Tenth Commandment (41 page)

I have been able to obtain a photograph of the other woman, Glynis Stonehouse, which I am enclosing with this letter.

Forgive me for writing of matters which, I am sure, must prove painful to you. But I could not endure seeing a woman of your taste and refinement suffer as I suffered, and am suffering.

A FRIEND

When Mrs Kletz finished copying the letter, we sealed it with the snapshot of Glynis Stonehouse in a plain manila envelope. Mrs Kletz addressed it in her hand.

'Just ring the bell at the front gate,' I instructed her, as I prepared to send her out on this important assignment.

'The butler, a big man, will come out. Tell him you have a letter for Mrs Kipper, give it to him, and walk away as quickly as you can.'

'Don't worry, Mr Bigg,' she said. 'I'll get out of there fast.'

She put on her Tam O'Shanter and a loden coat as billowy as a tent and set out. A half-hour later I locked the Kipper and Stonehouse files securely away and left the office. Uncharacteristically I took a cab home, so anxious was I to find a message from Cleo. I found it slipped under my door: 'Miss Cleo Hufnagel accepts with pleasure Mr Joshua Bigg's kind invitation to dinner tonight in his apartment at 8.00 p.m.'

Smiling, I changed into parka and watch cap, and then checked my larder, refrigerator, and liquor supply. I made 339

out a careful list of things I needed and then set forth with my two-wheeled shopping cart. It was a cold, misty evening, and I didn't dawdle. I bought two handsome club steaks; baking potatoes; sour cream already mixed with chives; butter (should she prefer it to the sour cream); a head of iceberg lettuce; a perfectly shaped, plasma-coloured tomato; a cucumber the size of a tough, small U-boat, and just as slippery; a bottle of creamy garlic dressing; and a frozen blueberry cheesecake. I also purchased two small shrimp cocktails that came complete with sauce in small jars that could later be used as juice glasses. A paper tablecloth. Paper napkins. An onion.

I also bought a cold six-pack of Ballantine ale, two bottles of Chianti in raffia baskets, and a quart of California brandy. And two long red candles. On impulse I stopped at a florist's shop and bought a long-stemmed yellow rose.

She tapped on my door a few minutes after 8.00 and came in smiling. She bent swiftly to kiss my cheek. She had brought me a loaf of crusty sour rye from our local Jewish bakery. It was a perfect gift; I had forgotten all about bread. Fortunately I had butter.

I gave her the yellow rose, which came close to bringing tears to her eyes and earned me another cheek-kiss, warmer this time. I led her to my favourite armchair and asked her if she'd like a fire.

'Maybe later,' she said.

I poured a glass of red wine for her and one for myself.

'Here's to you,' I toasted.

'To us,' she said.

I told her what we were having for dinner.

'Sounds marvellous,' she said in her low, whispery voice. 'I like everything.'

Suddenly, due to her words or her
voice o
r her smile, something struck me.

'What's wrong?' Cleo asked anxiously.

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I sighed. :I bought a kite. And a ball of string and a winder. But I left them at the office. I forgot to bring them home.'

She laughed. 'We weren't going to fly it tonight. But I'm glad you remembered.'

'It's a red kite,' I told her. 'Listen, I have to go into the kitchen and get things ready. You help yourself to the wine.'

'Can't I come in with you?' she said softly. 'I promise I won't get in the way.'

I couldn't remember ever having been so content in my life. I think my feeling — in addition to the beamy effects of the food and wine — came from a realization of the sense of home. I had never known a real home. Not my own. And there we were in a tiny, messy kitchen, fragrant with cooking odours and the smoke of candles, quiet with our comfort, walled around and shielded.

It was a new experience for me, being with a woman I liked. Liked? Well . . . wanted to be with. I didn't have to make conversation. She didn't have to. We could be happily silent together. That was something, wasn't it?

After dinner, she murmured that she'd help me clean up.

'Oh, let's just leave everything,' I said, which was out of character for me, a very tidy man.

'You'll get roaches,' she warned.

'I already have them,' I said mournfully, and we both smiled. Her large, prominent teeth didn't offend me. I thought them charming.

We doused the candles and straggled back to the living room. We decided a blaze in the fireplace would be superfluous; the apartment was warm enough. She sat in the armchair. I sat on the floor at her feet. Her fingers stroked my hair idly. I stroked her long, prehensile toes.

