I grasped the hull and lifted gently. It came away. As easily as that. Just came right off. I was astonished, and looked to see what had been holding it to the plaque. Eight small magnets, inch-long bars, four inset into the hull and four in the plaque. They gripped firmly enough to hold the hull when the tablet was on the wall, but released with a slight tug.
Of course I was more interested in the papers folded inside. Most were thin, flimsy sheets, of the weight used for carbon copies. I unfolded them carefully, handling them by the corners. The top four sheets were not typed, but handwritten. It took me awhile to read it through. The writing was as crabbed, mean, and twisted as the man himself.
I, Yale Emerson Stonehouse, being of sound mind and body ...
It was all there: the holographic last will and testament of the missing Professor Stonehouse. He started by making specific cash bequests. Fifty thousand to his alma mater, and twenty thousand to Mrs Effie Dark, which I was happy to see. Then there were a dozen cash bequests to cousins and distant relatives, none of whom was to receive more than a thousand dollars, and one of whom was to inherit five bucks. Olga Eklund got one hundred.
The bulk of his estate was to be divided equally between his wife, Ula Stonehouse, and his son, Powell Stonehouse.
The will specifically forbade his daughter, Glynis 349
Stonehouse, from sharing in his estate because she had
'deliberately and with malice aforethought' attempted to cause his death by adding arsenic trioxide to his brandy. In proof of which, he was attaching to this will copies of chemical analyses made by Bommer & Son and a statement by Dr Morris Stolowitz that Professor Stonehouse had indeed been suffering from arsenic poisoning.
In addition, the will continued, if the testator was found dead by violence or by what appeared to be an accident, he demanded the police conduct a thorough investigation into the circumstances of his demise, with the knowledge that his daughter had tried to murder him once and would quite possibly try again, with more success.
The will had been witnessed by Olga Eklund and Wanda Chard. I could understand the loopy maid signing anything the Professor handed her and promptly forgetting it.
But Wanda Chard?
I carefully folded up the papers on their original creases, tucked them back into the hull of the Prince Royal, reattached hull to plaque, and wiped both with my handkerchief. Then, holding the tablet by the edges with my fingertips, I rehung it on the wall, adjusted it so it was level, and returned to the kitchen.
'Thank you, Effie,' I said, bending to kiss her cheek.
She looked up at me. I thought I saw tears welling.
'It's the end of everything, isn't it?' she asked.
I couldn't lie to her.
'Close to it,' I said.
I went back into the living room. Glynis Stonehouse was standing at one of the high windows, staring down at the rain-lashed street. She turned when she heard me come into the room.
'Finished?' she asked.
'Finished,' I said. 'Mrs Dark tells me your mother isn't feeling well. I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Stonehouse.
350
Please convey to her my best wishes and hope for her quick recovery.'
'Thank you,' she said.
She stood tall and erect. She had recovered her composure. She looked at me steadily, and there was nothing in her appearance to suggest that she knew how close she was to disaster.
'I'll keep you informed of the progress of my investigation, Miss Stonehouse.'
'Yes,' she said levelly, 'you do that.'
She was so strong. Oh, but she was strong! If she had weakened, briefly, that weakness was gone now; she was resolute, determined to see it through. I admired her. She was a woman of intelligence and must have known she was in danger, walking the edge. I bade her a dignified good day, then hightailed it across town to the Kipper manse.
Chester Heavens greeted me with his usual aplomb, but I sensed a certain reticence, almost a nervousness in his replies to my chatter about his health, the weather, etc. We were standing in the echoing entrance hall when I became aware of raised voices coming from behind the closed doors of the sitting room.
'Mom is at home, sah,' the butler informed me gravely, looking over my head.
'So I hear,' I said. 'And Mr Knurr?'
He nodded slowly.
I hid my pleasure.
'Chester,' I said, 'I won't stay long. This may be my last visit.'
'Oh?' he said. 'I am sorry to hear that, sah.'
'Just a few little things to check out,' I told him.
He bowed slightly and moved away towards the kitchen.
