Downstairs, I asked the man behind the desk if he had been on duty the night Yale Stonehouse had walked out the apartment house, never to be seen again. He said No, that would be Bert Lord, who was on duty from 4.00 p.m. to midnight. Bert usually shows up around 3.30 to change into his uniform in the basement, and if I came back in 147
fifteen or twenty minutes, I'd probably be able to talk to him.
So I walked around the neighbourhood for a while, trying to determine Professor Stonehouse's possible routes after he left his apartment house.
There was an IND subway station on Central Park West and 72nd Street. He could have gone uptown or downtown.
He could have taken a crosstown bus in 72nd Street that would have carried him down to 57th Street, across to Madison Avenue, then uptown to East 72nd Street.
He could have walked over to Columbus Avenue and taken a downtown bus.
He could have taken an uptown bus on Amsterdam.
A Broadway bus would have taken him to 42nd Street and eastward.
A Fifth Avenue bus, boarded at Broadway and 72nd Street, would have taken him downtown via Fifth to Greenwich Village.
The Seventh Avenue IRT could have carried him to the Bronx or Brooklyn.
Or a car could have been waiting to take him anywhere.
When I returned to the apartment house precisely seventeen minutes later, there was a different uniformed attendant behind the desk.
'Mr Lord?' I asked.
'That's me,' he said.
I explained who I was and that I was investigating the disappearance of Professor Stonehouse on behalf of the family's attorneys.
'I already told the cops,' he said. 'Everything I know.'
'I realize that,' I said. 'He left the building about 8.45 on the night of January 10th — right?'
'That's right,' he said.
'Wearing hat, overcoat, scarf?'
'Yup.'
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'Didn't say anything to you?'
'Not a word.'
'But that wasn't unusual,' I said. 'Was it? I mean, he wasn't exactly what you'd call a sociable man, was he?'
'You can say that again.'
I didn't. I said, 'Mr Lord, do you remember what the weather was like that night?'
He looked at me. He had big, blue, innocent eyes.
'I can't recall,' he said. 'It was a month ago.'
I took a five-dollar bill from my wallet, slid it across the marble-topped desk. A chapped paw appeared and flicked it away.
'Now I remember,' Mr Bert Lord said. 'A bitch of a night. Cold. A freezing rain turning to sleet. I remember thinking he was some kind of an idiot to go out on a night like that.'
'Cold,' I repeated. 'A freezing rain. But he didn't ask you to call a cab?'
'Him?' he said. He laughed scornfully. 'No way. He was afraid I'd expect two bits for turning on the light over the canopy.'
'So he just walked out?'
'Yup.'
'You didn't see which way he headed?'
'Nope. I couldn't care less.'
'Thank you, Mr Lord.'
'My pleasure.'
I went directly home, arrived a little after 5.00 p.m., changed into chino slacks and an old sports jacket, and headed out to eat. And there was Captain Bramwell Shank in his wheelchair in the hallway, facing the staircase. He whirled his chair expertly when he heard my door open.
'What the hell?' he said. 'I been waiting for you to come home, and you been inside all the time!'
'I got home early,' I explained. 'Not so long ago.'
'I been waiting,' he repeated.
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'Captain,' I said, 'I'm hungry and I'm going out for something to eat. Can I knock on your door when I come back? In an hour or so?'
'After seven,' he said. 'There's a rerun of Ironsides I've got to watch. After seven o'clock is okay. Nothing good on till nine.'
Woody's on West 23rd was owned and managed by Louella Nitch, a widowed lady whose late husband had left her the restaurant and not much else. She was childless, and I think she sometimes thought of her clientele as her family. Most of the customers were from the neighbourhood and knew each other. It was almost a club. Everyone called her Nitchy.
When I arrived on the blowy Monday night, there were only a dozen drinkers in the front room and six diners in back. But the place was warm, the little lamps on the tables gleamed redly, the juke box was playing an old and rare Bing Crosby record ('Just a Gigolo'), and the place seemed a welcoming haven to me.
