Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

'Thank you,' I said. 'Well, Effie, I wanted to ask you a few more questions. Silly things that probably have nothing to do with the Professor's disappearance. But I've got to ask them just to satisfy my own curiosity.'

  'Sure,' she said, shrugging her fat shoulders. 'I can understand that. I'm as curious as the next one. Curiouser.'

  'Effie, what time of night do you usually go to bed?'

  'Well, I usually go to my room about nine-thirty, ten.

  Around then. After I've cleaned up here. Then I read a little, maybe watch a little television. Write a letter or two.

  I'm usually in bed by eleven.'

  I laughed. 'Lucky woman. Do you leave anything here in the kitchen for the family? In case they want a late snack?'

  'Oh, they can help themselves,' she said casually. 'They know where everything is.' Then, when I was wondering how to lead into it, she added: 'Of course, when the Professor was here, I always left him a saucepan of cocoa.'

  'Cocoa?' I said. 'I didn't think people drank cocoa anymore.'

  'Of course they do. It's delicious.'

  'And you served the Professor a cup of cocoa before you went to bed?'

  'Oh no. I just made it. Then I left it to cool. Around midnight, Miss Glynis would come in and just heat it up.

  Even if she was out at the theatre or wherever, she'd come home, heat up the cocoa, and bring a cup to her father in his study.'

  'So I understand. Glynis brought the Professor his cup 201

  of cocoa every night?'

  'That's right.'

  'And no one else in the house drank it?'

  'No one,' she said, and my heart leaped — until she said,

  'except me. I finished it in the morning.'

  'Finished it?'

  'What was left in the pan. I like a cup of hot cocoa before I start breakfast.'

  That seemed to demolish the Great Cocoa Plot. But did it?

  'Effie, who washed out the Professor's cocoa cup in the morning?'

  'I did. He always left it on the kitchen sink.'

  'Why on earth did he drink cocoa so late at night?'

  'He claimed it helped him sleep better.' She snickered.

  'Just between you, me, and the lamppost, I suspect it was the brandy he had along with it.'

  'Uh-huh,' I said. 'Well, Effie, I think that covers it.

  There's just one other favour I'd like to ask. I want to take another look in the Professor's study.'

  'Help yourself,' she said. 'The door's unlocked.'

  'I don't want to go in alone.'

  'Oh?' She looked at me shrewdly. 'So you'll have a witness that you didn't take anything?'

  'Right,' I said gratefully.

  The study looked exactly as it had before. I stood near the centre of the room, my eyes half-closed. I turned slowly, inspecting.

  The drum table. Brandy bottle and two small balloon glasses on an Edwardian silvery tray. The Rémy Martin bottle was new, sealed.

  Where did he hide the will? Not up the chimney. Not in the littered desk. Not behind a secret panel. Ula and Glynis would have probed up the chimney, searched the desk, tapped the walls, combed every book and map.

  But I thought I knew where the will was hidden.

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  Glynis seemed not to have moved since I left. Still reclined easily in a corner of the couch. She was not fussing with her scarf, stroking her sleeked-back hair, inspecting her nails. She had the gift of complete repose.

  'Miss Stonehouse,' I said, 'could you spare me a few more minutes?'

  'Of course.'

  'I have some very distressing information,' I told her.

  'Something I think you should be aware of. I hoped to inform your mother, but since she is indisposed — temporarily, I trust — I must tell you.'

  She cocked her head to one side, looking puzzled.

  'When your father was ill last year, for a period of months, he was suffering from arsenic poisoning.'

  Something happened to her face. It shrank. The flesh seemed to become less and the skin tightened on to bone, whitened and taut. Genuine surprise or the shock of being discovered?

  'What?' she said.

  'Your father. He was being poisoned. By arsenic.

  Finally, in time, he consulted a physician. He recovered.

  That means he must have discovered how he was being fed the arsenic. And by whom.'

  'Impossible,' she said. Her voice was so husky it was almost a rasp.