Her bare toes. She groaned with pleasure.

'Do you like me, Cleo?' I asked.

'Of course I like you.'

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' T h e n , if you like me, will you rise from your comfortable chair, find the bottle of brandy in the bar, open it, and pour us each a small glass of brandy? The glasses are in the kitchen cupboard.'

'Your wish is my command, master,' she said humbly.

She was back in a few moments with glasses of brandy, handed me one and, while she was bent over, kissed the top of my head. Then she resumed her sprawling position in the armchair, and I resumed stroking her toes.

'It was a wonderful dinner,' she said sighing.

'Thank you.'

'I'm a virgin,' she said in exactly the same tone of voice she had said, 'It was a wonderful dinner.'

What could I answer with but an equally casual, 'Yes, you mentioned it last time.'

'Did I also mention I don't want to be?' she added thoughtfully.

'Ah,' I said, hoping desperately that I could eventually contribute something better than monosyllables. When it occurred to me almost at once that a lunge qualified as something better, the ice broke.

I have told you that she was tall. Very tall. And slender.

Very slender. But I was not prepared for the sinuous elegance of her body, its lithe vigour. And the sweetness of her skin. She was a rope dipped in honey.

Initially, I think, there was a certain embarrassment, a reticence, on my part as well as hers. But this reserve soon vanished, to be replaced by a vigorous tumbling. She was experiencing new sensations, entering a new world, and wanted to know it all.

'What's this?' she asked eagerly. 'And this?'

She was amazed that men had nipples capable of erection. She was delighted to learn that many of the things that aroused her, aroused me; that there could be as much (or more) pleasure in the giving as in the taking. She 342

wanted to know everything at once, to explore, probe, understand.

'Am I doing this correctly?' she asked anxiously. And,

'Is it all right if I do this?' and, 'What must I do now?'

'Shut up,' I replied.

We may have roared. We certainly cried out, both of us, and I dimly recall looking into a face transformed, ecstatic, and primitive. When it was over, we lay shuddering with bliss, so closely entwined that my arms ached with the strain of pulling her closer, as if to engulf her, and I felt the muscular tremor in those long, flexible legs locked about me.

'I love you,' she said later.

'I love you,' I said.

I buried my face in the soft hollow of neck and shoulder.

My toes caressed her ivory shins.

I interrupted our idyll for business reasons only once that evening. Feeling I had to be honest, I informed Cleo that I had to call the floozie spotted earlier leaving my apartment by the evil Finkel. Further, I would seemingly be arranging a rendezvous, really an interrogation. Should Cleo mistakenly conclude I was growing bored with her, I would be glad to prove her wrong as soon as I completed the call. She laughed and kissed me merrily.

The phone rang three times before Perdita Schug answered. 'Yes?'

'Perdita?'

'Yes. Who's this?'

'Joshua Bigg.'

'Josh!'

'I apologize for calling so late, Perdita. I hope I didn't wake you.'

'Don't be silly. I just came up. We had dinner for seven tonight. A lot of work.'

'Oh? Was Mr Knurr there?'

'No. Which was odd. First we were told there'd be eight.

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But he didn't show up. Usually he's here all the time. Are you going to come by Mother Tucker's tomorrow night?'

'I'm certainly going to try,' I lied. 'Listen, Perdita, I have an unusual question to ask you. When Sol Kipper was alive, did he ever write notes to his wife? You know, little short notes he'd leave where she'd find them?'

'Oh sure,' she said promptly. 'He was always writing her notes. She was running around so much, and then he'd go out and leave a note for her. I read a few of them. Love notes, some, or just messages.'

'Did she keep them, do you think?'

'Tippi? I think she kept some of them. Yes, I know she did. I remember coming across a pile of them in a box of undies in her dressing room. Some of them were hilarious.

The poor old man was really in love with her. She had him hooked. And you know how.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Thank you very much, Perdita. Sorry to bother you.'

'And I'll see you tomorrow night?'

'I'm certainly going to try.' It was getting easier all the time.

