He was a very intelligent, articulate man, and he talked well. What impressed me most about him was his animal energy. He attacked his sandwich wolfishly, forked the salad into his mouth in great, gulping mouthfuls, swilled the beer in throat-wrenching swallows.
'But it all costs money,' he was saying. 'Money, money, money: the name of the game. There's no church available for me — for any of the tentmakers. So we have to make our own way. Earn enough to do the work we want to do.'
'Maybe that's an advantage,' I said.
He looked at me, startled. 'You're very perceptive, Joshua,' he said. 'If you mean what I think you mean, and I think you do. Yes, it's an advantage in that is keeps us in closer touch with the secular life, gives us a better understanding of the everyday problems and frustrations 211
of the ordinary working stiff — and stiffess! A pastor who's in the same church for years and years grows moss. Sees the same people day in and day out until he's bored out of his skull. There's a great big, cruel, wonderful, striving world out there, but the average preacher is stuck in his little backwater with weekly sermons, organ music, and the terrible problem of how to pay for a new altar cloth. No wonder so many of them crawl in a bottle or run off with the soprano in the choir.'
'How did you meet Tippi Kipper?' I asked.
Something fleeting through his eyes. He became a little less voluble.
'A friend of a friend of a friend,' he said. 'Joshua, the rich of New York are a city within a city. They all know each other. Go to the same parties. I was lucky enough to break into the magic circle. They pass me along, one to another. A friend of a friend of a friend. That's how I met Tippi.'
'Was she in the theatre?' I asked.
He grinned. 'That's what she says. But no matter. If she wants to play Lady Bountiful, I'm the bucko who'll show her how. Don't get me wrong, Joshua. I'm grateful to Tippi Kipper and I'll be eternally grateful to her kind, generous husband and remember him in my prayers for the rest of my life. But I'm a realist, Joshua. It was an ego thing with the Kippers, I suppose. As it is for all my patrons. And patronesses.'
'Sol Kipper contributed to your, uh, activities?' I asked.
'Oh sure. Regularly. What the hell — he took it off his taxes. I'm registered in the State of New York. Strictly non-profit. Not by choice!' he added with a harsh bark of laughter.
'When you counsel your patrons,' I said slowly, trying to frame the question, 'the rich patrons, like Tippi Kipper, what are their problems mostly? I mean, it seems unreal to me that people of such wealth should have problems.'
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'Very real problems,' he said soberly. 'First of all, guilt for their wealth when they see poverty and suffering all around them. And then they have the same problems we all have: loneliness, the need for love, a sense of our own worthlessness.'
He was staring at me steadily, openly, it was very difficult to meet these hard, challenging eyes.
'He left a suicide note,' I said. 'Did you know that?'
'Yes, Tippi told me.'
'In the note, he apologized to her. For something he had done. I wonder what it was?'
'Oh, who the hell knows? I never asked Tippi and she never volunteered the information. It could have been anything. It could have been something ridiculous. I know they had been having, ah, sexual problems. It could have been that, it could have been a dozen other things. Sol was the worst hypochondriac I've ever met. I'm sure others have told you that.'
'When did you see him last?' I asked casually.
'The day before he died,' he said promptly. 'On a Tuesday. We had a grand talk in his office and he gave me a very generous cheque. Then he had to go somewhere for a meeting.'
We sat a few moments in silence. We finished our second beers. Then I glanced at my watch.
'Good heavens!' I said. 'I had no idea it was so late. I've got to get back to my office while I still have a job. Pastor, thank you for a very delightful and instructive lunch. I've enjoyed every minute of it.'
'Come again,' he said. 'And often. You're a good listener; did anyone ever tell you that? And bring your friends. And tell them to bring their chequebooks!'
I returned to the TORT building at about 2.50, scurrying out of a drizzly rain that threatened to turn to snow. Yetta Apatoff greeted me with a giggle.
'She's waiting for you,' she whispered.
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'Who?'
She indicated with a nod of her head, then covered her mouth with her palm. There was a woman waiting in the corridor outside my office.
