The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  I had something on my mind. On the afternoon Sol Kipper had plunged to his death, his wife said she had been with him in the fifth-floor master bedroom. Then she had descended to the ground floor. The servants testified to that. Minutes later, Kipper’s body had thudded onto the tiled patio.

  What I was interested in was how Mrs. Kipper had gone downstairs. By elevator, I presumed. She was not the type of woman who would walk down five long flights of stairs.

  If she descended by elevator, then it should have been on the ground floor at the time of her husband’s death. Unless, of course, Kipper rang the bell, waited for the lift to come up from the ground level, then used it to go up to the sixth-floor terrace.

  But that didn’t seem likely. I stood inside the master bedroom. I glanced at my watch. I then walked at a steady pace out into the hallway, east to the rear staircase, up the stairs to the sixth floor, into the party room, over to the locked French doors leading to the terrace. I glanced at my watch again. Not quite a minute. That didn’t necessarily mean a man determined to kill himself wouldn’t wait for a slow elevator. It just proved it was a short walk from the master bedroom, where the suicide note had been found, to the death leap.

  I spent the next hour walking about the upper stories of the townhouse, refining my floor plans and making notes on furniture, rugs, paintings, etc., but mostly trying to familiarize myself with the layout of the building.

  I examined the elevator door on each floor. This was not just morbid curiosity on my part; I really felt the operation of the elevator played an important part in the events of that fatal afternoon.

  The elevator doors were identical: conventional portals of heavy oak with inset panels. All the panels were solid except for one of glass at eye-level that allowed one to see when the elevator arrived. Each door was locked. It could only be opened when the elevator was stopped at that level. You then opened the door, swung aside the steel gate, and stepped into the cage.

  Fixed to the jamb on the outside of each elevator door was a dial not much bigger than a large wristwatch. The dials were under small domes of glass, and they revolved forward or backward as the elevator ascended or descended. In other words, by consulting the dial on any floor, you could determine the exact location of the elevator and tell whether or not it was in motion.

  I didn’t know at the time what significance that might have, but I decided to note it for possible future reference.

  As I was coming down to the ground floor, I heard the sounds of conversation and laughter coming from the open doors of the sitting room. Perdita Schug rushed by, carrying a tray of those tiny sandwiches. She hardly had time to wink at me. Chester Heavens followed her at a more stately pace, with a small salver holding a single glass of what appeared to be brandy.

  I walked toward the kitchen and pantry. I turned at the kitchen door and looked back. From that point I could see the length of the corridor, the elevator door, the doors to the sitting room, and a small section of the entrance hall. I could not see the front door.

  I went into the disordered kitchen, then back to the pantry. A lank, angular woman was seated in one of the high-backed chairs, sipping a cup of tea. She was wearing a denim apron over a black uniform with white collar and cuffs.

  “Mrs. Neckin?” I asked.

  She looked up at me with an expression of some distaste.

  “Yus?” she said, her voice a piece of chalk held at the wrong angle on a blackboard.

  “I’m Joshua Bigg,” I said with my most ingratiating smile. I explained who I was, and what I was doing in the Kipper home. I told her Chester Heavens had invited me to stop in the kitchen before I left.

  “He’s busy,” she snapped.

  “For a cup of tea,” I continued pointedly, staring at her. “For a nice, friendly cup of tea.”

  I could almost see her debating how far she could push her peevishness.

  “Sit down then,” she said finally. “There’s a cup, there’s the pot.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’re very kind.”

  Irony had no effect. She was too twisted by ill-temper.

  “A busy afternoon for you?” I asked pleasantly, sitting down and pouring myself a cup.

  “Them!” she said with great disgust.

  “It’s probably good for Mrs. Kipper to entertain again,” I remarked. “After the tragedy.”

  “Oh yus,” she said bitterly. “Him not cold, and her having parties. And I don’t care who you tell I said it.”

  “I have no intention of telling anyone,” I assured her. “I am not a gossip.”

  “Oh yus?” she said, looking at me suspiciously.

