Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  The room was open, spare, and empty. A choice had obviously been made to abjure things. No radio. No TV set.

  No books. One dim lamp. There were no decorations or bric-a-brac. There was one chest of drawers, painted white, and one doorless closet hung with a few garments, male and female. There was almost nothing to look at other than Ms Chard.

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  She took my coat and hat, laid them on the bed, then gestured towards a clutch of pillows. Obediently I folded my legs and sank into a semireclining position. Wanda Chard crossed her legs and sat on the bare floor, facing me.

  'Powell will be out in a minute,' she said.

  'Thank you,' I said.

  'He's in the bathroom,' she said.

  There seemed nothing to reply to that, so I remained silent. I watched as she fitted a long crimson cigarette to a yellowed ivory holder. I began to struggle to my feet, fumbling for a match, but she waved me back.

  'I'm not going to smoke it,' she said. 'Not right now.

  Would you like one?'

  'Thank you, no.'

  She stared at me.

  'Does it bother you that you're very small?' she asked in a deep, husky voice that seemed all murmur.

  Perhaps I should have bridled at the impertinence of the question; after all, we had just met. But I had the feeling that she was genuinely interested.

  'Yes, it bothers me,' I said. 'Frequently.'

  She nodded.

  'I'm hard of hearing, you know,' she said. 'Practically deaf. I'm reading your lips.'

  I looked at her in astonishment.

  'You're not!' I said.

  'Oh yes. Say a sentence without making a sound. Just mouth the words.'

  I made my mouth say, 'How are you tonight?' without actually speaking; just moving my lips.

  'How are you tonight?' she said.

  'But that's marvellous!' I said. 'How long did it take you to learn?'

  'All my life,' she said. 'It's easy when people face me directly, as you are. When they face away, or even to the 169

  side, I am lost. In a crowded, noisy restaurant, I can understand conversations taking place across the room.'

  'That must be amusing.'

  'Sometimes,' she said. 'Sometimes it is terrible.

  Frightening. The things people say when they think no one can overhear. Most people I meet aren't even aware that I'm deaf. The reason I'm telling you is because I thought you might be bothered by your size.'

  'Yes,' I said, 'I understand. Thank you.'

  'We are all one,' she said sombrely, 'in our weakness.'

  Her hair was jet black, glossy, and fell to her waist in back. It was parted in the middle and draped about her face in curved wings that formed a dark Gothic arch. The waves almost obscured her pale features. From the shadows, two luminous eyes glowed forth. I had an impression of no makeup, pointy chin, and thin, bloodless lips.

  She was wearing a kimono of garishly printed silk, all poppies and parrots. When she folded down on to the bare floor, I had noted her feline movements, the softness. I did not know if she was naked beneath the robe, but I was conscious of something lubricious in the way her body turned. There was a faint whisper there: silk on flesh. Her feet were bare, toenails painted a frosted silver. She wore a slave bracelet about her left ankle: a chain of surprisingly heavy links. There was a tattoo on her right instep: a small blue butterfly.

  'What do you do, Miss Chard?' I asked her.

  'Do?'

  'I mean, do you work?'

  'Yes,' she said. 'In a medical laboratory. I'm a research assistant.'

  'That's very interesting,' I said, wondering what on earth Powell Stonehouse could be doing in the bathroom for such a long time.

  As if I had asked the question aloud, the bathroom door 170

  opened and he came towards us in a rapid, shambling walk. Once again I tried to struggle to my feet from my cocoon of pillows, but he held a palm out, waving me down. It was almost like a benediction.

  'Would you like an orange?' he asked me.

  'An orange? Oh no. Thank you.'

  'Wanda?'

  She shook her head, long hair swinging across her face.

  But she held up the crimson cigarette in the ivory holder.

  He found a packet of matches on the dresser, bent over, lighted her cigarette. I smelled the odour: more incense than smoke. Then he went to the kitchenette and came back with a Mandarin orange. He sat on the bare floor next to her, facing me. He folded down with no apparent physical effort. He began to peel his orange, looking at me, blinking.

