'Oh yus,' she said bitterly. 'Him not cold, and her having parties. And I don't care who you tell I said it.'
'I have no intention of telling anyone,' I assured her. 'I am not a gossip.'
'Oh yus?' she said, looking at me suspiciously.
'You've been with the Kippers a long time, Mrs Neckin?' I asked, sipping my tea. It was good, but not as good as Mrs Dark's at the Stonehouses'.
'I was with Mr Sol all my working days,' she said angrily. 'Long before she came along.' The housekeeper accompanied this last with a jerk of a thumb over her shoulder, in the general direction of the sitting room.
'I understand she was formerly in the theatre,' I mentioned casually.
'The theatre!' she said, pronouncing it thee- ay-ter. 'A cootch dancer was what she was!'
Then, as if she were grateful to me for giving her an opportunity to vent her malice, she rose, went into the 158
kitchen, and brought back a small plate of petit-fours.
And she replenished my cup of tea without my asking.
Mrs Neckin was a rawboned farm woman, all hard lines and sharp angles. The flat-chested figure under the apron and uniform moved in sudden jerks, pulls, twists, and pushes. When she poured the tea, I had the uneasy feeling that she'd much rather be wringing the neck of a chicken.
'He was a saint,' she said, seating herself again. In a chair closer to mine, I noted. 'A better man never lived.
He's in Heaven now, I vow.'
I made a sympathetic noise.
'I'm getting out,' she said in a harsh whisper. 'I won't work for that woman with Mr Sol gone.'
'It's hard to believe,' I said, 'that a man like that would take his own life.'
'Oh yus!' she said scornfully. 'Take his own life! That's what they say.'
I looked at her in bewilderment.
'But he jumped from the terrace,' I said. 'Didn't he?'
'He may have jumped,' she said, pushing herself back from the table. 'I ain't saying he didn't. But what drove him to it? Answer me that: what drove him to it?'
'Her?' I said in a low voice. 'Mrs Kipper?'
'Her?' she said disgustedly. 'Nah. She's got milk in her veins. She's too nicey-nice. It was him.'
'Him?'
'Chester Heavens,' she said, nodding.
' He drove Mr Kipper to suicide?' I said. I heard my own voice falter.
'Sure he did,' Mrs Bertha Neckin said with great satisfaction. 'Put the juju on him. That church of his. They drink human blood there, you know. I figure Chester called up a spell. That's what made Mr Sol jump. He was drove to it.'
I gulped the remainder of my tea. It scalded.
'Why would Chester do a thing like that?' I asked.
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She leaned closer, so near that I could smell her anise-scented breath.
'That's easy to see,' she said. 'I know what's going on. I live here. I see.' She made a circle of her left forefinger and thumb, then moved her right forefinger in and out of the ring in a gesture so obscene it sickened me. 'That's what he wants. He's a nig, you know. I don't care how light he is, he's still a nig. And she's a white lady, dirt-cheap though she may be. That's why he put the juju on Mr Sol. Oh yus.'
I pushed back my chair.
'Mrs Neckin,' I said, 'I thank you very much for the refreshment. You've been very kind. And I assure you I won't repeat what you've told me to a living soul.'
In the corridor I stood aside as Perdita Schug came towards the kitchen with a tray of empty highball and wineglasses. She paused, smiling at me.
'Thursday,' she said. 'I'm off on Thursday, I'm in the book. I told you.'
'Yes,' I said, 'so you did.'
'Try it,' she said. 'You'll like it.'
I was still stammering when she moved on to the kitchen.
I had advanced to the entrance hall when Chester Heavens came from the sitting room. He preceded Mrs Tippi Kipper and the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. Through the open doors I could see several ladies sitting in a circle, chattering as they drank tea and nibbled on little things.
'Well, Mr Bigg,' Mrs Kipper said in her cool, amused voice, 'finished for the day?'
'I think so, ma'am,' I said. 'There's still a great deal to be done, but I believe I'm making progress.'
'Did Chester offer you anything?' she asked.
'He did indeed, ma'am. I had a nice cup of tea, for which I am grateful.'
'I wish that was all I had,' Godfrey Knurr said, patting 160
his stomach. 'Tippi, you keep serving those pastries and I'll have to stop coming here.'
