Tenth Commandment (37 page)

'The house diary, sah,' he said. 'The first Mrs Kipper insisted it be kept. It was one of my father's duties. After the first Mrs Kipper and my father had both passed away, I kept it with the approval of the second Mrs Kipper. What it is, sah, is a diary or log of visitors, delivery of packages, repairs to the house, appointments, and so forth. Many large homes keep such a daily record, sah. It is invaluable when it becomes necessary to send Christmas cards, thank you notes, invitations, or to question tradesmen about promised deliveries and things of that nature.'

'Very efficient,' I said, beginning to hope. 'Could you consult the log, please, Chester, and see if the Reverend Knurr visited on Tuesday, January 23rd?'

'Just a moment, sah.'

He was gone more than a moment. I had crossed all fingers of both hands and was trying to cross my toes within my shoes when the butler came back on the phone.

'Mr Bigg?' he said. 'Are you there?'

'I am here,' I told him.

'Yes, sah, the diary shows that the Reverend Knurr visited on Tuesday, January 23rd. He arrived at approximately 3.30 p.m.'

'Any record of when he left?'

'No, sah, there is no record of that.'

'Thank you, Chester,' I said gratefully, uncrossing my digits. 'Just out of curiosity, where is this house diary kept?'

'In the kitchen, sah. In the back of one of the cutlery drawers.'

'I wonder if you would do me a favour, Chester. I wonder if you would take the house diary to your apartment and conceal it carefully. I realize that is a strange 307

request, but it is very important.'

He didn't speak for a while. Then he said softly:

'Very well, Mr Bigg, I shall do as you request.'

'Thank you,' I said.

'My pleasure, sah,' he said.

My case was looking better and better. I thought I had Knurr cold, and I refused to worry about how I might begin to prove it.

'I'll check in later,' I told Chester conspiratorially.

'I'll look forward to it, sah,' he said, then rang off.

The high points of my long, dull morning were two more inconclusive calls from cabdrivers. A few minutes before noon I went into the men's room to freshen for lunch with Yetta. At an adjoining basin Hamish Hooter was combing his black greasy locks sideways in a futile effort to conceal his growing tonsure.

He saw me reflected in the mirror and sucked his teeth noisily.

'See here, Bigg,' he said, the voice reedy but not aggrieved; smug, in fact. 'I understand you're having lunch with Yetta Apatoff today.'

'You understand correctly,' I said coldly.

He dried his hands busily on one paper towel. About a year previously, he had circulated a memo about the wasteful practice of using more than a single paper towel.

Hooter examined himself in the mirror with every evidence of approval. He passed a palm over his slickeddown hair. He attempted to straighten his rounded shoulders. He inhaled mightily, which caused his pot belly to disappear until he exhaled.

'Well,' he said, turning to face me, 'have a good time.

Enjoy it while you can.' Then he gave me a foxy grin and was gone.

When I walked out to meet Yetta, I saw at once that she was 'dolled up' and looked especially glowing and attractive. I thought this was in anticipation of lunch with me, 308

and I swelled with male satisfaction. At the same time I imagined how shattered she would be by the can't-we-be-friends speech I had in mind. Especially when she'd gone to so much trouble.

Instead of the usual knitted suit she was wearing a dress of some shimmering stuff with a metallic gleam.

About her blonde curls was bound a light blue chiffon scarf. The electric combination of blue and green enhanced her creamy complexion, sweetly curved lips, and the look of innocence in those limpid brown eyes. Was I being too hasty in putting our relationship on a purely friendly basis?

We walked over to the Chinese restaurant, Yetta chattering briskly about a movie concerning creatures from outer space who descend to earth and turn everyone into toadstools. She assured me it had been one of the scariest movies she had ever seen.

'Also,' she added, 'it made you think.'

Then she babbled on about a used car her brother was thinking of buying, and about a girl she went to high school with who had recently obtained a job with the telephone company. Even for Yetta it was a manic performance.

All became clear over the wonton soup.

She reached across the table to put a hand heavily on mine and, since it was the hand holding my spoon, a fat wonton plumped back into the soup.

'Josh,' she said breathlessly, 'I wouldn't hurt you for the world.'

I stared at her, perplexed.

'First of all,' she started, 'I want it definitely understood that you and I can still be friends.'

