Tenth Commandment (36 page)

I spent the remainder of the afternoon typing out reports of my morning's activities and adding them to the Stonehouse file, along with the photocopies of the chemical analyses. Then I hacked away at routine inquiries until about 4.00 p.m., when I dialled the number of the Children's Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat Clinic in the Man-298

hattan phone book and asked to speak to the director.

'Who is calling, please?' the receptionist asked.

'This is the Metropolitan Poison Control Board,' I said solemnly. 'It concerns your drug inventory.'

A hearty voice came on the line almost instantly.

'Yes sir!' he said. 'How may I be of service?'

'This is Inspector Waldo Bommer of the Metropolitan Poison Control Board, In view of the recent rash of burglaries of doctors' offices, clinics, hospitals, laboratories, and so forth, we are attempting to make an inventory of the establishments that keep poisonous substances in stock.'

'Narcotics?' he said. 'We have nothing like that. This is a clinic for underprivileged youngsters.'

'What we're interested in is poisons,' I said. 'Arsenic, strychnine, cyanide; things of that sort.'

'Oh, heavens no!' he said, enormously relieved. 'We have nothing like that in stock.'

'Sorry to bother you,' I said. 'Thank you for your time.'

My second call, to Atlantic Medical Research, was less successful. I went through my Poison Control Board routine, but the man said, 'Surely you don't expect me to reveal that information on the phone to a complete stranger? If you care to come around with your identification, we'll be happy to co-operate.'

He hung up.

It wasn't 5.00 p.m. yet, but I packed my briefcase with the Kipper and Stonehouse files, yanked on my hat and coat, and sallied forth. Yetta was not on the phone. She held out a hand to stop me.

'Josh,' she said, pouting, 'you didn't even notice.'

'I certainly did notice,' I said. 'The sweater looks lovely, Yetta.'

'You like?' she said, arching her chest.

'Fine,' I said, swallowing. 'And the scarf is just right.'

'Oh, this old thing,' she giggled, swinging it farther 299

aside. 'It just gets in my way when I type. I think I'll take it off.'

Which she did. I looked about furtively. There were people in the corridor. Was I a prude? I may very well have been.

'Josh,' she said eagerly, 'you said we might, you know, go out some night together.'

'Well, uh, we certainly shall,' I said with more confidence than I felt. 'Dinner, maybe the theatre or ballet.'

The image of Yetta Apatoff at a performance of Swan Lake shrivelled my soul. 'But I've been so busy, Yetta, Not only during the day, but working at home in the evening as well.'

'Uh-huh,' she said speculatively. She was silent a moment as I stood there awkwardly, not knowing how to break away. It was clear she was summing me up and coming to a decision.

'Lunch maybe?' she said.

'Oh absolutely,' I said. 'I can manage lunch.'

'Tomorrow,' she said firmly.

'Tomorrow?' I said, thinking desperately of how I might get out of it. 'Well, uh, yes. I'll have to check my schedule.

I mean, let's figure on lunch, and if I have to postpone you'll understand, right?'

'Oh sure,' she said.

Coolness there. Definite coolness.

I waved goodbye and stumbled out. I felt guilt. I had led her astray. And then I was angry at my own feeling of culpability. What, actually, had I done? Bought her a few lunches. Given her a birthday present. I assured myself that I had never given her any reason to believe I was . . . It was true that I frequently stared at her intently, but with her physical attributes and habit of wearing knitted suits a size too small, that was understandable.

Such were my roiling thoughts as I departed the office that Monday evening, picking up a barbecued chicken, 300

potato salad, and a quart of Scotch on the way home. Back in Chelsea, I ate and drank with an eye on the clock. I had to be across the street from the Stonehouse apartment at 7.15 at the latest, and I intended to proceed to the Upper West Side at a less-frenzied pace than my recent forays.

Clad in my fleece-lined anorak, I made it there in plenty of time and assumed my station. It was a crisp night, crackling, the air filled with electricity. You get nights like that in New York, usually between winter and spring, or between summer and fall, when suddenly the city seems bursting with promise, the skyline a-sparkle with crystalline clarity.