'You must keep up your strength,' she murmured, and he laughed.
They were standing side by side as the butler took Knurr's hat and coat, and mine, from the closet. He held a soiled trenchcoat for Knurr, then handed him an Irish tweed hat, one of those bashed models with the brim turned down all the way around.
'Can I give you a lift, Mr Bigg?' Knurr said. 'I've got my car outside.'
His car was an old Volkswagen bug. It had been painted many times.
'Busted heater.' he said as we got in. 'Sorry about that.
But it's not too cold, is it? Maybe we'll go down Fifth and then cut over on 38th. All right?'
'Fine,' I said. Then I was silent awhile as he worked his way into traffic and got over to Fifth Avenue. 'Mrs Kipper seems to be handling it well,' I remarked. 'The death of her husband, I mean.'
'She's making a good recovery,' he said, beating the light and making a left onto Fifth. 'The first few days were hard. Very hard. I thought for a while she might have to be hospitalized. Good Lord, she was practically an eyewitness. She heard him hit, you know.'
'It was fortunate you were there,' I said.
'Well, I wasn't there. I showed up a few minutes later.
What a scene that was! Screaming, shouting, everyone running around. It was a mess. I did what I could. Called the police and so forth.'
'Did you know him, Pastor?'
'Sol Kipper? Knew him well. A beautiful man. Generous. So generous. So interested in the work I'm doing.'
'Uh, do you mind if I ask about that? The work you're doing, I mean. I'm curious.'
'Do I mind?' he said, with that brisk laugh of his. 'I'm 161
delighted to talk about it. Well... Listen, may I call you Joshua?'
'Josh,' I said, 'if you like.'
'I prefer Joshua,' he said. 'It has a nice Old Testament ring. Well, Joshua, about my w o r k . . . Did you ever hear of the term "tentmakers"?'
'Tentmakers? Like Omar?'
'Not exactly. More like St Paul. Anyway, the problem is basically a financial one. There are thousands and thousands of Protestant clergymen and not enough churches to go around. So more and more churchmen are turning to secular activities. There's an honourable precedent for it.
St Paul supported his preaching by making tents. That's why we call ourselves tentmakers. You'll find the clergy in business, the arts, working as fund-raisers, writing books, even getting into politics. I'm a tentmaker. I don't have a regular church, although I sometimes fill in for full-time pastors who are on vacation, sick, hung over, or on retreat. Whatever. But mostly I support myself by begging.' He glanced sideways at me, briefly. 'Does that shock you?'
'No,' I said. 'Not really. I seem to recall there's an honourable precedent for that also.'
'Right,' he said approvingly. 'There is. Oh hell, I don't mean I walk the streets like a mendicant, cup in hand. But it amounts to the same thing. You saw me at work today. I meet a lot of wealthy people, usually women, and some not not so wealthy. I put the bite on them. In return I offer counselling or just a sympathetic ear. In nine cases out of ten, all they want is a listener. If they ask for advice, I give it.
Sometimes it's spiritual. More often than not it's practical.
Just good common sense. People with problems are usually too upset to think clearly.'
'That's true, I think.'
'So that's part of my tentmaking activities: spiritual adviser to the wealthy.
I assure you they're just as much in 162
need of it as the poor.'
'I believe you,' I said.
'But when they offer a contribution, I accept. Oh boy, do I accept! Not only to keep me in beans, but to finance the other half of my work. It's not a storefront church exactly. Nothing half so fancy as Chester Heavens' Society of the Holy Lamb up in Harlem. It's not a social club either. A combination of both, I guess. It's in Greenwich Village, on Carmine Street. I live in the back. I work with boys from eight to eighteen. The ones in trouble, the ones who have been in trouble, the ones who are going to get in trouble. I give them personal counselling, or a kind of group therapy, and plenty of hard physical exercise in a little gym I've set up in the front of the place. To work off some of their excess energy and violence.'
By this time we were down at 59th Street where the traffic was truly horrendous. Knurr swung the Bug in and out, cutting off other drivers, jamming his way through gaps so narrow that I closed my eyes.
'Where are you from, Joshua?' The sudden question startled me.
'Uh — Iowa,' I said. 'Originally.'
'Really? I was born right next door in Illinois. Peoria.