Naturally I resented that. It was my line.

'Second of all,' Yetta went on, 'I have really enjoyed knowing you and these lunches and everything. I will never forget you, Josh.'

'What -' I began.

309

'And third of all,' she said in a rush, 'Hamish Hooter asked me to marry him and I said yes. I know that must be a real downer for you, Josh, but I want you to know that I think I'm doing the right thing, and I've given it a lot of thought. He's not as cute as you are, Josh, that I freely admit, but he says he loves me and he needs me. Josh, you don't need me. Do you?'

There was no answer to that. I stared down into my soup bowl, saw it whisked away and a Number Three Combination slid into its place.

'Josh, don't take it too hard,' Yetta pleaded. 'It's best for all of us.'

Could I tell her that my heart was leaping upwards like a demented stag?

'You have your work,' she continued, 'and I know how important it is to you. Will you pass the sweet-and-sour sauce, please? So I thought — Hamish and I thought — that this would be the best way to tell you, honestly and straight out. He wanted to be here, but I said it would be best if I told you myself . . . Josh,' Yetta Apatoff continued, staring at me with those guileless eyes, 'I hope you don't hate me?'

'Hate you?' I said, keeping any hint of glee out of my voice. 'How could I? All I want is what makes you happy.

Yetta, I wish you the best of everything. Hooter is a very lucky man.'

'Oh, Josh,' she said, sighing, 'you're so nice and understanding. I knew you would be. I told Hammy — that's what I call him: Hammy — I said, "Hammy, his heart may be broken, but he'll wish me the best of everything." That's what I told Hammy. Josh, is your heart broken? Could I have the mustard, please?'

I resisted the urge to suggest to Yetta that we go Dutch, and the lunch hour passed reasonably amicably, all things considered.

My first visitor upon my return to TORT was Hamish 310

Hooter. 'See here, Bigg,' he said. 'I guess Yetta told you the news?'

'She did,' I said, 'and I want to wish the two of you the best of everything.'

'Yes?' he said, surprised. 'Well, uh, thanks.'

'I hope you'll be very happy together,' I went on enthusiastically. 'I'm sure you will be. Congratulations.'

'Uh, thanks,' he said again. 'Listen, Bigg, you're being very decent about this.'

I made an 'it's nothing' gesture.

'If there's anything I can d o . . . ' he went on lamely.

'Well, there is something. You know I've got an assistant now. Temporary at the moment, but my workload seems to increase every day. If a larger office becomes available, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me in mind.'

'Well, uh, sure,' he said. 'I'll certainly do that.'

'Thank you.' I said humbly. 'And once again, I wish you every happiness.'

Next I did what most TORT employees did when they had an intraoffice problem: I went to Thelma Potts.

The news had already spread; she greeted me with a sympathetic smile. 'I'm sorry, Mr Bigg,' she said.

'The better man won,' I said.

Then she said something so completely out of character that she left me open-mouthed.

'Bullshit,' Thelma Potts said. 'You're well out of it. The girl is a moron. Not for you.'

' W e l l . . . ' I said, 'at least you won.'

'You did, too,' she assured me with some asperity. 'Did you come up here for sympathy?'

'Not exactly,' I said. 'I've got a problem. Nothing to do with Yetta,' I added hastily.

'What's the problem?'

'I want to get together with Mr Teitelbaum and Mr Tabatchnick in a kind of conference. I have a lot to tell them, and it's very important, but I don't want to tell them 311

separately. I was hoping you would speak to Ada Mondora and maybe the two of you might arrange something.'

'It's that important?'

'It really is, Miss Potts. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't. It concerns a case each of them is handling, and the two cases have come together in a very peculiar fashion.'

'Kipper and Stonehouse?' she asked.

'Miss Potts,' I said, 'is there anything you don't know?'

'Ada and I have lunch together almost every day,' she said. 'When do you want to meet with the two Mr T's?'

'As soon as possible.' I thought of my appointment with Detective Percy Stilton. 'Not today, but tomorrow. If you can set it up.'

'I'll talk to Ada,' she said, 'and we'll see what we can do.

I'll let you know.'

'Thank you,' I said gratefully. 'I don't know what we'd all do without you.'

She sniffed.