I stood at the front door and looked towards the rear of the house. The doorway could not be seen from the kitchen. Then I moved to the elevator. That was in plain view of anyone in the kitchen or pantry.
351
I saw Mrs Bertha Neckin standing at the sink. She glanced up and I waved to her, but she didn't respond.
I took the elevator up to the fifth floor and went swiftly into Tippi Kipper's dressing room. I set down my briefcase and began searching. It wasn't hard to find: a cedar-smelling box of filigreed wood with brass corners. It appeared to be of Indian handicraft. It was tucked under a stack of filmy lingerie in a bottom dresser drawer. I may have blushed when I handled those gossamer garments.
The box was unlocked and filled with a carelessly tossed pile of notes. There were jottings on his personal stationery, on sheets from notepads, on raggedly torn scrap paper, and one on a personal cheque of Solomon A.
Kipper, made out to Tippi Kipper in the amount of 'Ten zillion dollars and all my love' and signed 'Your Sol.'
I scanned the notes quickly. My heart cringed. Most were love letters from an old man obviously obsessed to the point of dementia by a much younger woman whose seductive skills those notes spelled out in explicit detail.
And there were notes of apology.
'I am sorry, babe, if I upset you.' Wasn't so bad for starters, but then I came across 'Please forgive me for the way I acted last night. I realize you had a headache, but I couldn't help myself, you looked so beautiful.' As I read on, a pattern of increasing desperation, dependence, and humiliation emerged.
'Can you ever forgive me?' Then, 'Here is a little something for you to make up for what I said last night. Am I forgiven?'
It was punishment, reading those revelations of a dead man. I stole two of them:
'Tippi, I hope you will pardon me for the pain I caused you.' And, 'My loving wife, please forgive me for all the trouble I made. I promise you that you'll never again have any reason to doubt my everlasting love for you.'
Those two, I thought, would serve as suicide notes as 352
well as the one found prominently displayed in the master bedroom after Sol Kipper's plunge.
I tucked the two notes into my briefcase, closed and replaced the box, and then went up the rear staircase to the sixth floor. I entered the party room, went over and stood with my back against the locked French doors leading to the terrace.
I looked at my watch. I allowed fifteen seconds for the act of throwing Kipper over the wall. Then I started running. I went down the rear staircase as fast as I could. I dashed along the fifth-floor corridor to the main staircase. I went bounding down rapidly, swinging wildly around the turns. I came down to the entrance hall, rushed over to the front door. I looked at my watch, gasping. About ninety seconds. He could have made it. Easily.
There was no one about, and no sounds from the sitting room. I found my outer garments and donned them and went out into the chill rain without saying goodbye to Chester. I walked towards Fifth Avenue, intending to catch a cab. I was almost there when who should fall into step alongside but the Reverend Godfrey Knurr.
'Joshua!' he said, moving under the shelter of my umbrella. 'This is nice. Chester told us you were about. If you say this is good weather for ducks, I may kick you!'
He was bright again, his manner jaunty.
I didn't panic. I knew he had b
een waiting for me, but in a way I couldn't understand, I welcomed the confrontation. Maybe I thought of it as a challenge.
'Pastor,' I said, 'good to see you again. I didn't want to interrupt you and Mrs Kipper.'
He rolled his eyes in burlesque dismay.
'What an argument that was,' he said carefully, taking my arm. 'Want to hear about it?'
'Sure.'
He looked about.
'Around the corner,' he said. 'Down a block or so. Posh 353
hotel. Nice cocktail lounge. Quiet. We can talk — and keep dry. On the outside at least.'
A few minutes later we were standing at the black vinyl, padded bar in the cozy lounge of the Stanhope, the room dimmed by rain-streaked windows in which the Metropolitan Museum shimmered like a Monet. We were the only customers, and the place was infused with that secret ambience of a Manhattan bar on a rainy day, comfortably closed and begging for quiet confessions.
Knurr ordered a dry Beefeater martini up, with lemon peel. I asked for a bottle of domestic beer. When our drinks were served, he glanced around the empty room.