  'I'm afraid it's true,' I said. 'No doubt about it. And since your father rarely dined out, he must have been ingesting arsenic here, in his own home, in some food or drink that no one else in the house ate or drank, because no one else suffered the same effects. I have an apology to make to you, Miss Stonehouse. For a brief period, I thought the arsenic might have been given to him in that nightly cup of cocoa which you served him. Something I thought no one else in the household drank. But Mrs Dark has just told me that she finished the cocoa every morning and was none the worse for it. So I apologize to you for my 203

  suspicions. And now I must try to find some other way that your father was being poisoned.'

  That jolted her. The repose was gone; she began to unbutton and button her black gabardine jacket. She was wearing a brassiere, but I caught quick glimpses of the smooth, tender skin of her midriff,

  'You thought that I . . . ' she faltered.

  'Please,' I said, 'I do apologize. I know now it wasn't the cocoa. I'm telling you this because I want you to think very carefully and try to remember if your father ate or drank anything that no one else in the household ate or drank.'

  'You're quite sure he was being poisoned?' she said faintly.

  'Oh yes. No doubt about it.'

  'And you think that had something to do with his disappearance?'

  'It seems logical, doesn't it?'

  Her face began to fill out again. Her colour returned to normal. She looked at me squarely. She stopped fussing with her buttons and settled back into her original position. She took a deep breath.

  'Yes,' she said softly, 'I think you're right. If someone was trying to kill h i m . . . '

  'Someone obviously was.'

  'But why?'

  'Miss Stonehouse,' I said, 'I just don't know. My investigation hasn't progressed that far. As yet.'

  'But you are making progress?'

  It was my turn to be noncommittal.

  'I have discovered several things,' I said, 'that may or may not be significant. But to get back to my original question, can you think of any way your father may have been poisoned? Other than the cocoa?'

  She stared at me a long moment, but she wasn't seeing me.

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  'No,' she said, !I can't. We all ate the same things, drank the same things. Father bought bottled water, but everyone drank that.'

  'He wasn't on a special diet of any kind?'

  'No.'

  ' W e l l . . . ' I said, 'if you recall anything, please let me know.'

  'Mr Bigg,' she said slowly, 'you said you suspected me of poisoning my father's cocoa.'

  'Not exactly,' I said. 'For a time I did think the cocoa you served him might have been poisoned. But anyone in the household could have done that. But I realized I was mistaken after Mrs Dark told me she finished the leftover cocoa every morning.'

  'She told you,' Glynis Stonehouse said steadily. 'I've never seen Mrs Dark have a cup of cocoa in the morning, and I don't believe anyone else has either.'

  Again our eyes locked, but this time she was really looking at me, her gaze challenging, unblinking.

  The sleet had lessened, but the sky was still drooling. I ducked into a kerbside phone kiosk on Columbus Avenue and called the office, and chatted with Yetta Apatoff. I reminded her of our lunch date on Friday. She hadn't forgotten. Yetta said the office manager had left me a message. He had hired a temporary assistant for me. She would appear at my office at three o'clock, which still gave me time to run downtown to visit the good Reverend Knurr.

 
I took the Seventh Avenue IRT local down to Houston Street and walked up to Carmine Street. I stopped at a bodega along the way and bought a six-pack. I had the address, but was a few minutes early, so I walked by across the street, inspecting the premises. It was no smaller or larger than any of the other storefronts on the street. But the glass window and door had been painted a dark green.

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  An amateur sign across the front read: TENTMAKERS CLUB.

  I crossed the street and went in. The door rang a bell as it opened.

  'Halloo?' Knurr's voice shouted from the rear.

  'Joshua Bigg,' I yelled back.

  'Be with you in a minute, Joshua. Make yourself at home.'

  There was a small open space as one entered. Apparently it was used as an office, for there was a battered wooden desk, an old, dented file cabinet, three chairs (none of which matched), a coat tree, and several cartons stacked on the floor. They all seemed to be filled with used and tattered paperback novels.

  Beyond the makeshift office was a doorway curtained with a few yards of sleazy calico nailed to the top of the frame. I pushed my way through and found myself in a large bare chamber with fluorescent lights overhead. On the discoloured walls were charts showing positions and blows in judo, jiu-jitsu, and karate. There were also a few posters advertising unarmed combat tournaments.