I bent swiftly to kiss her soft cheek.

'Now that I've been jilted,' I said 'I'm available.'

'Oh you! ' she said.

I returned to my office and took calls from two more cabdrivers, one of them drunk, then did routine stuff until it was time to leave for my meeting with Stilton. I packed my scruffy briefcase, put on hat and coat, and peeked cautiously out into the corridor.

Yetta Apatoff was seated at her receptionist's post, hands clasped primly on the desk. I ducked back into my office and waited a few moments. When I peeked out again, she was in the same position, still as a statue. I ducked back inside again. But the third time I peered out, she was busy on the phone, and I immediately sailed forth and gave her a sad smile and a resigned wave of my hand as I passed.

Cowardly conduct, I know.

I arrived early at the Newsweek building. A few minutes 312

before 4.00 p.m., Percy Stilton came up behind me and stuck a hard forefinger in my ribs.

'Perce,' I said, 'I've got to tell you. I was -'

'Sure,' he said, 'but later. We've got a four o'clock appointment with Bishop Harley Oxman. He's in charge of personnel for the church the Reverend Godfrey Knurr belongs to. You just do as little talking as possible and follow my lead. In this scam, you play a lawyer.'

'I've got Mr Tabatchnick's business card,' I offered.

'Beautiful,' he said. 'Flash it.'

The church's personnel headquarters was a brightly lighted, brisk, efficient-appearing office in a five- or six-storey commercial building on Forty-ninth between Madison and Park. The walls were painted a no-nonsense beige, the floors covered with practical vinyl tile; partitions between individual offices were steel. I saw no paintings of a religious nature on view. Typewriters clacked away merrily. Men and women moving along the corridors were all in mufti. Percy and I approached the matronly receptionist, and Perce identified himself. She didn't seem surprised that the Bishop would be meeting with a detective of the New York Police Department. She spoke briefly into an intercom, then gave us a wintry smile.

'You may go right in,' she said. 'Turn left outside, go to the end, and turn right. Last office.'

We found the Bishop's office with no difficulty. The door was opened before we had a chance to knock. The man greeting us was tall and broad, though somewhat stooped and corpulent. He was wearing an old-fashioned suit of rusty cheviot and a grey doeskin waistcoat with white piping. His polka-dot bowtie was negligently knotted.

He had a very full, almost bloated face, ranging in hue from livid pink to deep purple. The full, moist, bright rose lips parted to reveal teeth of such startling whiteness, size, and regularity that they could only have been 'store-bought.' Set into this blood pudding of a face were sharp 313

eyes of ice blue, the whites clear. And he had a great shock of steel-grey hair, combed sideways in rich billows.

'I am Bishop Oxman,' he intoned in a deep resonant voice. 'Won't you gentlemen come in?'

He ushered us into his office and seated us in leather armchairs in front of his glass-topped desk. Perce Stilton slid his identification across the desk without being asked, and I hastily dug in my wallet and did the same with Mr Tabatchnick's business card.

While the Bishop was examining our bona fides slowly and with interest, I studied the bare office, its single bookcase, artificial rubber plant, and a framed photograph behind the Bishop. It appeared to be Bishop Oxman's seminary graduating class.

He returned our identification to us, sat back in his swivel chair, squirmed slightly to make himself more comfortable, then laced his pudgy fingers across his paunch. He wasted no time on pleasantries.

'Detective Stilton,' he said in his rumbling bass-baritone, 'when we spoke on the phone, you stated that a situation had arisen concerning one of our pastors that might best be handled by discussing it with me personally.'

He glanced briefly at me. 'And privately.'

'Yes, sir,' Percy said firmly but with deference. 'Before any official action is taken.'

'Dear me,' Bishop Oxman said with a cold smile, 'that does sound ominous.' But he didn't seem at all disturbed.

'It's something I think you should be aware of,' Stilton went on, speaking with no hesitation. 'Mr Tabatchnick here represents a young woman who claims she was swindled out of her savings and an inheritance — slightly over ten thousand dollars — by one of your clergymen who promised her he could double her money in six months.'

'Oh my,' Bishop Oxman murmured.

'This young lady further alleges that she was persuaded to hand over her money by the promise of the pastor that 314

he would marry her as soon as her money increased.'