The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Mr. Tabatchnick,” I said, “I had a meeting with Marty about the Kipper estate.”

  He went on feeding fish. “Sit down and tell me,” he said.

  When I mentioned the $50,000, Mr. Tabatchnick’s hand jerked and one of his finny friends got an unexpected banquet. I finished describing the meeting and he came back to his swivel chair behind the trestle table, dusting his hands.

  “I like it less and less,” he said. “If he had asked for five hundred, or a thousand, or even five thousand, I would have assumed he was merely a cheap chiseler. But he obviously believes his information is of considerable value. And if he is a private investigator, he may indeed have discovered something of consequence. Repeat exactly what he said regarding the nature of his information.”

  “He said, quote, What I got is going to upset the applecart. With what I got, the Kipper will ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on. Unquote.”

  “And he said he has another potential customer?”

  “Yes, sir. He said he was meeting with them later today. That’s his word: ‘them.’”

  We sat in silence for a long time. Finally he stirred and said, “I dislike this intensely. As an officer of the court I cannot become involved in shenanigans. At the same time, I have a responsibility to our deceased client and to the proper distribution of his estate as set forth in his last will and testament.”

  He stared at me without expression. I didn’t catch on for a moment. Then I knew what he wanted.

  “Sir,” I said, “is there anything odd about that will?”

  “No, no,” he said. “It’s a relatively short and simple document. But I have not been entirely forthcoming with you, Mr. Bigg. On the morning of the day he committed suicide, Sol Kipper called this office and said he wished to execute a new will.”

  “I see,” I said softly.

  “Do you?” he said. “I don’t. Now we have this ‘Marty’ claiming to have information that may invalidate the existing will.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “You want to pay him, Mr. Tabatchnick?”

  “I told you,” he thundered, “I cannot let myself become involved!”

  “Of course not, sir. But I’m not an officer of the court; I have latitude to act in this matter.”

  That was what he wanted to hear. Mr. Tabatchnick settled back, entwined his fingers across his solid stomach, regarded me gravely.

  “What do you propose, Mr. Bigg?”

  “The funds can’t come from this firm, sir. There can be no connection, nothing on our books. The money must be made available from an outside source.”

  He thought a moment. “That can be arranged,” he said finally.

  “And I must be the only contact Reape knows. No one else in the firm can speak to him or meet with him.”

  “I agree.”

  “The first thing for me to do is to call Reape and tell him we agree to his terms. Before he makes a deal with his other customers. I will then arrange a date for the transfer, postponing it as long as possible. Then I hand over the money and he hands over his information or delivers it orally.”

  “Why do you wish to postpone the transfer as long as possible?”

  “To give me time to devise some plan for getting the information without paying.”

  “Splendid, young man!” he said. “If you can. But your primary objective must be acquiring the information. I hope you understand that.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Good. Keep me informed. I’ll need a day or two to provide the funds.”

  “Mr. Tabatchnick, it would help if you could tell me something about the existing Kipper will. Specifically, who stands to inherit the most? And if the will is for some reason declared invalid, who would stand to profit the most?”

  He looked down at his big hands, now clasped on the tabletop.

  “For the moment,” he said in a low voice, “I would prefer to keep that information confidential. Should the time come when it is vital to the successful conclusion of your, ah, investigation, I will then make available to you a copy of the will.”

  It was time for me to go.

  “Mr. Bigg,” he said.

  I turned back from the door.

  “This conversation never took place,” he said sternly.

  “What conversation, sir?” I asked.

  He almost smiled.

  6

  I CALLED MARTY REAPE when I returned to my office. No answer. I wondered if he was meeting with his other customers.

  I took off my jacket and started hacking away at inquiries that had been submitted by junior partners and associates. Most of these could be handled with a single phone call or a letter, or a look into Roscoe Dollworth’s small library of dictionaries, atlases, almanacs, census reports, etc.

  What was the Hispanic population of the Bronx in 1964?