  “You’ve been with the Kippers a long time, Mrs. Neckin?” I asked, sipping my tea. It was good, but not as good as Mrs. Dark’s at the Stonehouses’.

  “I was with Mr. Sol all my working days,” she said angrily. “Long before she came along.” The housekeeper accompanied this last with a jerk of a thumb over her shoulder, in the general direction of the sitting room.

  “I understand she was formerly in the theatre,” I mentioned casually.

  “The theatre!” she said, pronouncing it thee-ay-ter. “A cootch dancer was what she was!”

  Then, as if she were grateful to me for giving her an opportunity to vent her malice, she rose, went into the kitchen, and brought back a small plate of petit-fours. And she replenished my cup of tea without my asking.

  Mrs. Neckin was a rawboned farm woman, all hard lines and sharp angles. The flat-chested figure under the apron and uniform moved in sudden jerks, pulls, twists, and pushes. When she poured the tea, I had the uneasy feeling that she’d much rather be wringing the neck of a chicken.

  “He was a saint,” she said, seating herself again. In a chair closer to mine, I noted. “A better man never lived. He’s in Heaven now, I vow.”

  I made a sympathetic noise.

  “I’m getting out,” she said in a harsh whisper. “I won’t work for that woman with Mr. Sol gone.”

  “It’s hard to believe,” I said, “that a man like that would take his own life.”

  “Oh yus!” she said scornfully. “Take his own life! That’s what they say.”

  I looked at her in bewilderment.

  “But he jumped from the terrace,” I said. “Didn’t he?”

  “He may have jumped,” she said, pushing herself back from the table. “I ain’t saying he didn’t. But what drove him to it? Answer me that: what drove him to it?”

  “Her?” I said in a low voice. “Mrs. Kipper?”

  “Her?” she said disgustedly. “Nah. She’s got milk in her veins. She’s too nicey-nice. It was him.”

  “Him?”

  “Chester Heavens,” she said, nodding.

  “He drove Mr. Kipper to suicide?” I said. I heard my own voice falter.

  “Sure he did,” Mrs. Bertha Neckin said with great satisfaction. “Put the juju on him. That church of his. They drink human blood there, you know. I figure Chester called up a spell. That’s what made Mr. Sol jump. He was drove to it.”

  I gulped the remainder of my tea. It scalded.

  “Why would Chester do a thing like that?” I asked.

  She leaned closer, so near that I could smell her anise-scented breath.

  “That’s easy to see,” she said. “I know what’s going on. I live here. I see.” She made a circle of her left forefinger and thumb, then moved her right forefinger in and out of the ring in a gesture so obscene it sickened me. “That’s what he wants. He’s a nig, you know. I don’t care how light he is, he’s still a nig. And she’s a white lady, dirt-cheap though she may be. That’s why he put the juju on Mr. Sol. Oh yus.”

  I pushed back my chair.

  “Mrs. Neckin,” I said, “I thank you very much for the refreshment. You’ve been very kind. And I assure you I won’t repeat what you’ve told me to a living soul.”

  In the corridor I stood aside as Perdita Schug came toward the kitchen with a tray of empty highball and wineglasses.
She paused, smiling at me.

  “Thursday,” she said. “I’m off on Thursday. I’m in the book. I told you.”

  “Yes,” I said, “so you did.”

  “Try it,” she said. “You’ll like it.”

  I was still stammering when she moved on to the kitchen.

  I had advanced to the entrance hall when Chester Heavens came from the sitting room. He preceded Mrs. Tippi Kipper and the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. Through the open doors I could see several ladies sitting in a circle, chattering as they drank tea and nibbled on little things.

  “Well, Mr. Bigg,” Mrs. Kipper said in her cool, amused voice, “finished for the day?”

  “I think so, ma’am,” I said. “There’s still a great deal to be done, but I believe I’m making progress.”

  “Did Chester offer you anything?” she asked.

  “He did indeed, ma’am. I had a nice cup of tea, for which I am grateful.”

  “I wish that was all I had,” Godfrey Knurr said, patting his stomach. “Tippi, you keep serving those pastries and I’ll have to stop coming here.”