  'What's all this about?' he said.

  Once again I explained that I had been assigned by his family's attorneys to investigate the disappearance of his father. I realized, I said, that I was going over ground already covered by police officers, but I hoped he would be patient and tell me in his own words exactly what had happened the night of January 10th.

  I thought then that he glanced swiftly at Wanda Chard.

  If a signal passed between them, I didn't catch it. But he began relating the events of the evening his father had disappeared, pausing only to pop a segment of orange into his mouth, chomp it to a pulp, and swallow it down.

  His account differed in no significant detail from what I had already learnt from his mother and sister. I made a pretence of jotting notes, but there was really nothing to jot.

  'Mr Stonehouse,' I said, when he had finished, 'do you think your father's mood and conduct that night were normal?'

  'Normal for him.'

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  'Nothing in what he did or said that gave you any hint he might be worried or under unusual pressure? That he might be contemplating deserting his family of his own free will?'

  'No. Nothing like that.'

  'Do you know of anyone who might have, uh, harboured resentment against your father? Disliked him? Even hated him?'

  Again I caught that rapid shifting of his eyes sideways to Wanda Chard, as if consulting her.

  'I can think of a dozen people,' he said. 'A hundred people. Who resented him or disliked him or hated him.'

  Then, with a small laugh that was half-cough, he added,

  'Including me.'

  'What exactly was your relationship with your father, Mr Stonehouse?'

  'Now look here,' he said, bristling. 'You said on the phone that you wanted to discuss "family relationships."

  What has that got to do with his disappearance?'

  I leaned forward from the waist, as far as I was able in my semirecumbent position. I think I appeared earnest, sincere, concerned.

  'Mr Stonehouse,' I said, 'I never knew your father. I have seen photographs of him and I have a physical description from your mother and sister. But I am trying to understand the man himself. Who and what he was. His feelings for those closest to him. In hopes that by learning the man, knowing him better, I may be able to get some lead on what happened to him. I have absolutely no suspicions about anyone, let alone accusing anyone of anything. I'm just trying to learn. Anything you can tell me may be of value.'

  This time the consultation with Wanda Chard was obvious, with no attempt at concealment. He turned to look at her. Their eyes locked. She nodded once.

  'Tell him,' she said.

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  He began to speak. I didn't take notes. I knew I would not forget what he said.

  He tried very hard to keep his voice controlled. Unsuccessfully. He alternated between blatant hostility and a shy diffidence, punctuated with those small, half-cough laughs. Sometimes his voice broke into a squeak of fury.

  His gestures were jerky. He glanced frequently sideways at his companion, then glared fiercely at me again. He was not wild, exactly, but there was an incoherence in him. He didn't come together.

  He had his father's thin face and angular frame, the harsh angles softened by youth. It was more a face of clean slants, with a wispy blond moustache and a hopeful beard scant enough so that a mild chin showed. He was totally bald, completely, the sku
ll shaved. Perhaps that was what he had been doing in the bathroom. In any event, that smooth pate caught the dim light and gave it back palely.

  Big ears, floppy as slices of veal, hung from his naked skull.

  He had tortoise-shell eyes, a hawkish nose, a girl's tender lips. A vulnerable look. Everything in his face seemed a-tremble, as if expecting a hurt. As he spoke, his grimy fingers were everywhere: smoothing the moustache, tugging the poor beard, pulling at his meaty ears, caressing his nude dome frantically. He was wearing a belted robe of unbleached muslin. The belt was a rope. And there was a cowl hanging down his back. A monk's robe. His feet were bare and soiled. Those busy fingers plucked at his toes, and after a while I couldn't watch his eyes but could only follow those fluttering hands, thinking they might be enchained birds that would eventually free themselves from his wrists and go whirling off.

  The story he told was not an original, but no less affecting for t h a t . . .