But I spent most of my life in Indiana, near Chicago, before I came to New York. It's a great city, isn't it?'
'Chicago?' I said.
'New York,' he said. 'It's the only place to be. The centre. You make it here or you never really make it. The contrasts! The wealth and the poverty. The ugliness and the beauty. Don't you feel that?'
'Oh yes,' I said, 'I do.'
'The opportunity,' he said. 'I think that's what impresses me most about New York: the opportunity. A man can go to the stars here.'
'Or to the pits,' I said.
'Oh yes,' he said. 'That, too. Listen, there's something I'd 163
like you to do. Say no, and I'll understand. But I wish you'd visit my place down in Greenwich Village. Look around, see what I'm doing. Trying to do. Would you do that?'
'Of course,' I said instantly. 'I'd like to. Thank you very much.'
'I suspect I'm looking for approval,' he said, glancing at me quickly again with a grin. 'But I'd like you to see what's going on. And, to be absolutely truthful, there are a few little legal problems I hope you might be able to help me with. My lease is for a residential property and I'm running this church or club there, whatever you want to call it. Some good neighbours have filed a complaint.'
I was horrified.
'Mr Knurr,' I said, 'I'm not a lawyer.'
'You're not?' he said, puzzled. 'I thought you worked for Mrs Kipper's attorneys?'
'I do,' I said. 'In a paralegal job. But I'm not an attorney myself. I don't have a law degree.'
'But you're taking the estate inventory?'
'A preliminary inventory,' I said. 'It will have to be verified and authenticated by the attorney of record before the final inventory of assets is submitted.'
'Oh,' he said. 'Sure. Well, the invitation still stands. I'll tell you my problems and maybe you can ask one of the attorneys in your firm and get me some free legal advice.'
'That I'd be glad to do,' I said. 'When's the best time to come?'
'Anytime,' he said. 'No, wait, you better give me a call first. I'm in the book. Mornings would be best.
Afternoons I usually spend with my rich friends uptown.
Listening to their troubles and drinking their booze.'
Then he pulled up outside the TORT offices. He leaned over to examine the building through the car window.
'Beautiful,' he said. 'Converted townhouse. It's hard to 164
believe places like that were once private homes. The wealth! Unreal.'
'But it still exists,' I said. 'The wealth, I mean. Like the Kipper place.'
'Oh yes,' he said, 'it still exists.' He slapped my knee. 'I don't object to it,' he said genially. 'I just want to get in on it.'
'Yes,' I said mournfully. 'Me, too.'
'Listen, Joshua, I was serious about that invitation. The hell with the free legal advice. I like you, I'd like to see more of you. Give me a call and come down and visit me.'
Acknowledging his invitation with a vague promise to contact him, I took my leave and headed to my office.
I was adding somewhat fretfully to my files of reports, wondering if I was getting anywhere, when my phone rang.
It was Percy Stilton; he sounded terse, almost angry.
He asked me if I had come up with anything new, and I told him of my most recent visit to the Kipper townhouse.
He laughed grimly when I related what Mrs Neckin had said about Chester Heavens putting a curse on Sol Kipper.
'I should have warned you about her,' Stilton said. 'A whacko. We get a lot of those. They make sense up to a point, and then they're off into the wild blue yonder. What was your take on Godfrey Knurr?'
'I like him,' I said promptly. 'For a clergyman, he swears like a trooper, but he's very frank and open. He invited me down to Greenwich Village to see what he's doing with juvenile delinquents. He certainly doesn't impress me as a man with anything to hide.'
'That's the feeling I got,' Perce said. 'And that's it?
Nothing else?'
'A silly thing,' I said. 'About the elevator.'
'What about the elevator?'
I explained that if Mrs Kipper had come downstairs on that elevator, it should have been on the ground floor at the time her husband plunged to his death. Unless he had 165
brought the elevator up again to take it from the master bedroom on the fifth floor to the sixth-floor terrace.
'He could have,' Stilton said.
'Sure,' I agreed. 'But I timed the trip from bedroom to terrace. Walking along the hall and up the rear staircase.
Less than a minute.'
I didn't have to spell it out for him.
'I get it,' he said. 'You want me to talk to the first cops on the scene and see if any of them remember where the elevator was when they arrived?'