  In one corner was a tangle of martial arts jackets, kendo staves and masks, dumbbells. There was a rolled-up wrestling mat against one wall.

  I was inspecting an illustrated directory of kung fu positions and moves taped to the wall when the Reverend Godfrey Knurr entered from a curtained rear doorway.

  'Joshua,' he said, 'good to see you. Thanks for coming.'

  'Here,' I said, thrusting the damp brown bag at him. 'I brought along a cold six-pack. For lunch.'

  He peeked into the bag.

  'Wonderful,' he said. 'Come on back. I'll put the beer in the fridge and you can hang your things away.'

  There was a short corridor that debouched into kitchen and bedroom.

  The kitchen was just large enough to contain a wooden table and four chairs, refrigerator, sink, cabinets, and a 206

  tiny stove. The walls were pebbled with umpteen coats of paint. There was a small rear window looking out on to a sad little courtyard, squalid in the rain. The same view was available from the window in the bedroom. This was a monk's cell: bed, closet, chest of drawers, straight-back chair, bedside table with lamp and telephone, a bookcase.

  'Not quite the Kipper townhouse, is it?' Knurr said. He was putting the beer in the refrigerator when we heard the jangle of the front door bell.

  'They'll be coming in now,' he said. 'Let's go up front.'

  I followed him to the gym. He was wearing a grey sweatsuit, out at elbow and knee. His sneakers were stained and torn; the laces broken and knotted.

  Three boys were taking off wet things in the office. They tossed their outer apparel on to the desk, then came back to the larger room where they divested themselves of shoes, sweaters, shirts, and trousers, kicking these into a corner.

  Knurr introduced me casually: 'Joshua, these brutes are Rafe, Tony, Walt. This is Josh.'

  We all nodded. They appeared to me to be about 13 to 15, bodies skinny and white, all joints. Their faces and necks were pitted with acne.

  The bell jangled again; more boys entered. Finally Knurr had a dozen boys milling around the gym in their drawers and socks.

  'Cut the shit!' the Reverend yelled. 'Line up and let's get started.'

  They arranged themselves in two files, facing him. At his command they began to go through a series of what I presumed were warmup exercises, following Knurr. He stood with left foot advanced, left arm extended, hand clenched, knuckles down. The right foot was back, right arm cocked, right fist clenched. Then, at a shouted 'Hah!'

  everyone took a step forward on to the right foot, striking an imaginary opponent with the right fist while bending the left arm and retracting the left fist to the shoulder. At 207

  the second 'Hah!' they all took a step backwards to their original position.

  I revised my guess at their age group upwards to 12 to 17. Some of them were quite large, including a six-foot black. There were four blacks, one Oriental, and two I thought were Hispanic. All were remarkably thin, some painfully so, and most had the poor skin tone of slum kids.

  There were scars and bruises in abundance, and one shambling youth had a black patch over one eye.

  Knurr led them through a series of increasingly violent exercises, culminating with a series of high front and back kicks.

  After the exercise period was finished, Godfrey Knurr assigned partners and the boys paired off. They went through what appeared to me to be mock combat. No actual blows were struck, no kicks landed, but it was obvious that all the youths were in dead earnest, punching and counterpunching, kicking out and turning swiftly to avoid their opponents' kicks. As they fought, Knurr moved from pair to pair, watched them closely, stopped them to demonstrate a punch or correct the position of their feet. He had a few words to say to each boy in the room.

  'All right,' he shouted finally. 'That's enough. Unroll the mat. We'll finish with a throw.'

  The wrestling mat was spread in the centre of the bare wood floor. They gathered around and I moved closer.

  Knurr strode out on to the mat and beckoned one of the lads.

  'Come on, Lou,' he said. 'Be my first victim.'

  There was laughter, some calls and rude comments as the six-foot black stepped forward on the mat to face Knurr.

  'All right,' Knurr said, 'lead at me with a hard right.

  And don't tighten up. Stay loose. Ready?'