  He had never been able to satisfy his father. Never. All he remembered of his boyhood was mean and sour criti-173

  cism. His mother and sister tried to act as buffers, but he took most of his father's spleen. His school marks were unacceptable; he was not active enough in sports; his table manners were slovenly.

  'Even the way I stood!' Powell Stonehouse shouted at me. 'He didn't even like the way I walked!'

  It never diminished, this constant litany of complaint, in fact, as Powell grew older, it increased. His father simply hated him. There was no other explanation for his spite; his father hated him and wished him gone. He was convinced of that.

  At this point in his recital, I feared he might be close to tears, and I was relieved to see Wanda Chard reach out to imprison one of those wildly fluttering hands and grasp it tightly.

  His sister, Glynis, had always been his father's favourite, Powell continued. He understood that in most normal families the father dotes on the daughter, the mother on the son. But the Stonehouses were no normal family. The father's ill-temper drove friends from their house, made a half-mad alcoholic of his wife, forced his daughter to a solitary life away from home.

  'I would have gone nuts,' Powell Stonehouse said furiously. 'I was going nuts. Until I found Wanda.'

  'And Zen,' she murmured.

  'Yes,' he said, 'and Zen. Now, slowly through instinct and meditation, I am becoming one. Mr Bigg, I must speak the truth: what I feel. I don't care if you never find my father. I think I'm better off without him. And my sister is, too. And my mother. And the world. You must see, you must understand, that I have this enormous hate. I'm trying to rid myself of it.'

  'Hate is a poison,' Wanda Chard said.

  'Yes,' he said, nodding violently, 'hate is a poison and I'm trying very hard to flush it from my mind and from my soul. But all those years, those cold, brutal scenes, those 174

  screaming arguments... it's going to take time. I know that: it's going to take a long, long time. But I'm better now. Better than I was.'

  'Oh, forgive him,' Wanda Chard said softly.

  'No, no, no,' he said, still fuming. 'Never. I can never forgive him for what he did to me. But maybe, someday, with luck, I can forget him. That's all I want.'

  I was silent, giving his venom a chance to cool. And also giving me a chance to ponder what I had just heard. He had made no effort to conceal his hostility towards his father. Was that an honest expression of the way he felt — or was it calculated? That is, did he think to throw me off by indignation openly displayed?

  'Doubt everyone,' Roscoe Dollworth had said. 'Suspect everyone.'

  He had also told me something else. He said the only thing harder than getting the truth was asking the right questions. 'No one's going to volunteer nothing! '

  Dollworth said that sometimes the investigator had to flounder all over the place, striking out in all directions, asking all kinds of extraneous questions in hopes that one of them might uncover an angle never before considered.

  'Catching flies,' he called it.

  I felt it was time to 'catch flies.'

  'Your sister was your father's favourite?' I asked.

  He nodded.

  'How did he feel towards your mother?'

  'Tolerated her.'

  'How often did you dine at your father's home? I mean after you moved out?'

  'Twice a week maybe, on an average.'

  'Do you know what your father's illness was? Last year when he was sick?'

  'The flu, Mother said. Or a virus.'

  'Do you know any of your sister's friends?'

  'Not really. Not recently. She goes her own way.'

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  'But she goes out a lot?'

  'Yes. Frequently.'

  'Where?'

  'To the theatre, I guess. Movies. Ballet. Ask her.'

  'She's a beautiful woman. Why hasn't she married?'

  'No one was ever good enough for Father.'

  'She's of age. She can do as she likes.'

  'Yes,' Wanda Chard said, 'I've wondered about that.'

  'She wouldn't leave my mother,' Powell said. 'She's devoted to my mother.'

  'But not to your father?'

  He shrugged.

  'Anything you can tell me about the servants?'

  'What about them?'

  'You trust them?'

  'Of course.'

  'What did you and your father quarrel about? The final quarrel?'

  'He caught me smoking a joint. We both said things we shouldn't have. So I moved out.'

  'You have an independent income?'

  'Enough,' Wanda Chard said quickly.

  'Your sister doesn't have one particular friend? A man, I mean. Someone she sees a lot of?'

