Tenth Commandment (28 page)

On my way out I stopped at Yetta Apatoff's desk to tell her that my assistant would be in at eleven. She giggled.

'Oh, Josh,' she said, 'she's so big and you're so small.

It's so funny seeing the two of you together.'

'Yes, yes,' I said impatiently. 'But I'm sure you and everyone else in the office will get used to it.'

'So funny! ' she repeated, squinching up her face in mirth. I wished she hadn't done that; it gave her the look of a convulsed porker.

I told her I'd return in plenty of time to take her to lunch at one o'clock. She nodded, still giggling as I left. It seemed to me she was exhibiting a notable lack of sensitivity.

I took a cab up to the Kipper townhouse, pondering what I might say to Tippi if I got the opportunity and how I might draw her out on matters not pertaining to my alleged inventory of her late husband's estate. I could devise no devilishly clever ploy, and decided my best approach was to appear the wide-eyed innocent.

Chester Heavens answered my ring at the outside iron gate. 'Good morning, sah,' he said, friendly enough.

'Good morning, Chester. I trust I am not causing any inconvenience by dropping by without calling first?'

'Not at all, sah,' he said, ushering me into the looming entrance hall and holding out his hands for my hat and coat. 'Mom is breakfasting in the dining room. If you'll 232

just wait a moment, sah, perhaps I should inform her of your arrival.'

I waited, standing, until he returned. 'Mom asks if you would care to join her for a cup of coffee, sah?'

'I'd like that very much.'

Mrs Kipper was seated at the head of a long table. In the centre was a silver bowl of camellias and lilies. She held a hand out to me as I entered.

'Good morning, Mr Bigg,' she said, smiling. 'You're out early this morning.'

'Yes, ma'am,' I said moving forward quickly to take her hand. 'I'm anxious to finish up. Almost as anxious, I imagine, as you are to see the last of me.'

'Not at all,' she murmured. 'You've had breakfast?'

'Oh yes, ma'am.'

'But surely you'll join me for a cup of coffee?'

'Thank you I'd like that.'

'Chester, will you clear these things away, please, and bring Mr Bigg a cup. And more hot coffee.'

'Yes, mom,' he said.

'Now you sit next to me, Mr Bigg,' Tippi said, gesturing towards the chair on her right. 'I've always enjoyed a late, leisurely breakfast. It's really the best meal of the day — is it not?' Her manner seemed patterned after Loretta Young or Greer Garson.

I must admit she made a handsome picture, sitting erect at the head of that long, polished table: Portrait of a Lady.

In pastels. She was wearing a two-layer nightgown peignoir, gauzy and flowing, printed with pale gardenias.

She seemed born to that splendid setting. If the Kipper sons had been telling the truth, if she had the background they claimed, she had effected a marvellous transformation. The silver-blonde hair was up, and as artfully coiffed as ever. No wrinkles in that half-century old face; its mask-like crispness hinted of a plastic surgeon's 'tucks.'

The brown eyes with greenish flecks showed clear whites, 233

the nose was perfectly patrician, the tight chin carried high.

I felt a shameful desire to dent that assured exterior by risking her ire.

'Mrs Kipper,' I said, 'a small matter has come up concerning your late husband's estate, and we hoped you might be able to help us with it. During an inventory of your husband's office effects, a bill was found in the amount of five hundred dollars, submitted by a certain Martin Reape. It is marked simply: "For services rendered." We haven't been able to contact this Mr Reape or determine the nature of the services he rendered. We hoped you might be able to assist us.'

I was watching her closely. At my first mention of Martin Reape, her eyes lowered suddenly. She stretched out a hand for her coffee cup and raised it steadily to her lips. She did not look at me while I concluded my question, but set the cup slowly and carefully back into the centre of the saucer with nary a clatter.

It was a remarkable performance, but a calculated one.

She should not have taken a sip of coffee in the midst of my question, and she should have, at least, glanced at me as I spoke. Roscoe Dollworth had told me: 'They'll take a drink, light a cigarette, bend over to retie their shoelace — anything to stall, to give themselves time to think, time to lie believably.'

'Reape?' Mrs Kipper said finally, meeting my eyes directly. 'Martin Reape? How do you spell that?'

'R-e-a-p-e.'

She thought for a moment.