5

Thursday morning: alive, bubbling, laughing aloud. Cleo hadn't wanted to upset her mother by staying the night, but I'd awakened steeped in her recent presence. I sang in the shower ('O Sole Mio'), looked out the window, and nodded approvingly at the pencil lines of rain slanting down steadily. Nothing could daunt my mood. I wore rain-344

coat and rubbers to work, and carried my umbrella. It was the type of bumbershoot that extends with the press of a button in the handle. Very efficient, except that when a stiff wind was blowing, it cracked open and seemed to lift me a few inches off my feet.

However, I arrived at the TORT building without misadventure and set to work planning my day's activities.

My first call was to Glynis Stonehouse. She came to the phone, finally, and didn't sound too delighted to hear from me. I acted the young, innocent, optimistic, bouncy investigator, and I told her I had uncovered new information about her father's disappearance that I'd like to share with her. Grudgingly, she said that she could spare me an hour if I came immediately.

I thanked her effusively, ran out of TORT and, miraculously, given the weather, hailed a cab right in front of the building.

In the Stonehouse hallway the formidable Olga Eklund relieved me of hat, coat, rubbers, and umbrella, and herded me into that beige living room where Glynis Stonehouse reclined in one corner of the velvet sofa, idly leafing through a magazine. Nothing about her posture or manner suggested worry.

If she made an error, it was in her greeting.

'Oh,' she said, 'Mr Bigg. Do sit down.'

Too casual.

I sat down, opened my briefcase, and began to rummage through it.

'Miss Stonehouse,' I said enthusiastically, 'I think I'm making real progress. You'll recall that I told you I had discovered your father had been suffering from arsenic poisoning prior to his disappearance? Well, I've definitely established how he was being poisoned. The arsenic was being added to his brandy!'

I handed her copies of the chemical analyses. She looked 345

at them. I don't believe she read them. I plucked them from her fingers and replaced them in my briefcase.

'Isn't that wonderful?' I burbled on. 'What a break!'

'I suppose so,' she said in her husky, low-pitched voice.

'But what does it mean?'

'Well, it means we now know how the poison was administered.'

'And what will you do next?'

'That's obvious, isn't it?' I said, laughing lightly. 'Find the source of the poison. You can't buy arsenic at your local drugstore, you know. So I must check out everyone involved to see who had access to arsenic trioxide.'

I stared at her. I thought there would be a reaction.

There wasn't.

She sighed deeply.

'Yes,' she said, 'I suppose you will have to keep digging and digging until you discover the . . . what do the police call it? . . . the perpetrator? You'll never give up, will you, Mr Bigg?'

'Oh no!' I said heartily. 'I'm going to stick to it. Miss Stonehouse, may I speak to Effie Dark for a few moments? I'd like to find out who had access to your father's brandy.'

She looked at me.

'Yes,' she said dully, 'talk to Mrs Dark. That's all right.'

I smiled my thanks, bent to reclasp my briefcase. Before I could stand, she said:

'Mr Bigg, why are you doing this?'

I shook my head, pretending puzzlement.

'Doing what, Miss Stonehouse?'

'All these questions. This — this investigation.'

'I'm trying to find your father.'

Her body went slack. She melted. That's the only way I can describe it. Suddenly there was no complete outline around her. Not only in her face, which sagged, but in her limbs, her flesh. All of her became loose and without 346

form. It was a frightening thing to see. A dissolution.

'He was a dreadful man,' she said in a low voice.

I think I was angered then. I tried to hide it, but I'm not certain I succeeded.

'Yes,' I said, 'I'm sure he was. Everyone says so. An awful person. But that's not important, is it?'

She made a gesture. A wave of the hand. A small, graceful flip of dismissal. Of defeat.

Effie Dark was seated at the white enamelled table, an emptied coffee cup before her. There was a redolence, and it took me a few seconds to identify it: the air smelled faintly of brandy.

She looked up listlessly as I entered, then smiled wanly.

'Mr Bigg,' she said, and pulled out a chair for me. 'It's nice to see a cheerful face.'

'What's wrong, Effie?' I asked, sitting down.

'Problems?'

' O h . . . ' she said, sighing, 'there's no light in this house any more. The missus, she's taken to her bed and won't get out of it.'

'She's ill?'

'Sherry-itis. And Miss Glynis is as down as I've ever seen her. I even called Powell, thinking a visit from him might help things. But he says he must avoid negative vibrations.