  How long does it take to repaint a car?

  In what year was penicillin discovered?

  Who was the last man to be electrocuted in New York State?

  What are the ingredients of a Molotov cocktail?

  I tried twice to call Marty Reape. Ada Mondora called to say I had an appointment with the Stonehouse family. I was to be at their apartment on Central Park West and 70th Street at 8:00 P.M.

  It was then about 4:30. I decided that instead of going home I would do better to have my dinner midtown, then go to West 70th Street. I checked my wallet, then I called Yetta Apatoff.

  “Oh, Josh,” she said. “I wish you’d called sooner. I would have loved to, but just a half-hour ago Hammy asked me to have dinner with him.”

  “Hammy?”

  “Hamish. Hamish Hooter.”

  She called him Hammy.

  “Yes, well, I’m sorry you can’t make it, Yetta. I’ll try another time.”

  “Promise?” she breathed.

  “Promise.”

  So I worked in the office until 6:30. I called Marty Reape twice more. No reply. I tried him again before I left the restaurant, where I ate alone. Again there was no answer. I began to fear that he had concluded a deal with his other customers.

  I had time to spare, so I walked to 42nd Street, boarded a Broadway bus, and rode up to West 70th Street. Then I walked over to Central Park West. The sky was murky; a light drizzle was beginning to fall. Wind blew in sighing gusts and smelled vaguely of ash. A fitting night to investigate a disappearance.

  The Stonehouses’ apartment house was an enormous, pyramidal pile of brick. Very old, very staid, very expensive. The lobby was all marble and mirrors. I waited while the uniformed deskman called to learn if I would be received.

  “Mr. Bigg to see Mrs. Stonehouse,” he announced. Then he hung up and turned to me. “Apartment 17-B.”

  The elevator had been converted to self-service, but the walls and ceiling were polished walnut with beveled oval mirrors; the Oriental carpet had been woven to fit.

  Seventeen-B was on the Central Park side. I rang the bell and waited for a long time. Finally the door was opened by a striking young woman. She smiled.

  “Mr. Bigg?” she said. “Good evening, I’m Glynis Stonehouse.”

  She hung my coat in a foyer closet. Then she led me down a long, dimly lighted corridor lined with antique maps and scenes of naval battles. I saw why it had taken so long to answer the door. It was a hike to the living room. The apartment was huge.

  She preceded me into a living room larger than my apartment. I had a quick impression of a blaze in a tiled fireplace, chairs and sofas of crushed velvet, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park. Then Glynis Stonehouse was leading me toward a smallish lady curled in the corner of an overstuffed couch, holding a half-filled wineglass. There was a bottle of sherry on the glass-topped table before her.

  “My mother,” Glynis said. Her voice was low-pitched, husky, and almost toneless.

  “Mrs. Stonehouse,” I said, making a little bow. “I’m Joshua Bigg from Mr. Teitelbaum’s office. I’m happy to meet you.”

  “My husband’s dea
d, isn’t he?” she said. “I know he’s dead.”

  I was startled by her words, but even more shocked by her voice. It was trilly and flutelike.

  “Mother,” Glynis said, “there’s absolutely no evidence of that.”

  “I know what I know,” Mrs. Stonehouse said. “Do sit down, Mr. Bigg. Over there, where I can look at you.”

  “Thank you.” I took the chair she had indicated. I was thankful that my feet touched the floor, though only just.

  “Have you dined?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I have.”

  “So have we,” she said brightly, “and now I’m having a glass of sherry. Glynis isn’t drinking. Glynis never drinks. Do you, dear?”

  “No, Mother,” the daughter said patiently. “Would you care for something, Mr. Bigg?”

  “A glass of sherry would be welcome,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Glynis got a glass from a bar cart and filled it from her mother’s bottle. She handed it to me, then seated herself at the opposite end of the couch. She was graceful and controlled.

  “Mr. Teitelbaum told Mother you will be investigating my father’s disappearance.”

