“I’m not a cop,” I assured her. “It’s about her husband’s insurance.”
That hooked her.
“Did he leave much?” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that. I’m sure you understand. But I think Mrs. Reape will be happy to see me.”
“Well…” the old lady said, sniffing, “she ain’t exactly hurting from what I hear. Unless I miss my guess, young man, you’ll find her at The Dirty Shame. That’s a saloon on the next block toward Broadway.”
The Dirty Shame was one long, reasonably clean room, with a few tables and booths in the rear. But most of the action was at the bar. When I entered there was no doubt that a party was in progress. There must have been at least forty men and women in attendance.
The air was clotted with smoke and the din was continuous—shouts, laughter, snatches of song—competing with a juke box playing a loud Irish jig. Two bartenders were hustling and the bartop was awash. A beefy, red-faced celebrant clamped an arm about my shoulders.
“Friend of Marty’s?” he bawled.
“Well, actually, I’m—”
“Step right up,” he shouted, thrusting me toward the bar. “Blanche is picking up the tab.”
A glass of beer was handed to me over the heads of the mob. My new friend slapped me heartily on the back; half my beer splashed out. Then he turned away to welcome another newcomer.
It was a raffish crew that filled The Dirty Shame. They all seemed to know each other. I moved slowly through the throng, looking for the widow.
I finally found her, surrounded by a circle of mourners who were trying to remember the words of “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.” She was a suety woman with a mass of carroty hair, heavily made up. She wore a white mustache of beer foam. Her widow’s weeds were of some thin, shiny material, straining at the seams and cut low enough in front to reveal the exuberant swell of a freckled bosom which had been heavily powdered.
“Mrs. Reape,” I said, when she paused for breath, “I’d like to express my—”
“What?” she yelled, leaning down to me from her stool. “I can’t hear you with all this fucking noise.”
“I want to tell you how sorry I—”
“Sure, sure,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Very nice. Hey, your glass is empty! Tim, let’s have a biggie over here! You a friend of Marty’s?”
“Well, actually,” I said, “I was a client.”
Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought her smile froze and became a grimace, wet lips stretched to reveal teeth too perfect to be her own.
“A client?” she repeated. “Well, he didn’t have many of those.”
She started to turn away, and I went on with a rush, fearing to lose her.
“Mrs. Reape,” I said hurriedly, “I went up to your husband’s office, but everything’s been—”
“Yeah,” she said casually, “I cleaned the place out. He had a bunch of junk there, but I got a couple of bucks from the ragpicker.”
“What about his records?” I asked. “The files? He had some important paper of mine.”
“No kidding?” she said, her eyes widening. “Jeez, I’m real sorry about that. I threw all that stuff out in the gobbidge last night.”
“Then it might be in the garbage cans in front of your house?” I said helpfully.
“Nah,” she said, not looking at me. “They collected early this morning. All that paper’s in the city insinuator by now.”
“Do you remember if—”
But then I was shouldered out of the way.
I left my stein on a table and slipped away from The Dirty Shame as inconspicuously as I could.
I put in a call to the office. Yetta Apatoff said no one had been looking for me.
“Josh, did you see that sweater I happened to mention to you?” she inquired.
I told her I had seen it and thought it lovely.
“It’s so revealing,” she said, giggling. “I mean, it doesn’t leave anything to the imagination.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I said. “Exactly. Listen. Yetta, I won’t be in until after lunch in case anyone wants me. Okay?”
“Sure, Josh,” she said. “And green’s really my color—don’t you think?”
I finally got off the phone.
I arrived on West 74th Street with time to spare. I took up my station across the street, from the office of Dr. Morris Stolowitz and down the block toward Columbus Avenue. The redheaded receptionist came out a few minutes after noon. I scurried across the street and walked directly toward her.
I lifted my head with a start of surprise. Then I stopped. I tipped my hat.
“We meet again,” I said, smiling.
She stopped, too, and looked down at me.