She was at least 78 inches tall, and wearing a fake monkey fur coat that made her look like an erect gorilla.
As I approached her, I thought this was Hamish Hooter's particularly tasteless joke, and wondered how many applicants he had interviewed before he found this one.
But as I drew closer, I saw she was no gorgon. She was, in fact, quite pleasant looking, with a quiet smile and that resigned placidity I recognized. All very short, very tall, and very fat people have it.
'Hello,' I said. 'I'm Joshua Bigg. Waiting for me?'
'Yes, Mr Bigg,' she said, not even blinking at my diminutive size. Perhaps she had been forewarned. She handed me an employment slip from Hooter's office. 'My name is Gertrude Kletz.'
'Come in,' I said. 'Let me take your coat.'
I sat behind the desk and she sat in my visitor's chair.
We chatted for almost half an hour, and as we talked, my enthusiasm for her grew. Hooter had seen only her huge size, but I found her sensible, calm, apparently qualified, and with a wry sense of humour.
She was married to a sanitation worker and, since their three children were grown and able to take care of themselves, she had decided to become a temporary clerk-typist-secretary: work she had done before her marriage. If possible, she didn't want to work later than 3.00 p.m., so she could be back in Brooklyn in time to cook dinner. We agreed on four hours a day, 11.00 a.m. to 3.00 p.m., with no lunch period, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
She was a ruddy woman with horsey features and a maiden's innocent eyes. Her hair was iron-grey and wispy.
For a woman her size, her voice was surprisingly light. She was dressed awkwardly, although I could not conceive how 214
a woman of her heft could possibly be garbed elegantly.
She wore a full grey flannel skirt that would have provided enough material for a suit for me. With vest. A no-nonsense white blouse was closed at the neck with a narrow black ribbon, and she wore a tweed jacket in a hellish plaid that would have looked better on Man-o-War. Opaque hose and sensible brogues completed her ensemble. She wore only a thin gold wedding band on her capable hands.
I explained to her as best I could the nature of my work at Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum. Then I told her what I expected from her: filing, typing finished letters from my rough drafts, answering my phone, taking messages, doing simple, basic research from sources that I would provide.
'Think you can handle that, Mrs Kletz?' I asked.
'Oh yes,' she said confidently. 'You must expect me to make mistakes, but I won't make the same mistake twice.'
She sounded better and better.
'There is one other thing,' I said. 'Much of my work — and thus your work, too — will involve matters in litigation.
It is all strictly confidential. You cannot take the job home with you. You cannot discuss what you learn here with anyone else, including husband, family, friends. I must be able to depend upon your discretion.'
'You can depend on it,' she said almost grimly. 'I don't blab.'
'Good,' I said, rising. 'Would you like to start tomorrow or would you prefer to begin on Monday?'
'Tomorrow will be fine,' she said, heaving herself upright. 'Will you be here then?'
'Probably,' I said, thinking about my Friday schedule.
'If not, I'll leave instructions for you on my desk. Will that be satisfactory?'
'Sure,' she said equably.
I stood on tiptoe t
o help her on with that ridiculous coat.
Then we shook hands, smiling, and she was gone. I 215
thought her a very serene, reassuring woman, and I was grateful to Hamish Hooter, I'd never tell him that, of course.
The moment Mrs Kletz had departed, I called Hooter's office. Fortunately he was out, but I explained to his assistant what was needed: a desk, chair, typewriter, wastebasket, stationery and supplies, phone, etc., all to be installed in the corridor directly outside my office door. By eleven o'clock the following morning.
'Mr Bigg!' the assistant gasped in horror. I knew her: a frightened, rabbity woman, thoroughly tyrannized by her boss. 'We cannot possibly provide all that by tomorrow morning.'
'As soon as possible, then,' I said crisply. 'My assistant was hired with the approval of the senior partners.
Obviously she needs a place to work.'
'Yes, Mr Bigg,' she said submissively.
I hung up, satisfied. Today, a temporary assistant.
Soon, a full-time secretary. A larger office. Then the vvorrld!