'Let's take a table,' he said.
He picked up his drink and led the way to a small table in a far corner. I followed with my bottle of beer and a glass.
That was the difference between us: I would have asked the bartender, 'Is it all right if we take a table?'
I must admit it was more comfortable sitting in the soft chairs, walls at our backs. We sat at right angles to each other, but we turned slightly so we were facing each other more casually.
Knurr rattled on for a while, gabbing mostly about inconsequential things like the weather, a cold he was trying to shake, how every year at this time he began to yearn for warmer climes, a hot sun, a sandy beach, etc.
I looked into his eyes as he spoke. I nodded occasionally. Smiled. It was the oddest feeling in the world — sitting drinking, exchanging idle talk, with a murderer.
How had I thought a killer would be different — disfigured with a mark perhaps? That would be too easy.
As it was, I had to keep reminding myself of who Knurr was and what he had done. But all I was conscious of was the normality of our conversation, its banality. 'A miserable day.' 'Oh yes, but they say it may clear tonight.'
Finally he stopped chattering. He put both elbows on the 354
table, scrubbed his face with his palms. He sighed and looked off into the emptiness of the room.
!I counsel a great many people, ' he said, talking to the air. 'As I told you, mostly women. Occasionally they come to feel that my interest in them is not purely in their immortal souls. They assume I have, uh, a more personal interest. You understand?'
'Of course,' I said. 'It must lead to difficulties.'
'It does indeed,' he said, sighing. 'All kinds of difficulties. For instance, they demand more of my time than I am willing to give, or can give, for that matter.'
I made sympathetic noises.
'Would you believe,' he went on, 'that some of my — well, I was about to say patrons, but not all of them are that. For want of a better word, let's call them clients.'
'How about dependants?' I suggested.
He looked at me sharply to see if I was being sarcastic. I was not. He punched my upper arm lightly.
' Very good, Joshua,' he said. 'Dependants. I like that.
Much better than clients. Well, as I was saying, occasionally some of my dependants become jealous of others, believing I am devoting too much time to them. I don't mean to imply selfishness on their part, but I have found that most unhappy people, women and men, are inclined to be self-centred, and when sympathetic interest is expressed, they want more and more. Sympathy becomes an addiction, and they resent it when others share. That's what my disagreement with Mrs Kipper was about. I am currently counselling other women, of course, and she felt I was not devoting enough time to her and her problems.'
It wasn't a clumsy lie, but it seemed to me unnecessarily complex. There was no need for him to explain at all. But having started, he should have kept it simple.
I looked at him as he signalled the bartender for another round of drinks. He did have an imperious way about him, lifting a hand and gesturing curtly.
355
'How is your social club coming along?' I asked.
'What?' he said vaguely. 'Oh, fine, fine. The barkeep put a shade too much vermouth in that last martini. I hope this one will be drier.'
The bartender himself brought the drinks over to our table but did not hover. Knurr sipped eagerly.
' Much better,' he smiled with satisfaction, relaxing and sliding down a bit in his chair. 'Dry as dust.'
He was certainly a craggily handsome man, brooding and intense. I could understand why women were attracted to him; he radiated vigour and surety. The slightly bent nose and steady brown eyes gave the appearance of what is known as 'a man's man.' But the slaty beard framed rosy, almost tender lips that hinted of a soft vulnerability.
'I hope you and Mrs Kipper parted friends,' I said.
He gave a short bark of hard laughter. 'Oh, I think I persuaded the lady,' he said with a smile.
I didn't like that smile; it was almost a smirk. Did it mean that the photo of Glynis Stonehouse and the Mrs Kletz letter had gone for naught?
I considered what he knew about me — or guessed. I thought my cover in the Kipper case was still intact, that he accepted my role of law clerk making a preliminary inventory of the estate. In the Stonehouse matter, Glynis would have told him of my investigation into her father's disappearance. He knew that I had uncovered the arsenic poisoning. What he did not know, I felt sure, was that I was aware of his intimate relationship with Glynis.
'That was my last visit to the Kipper home,' I offered.