Louella Nitch was about forty and the skinniest woman I had ever seen. She was olive-skinned and she wore her hair cut short, hugging her scalp like a black helmet.
Her makeup was liberally applied, with dark eyeshadow and precisely painted lips. She wore hoop earrings, Victorian rings, necklaces of baroque medallions and amulets.
She was seated at the front of the bar when I entered, peering at a sheaf of bills through half-glasses that made her small face seem even smaller: a child's face.
'Josh!' she said. 'Where have you been? You know, I dreamed about you the other night.'
'Thank you,' I said.
I took the stool next to her and ordered a beer. She told me about her dream: she was attending a wedding and I stood waiting for the bride to come down the aisle; I was the groom.
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'What about the bride?' I asked, 'Did you get a look at her?'
She shook her head regretfully. 'I woke up before she came in. But I distinctly saw you, Josh. You're not thinking of getting married, are you?'
'Not likely,' I said. 'Who'd have a runt like me?'
She put a hand on my arm. 'You think too much about that, Josh. You're a good-looking man; you've got a steady job. Lots of girls would jump at the chance.'
'Name one,' I said.
'Are you serious?' she said, looking at me closely. 'If you are, I could fix you up right now. I don't mean a one-night stand. I mean a nice, healthy, goodhearted neighbourhood girl who wants to settle down and have kids. How about it?
Should I make a call?'
'Well, uh, not right now, Nitchy,' I said. 'I'm just not ready yet.'
'How old are you — twenty eight?'
'Thirty-two,' I confessed.
'My God,' she said, 'you've only got two years to go.
Statistics prove that if a man isn't married by the time he's thirty-four, chances are he'll never get hitched. You want to turn into one of those old, crotchety bachelors I see mumbling in their beer?'
'Oh, I suppose I'll get married one of these days.'
I think she sensed my discomfort, because she abruptly changed the subject.
'You here for a drink, Josh, or do you want to eat? I'm not pushing, but the chef made a nice beef stew, and if you're going to eat, I'll have some put aside for you before the mob comes in and finishes it.'
'Beef stew sounds great,' I said. 'I'll have it right now.
Can I have it here at the bar?'
'Why not?' she said. 'I'll have Hettie set you up. There's a girl for you, Josh — Hettie.'
'Except she outweighs me by fifty pounds.'
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'That's right,' she said, laughing raucously. 'They'd be peeling you off the ceiling!'
The stew was great.
I was putting on my parka when Louella Nitch came hurrying over.
'So soon?' she asked.
'Work to do,' I lied, smiling.
'Listen, Josh,' she said, 'I wasn't just talking; if you want to meet a nice girl, let me know. I mean it.'
'I know you mean it, Nitchy,' I said. 'You're very kind.
But I'll find my own.'
'I hope so,' she said sadly. Then she brightened. 'Sure you will. Remember my dream? Every time you've come in here you've been alone. But one of these days you're going to waltz through that door with a princess on your arm. A princess!'
'That's right,' I said.
2
Mr Tabatchnick, dusting fish feed from his fingers, looked at me as if he e
xpected the worst.
'And exactly how, Mr Bigg,' he asked in that trumpeting voice, 'were you able to gain entrance to the Kipper household?'
I wished he hadn't asked that question. But I couldn't lie to him, in case Mrs Tippi Kipper called to check on my cover story. So I admitted I had claimed to be engaged in making an inventory of the Kipper estate. I had feared he would be angered to learn of my subterfuge. Instead, he seemed diverted. At least all those folds and jowls of his 152
bloodhound face seemed to lift slightly in a grimace that might have been amusement.
But when he spoke, his voice was stern.
'Mr Bigg,' he said, 'when a complete inventory of the estate is submitted to competent authorities, it must be signed by the attorney of record and, in this case, by the co-executor. Who just happens to be me. Failure to disclose assets, either deliberately or by inadvertence, may constitute a felony. Are you aware of that?'
'I am now, sir,' I said miserably. 'But I didn't intend to make the final, legal inventory. All I wanted to do was -'
'I am quite aware of what you wanted to do,' he said impatiently. 'Get inside the house. It wasn't a bad ploy.