  “Yes,” I said. “We believe the police have done everything they possibly can, but surely it will do no harm to go over it again.”

  “He’s dead,” Mrs. Ula Stonehouse said.

  “Ma’am,” I said, “according to Mr. Teitelbaum, you believed your husband had met with an accident and was suffering from amnesia.”

  “I did think that,” she said, “but I don’t anymore. He’s dead. I had a vision.”

  Glynis Stonehouse was inspecting her fingernails. I took out a notebook and pen. “I hate to go over events which I’m sure are painful to you,” I said. “But it would help if you could tell me exactly what happened the evening the Professor disappeared.”

  Mrs. Stonehouse did most of the talking, her daughter correcting her now and then or adding something in a quiet voice. I took notes as Mrs. Stonehouse spoke, but it was really for effect, to impress them how seriously Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum regarded their plight.

  I glanced up frequently from my scribbling to stare at Mrs. Stonehouse.

  As she talked, sipping her sherry steadily and leaning forward twice to refill her glass, her eyes, as pale as milk glass, flickered like candle flames. She had a mop of frizzy blonde curls, a skin of chamois, and a habit, or nervous tic, of touching the tip of her retroussé nose with her left forefinger. Not pushing it, but just touching it as if to make certain it was still there.

  She had fluttery gestures, and was given to quick expressions—frowns, smiles, pouts, moues—that followed one another so swiftly that her face seemed in constant motion. She was dressed girlishly in chiffon. In her tucked-up position she was showing a good deal of leg.

  She spoke rapidly, as if anxious to get it all out and over with. That warbling voice rippled on and on, and after a while it took on a singsong quality like a child’s part rehearsed for a school play.

  On the 10th of January the Stonehouse family had dinner at 7:00 P.M. Present were Professor Yale Stonehouse, wife Ula, daughter Glynis, and son Powell. The meal was served by the live-in cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Effie Dark. The maid, Olga Eklund, was away on her day off.

  Glynis Stonehouse left the dinner table early, at about 8:00, to get to a performance of Man and Superman at the Circle in the Square. After dinner the family moved into the living room. At about 8:30, Professor Stonehouse went into his study. He came back to the living room a few minutes later and announced he was going out. He walked down the long corridor to the foyer. Later it was determined he had taken his hat, scarf, and overcoat. Mrs. Stonehouse and her son heard the outer door slam. The deskman in the lobby remembered that the Professor left the building at approximately 8:45.

  He was never seen again.

  This recital finished, mother and daughter looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for an instant solution.

  “Has Professor Stonehouse attempted to communicate with you since his disappearance?”

  “No,” Glynis said. “Nothing.”

  “Was this a common occurrence—the Professor going out at that hour? For a walk, say?”

  “No,” Mrs. Stonehouse said. “He never went out at night.”

  “Rarely,” Glynis corrected her. “Once or twice a year he went to a professional meeting. But it usually included a dinner, and he left earlier.”

  “He didn’t say where he was going when he left on the evening of January 10th?”

  “No,” Mrs. Stonehouse said.

  “You didn’t ask, ma’am?”

  The mother looked to her daughter for help.

  “My father was—” she began, then said, “My father is a difficult man. He didn’t like to be questioned. He went his own way. He was secretive.”

  “Would you say there was anything unusual in his behavior at dinner that night?”

  This time daughter looked to mother.

  “Nooo,” Mrs. Stonehouse said slowly. “He didn’t say much at the table, but then he never said much.”

  “So you’d say this behavior that evening was entirely normal? For Professor Stonehouse,” I added hastily.

  They both nodded.

  “All right,” I said. “There are a few things I’d like to come back to, but first I’d like to hear what happened after the Professor left.”

  At my request Mrs. Stonehouse took up her story again.

  She and her son, Powell, stayed in the living room, watched a Beckett play on Channel 13, had a few drinks. Mrs. Dark came in at about 10:30 to say goodnight and went to her room at the far end of the apartment.