  “You must keep up your strength,” she murmured, and he laughed.

  They were standing side by side as the butler took Knurr’s hat and coat, and mine, from the closet. He held a soiled trenchcoat for Knurr, then handed him an Irish tweed hat, one of those bashed models with the brim turned down all the way around.

  “Can I give you a lift, Mr. Bigg?” Knurr said. “I’ve got my car outside.”

  His car was an old Volkswagen bug. It had been painted many times.

  “Busted heater,” he said as we got in. “Sorry about that. But it’s not too cold, is it? Maybe we’ll go down Fifth and then cut over on 38th. All right?”

  “Fine,” I said. Then I was silent awhile as he worked his way into traffic and got over to Fifth Avenue. “Mrs. Kipper seems to be handling it well,” I remarked. “The death of her husband, I mean.”

  “She’s making a good recovery,” he said, beating the light and making a left onto Fifth. “The first few days were hard. Very hard. I thought for a while she might have to be hospitalized. Good Lord, she was practically an eyewitness. She heard him hit, you know.”

  “It was fortunate you were there,” I said.

  “Well. I wasn’t there. I showed up a few minutes later. What a scene that was! Screaming, shouting, everyone running around. It was a mess. I did what I could. Called the police and so forth.”

  “Did you know him, Pastor?”

  “Sol Kipper? Knew him well. A beautiful man. Generous. So generous. So interested in the work I’m doing.”

  “Uh, do you mind if I ask about that? The work you’re doing, I mean. I’m curious.”

  “Do I mind?” he said, with that brisk laugh of his. “I’m delighted to talk about it. Well…Listen, may I call you Joshua?”

  “Josh,” I said, “if you like.”

  “I prefer Joshua,” he said. “It has a nice Old Testament ring. Well, Joshua, about my work…Did you ever hear of the term ‘tentmakers’?”

  “Tentmakers? Like Omar?”

  “Not exactly. More like St. Paul. Anyway, the problem is basically a financial one. There are thousands and thousands of Protestant clergymen and not enough churches to go around. So more and more churchmen are turning to secular activities. There’s an honorable precedent for it. St. Paul supported his preaching by making tents. That’s why we call ourselves tentmakers. You’ll find the clergy in business, the arts, working as fund-raisers, writing books, even getting into politics. I’m a tentmaker. I don’t have a regular church, although I sometimes fill in for full-time pastors who are on vacation, sick, hung over, or on retreat. Whatever. But mostly I support myself by begging.” He glanced sideways at me, briefly. “Does that shock you?”

  “No,” I said. “Not really. I seem to recall there’s an honorable precedent for that also.”

  “Right,” he said approvingly. “There is. Oh hell, I don’t mean I walk the streets like a mendicant, cup in hand. But it amounts to the same thing. You saw me at work today. I meet a lot of wealthy people, usually women, and some not so wealthy. I put the bite on them. In return I offer counseling or just a sympathetic ear. In nine cases out of ten, all they want is a listener. If they ask for advice, I give it. Sometimes it’s spiritual. More often than not it’s practical. Just good common sense. People with problems are usually too upset to think clearly.”

  “That’s true, I think.”

  “So that’s part of my tentmaking activities; spiritual adviser to the wealthy. I assure you they’re just as much in need of it as the poor.”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  “But when they offer a contribution, I accept. Oh boy, do I accept! Not only to keep me in beans, but to finance the other half of my work. It’s not a storefront church exactly. Nothing half so fancy as Chester Heavens’ Society of the Holy Lamb up in Harlem. It’s not a social club either. A combination of both, I guess. It’s in Greenwich Village, on Carmine Street. I live in the back. I work with boys from eight to eighteen. The ones in trouble, the ones who have been in trouble, the ones who are going to get in trouble. I give them personal counseling, or a kind of group therapy, and plenty of hard physical exercise in a little gym I’ve set up in the front of the place. To work off some of their excess energy and violence.”

  By this time we were down at 59th Street where the traffic was truly horrendous. Knurr swung the Bug in and out, cutting off other drivers, jamming his way through gaps so narrow that I closed my eyes.