But I suggest that if Mrs Kipper or anyone else questions your activities in future, you state that you are engaged in a preliminary inventory. The final statement, to which I must sign my name, will be compiled by attorneys and appraisers experienced in this kind of work. Is that clear?'
'Yes, sir,' I said. 'Just one thing, sir. In addition to the Kipper matter, I am also looking into something for Mr Teitelbaum. The disappearance of a client. Professor Yale Stonehouse.'
'I am aware of that,' he said magisterially.
'In addition to my regular duties,' I reminded him. 'So far, I have been able to keep up with my routine assignments. But the Kipper and Stonehouse cases are taking more and more of my time. It would help a great deal if I had the services of a secretary. Someone to handle the typing and filing.'
He stared at me.
'Not necessarily full time,' I added hastily. 'Perhaps a temporary or part-time assistant who could come in a few days a week or a few hours each day. Not a permanent employee. Nothing like that, sir.'
He sighed heavily. 'Mr Bigg,' he said, 'you would be astounded at the inevitability with which part-time or 153
temporary assistants become permanent employees. However, I think your request has some merit. I shall discuss the matter with the other senior partners.'
I was about to ask for a larger office as well, but then thought better of it. I would build my empire slowly.
'Thank you, Mr Tabatchnick,' I said, gathering up my file. 'One final question: I'd like your permission to speak to the two Kipper sons, the ones who are managing the textile company.'
'Why not?' he said.
'And what story do you suggest I give them, sir? As an excuse for talking to them about the death of their father?'
' O h . . . ' he said, almost dreamily, 'I'll leave that to you, Mr Bigg. You seem to be doing quite well — so far.'
I called Powell Stonehouse. It was the second time I had tried to reach him that morning. A woman had answered the first call and told me that he was meditating and could not be disturbed. This time I got through to him. I identified myself, explained my interest in the disappearance of his father, and asked when I could see him.
'I don't know what good that would do,' he said in a stony voice. 'I've already told the cops everything I know.'
'Yes, Mr Stonehouse,' I said, 'I'm aware of that. But there's some background information only you can supply. It won't take long.'
'Can't we do it on the phone?' he asked.
'I'd rather not,' I said. 'It concerns some, uh, rather confidential matters.'
'Like what?' he said suspiciously.
He wasn't making it easy for me.
' W e l l . . . family relationships that might have a bearing on your father's disappearance. I'd really appreciate talking to you in person, Mr Stonehouse.'
' O h . . . all right,' he said grudgingly. 'But I don't want to spend too much time on this.'
The bereaved son.
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'It won't take long,' I assured him again. 'Any time at your convenience.'
'Tonight,' he said abruptly. 'I meditate from eight to nine. I'll see you for an hour after nine. Don't arrive before that; it would have a destructive effect.'
'I'll be there after nine,' I promised. 'I have your address. Thank you, Mr Stonehouse.'
'Peace,' he said.
That caught me by surprise. Peace. I thought that had disappeared with the Flower Children of the late 1960s.
My next call was to butler Chester Heavens at the Kipper townhouse. I told him I'd like to come by at 2.00 p.m. to continue my inventory, if that was satisfactory. He said he was certain it would be, that 'mom' had left orders that I was to be admitted whenever I asked.
I went out to lunch at 1.00 p.m., had a hotdog and a mug of root beer at a fast-food joint on Third Avenue.
Then I walked back to Madison and took another look in the window of that dress shop. The green sweater was still there.
I arrived at the Kipper home ahead of time and walked around the block until it was 2.00 p.m. Then I rang the bell at the iron gate. I was carrying my briefcase, with pens, notebook, and rough plans I had drawn from memory of the six townhouse floors.
Chester Heavens let me in, looking like an extremely well-fed mortician. He informed me that Mrs Kipper was in the sitting room with the Reverend Godfrey Knurr and a few other close friends. Mrs Bertha Neckin and Perdita Schug were in the kitchen, preparing tea for this small party.