'The expert appraisers will take over now.'
'Oh?' he said in a tone of great disinterest. 'Well, I suppose you have plenty of other things to keep you busy.'
'I certainly do,' I said enthusiastically. 'I've been ordered to devote all my time to a case involving a man who disappeared without leaving a will.'
'That sounds interesting,' he said casually, taking a sip 356
of his martini. 'Tell me about it.'
I imagined that was what fencing must be like: lunge, parry, thrust.
'There's not much to tell,' I said. 'Just what I've said: a man disappeared — it's been two months now — and no will has been found. The legal ramifications are what make the case so fascinating. All the assets are in his name alone. So it will require a petition to the court to free living expenses for his family.'
'And if he never shows up again?'
'That's the rub,' I said, laughing ruefully as I tried to recall what Mr Teitelbaum had told me about applicable law. 'I think that five years must elapse before a missing person's estate can go to probate.'
'Five years!' he exclaimed.
'Minimum.' I said. I laughed merrily. 'It would be a lot simpler if the missing man's body turned up. If he is, indeed, dead, as everyone is beginning to suspect. But I'm boring you with all this.'
'Not at all,' he said genially. 'Good talk for a rainy afternoon. So if the missing man turned up dead, his estate could be distributed to his legal heirs at once?'
Got him, I thought with some satisfaction.
'That's right,' I said airily. 'Once proof of death is definitely established, the man's will goes to probate.'
'And if no will exists — or can be found?'
'Then the estate is divided under the laws of intestacy. In this case, it would go to his wife, daughter, and son.'
'Is it a sizeable estate?' he asked slowly.
Greedy bugger.
'I believe it is,' I said, nodding. 'I have no idea of the exact dollar amount involved, but I understand it's quite sizeable.'
He pulled pipe and tobacco pouch from his jacket pocket. He held them up to me.
'You don't mind?'
357
'Not at all,' I said. 'Go right ahead.'
&
nbsp; I watched and waited while he went through the deliberate ceremony of filling his pipe, tamping the tobacco down with a blunt forefinger, lighting up, tilting back his head and blowing a long plume of smoke at the ceiling.
'The law is a wonderful thing,' he said with a tight smile.
'A lot of money there. I mean in the practice of law.'
'Yes, sir, there certainly is.'
'Sometimes I think justice is an impossible concept,' he went on, puffing away. 'For instance, in the case you were describing, I would think the very fact of the man's disappearance for two months would be enough to allow his family to share in his estate. He left voluntarily?'
'As far as we know.'
'No letter or message to his lawyer?'
'No, nothing like that. And no evidence of foul play. No evidence at all. He may still be alive for all we know.
That's why the law requires a diligent search and a five-year grace period. Still, it's murder on the family.' I couldn't resist, but, then, neither could he.
'It surely is,' he murmured, a wee bit too fervently.
'However,' I said, sinking the hook as deeply as I could,
'if the body is discovered, regardless of whether he died a natural death or was a victim of accident or foul play, the estate goes to probate.' I thought I had said enough and changed the subject abruptly. 'Pastor, did you tell me you were from Chicago originally?'
'Not the city itself,' he said, meeting my gaze. 'A suburb. Why do you ask?'
'I have a cousin who lives there, and he's invited me out for a visit. I've never been in Chicago and wondered if I'd like it.'
'You'll find a lot to do there,' he said tonelessly.
'Did you like it?' I persisted.
'For a while,' he said. 'I must confess, Joshua, I get 358
bored easily. So I came on to New York.'
'New worlds to conquer?' I asked.
'Exactly,' he said with a wry grin.
'And you haven't regretted it?'
'Once or twice,' he said, still grinning, 'at three in the morning.'
I found it difficult to resist the man's charm. For one brief instant I doubted all I had learned about him, all I had imagined.
I tried to analyze why this should be so, why I was fighting an admiration for the man. Most of it, I thought, was due to his physical presence. He was big, strong, stalwart: everything I was not. And he was decisive, daring, resolute.
Tenth Commandment Page 33