“Why, it’s Mr. Bigg,” she said. “Listen, I hope you weren’t insulted this morning. You know, when I asked you a personal question?”
“I wasn’t insulted,” I assured her. “People are always commenting on my size. In a way, it’s an advantage; they never forget my name.”
“Mine neither,” she said. “Not that my name is so great.
People are always making jokes about it.”
“What is your name?”
“Peacock, Ardis Peacock.”
“Ardis Peacock? Why, that’s a lovely name. The peacock is a beautiful bird.”
“Yeah,” she said, “with a big tail. You live around here?”
“No, just taking care of business. I’m getting hungry and thought I’d grab something to eat. Any good places in me neighborhood?”
“Lots of them,” she said. “There’s a McDonald’s on 71st Street and Amsterdam, and a Bagel Nosh on the east side of Broadway. But I usually go around the corner to Columbus Avenue. There’s all kinds of restaurants there—Mexican, Indian, Chinese, whatever.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “Mind if I walk along with you?”
“Be my guest,” she said.
We started back toward Columbus.
“Ever think of getting elevator shoes?” she asked me.
“Oh, I’ve thought of it, but they’d only give me another inch or so. Not enough to make a real difference. What I need is stilts.”
“Yeah,” she said, “it’s a shame. I mean, here I am a long drink of water, and I think it’s a drag. You should be taller and I should be shorter. But what the hell.”
“You carry it well,” I told her. “You’ve got good posture, and you’re slender. Like a model.”
“Yeah?” she said, pleased. “No kidding?”
We ate at the Cherry Restaurant on Columbus Avenue between 75th and 76th streets. Ardis ordered shrimp with lobster sauce. I had ham and scrambled eggs with home fries.
“That boss of yours gave me a hard time this morning,” I said casually.
“Don’t let it get you down,” she advised. “He gives everyone a hard time. Me, especially. Sometimes I think he’s got the hots for me.”
“Shows he’s got more sense than I thought,” I said.
“Hey, hey!” she said. She turned and pushed me playfully. Almost off the stool.
“What was it all about?” she asked. “That Stonehouse guy you mentioned on the phone?”
“That’s the one,” I said. “He was seeing Dr. Stolowitz in October and November of last year. Remember him?”
“Do I ever!” she said. “What a crab. Always complaining about something. He had to wait, or the office was too cold, or the Doc’s cigars were stinking up the place. He was a real pain in the you know where.”
“Stolowitz should be happy he wasn’t sued,” I said. “This Stonehouse is always suing someone.”
“Is he suing you?”
“Not me personally,” I said, “but maybe the outfit I work for.” Then I launched into the scenario I had contrived. “I’m an investigator with the claims division of a health insurance company. Isley Insurance. Ever hear of us?”
“No,” she said, “can’t say that I have.”
“It’s a small
outfit,” I admitted. “We specialize in health coverage for the faculties of educational institutions. You know: schools, colleges, universities—like that. Group policies. Well, this Stonehouse used to teach at New York University. He’s retired now, but he’s still covered because he pays the premiums personally. You follow?”
“Oh sure,” she said. “I make out all the Medicare forms for Stolowitz. It’s a pain in the you know what.”
“I agree,” I said. “Well, you know when you fill out those forms, you have to state the nature of the illness—right?”
“Of course,” she said. “Always.”
“Well, this Stonehouse refuses to state what was wrong with him. He says it’s his own business, and asking him to reveal it is an invasion of his privacy.”
“He’s whacko!” she burst out.
“Absolutely,” I said. “No doubt about it. He refused to tell Medicare and they rejected his claim. Now he’s suing them.”
“Suing Medicare?” she said, aghast. “That’s the U.S. Government!”
“Correct,” I said. “And that’s who he’s suing. Can you believe it?”
“Unreal,” she said.