  “Where are you from, Joshua?” The sudden question startled me.

  “Uh—Iowa,” I said. “Originally.”

  “Really? I was born right next door in Illinois. Peoria. But I spent most of my life in Indiana, near Chicago, before I came to New York. It’s a great city, isn’t it?”

  “Chicago?” I said.

  “New York,” he said. “It’s the only place to be. The center. You make it here or you never really make it. The contrasts! The wealth and the poverty. The ugliness and the beauty. Don’t you feel that?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, “I do.”

  “The opportunity,” he said. “I think that’s what impresses me most about New York: the opportunity. A man can go to the stars here.”

  “Or to the pits,” I said.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “That, too. Listen, there’s something I’d like you to do. Say no, and I’ll understand. But I wish you’d visit my place down in Greenwich Village. Look around, see what I’m doing. Trying to do. Would you do that?”

  “Of course,” I said instantly. “I’d like to. Thank you very much.”

  “I suspect I’m looking for approval,” he said, glancing at me quickly again with a grin. “But I’d like you to see what’s going on. And, to be absolutely truthful, there are a few little legal problems I hope you might be able to help me with. My lease is for a residential property and I’m running this church or club there, whatever you want to call it. Some good neighbors have filed a complaint.”

  I was horrified.

  “Mr. Knurr,” I said, “I’m not a lawyer.”

  “You’re not?” he said, puzzled. “I thought you worked for Mrs. Kipper’s attorneys?”

  “I do,” I said. “In a paralegal job. But I’m not an attorney myself. I don’t have a law degree.”

  “But you’re taking the estate inventory?”

  “A preliminary inventory,” I said. “It will have to be verified and authenticated by the attorney of record before the final inventory of assets is submitted.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Sure. Well, the invitation still stands. I’ll tell you my problems and maybe you can ask one of the attorneys in your firm and get me some free legal advice.”

  “That I’d be glad to do,” I said. “When’s the best time to come?”

  “Anytime,” he said. “No, wait, you better give me a call first. I’m in the book. Mornings would be best. Afternoons I usually spend with my rich friends uptow
n. Listening to their troubles and drinking their booze.”

  Then he pulled up outside the TORT offices. He leaned over to examine the building through the car window.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Converted townhouse. It’s hard to believe places like that were once private homes. The wealth! Unreal.”

  “But it still exists,” I said. “The wealth, I mean. Like the Kipper place.”

  “Oh yes,” he said, “it still exists.” He slapped my knee. “I don’t object to it,” he said genially. “I just want to get in on it.”

  “Yes,” I said mournfully. “Me, too.”

  “Listen, Joshua, I was serious about that invitation. The hell with the free legal advice. I like you, I’d like to see more of you. Give me a call and come down and visit me.”

  Acknowledging his invitation with a vague promise to contact him, I took my leave and headed to my office.

  I was adding somewhat fretfully to my files of reports, wondering if I was getting anywhere, when my phone rang. It was Percy Stilton; he sounded terse, almost angry.

  He asked me if I had come up with anything new, and I told him of my most recent visit to the Kipper townhouse. He laughed grimly when I related what Mrs. Neckin had said about Chester Heavens putting a curse on Sol Kipper.

  “I should have warned you about her,” Stilton said. “A whacko. We get a lot of those. They make sense up to a point, and then they’re off into the wild blue yonder. What was your take on Godfrey Knurr?”

  “I like him,” I said promptly. “For a clergyman, he swears like a trooper, but he’s very frank and open. He invited me down to Greenwich Village to see what he’s doing with juvenile delinquents. He certainly doesn’t impress me as a man with anything to hide.”

  “That’s the feeling I got,” Perce said. “And that’s it? Nothing else?”

  “A silly thing,” I said. “About the elevator.”

  “What about the elevator?”

  I explained that if Mrs. Kipper had come downstairs on that elevator, it should have been on the ground floor at the time her husband plunged to his death. Unless he had brought the elevator up again to take it from the master bedroom on the fifth floor to the sixth-floor terrace.