  They did not begin to become concerned about the Professor’s whereabouts until 11:00 P.M. They called the deskman in the lobby, who could only report that Stonehouse had left the building at 8:45 and hadn’t returned. They awoke Mrs. Dark to ask if the Professor had mentioned anything to her about where he was going. She said he hadn’t, but she shared their concern and joined them in the living room, wearing a robe over her nightgown. They then called some of the Professor’s professional associates, apologizing for the lateness of the hour. No one had seen him or heard from him. He had no friends other than professional associates.

  By 11:30 they all were worried and uncertain what they should do. They were hesitant about calling the police. If they called and he walked in a few minutes later, he’d be furious.

  “He had a violent temper,” Glynis said.

  Glynis returned from the theatre a little after midnight and was told of her father’s absence. She suggested they call the garage to see if Stonehouse had taken out his car. Powell called and was informed that the car was still parked there.

  The four of them waited until 2:00 A.M. and then called the local precinct. The officer they spoke to told them that it would not be a matter for the Missing Persons Bureau until the Professor was absent for 24 hours, but meanwhile he would check accident reports and hospital emergency rooms. He said he’d call them back.

  They waited, awake and drinking coffee, until 3:20 when the police officer called and told them there were no reports of accidents involving Professor Stonehouse or anyone answering his description.

  There seemed to be nothing more they could do. The next day they made more phone calls, and Powell rang the bells of neighbors and even walked around neighborhood streets, asking at newsstands and all-night restaurants. No one had seen his father or anyone like him.

  After twenty-four hours had passed, they reported the Professor as a missing person to the New York Police Department, and that was that.

  I took a deep breath.

  “I don’t like to take so much of your time on this first meeting,” I said. “I hope you’ll allow me to come back again, or call as questions occur to me.”

  “Of course,” Glynis Stonehouse said. “And take as much time as you like. We’re anxious to do anything we can to help.”

  “Just a few questions then,”
I said, looking at her. “Did your father have any enemies? Anyone who might harbor sufficient ill-will to…”

  I let that trail off, but she didn’t flinch. Then again, she didn’t look like the flinching type.

  Glynis Stonehouse was taller than her mother. A compact body, curved with brio. Tawny hair hung sleekly to her shoulders. She had a triangular face with dark eyes of denim blue. Wide, sculpted lips with a minimum of rouge. She was wearing a simple shift, thin stuff that touched breast, hip, thigh. No jewelry.

  I had the impression of a lot of passion there, kept under disciplined control. The dark eyes gave nothing away, and she rarely smiled or frowned. She had the habit of pausing, very briefly, before answering a question. Just a half-beat, but enough to convince me she was giving her replies extra thought.

  “No, Mr. Bigg,” she said evenly. “I don’t believe my father had enemies who hated him enough to do him harm.”

  “But he did have enemies?” I persisted.

  “There are a lot of people who disliked him. He was not an easy man to like.”

  “Oh, Glynis,” her mother said sorrowfully.

  “Mr. Bigg might as well know the truth, Mother; it may help his investigation. My father was—is a tyrant, Mr. Bigg. Opinionated, stubborn, dictatorial, with a very low boiling point. Constantly suing people for the most ridiculous reasons. Of course he had enemies, at the University and everywhere else he went. But I know of no one who disliked him enough to—to do him injury.”

  I nodded and looked at my notes.

  “Mrs. Stonehouse, you said that just before leaving the apartment, Professor Stonehouse went into his study?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Do you know what he did in there?”

  “No. The study is his private room.”

  “Off-limits to all,” Glynis said. “He rarely let us in.”

  “He let you in, Glynis,” her mother said.

  “He even cleaned the room himself,” Glynis went on. “He was working on a book and didn’t want his papers disturbed.”

  “A book? What kind of a book?”

  “A history of the Prince Royal, a famous British battleship of the seventeenth century.”