As I walked up and down the block, always keeping the doorway of the Stonehouse apartment house in view, I could glimpse the twinkling towers of the East Side across the park, and the rosy glow of midtown. Rush of traffic, blare of horns, drone of airliners overhead. Everything seemed so alive. I kept reminding myself I was investigating what was fast emerging as a violent death, but it was difficult.

I had been waiting exactly twenty-three minutes when she came out, wearing the long, hooded mink coat I'd seen in the garage.

When she paused outside the lighted apartment lobby for a moment, I was able to see her clearly as she raised and adjusted her hood. Then she started off, walking briskly. I thought I knew where she was going; despite Mrs Dark's information, it was not the theatre. I went after her. Not too close, not too far. Just as Roscoe Dollworth had taught me, keeping to the other side of the street when possible, even moving ahead of her. It was an easy tail because as we walked west and south a few blocks, I became more and more certain that she was taking me back to that garage on West 66th Street.

Crossing Broadway, she went west on 69th Street, keeping to the shadowed paths of a housing development.

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A man coming towards her paused and said something, but she didn't give him a glance, or slow down her pace.

When she crossed West End Avenue, heading towards the lighted garage, I hurried to catch up, staying on the other side of the street and moving about a half-block southward. I could see her waiting in the entrance of the garage.

I stopped the first empty cab that came along.

'Where to?' the driver asked, picking up his trip sheet clamped to a clipboard. He was a middle-aged black.

'Nowhere,' I said. 'Please start your clock and we'll just wait.'

He put the clipboard aside and turned to stare at me through the metal grille.

'What is this?' he said.

'See that woman over there? Across the street, ahead of us? In the fur coat?'

He peered.

'I see her,' he said.

I had learned from my previous experience.

'My wife,' I said. 'I want to see where she's going. I think someone's going to pick her up.'

'Uh-huh,' he said. 'There's not going to be any trouble, is there?'

'No,' I said, 'no trouble.'

'Good,' he said. 'I got all I can handle right now.'

We sat there, both of us staring at the figure of Glynis Stonehouse across the street. The meter ticked away.

Within three or four minutes Knurr arrived. I had expected him to pull up in a cab, then switch to the Mercedes, but instead he raced into the garage entrance, near where Glynis waited, and opened the passenger door of his old VW. As soon as she got in, he backed out fast, swung around, and headed northward again, shoving his way into traffic.

'Follow?' my driver said.

'Please,' I said.

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'That guy is some cowboy. He drives like he don't give a damn.'

'I don't think he does,' I said.

We tailed them north. Knurr made a left on to 79th Street, then began to circle the block.

'Looking for a place to park,' the cabdriver commented knowledgeably. 'If he pulls in, what do you want me to do?'

'Go down to the next corner and wait.'

That's what happened. Knurr found a place to park on West 77th Street near Riverside Drive. We went past and pulled in close to the corner. Through the rear window, I watched them both get out and walk past. They passed by my parked cab, talking much too intently to notice me.

I let them turn north on the Drive before I paid and got out of the taxi.

'Thank you,' I said to the driver.

'Don't do anything foolish,' he said.

As I followed Glynis Stonehouse and Godfrey Knurr into Riverside Park. I noted with relief that a few joggers and groups of raucous teenagers still braved the darkened expanse. And yet my nervousness increased as we penetrated deeper along lonely, descending paths, heading westward. I lurked as best I could in the shadows of leafless trees, trying to tread lightly. But I was being overcautious, for the couple ahead of me walking arm-in-arm were so intent on their talk that they seemed innocent of the secret sharer padding along behind them.

They walked around the rotunda, a large circular fountain girdled by a walk that was in turn enclosed by a ring of archways vaguely Roman in feeling. The fountain had long since ceased to operate; the basin was dried and cracked.

All the white light globes were now shattered and dark.

The archways were sprayed with graffiti. Splintered glass and broken bits of masonry grated underfoot. The ground was crumbling.

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I paused briefly, not wanting to follow Glynis and Godfrey into one of those echoing passages lest they hear my footfall. I waited until they were clear on the other side of the fountain before hurrying through.