  Lou fell into the classic karate stance, then punched at 208

  Knurr's throat with his right knuckles. The pastor executed a movement so fast and flowing that I could scarcely follow it. He plucked the black's wrist out of the air, lifted it as he turned, bent, put a shoulder into the boy's armpit, pulled down on the arm, levered up, and Lou's feet went flying high in the air, cartwheeling over Knurr's head. He would have crashed on to the mat if Knurr hadn't caught him about the waist and let him down gently.

  There was more laughter, shouts, exclamations of delighted surprise. The Reverend helped Lou to his feet and then they went through the throw very slowly, Knurr pausing frequently to explain exactly what he was doing, calling his students' attention to the position of his feet, how his weight shifted, how he used the attacker's momentum to help disable him.

  'Okay,' he said, 'that was just a demonstration.

  Tomorrow you're all going to work on that throw. And you'll work on it and work on it until everyone can do it

  right. Then I'll show you the defence against it.

  Now ... who's going to show up for the bullshit session tonight?' He looked around the room. But heads were hanging; no one volunteered. 'Come on, come on,' Knurr said impatiently, 'you've got to pay for your fun. Who's coming for the talk?'

  A few hands went up hesitantly, then a few more.

  Finally about half the boys had hands in the air.

  'How about you, Willie?' Knurr demanded, addressing the shambling youth with the black eyepatch. 'You haven't been around for weeks. You must have a wagonload of sins to confess. I especially want you.'

  This was greeted with laughter and shouts from the others.

  'Right on!'

  'Get him, Faddeh!'

  'Make him spill everything!'

  'He's been a baaaad boy!'

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  'Aw right,' Willie said with a tinny grin, 'I'll be here.'

  'Good,' Knurr said. 'Now dry off, all of you, then get the hell out of here. The gym will be open from five to eight tonight if any of you want to work out. See you all tomorrow.'

  They began to pick up their garments from the floor, with the noise and horseplay you'd expect. Knurr rolled up the mat and flung it against the wall. His sweatshirt was soaked dark under the arms, across the back and chest.
r />   While he showered I sat at the kitchen table, sipping beer from the can, listening to shouts and laughter of departing boys. I looked up through the window. In the apartment house across the courtyard an old woman fed a parakeet seeds, from her lips, bird perched on finger.

  Godfrey Knurr came into the kitchen wearing a terrycloth robe, towelling head and beard. He put the towel around his neck, took a beer from the refrigerator.

  He said across from me.

  'Well?' he demanded. 'What do you think?'

  'Very impressive,' I said. 'You speak to them in their own language. They seem to respect you. They obey you.

  The only thing that bothers me is -'

  'I know what bothers you,' he interrupted. 'You're wondering if I'm not teaching those monsters how to be expert muggers.'

  'Yes,' I said. 'Something like that.'

  'It's a risk,' he admitted. 'I know it exists. I keep pounding at them that they're learning the martial arts only for self-defence. And God knows they need it, considering what their lives are like. And they do need physical exercise.'

  'Does it have to be karate?' I asked. 'Couldn't it be basketball?'

  'Or tiddledywinks?' he said sourly. 'Or I could read them Pindar's odes. Look, Joshua, most of those kids have records. Violence attracts them. All I'm trying to do 210

  is capitalize on that. Listen, every time they punch the air and shout " H a h ! " they're punching out the Establishment.

  I'm trying to turn that revolt to a more peaceable and constructive channel.'

  'You can kill with karate, can't you?' I asked him.

  'I don't teach them killing blows,' he said shortly. 'Also, what you just saw is only half of my programme. The other half is group therapy and personal counselling. I try to become a father figure. Most of their natural fathers are drunks, on drugs, or have disappeared. Vamoosed. So I'm really the only father they've got, and I do my damndest to straighten out their tiny brains. Some of those brutes are so screwed up — you wouldn't believe! Mens sana in corpore sano. That's really what I'm hoping for these kids. What I'm working towards. Let's eat.'

  He had made a salad of cut-up iceberg lettuce topped with gobs of mayonnaise. The roast beef sandwiches had obviously been purchased in a deli; they were rounded with the meat filling, also slathered with mayonnaise. He opened two more beers for us and we ate and drank. And he talked.