I spent the remainder of the afternoon at my desk.
Outside, the snow had thickened; TORT employees with radios in their offices reported that three to five inches of snow were predicted before the storm slackened around midnight. Word came down from upstairs that because of the snowfall anyone who wished to leave early could do so.
Gradually the building emptied until, by 5.00 p.m., it was practically deserted, the noise stilled, corridors vacant. I stayed on. It seemed foolish to go home to Chelsea and then journey uptown to meet Perdita Schug at Mother Tucker's at 7.00. So I decided to remain in the office until it was time for my dinner date.
I got up and looked out into the main hallway. The lights had already been dimmed and the night security guard was seated at Yetta Apatoff's desk. Beyond him, through the glass entrance doors, I saw a curtain of snow, 216
torn occasionally by heavy gusts.
I went back into my office, wishing that Roscoe Dollworth had left a bottle of vodka hidden in desk or file cabinet. A hopeless wish, I knew. Besides, on a night like that, a nip of brandy would be more to my liking. Now if only I had -
I sank slowly into my chair, suddenly realizing what it was that had puzzled me about Professor Yale Stonehouse's study: the bottle of Rémy Martin on the silver salver was new, uncorked, still sealed. That meant, apparently, that it had been there since the night he disappeared.
There was a perfectly innocent explanation, of course: he had finished his previous bottle the night before and had set out a fresh bottle, intending to return when he left the Stonehouse apartment on the night of 10 January.
There was another explanation, not so innocent. And that was that Professor Stonehouse had been poisoned not by doctored cocoa, but by arsenic added to his brandy. He had both cocoa and brandy every night before retiring.
The lethal dose could have been added in either. And if he had discovered the source, it might account for the sealed bottle in his study.
I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes past 5.30 — a bad time to call. But I had to know. I dialled the Stonehouse apartment.
'Yah?' Olga Eklund said.
'Hi, Olga,' I said. 'This is Joshua Bigg.'
'Yah.'
'How are you?'
'Is not nice,' she said. 'The weather.'
'No, it looks like a bad storm. Olga, I wonder if I could talk to Mrs Dark for a moment — if it isn't too much trouble.'
'I get her,' she said stolidly.
I waited impatiently for almost three minutes before Mrs 217
Dark came on the line.
'Hello, dearie,' she said brightly.
'Effie,' I said. 'I'm sorry to bother you at this hour. I know you must be busy with the evening meal.'
'No bother. Everything's cooking. Now it's just a matter of waiting.'
'I have a few more little questions. I know you'll think they're crazy, but they really are important, and you could be a big help in discovering what happened to the Professor.'
'Really?' she said, pleasantly surprised. 'Well, I'll do what I can.'
'Effie, who buys the liquor for the family — the whisky, wine, beer, and so forth?'
'I do. I call down to the liquor store on Columbus Avenue and they deliver it.'
'And after they deliver it, where is it kept?'
'Well, I always make certain the bar in the living room is kept stocked with everything that might be needed. Plenty of sherry for you-know-who. The reserve I keep right here in the kitchen. In the bottom cupboard.'
'And the Professor's brandy? That he drank every night?'
'I always kept an extra bottle or two on hand. God forbid we should ever run out when he wanted it!'
'How long did a bottle last him, Effie? The bottle in his study, I mean?'
'Oh, maybe ten days.'
'So he finished about three bottles of cognac a month?'
'About.'
'And those bottles were kept in the kitchen cupboard?'
'That's right.'
'Who put a fresh bottle in the Professor's study?'
'He'd come in here and fetch it himself. Or I'd take it to him if he had a dead soldier. Or like as not, Glynis would bring him a new bottle.'
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'And there was usually a bottle of Rémy Martin in the living room bar as well?'
'Oh no,' she said, laughing. 'The brandy in there is Eye-talian. The Professor kept the good stuff for himself.'
He would, I thought, gleeful at what I had learned.
'One more question, Effie,' I said. 'Very important.
Please think carefully and try to recall before you answer.
