Don't be silly,' she said. 'He likes to buy me things. I told you — he's loaded. Light my cigarette.'

Talking to her was no problem; it was only necessary to listen. She babbled through our second round of drinks, through her gargantuan meal and a bottle of Chianti. I tried, several times, to bring the conversation around to the Kipper household, saying such things as: 'I imagine this is better food than Mrs Neckin's.' But Perdita picked up on none of these leads; her monologue would not be interrupted. I gave up and asked for a check, but the waitress assured me, 'It's been taken care of.'

'I told you,' Perdita said, laughing. 'The Colonel's 222

always doing things like that for me. He thinks it buys him something.'

'And does it?' I asked her.

'Sure,' she said cheerfully. 'What do you think? Let's go back to the bar.'

This was not really necessary as she was quite drunk already. We rejoined the Colonel, and the idea of going to Hoboken for clams was raised. I said I wouldn't. Two young men came and whispered in Perdita's ear and she told them to bug off. They disappeared quickly. The noise was incredible.

Colonel Clyde Manila was seated, lopsided, on Perdita's barstool. The moment he saw us, he slid off and bowed to Perdita.

'Keeping it warm f'you, dear lady,' he said, in a strangled voice.

'Colonel,' I shouted, 'I want to thank you for your kindness. The dinner was excellent.'

Those pale little eyes seemed to have become glassy.

'Good show,' he said.

'May I buy you a drink, sir?' I asked.

'Good show,' he said.

'Oh, don't be such a pooper, Josh,' Perdita said. 'Come dance with me.'

She clasped me in her arms, closed her eyes, began to shuffle me about. 'I just love Viennese waltzes,' Perdita Schug said dreamily.

'I think that's "Beautiful O h i o , " ' I said.

'Nasty brutes,' Colonel Manila said. He was at my shoulder, staggering after us around the minuscule dance floor. 'They smell, y'know. Did you ever sheep a shear?' I had suspected that he was Australian.