'Right,' I said gratefully.
'And if it was on the ground floor, that shows that Mrs Kipper brought it down, which proves absolutely nothing.
And if it was on the sixth floor, it only indicates that maybe Sol Kipper took it up to his big jump from the terrace. Which proves absolutely nothing. Zero plus zero equals zero.'
I sighed.
'You're right, Perce. I'm just grabbing at little things.
Anything.'
'I'll ask the cops,' he said. 'It's interesting.'
'I suppose so.'
'Josh, you sound down.'
'Not down, exactly, but bewildered.'
'Beginning to think Sol Kipper really was a suicide?'
'I don't k n o w . . . ' I said slowly. 'Beginning to have some doubts about my fine theories, I guess.'
'Don't,' he said.
'What?'
'Don't have any doubts. I told you I thought someone was jerking us around. Remember? Now I'm sure of it.
Early this morning the harbour cops pulled a floater out of the North River. Around 34th Street. A female Caucasian, about fifty years old or so. She hadn't been in the water long. Twelve hours at most.'
'Perce,' I said, ' n o t . . . ? '
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'Oh yeah,' he said tonelessly. 'Mrs Blanche Reape.
Positive ID from her prints. She had a sheet. Boosting and an old prostitution rap. No doubt about it. Marty's widow.'
I was silent, remembering the brash, earthy woman in The Dirty Shame saloon, buying drinks for everyone.
'Josh?' Detective Stilton demanded. 'You there?'
'I'm here.'
'Official verdict is death by drowning. But a very high alcoholic content in the blood. Fell in the river while drunk. That's how it's going on the books. You believe it?'
'No,' I said.
'I don't either,' he said. 'Sol Kipper falls down from a sixth-floor terrace. Marty Reape falls in front of a subway train. His widow falls in the river. This sucks.'
'Yes,' I said faintly.
'What?' he said. 'I can't hear you.'
'Yes,' I said, louder, 'I agree.'
'You bet your damp white fanetta!' he said furiously.
Then suddenly he was shouting, almost gargling on his bile. 'I don't like to be messed with,' he yelled. 'Some sharp, bright son of a bitch is messing me up. I don't like that. No way do I like that!'
'Perce,' I said, 'please. Calm down.'
'Yeah,' he said. 'Yes. I mean. Yes. I'm calm now. All cool.'
'You think the three of t h e m . . . ? '
'Oh yes,' he said. 'Why not? Kipper was the first. Then Marty, because he had the proof. Then the widow lady. It fits. Someone paid her for the files. The evidence Marty had on the Kipper estate. Then she got greedy and put the bite on for more. Goodbye, Blanche.'
'Someone would do that? Kill three people?'
'Sure,' he said. 'It's easy. The first goes down so slick, and so smooth, and so nice. Then they can do no wrong.
They own the world. Why I'm telling you all this, Josh, is 167
to let you know you're not wasting your time on this Kipper thing. I can't open it up again with what we've got; you'll have to carry the ball. I just wanted you to know I'm here, and ready, willing, and able.'
'Thank you, Perce.'
'Keep in touch, old buddy,' he said. 'I'll check on that elevator thing for you. That cocksucker!' he cried vindictively. 'We'll fry his ass!'
Powell Stonehouse lived on Jones Street, just off Bleecker. It was not a prepossessing building: a three-storey loft structure of worn red brick with a crumbling cornice and a bent and rusted iron railing around the areaway. I arrived a few minutes after 9.00 p.m., rang a bell marked Chard-Stonehouse, and was buzzed in almost immediately. I climbed to the top floor.
I was greeted at the door of the loft by a young woman, very dark, slender, of medium height. I stated my name.
She introduced herself as Wanda Chard, in a whisper so low that I wasn't certain I had heard right, and asked her to repeat it.
She ushered me into the one enormous room that was apparently the entire apartment, save for a small bathroom and smaller kitchenette. There was a platform bed: a slab of foam rubber on a wide plywood door raised from the floor on cinder blocks. There were pillows scattered everywhere: cushions of all sizes, shapes and colours. But no chairs, couches, tables. I assumed the residents ate off the floor and, I supposed, reclined on cushions or the bed to relax.
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