In the month or so before the Professor disappeared, do you remember bringing a fresh bottle of brandy to his study?'
She was silent.
'No,' she said finally, 'I didn't bring him any. Maybe Glynis did, or maybe he came into the kitchen and got it himself. Wait a minute. I'm on the kitchen extension; it'll just take me a minute to check.'
She was gone a short while.
'That's odd,' she said. 'I was checking the cupboard. I remember having two bottles in there. There's one there now and one unopened bottle in the Professor's study.'
'Do you recall buying any new bottles of Rémy Martin in the month or six weeks before the Professor disappeared?'
Silence again for a moment.
'That's odd,' she repeated. 'I don't remember buying any, but I should have, him going through three bottles a month. But I can't recall ordering a single bottle. I'll have to go through my bills to make sure.'
'Could you do that, Effie?'
'Be glad to,' she said briskly. 'Now I've got to ring off; something's beginning to scorch.'
'You've been very kind,' I said hurriedly. 'A big help.'
'Really?' she said. 'That's nice.'
We hung up.
If I had been Professor Stonehouse, learning I was a victim of arsenic poisoning, I would have set out to discover how it was being done and who was doing it. And, 219
I was certain, he had discovered who had been doing the fiddling.
It was then getting on to 6.00 p.m. I had no idea how long it would take me to get uptown in the storm, so I donned rubbers, turned up the collar of my overcoat, pulled my hat down snugly, and started out. I said goodnight to the security guard and stepped outside.
I was almost blown away. This was not one of your soft, gentle snowfalls with big flakes drifting down slowly in silence and sparkling in the light of streetlamps and neon signs. This was a maelstrom, the whole world in turmoil.
Snow came whirling straight down, was blown sideways, even rose up in gusty puffs from drifts beginning to pile up on street corners.
There were at least twenty people waiting for the Third Avenue bus. After a wait that seemed endless but was probably no more than a quarter-hour, not one but four buses appeared out of the swirling white. I wedged myself aboard the last one. The ride seemed to take
an eternity. At 69th, five other passengers alighted and I was popped out along with them. I fought my way eastward against the wind, bent almost double to keep snow out of my face.
And there, right around the corner on Second Avenue, was a neon sign glowing redly through the snow: MOTHER
TUCKER'S.
'Bless you, Mother,' I said aloud.
Perdita was there, in the front corner of the bar, perched on a stool, wearing a black dress cut precariously low. Her head was back, gleaming throat exposed, and she was laughing heartily at something the man standing next to her had just said. The place was jammed in spite of the weather, but Perdita was easy to find.
She saw me almost the instant I saw her. She slid off the barstool with a very provocative movement and rushed to embrace me with a squeal of pleasure, burying me in her embonpoint.
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'Josh!' she cried, and then made that deep, growling sound in her throat to signify pleasure. 'I never, never, never thought you'd show up. I just can't believe you came out in all this shit to see little me.' Her button eyes sparkled, her tongue darted in and out between wet lips.
'You poor dear, we must get you thawed out. Col, see if you can get a round from Harry.'
'What's your pleasure, sir?' her companion asked politely.
'Scotch please, with water.'
We introduced ourselves. He was Clyde Manila — Colonel Clyde Manila. Perdita called him Col, which could have meant in his case either Colonel or Colonial.
A bearded bartender, working frantically, heard the call, paused, and cupped his ear towards Colonel Manila.
'More of the same, Harry, plus Scotch and water.'
Harry nodded and in a few moments set the drinks before us. I reached for my wallet but Harry swiftly extracted the required amount from the pile of bills and change on the bar in front of the Colonel.
'Thank you, sir,' I said. 'The next one's on me.'
'Forget it,' Perdita advised. 'The Col's loaded. Aren't you, sweetheart?'
!I mean to be, ' he said, swallowing half his drink in one enormous gulp. 'No use trying to get home on a night like this — what?' His tiny eyes closed in glee.
He was genially messy in effect — white walrus moustache, swollen boozy nose, hairy tweed hacking jacket, all crowned with an ill-fitting ginger toupee.
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