“Anyway, he also made a claim against my company, Isley Insurance. But he won’t tell us what his illness was either. So naturally his claim was rejected, and now he’s suing us. We’ll fight it, of course, but it’ll drag out and cost a lot of money. For lawyers and all. So we’d rather settle with him. How about some dessert?”
“Chocolate sundae,” she said promptly.
I had another cup of coffee, and after she demolished her sundae, I lighted her cigarette. I always carry matches for other people’s cigarettes.
“So I went to Stolowitz,” I continued, “figuring maybe he’d tell me what Stonehouse was suffering from. But no soap.”
“That’s right,” she said. “It’s confidential between him and the patients. Me and the nurses, we got very strict orders not to talk about the patients’ records. As if anyone wanted to. That place gives me the creeps. It’s no fun working around sick people all the time, I can tell you.”
The waiter dropped separate checks in front of us. I grabbed up both.
“Here,” Ardis Peacock said halfheartedly, “let’s go Dutch.”
“No way,” I said indignantly. “I asked you to lunch.”
We walked slowly back toward her office.
“This Stonehouse thing has me stumped,” I said, shaking my head. “All we need is the nature of the illness he had. Then we can process his claim. Now I guess we’ll have to defend ourselves against his lawsuit.”
I glanced sideways at her, but she hadn’t picked up on it.
“I wish there was some way of getting a look at his file,” I said fretfully. “That’s all it would take. We don’t need the file; just a look to see what his ailment was.”
That did it. She took hold of my arm.
“It would save your company a lot of money?” she said in a low voice. “Just to find out why Stonehouse was sick?”
“That’s right,” I said. “That’s all we need.”
“Would it be like, you know, confidential?”
“I’d be the only one who would know where it came from,” I said. “My company doesn’t care where or how I get the information, just as long as I get it.”
We walked a few more steps in silence.
“Would you pay for it?” she asked hesitantly. “I mean, I’m into those files all the time. It’s part of my job.”
She wanted $500. I told her my company just wouldn’t go above $100, ignoring inflation and how people must live somehow.
“All you want to know is what his sickness was—right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. “A hundred. Now?”
“Fifty now and fifty when you get me the information.”
“All right,” she smiled, as I discreetly slipped her the first payment. “You’ll be hearing from me.” With a cheery wave, Ardis strode off to work, and I hailed a cab for the East Side.
9
I STOOD ON THE sidewalk in front of the Kipper townhouse on East 82nd Street, between Fifth and Madison. To the west I could see the Metropolitan Museum. To the east the street stretched away in an imposing façade of townhouses, embassies, consulates, and prestigious foundations. No garbage collection problems on this block. No litter. No graffiti.
The Kipper home was an impressive structure of gray stone with an entrance framed in wrought iron. There were large bow windows on the third and fourth floors, the glass curved. I wondered what it cost to replace a pane. Above the sixth floor was a heavily ornamented cornice, and above that was a mansard roof of tarnished copper.
A narrow alleyway separated the Kipper building from the next building east. It had an iron gate and bore a small polished brass sign: DELIVERIES. I wondered if I would be sent around to the tradespeople’s entrance.
Despite Detective Stilton’s advice, I had decided not to attempt to claim that my visit was concerned with Sol Kipper’s insurance. That would surely be handled by investigators from the insurance company involved, and I had neither the documentation nor expertise to carry off the impersonation successfully.
I rang the bell outside the iron grille door. The man who opened the carved oaken inner door almost filled the frame. He was immense, one of the fattest men I have ever seen. He was neither white nor black, but a shade of beige. He looked like the Michelin tire man, or one of those inflated rubber dolls which, when pushed over, bobs upright again. But I didn’t think he’d bob upright from a knockdown. It would require a derrick.
“Yes, sah?” he inquired. His voice was soft, liquid, with the lilt of the West Indies.
“My name is Joshua Bigg,” I said. “I am employed by Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum, who are Mrs. Kipper’s attorneys. I would appreciate a few minutes of Mrs. Kipper’s time, if she is at home.”