'Nooo,' she said. 'The name means nothing to me. Have you found it anywhere else in his records?'

'No, ma'am.'

Did I see relief in her eyes or did I just want to see it there as evidence of guilt?

'I'm afraid I can't help you,' she said, shaking her head 234

'My husband was involved in so many things and knew so many people with whom I was not acquainted.'

I loved that ' . . . people with whom I was not acquainted.' So much more aristocratic than ' . . . people I didn't know.' I was horribly tempted to ask her how Las Vegas was the last time she saw it. Instead, I s a i d . . .

'I understand your husband was very active in charitable work, Mrs Kipper.'

'Oh yes,' she said sadly. 'He gave generously.'

'So Mr Knurr told me,' I said.

There was no doubt at all that this was news to her, and came as something of a shock. She took another sip of coffee. This time the cup clattered back into the saucer.

'Oh?' she said tonelessly. 'I didn't know that you and Godfrey had discussed my husband's charities.'

'Oh my yes,' I said cheerfully. 'The Reverend was kind enough to invite me down to Greenwich Village to witness his activities there. He's a remarkable man.'

'He certainly is,' she said grimly. She took up her cigarette case, extracted and tapped a cigarette with short, angry movements. I was ready with a match. She smacked the cigarette into her mouth, took quick, sharp puffs. Now she was Bette Davis.

'What else did you and Godfrey talk about?' she asked.

'Mostly the boys he was working with and how he was trying to turn their physical energy and violence into socially acceptable channels.'

'Did he say anything about me?' she demanded. The mask had dropped away. I saw the woman clearly.

I hesitated sufficiently long so that she would know I was lying.

'Why, no, ma'am,' I said mildly, my eyes as wide as I could make them. 'The Reverend Knurr said nothing about you other than that you and your husband had made generous contributions to his programme.'

Something very thin, mean, and vitriolic came into that 235

wrinkle-free face. It became harder and somehow menacing. All I could think of was the face of Glynis Stonehouse when I told her I knew of her father's poisoning.

'Oh yes,' she said stonily. 'We contributed. Take a look at Sol's cancelled cheques. You'll see.'

I could not account for her anger. It did not seem justified simply by the fact that I had had a private conversation with the Reverend Knurr. I decided to flick again that raw nerve ending.

'He did say how difficult it had been for you,' I said earnestly. 'I mean your husband's death.'

'So you did talk about me,' she accused.

'Briefly,' I said. 'Only in passing. I hope some day, Mrs Kipper, you'll tell me about your experiences in the theatre. I'm sure they must have been fascinating.'

She hissed.

'He told you that?' she said. 'That I was in the theatre?'

'Oh no,' I said. 'But surely it's a matter of common knowledge?'

'Well . . . maybe,' she said grudgingly.

'As a matter of fact,' I said innocently, 'I think I heard it first from Herschel and Bernard Kipper.'

'You've been talking to them? ' she said, aghast.

'Only in the line of duty,' I said hastily. 'To make a preliminary inventory of your late husband's personal effects in his office. Mrs Kipper, I'm sorry if I've offended you. But the fact of your having been in the theatre doesn't seem to me to be degrading at all. Quite the contrary.'

'Yes,' she said tightly. 'You're right.'

'Also,' I said, 'as an employee of a legal firm representing your interest, you can depend upon my rectitude.'

'Your what? '

'I don't gossip, Mrs Kipper. Whatever I hear in connection with a client goes no farther than me.'

236

She looked at me, eyes narrowing to cracks.

'Yeah,' she said, and I wondered what had happened to

'Yes.' Then she asked: 'What a client tells a lawyer, that's confidential, right?'

'Correct, Mrs Kipper. It's called privileged information.

The attorney cannot be forced to divulge it.'

Those eyes widened, stared at the ceiling.

'Privileged information,' she repeated softly. 'That's what I thought.'

Knowing she believed me to be an attorney, I awaited some startling confession. But she was finished with me.

Perhaps Knurr had told her I was not a member of the bar.

In any event, she stood suddenly and I hastened to rise and move her chair back.

'Well, I'm sure you want to get on with your work, Mr Bigg,' she said, extending her hand, the lady again.

'Yes, thank you,' I said, shaking her hand warmly. 'And for the coffee. I've enjoyed our talk.'