Ahead was the molten river, a band of gently heaving mercury in the nightlight. Across were the flickering lights of the Jersey shore. Closer, the swell of black water. I searched frantically about until I spotted them again, approaching the boat basin at 79th Street. I kept well back in the shadows as Glynis and Knurr walked on to the planked pier. They stopped briefly to speak to someone who appeared to be a watchman. Then they continued along one of the slips until they stepped down carefully onto the foredeck of what looked like a houseboat.

Lights came on inside the craft. When I saw curtains drawn across the wide windows, I turned and hurried back the way I had come.

3

I arrived at the TORT building before 9.00 a.m. on Tuesday morning. The night security guard was still on duty, sitting at Yetta Apatoff's desk.

'There was a telephone call for you about fifteen minutes ago, Mr Bigg,' he said. 'The guy wouldn't leave a name or message, but said he'd call back.'

'Thank you,' I said, and went back to my office. My phone rang before I had chance to take off my coat. I picked it up and said, 'Hello?' A man's voice growled,

'You the guy who put up the posters?' I said I was. He 304

said, 'How much is the reward?'

I hadn't even considered that. Fifty dollars seemed insufficient; a hundred might tempt a lot of fraudulent claims. But rather, I reasoned, too many replies than too few.

'A hundred dollars,' I said.

'Shit,' he said, and hung up.

The second call came in ten minutes later. Once again the first question asked was: 'How much?'

'A hundred dollars,' I said firmly.

'Yeah, well, I carried the guy. Picked him up on Central Park West and 70th Street the night of January 10th.'

'What did he look like?'

'Well, you know, an average-sized guy. I didn't get a real good look at him, but I'd say he was average.'

'Kind of short, fat, dumpish?'

'Yeah, you could say that.'

'Wearing a sweater and jacket?'

'Yeah, that's the guy.'

'No, it isn't,' I said.

'Fuck you,' he said and hung up.

I sighed, finished my strawberry strudel and black coffee, and started mechanically answering some of the routine research and investigation requests. I wondered if I dared bother Percy Stilton with what I had discovered — the houseboat at 79th Street — and what I was beginning to guess about how Godfrey Knurr had murdered Sol Kipper.

Stilton solved the problem by calling me at about 10.00

a.m.

'Listen, Josh,' he said, speaking rapidly, 'I know you didn't want me to call you at your office, but this is important. I've only got a minute. Can you meet me in the lobby of the Newsweek building? 444 Madison? Between 49th and 50th?'

'Well, yes, sure,' I said. 'But I wanted -'

'About five minutes before four o'clock this afternoon.'

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'I'll be there, Perce,' I said, making rapid notes on my scratchpad. 'But here are a few things I -'

'Got to run,' he said. 'See you then.'

The line went dead. I hung up slowly, bewildered. The phone rang again almost immediately and I plucked it up, hoping Stilton was calling back.

'Josh,' Yetta Apatoff said, giggling, 'you haven't forgotten our lunch today, have you?'

'Of course not,' I lied bravely. 'What time?'

'Noon,' she said. 'I've got a lot to tell you.'

'Good,' I said, my heart sinking.

Another call:

'Yeah, I picked up the guy on that night. A tall, skinny gink, right?'

'Could be,' I said. 'And where did you take him — to the Eastern Airlines ticket office on Fifth Avenue?'

'Yeah,' he said, 'you're right.'

'Waited for him and then drove him back to Central Park West and 70th Street?'

'Uh . . . yeah.'

'No,' I said, 'I don't think so.'

He suggested an anatomical impossibility.

Inwardly cursing the venality of mankind, I hung up, then phoned the Kipper house. Chester Heavens answered.

We exchanged polite greetings, inquired as to the state of each other's health, and spoke gravely about the weather, which we agreed was both pleasant and bracing for that time of year.

'Chester,' I said, 'Mr Kipper died on Wednesday, January 24th. Is that correct?'

'Oh yes, sah,' he said sombrely. 'I shall never forget that date.'

'I don't suppose you will. I know Mr Godfrey Knurr arrived a few moments after the tragedy. Now my question is this: do you recall if he was at the house on Tuesday, January 23rd, the day before Mr Kipper died?'

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Silence. Then . . .

'I can't recall, sah. But if you'll be good enough to hang on a moment, I'll consult the book.'

'Wait, wait!' I said hastily. 'What book?'