He stared at me with metallic eyes that bulged like the bowls of demitasse spoons. Apparently he decided I was not a potential assassin or terrorist, for…
“Please to wait, sah,” he said. “A moment…”
He closed the door and I waited outside in the cold. True to his word, he was back in a moment and stepped down the short stairway to unlatch the iron door. He had unexpectedly dainty hands and feet, and moved in a slow, fastidious way as if he found physical action vulgar.
He led me into a tiled entrance hall that rose two floors and was large enough to accommodate a circus troupe. A wide floating staircase curved up to the left. There were double doors on both sides and a corridor that led to the rear of the house. The hall was decorated with live trees in pots and an oversized marble Cupid, his arrow aimed at me.
The butler took my hat and coat; I hung on to my briefcase. He then led me to the left, knocked once, opened the doors, and ushered me in.
This was obviously not the formal living room; more like a family room or sitting room. It was impossible to make a chamber of that size cozy or intimate, but the decorator had tried by placing chairs and tables in groups. He only succeeded in making the place look like the cardroom of a popular club. But it was cheerful enough, with bright colors, flower prints on the walls, and what to my untrained eye appeared to be an original Cézanne over the mantel.
There were two people in this cavern. As I walked toward them, the man rose to his feet, the woman remained seated, fitting a cigarette into a gold holder.
I repeated my name and those of my employers. The man shook my hand, a firm, dry grip.
“Mr. Bigg,” he said. “A pleasure. I am Godfrey Knurr. This lady is Mrs. Kipper.”
I set the briefcase I had been lugging all day on the floor and moved forward to light her cigarette.
“Ma’am,” I murmured, “I’m happy to meet you.”
“Thank you,” she said, holding out a slender white hand. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Bigg? No, not there. That’s Godfrey’s chair.”
“Oh, Tippi,” he said i
n a bright, laughing voice. “Any chair will do. I think there are enough of them.”
But I didn’t take his chair. I selected one closer to the small fire in the grate and so positioned that I could look at both of them without turning.
“What a beautiful home you have, Mrs. Kipper,” I said. “Breathtaking.”
“More like Grand Central Station,” Knurr said in his ironic way. Then he said exactly what Perce Stilton had said: “A terrible waste of space.”
Mrs. Kipper made a sound, a short laugh that was almost a bark.
“You see, Mr. Bigg,” she said, “Mr. Knurr is a minister, the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. He does a great deal of work with the poor, and he’s hinted several times that it would be an act of Christian charity if I allowed a mob of his ragamuffins to live in my lovely home.”
“Beginning with me,” Knurr said solemnly, and they both laughed. I smiled politely.
“Ma’am,” I said, “I hope you’ll pardon me for not phoning in advance, but I was in the neighborhood on other company business and took the chance of calling on you. If you wish to confirm that I am who I claim to be, I suggest you phone Mr. Tabatchnick.”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said lazily. “How is dear Leonard?”
“Leopold, ma’am. In good health. Busy as ever.”
“With that odd hobby of his? What is it—postage stamps or breeding Yorkies or something?”
“Tropical fish, ma’am,” I said, passing her tests.
“Of course,” she said. “Tropical fish. What a strange hobby for an attorney. You’d think he would prefer more energetic pets.”
“Some of them are quite aggressive, Mrs. Kipper. Belligerent, in fact.”
I was conscious of the Reverend Knurr regarding me narrowly, as if he were wondering if my words implied more than they meant. I hadn’t intended them to, of course. I am not that devious.
“Well,” Mrs. Kipper said, “I’m sure you didn’t call to discuss Mr. Tabatchnick’s fish. Just why are you here, Mr. Bigg?”
“It concerns your late husband’s estate, ma’am,” I said, and glanced toward Godfrey Knurr.
“Tippi, would you prefer I not be present?” he asked. “If it’s something confidential—family matters—I can adjourn to the kitchen and gossip with Chester and Perdita for a while.”
The Tenth Commandment Page 10