  'I don't know. Ask her.'

  'Was your father on a special diet?'

  'What?'

  'Did he eat any special foods or drink anything no one else in the house ate or drank?'

  'Not that I know of. Why?'

  'In the last month or two before your father disappeared, did you notice any gradual change in his behaviour?'

  He thought about that for a few seconds.

  'Maybe he became more withdrawn.'

  'Withdrawn?'

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  'Surlier. Meaner. He talked even less than usual. He ate his dinner, then went into his study.'

  'His will iS missing. Did you know that?'

  'Glynis told me. I don't care. I don't want a cent from him. Not a cent! If he left me anything. I'd give it away.'

  'Why did your mother stay with such a man as you describe?'

  'What could she do? Where could she go? She has no family of her own. She couldn't function alone.'

  'Your mother and sister could have left together. Just as you left.'

  'Why should they? It's their home, too.'

  'You never saw your father's will?'

  'No.'

  'Did you see the book he was working on? A history of the Prince Royal, a British battleship?'

  'No, I never saw that. I never went into his study.'

  'Did your father drink? I mean alcohol?'

  'Maybe a highball before dinner. Some wine. A brandy before he went to bed. Nothing heavy.'

  'Are you on any drugs now?'

  'A joint now and then. That's all. No hard stuff.'

  'Your mother or sister?'

  'My mother's on sherry. You probably noticed.'

  'Your sister?'

  'Nothing as far as I know.'

  'Your father?'

  'You've got to be kidding.'

  'Either of the servants?'

  'Ridiculous.'

  'Do you love your mother?'

  'I have a very deep affection for her. And pity. He ruined her life.'

  'Do you love your sister?'

  'Very much. She's an angel.'

  Wanda Chard made a sound.

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  'Miss Chard,' I said, 'did you say something? I didn't catch it.'

  'Nothing,' she said.

  That's what I had �
�� nothing. I continued 'catching flies.'

  'Did your father ever come down here?' I asked. 'To this apartment?'

  'Once,' he said. 'I wasn't here. But Wanda met him.'

  'What did you think of him, Miss Chard?'

  'So unhappy,' she murmured. 'So bitter. Eating himself up.'

  'When did he come here? I mean, how long was it before he disappeared?'

  They looked at each other.

  'Perhaps two weeks,' she said. 'Maybe less.'

  'He just showed up? Without calling first?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did he give any reason for his visit?'

  'He said he wanted to talk to Powell. But Powell was in Brooklyn, studying with his master. So Professor Stonehouse left.'

  'How long did he stay?'

  'Not long. Ten minutes perhaps.'

  'He didn't say what he wanted to talk to Powell about?'

  'No.'

  'And he never came back?'

  'No,' Powell Stonehouse said, 'he never came back.'

  'And when you saw him later, in his home, did he ever mention the visit or say what he wanted to talk to you about?'

  'No, he never mentioned it. And I didn't either.'

  I thought a moment.

  'It couldn't have been a reconciliation, could it?'

  I suggested. 'He came down here to ask your forgiveness?'

  He stared at me. His face slowly congealed. The blow he had been expecting had landed.

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  'I don't know.' he said in a low voice.

  'Maybe,' Wanda Chard murmured.

  3

  Olga Eklund agreed to meet me in a health-food cafeteria on Irving Place. The salad, full of sprouted seeds, was really pretty good. I washed it down with some completely natural juice.

  I listened to her lecture on health and diet as patiently as I could. When she paused I said, 'So when you told me Professor Stonehouse was being poisoned, you were referring to the daily food served in his house?'

  'Yah. Bad foods. I tell them all the time. They don't listen. That Mrs Dark, the cook — everything with her is butter and cream. Too much oil. Too rich.'

  'But everyone in the house eats the same thing?'

  'Not me. I eat raw carrots, green salads with maybe a little lemon juice. Fresh fruit. I don't poison myself.'

  'Olga,' I said, 'you serve the evening meal every night?'