'You are most welcome to join us there, sah, if you desire a cup of coffee or tea,' the butler said.
I thanked him but said I'd prefer to get my inventory work finished first. Then I'd be happy to join the staff in the kitchen. He bowed gravely and told me to go right 155
ahead. If I needed any assistance, I could ring him from almost any room in the house.
I had something on my mind. On the afternoon Sol Kipper had plunged to his death, his wife said she had been with him in the fifth-floor master bedroom. Then she had descended to the ground floor. The servants testified to that. Minutes later Kipper's body had thudded on to the tiled patio.
What I was interested in was how Mrs Kipper had gone downstairs. By elevator, I presumed. She was not the type of woman who would walk down five long flights of stairs.
If she descended by elevator, then it should have been on the ground floor at the time of her husband's death.
Unless, of course, Kipper rang the bell, waited for the lift to come up from the ground level, then used it to go up to the sixth-floor terrace.
But that didn't seem likely. I stood inside the master bedroom. I glanced at my watch. I then walked at a steady pace out into the hallway, east to the rear staircase, up the stairs to the sixth floor, into the party room, over to the locked French doors leading to the terrace. I glanced at my watch again. Not quite a minute. That didn't necessarily mean a man determined to kill himself wouldn't wait for a slow elevator. It just proved it was a short walk from the master bedroom, where the suicide note had been found, to the death leap.
I spent the next hour walking about the upper storeys of the townhouse, refining my floor plans and making notes on furniture, rugs, paintings, etc., but mostly trying to familiarize myself with the layout of the building.
I examined the elevator door on each floor. This was not just morbid curiosity on my party; I really felt the operation of the elevator played an important part in the events of that fatal afternoon.
The elevator doors were identical: conventional portals of heavy oak with inset panels. All the panels were solid 156
except for one of glass at eye-level that allowed one to see when the elevator arrived. Each door was locked. It could only be opened when the elevator was stopped at that level.
You then opened the door, swung aside the steel gate, and stepped into the
cage.
Fixed to the jamb on the outside of each elevator door was a dial not much bigger than a large wrist watch. The dials were under small domes of glass, and they revolved forward or backward as the elevator ascended or descended. In other words, by consulting the dial on any floor, you could determine the exact location of the elevator and tell whether or not it was in motion.
I didn't know at the time what significance that might have, but I decided to note it for possible future reference.
As I was coming down to the ground floor, I heard the sounds of conversation and laughter coming from the open doors of the sitting room. Perdita Schug rushed by, carrying a tray of those tiny sandwiches. She hardly had time to wink at me. Chester Heavens followed her at a more stately pace, with a small salver holding a single glass of what appeared to be brandy.
I walked towards the kitchen and pantry. I turned at the kitchen door and looked back. From that point I could see the length of the corridor, the elevator door, the doors to the sitting room, and a small section of the entrance hall. I could not see the front door.
I went into the disordered kitchen, then back to the pantry. A lank, angular woman was seated in one of the high-backed chairs, sipping a cup of tea. She was wearing a denim apron over a black uniform with white collar and cuffs.
'Mrs Neckin?' I asked.
She looked up at me with an expression of some distaste.
'Yus?' she said, her voice a piece of chalk held at the wrong angle on a blackboard.
'I'm Joshua Bigg,' I said with my most ingratiating 157
smile. I explained who I was, and what I was doing in the Kipper home. I told her Chester Heavens had invited me to stop in the kitchen before I left.
'He's busy,' she snapped.
'For a cup of tea,' I continued pointedly, staring at her.
'For a nice, friendly cup of tea.'
I could almost see her debating how far she could push her peevishness.
'Sit down then,' she said finally. 'There's a cup, there's the pot.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'You're very kind.'
Irony had no effect. She was too twisted by ill-temper.
'A busy afternoon for you?' I asked pleasantly, sitting down and pouring myself a cup.
'Them!' she said with great disgust.
'It's probably good for Mrs Kipper to entertain again,' I remarked. 'After the tragedy.'
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