She sailed from the room without answering, her filmy robes floating out behind her.

'Have a good day,' I called after her, but I don't think she heard me.

I felt I had to spend some time in the townhouse to give credence to my cover story, so I took the elevator up to the sixth floor. I went into the empty, echoing party room and wandered about, heels clacking on the bare floor. I was drawn to those locked French doors. I stood there, looking out on to the terrace from which Sol Kipper had made his fatal plunge.

Small, soiled drifts of snow still lurked in the shadows.

There were melting patches of snow on tables and chairs.

The outdoor plants were brown and twisted. It was a mournful scene, a dead, winter scene.

He came up here, or was brought up here, and he leaped, or was thrown, into space. Limbs flailing. A boneless dummy flopping down. Suicide or murder, no 237

man deserved that death. It sent a bitter, shocking charge through my mouth, as when you bite down on a bit of tinfoil.

I felt, I knew, it had been done to him, but I could not see how. Four people in the house, all on the ground floor.

Four apparently honest people. And even if they were all lying, which of them was strong enough and resolute enough? And how was it done? Then, too, there was that suicide note...

Depressed, I descended to the first floor. I stuck my head into the kitchen and saw Chester Heavens and Mrs Bertha Neckin seated at the pantry table. They were drinking coffee from the same silver service that had just graced the dining room table.

Chester noticed me, rose immediately, and followed me out into the entrance hall where I reclaimed my hat and coat.

'Thank you, Chester,' I said. 'I hope I won't be bothering you much longer.'

'No bother, sah,' he said. He looked at me gravely. 'You are coming to the end of your work?'

His look was so inscrutable that for a moment I wondered if he knew, or guessed, what I was up to.

'Soon,' I said. 'It's going well. I should be finished with another visit or two.'

He nodded without speaking and showed me out, carefully trying the lock on the outer gate after I left.

I hailed a cab on Fifth and told the driver to drop me at the corner of Madison Avenue and 34th Street. From there I walked the couple of blocks to the ladies' wear shop to buy the green sweater for Yetta Apatoff. I described Yetta's physique as best I could, without gestures, and the kind saleslady selected the size she thought best, assuring me that with a sweater of that type, too small was better than too large, and if the fit wasn't acceptable, it could be exchanged. I had it gift-wrapped and then put into a 238

shopping bag that effectively concealed the contents.

When I got back to my office, Mrs Gertrude Kletz was seated at her new desk in the corridor. She was on the phone, making notes I thought, gratified, that she looked very efficient indeed. I went to my own desk, sat down in my coat and hat, and made rapid, scribbled notes of my conversation with Mrs Tippi Kipper. My jottings could not convey the flavour of our exchange, but I wanted to make certain I had a record of her denial of knowing Martin Reape, her admission of heavy contributions to the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, and the anger she had exhibited when she learned of my meeting with Knurr.

I was just finishing up when my new assistant came into the office, carrying a spiral-bound stenographer's pad.

'Good morning, Mrs Kletz,' I said.

'Good morning, Mr Bigg.'

We beamed at each other. She was wearing a tent-like flannel jumper over a man-tailored shirt. I asked her if her desk, chair, telephone, and supplies were satisfactory, and she said they were.

'Did you get all my notes?' I asked her. 'Did they make sense to you?'

'Oh yes,' she said. 'No problems. I found the lab that did business with Professor Stonehouse.'

'You didn't?' I said, surprised and delighted. 'How many calls did it take?'

'Fourteen.' she said casually, as if it was a trifle. A treasure, that woman! 'They did two chemical analyses for Professor Stonehouse.' She handed me a note. 'Here's all the information: date and cost and so forth. They didn't tell me what the analyses were.'

'That's all right,' I said. 'I know what they were. I think.

Thank you, Mrs Kletz.'

'On the other research requests — I'm working on those now.'

'Good,' I said. 'Stick with it. If you have any questions, 239

don't be afraid to ask me.'

! Oh , I won' t be afraid,' she said.

I didn't think she would be — of anything. I made a sudden decision. From instinct, not reason.

'Mrs Kletz,' I said, 'I'm going out to lunch at one and will probably be back in an hour or so. If you get some time, take a look at the Kipper and Stonehouse files.