“Who the hell knows?” one of them said.
“She came out of nowhere,” the other said. “A drifter. Chicago, I think. Somewhere near there.”
“She doesn’t talk about it.”
“He met her in Vegas.”
“Went out there on one of those gambling junkets and came back with a bride. Some bride! Some junket!”
“He lost!”
“We all lost.”
“A chippie.”
“A whore.”
“Everyone could see it but him. Pussy-whipped.”
“An old man like that. Our father. Pussy-whipped.”
“It hurt.”
They glowered at me accusingly. I ducked my head and made meaningless jottings in my notebook, pretending their anger was worth recording. Though I had learned more than I had hoped, there were questions I wanted desperately to ask, but I didn’t dare arouse their suspicions.
“Well,” I said, “I think that covers the matter of your father’s personal belongings. There is one additional thing you may be able to help me with. A claim for a thousand dollars has been filed against the estate by an individual named Martin Reape. We have been unable to contact Mr. Reape, and we wondered if either of you is acquainted with him or knows the reason for the claim.”
Again they looked at each other. Then shook their heads.
“Martin Reape?”
“Never heard of him.”
“We thought it might possibly be a business expense. Is there any way…?”
“Sure. It can be checked out.”
“We got everything on film.”
“We can tell you if he was a supplier, a customer, or whatever. Heshie, give Al Baum a call.”
Heshie picked up a silver-colored phone.
“Get me Al Baum,” he snapped. Then, in a moment, “Al? Herschel. I’m sending you down a lawyer. He wants to check into a certain individual. To see if he’s on our books. You understand? Right. Al, you give him every possible cooperation.”
He hung up.
“That’s Al Baum, our comptroller,” he said to me. “He’s on the 31st floor. If we’ve got this guy—what’s his name?”
“Martin Reape.”
“If we’ve got this Martin Reape on our books Al will put him on the screen and see if we owe him. Okay?”
I stood up.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “you’ve been very kind, and I appreciate it.”
“You filed for probate yet?”
“Well, uh, I think you better talk to Mr. Tabatchnick about that. He’s handling it personally.”
“Sure…what else? Uncle Leo and Pop were old friends. They go way back together.”
“Give Uncle Leo our best.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Thank you again for your time and trouble.”
I got out of there. They were still standing shoulder to shoulder behind the desk, still furious. Their cigars were much shorter now. The marble top was littered with white ash.
The 31st floor was different from the executive enclave on the 34th. Wood floors were carpeted with worn runners, walls were tenement green, chipped and peeling. There was no receptionist; directly in front of the elevators began a maze of flimsy metal cubicles. There was constant noise here; banging and clattering, shouted questions and screamed answers, and a great scurrying to and fro. Large office machines, some with keyboards, some with hidden keys clacking, some quiescent, burping forth a sheet or two of paper at odd moments.
I approached a desk where a young black man was shuffling through an enormous pile of computer printout. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and a steel comb pushed into his Afro.
“I beg your pardon,” I said timidly.
He continued his rapid riffling of the folded stack of paper before him.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, louder.
He looked up.
“Say what?” he said.
“I’m looking for Mr. Baum. I wonder if—”
“Al!” he bawled at me. “Oh you, Al! Someone here!”
I drew back, startled. Before I knew what was happening, my elbow was gripped. A little butterball of a man had me imprisoned.
“Yes, yes, yes?” he spluttered. “Al Baum. What, what, what?”
“Joshua Bigg, Mr. Baum,” I said. “I’m the—”
“Who, who, who?” he said. “From Lupowitz?”
“No, no, no,” I said. It was catching. “From Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum. Mr. Herschel Kipper just called and asked—”
“Right, right, right,” he said. “Follow me. This way. Just follow me. Don’t trip over the cables.”
He darted away and I went darting after him. We rushed into an enormous room where tall gray modules were lined up against the walls, all with tape reels whirling or starting and stopping.
“Computers,” I said foolishly.
“No, no, no,” Baum said rapidly. “Data processing and retrieval. Payrolls, taxes, et cetera, but mostly inventory. Hundreds of yarns, hundreds of fabrics: all coded. What’s this gink’s name?”
“Reape,” I said. “Martin Reape. R-e-a-p-e.”
I scurried after him into a cramped corner office where a young lady sat before a keyboard and what appeared to be a large television screen.
“Josie,” Baum said, “look up a Martin Reape. R-e-a-p-e.” He turned to me. “What is he?” he asked. “A supplier? Buyer? What, what, what?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling like an idiot. “You may have paid him for something. A supplier. Call him a supplier.”
Josie’s fingers sped over the keyboard. Mr. Baum and I leaned over her shoulder, watching the screen. Suddenly printing began to appear, letter by letter, word by word, left to right, then down to the next line, with a loud chatter. Finally the machine stopped. The screen showed seven payments of five hundred dollars each. The payee was Martin Reape, the address was his 49th Street office. The first payment was made in August of the previous year. The last payment was made one week prior to the death of Sol Kipper.
“There he is,” Al Baum said. “That what you wanted?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling a fierce exaltation. “Would it be possible to see the canceled checks?”
“Why not?” he said. “We got everything on film. Josie?”
She pushed more buttons. The screen cleared, then was filled with a picture of the Kipmar Textile checks made out to Martin Reape. I leaned closer to peer. All the checks had been signed by Albert Baum, Comptroller.
I turned to him.
“You signed the checks?” I said.
I must have sounded accusing. He looked at me pityingly.
“Sure I signed. So, so, so?”
“Do you remember what it was for? I mean, why was Martin Reape paid that money?”
He shrugged. “I sign a thousand checks a week. At least. Who can remember? Josie, let’s see the bills.”
She pushed more buttons. Now the bills appeared on the screen. They had no printed heading, just the typewritten name and address of Martin Reape. Each was for $500. Each merely said: “For services rendered.”
“See, see, see?” Al Baum demanded. “Down there in the corner of every bill? ‘OK/SK.’ That’s Sol Kipper’s initials and handwriting. He OK’d the bills, so I paid.”
“You have no idea of the services Martin Reape rendered?”
“Nope, nope, nope.”
“Is there any way I can get a copy of the bills and canceled checks?”
“Why not?” he said. “Mr. Heshie said to give you full cooperation. Right, right, right? Josie, run a printout on everything—totals, bills, checks: the works.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very—”
“Happy, happy, happy,” he rattled, and then he was gone.
I waited while Josie pushed more buttons, and printout came stuttering out of an auxiliary machine. I watched, fascinated, as it printed black-and-white reproductions of the bills from Martin Reape, the checks paid by Kipmar Text
iles, and a neat summation of dates billed, dates paid, and totals. Josie tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to me. I folded it carefully and tucked it into my inside jacket pocket.
“Thank you very much,” I said.
“Sure, bubi,” she chirped.
I found a phone booth in the street-floor lobby, and looked up a number in my book. She answered on the first ring.
“Yes?” she said.
“Perdita?” I asked, “Perdita Schug?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Joshua Bigg. You probably don’t—”
“Josh!” she said. “How cute! I was hoping you’d call.”
“Yes…well…how are you?”
“Bored, bored, bored,” she said. I wondered if she knew Al Baum. “What I need is a little excitement. A new love.”
“Uh…yes. Well, why I called…I remembered you said Thursday was your day off. Am I correct?”
“Right on,” she said. “I get off at noon tomorrow and I don’t have to be back until Friday noon. Isn’t that cute?”
“It certainly is,” I said bravely. “What do you usually do on your day off?”
“Oh,” she said, “This and that. I should go out to visit my dear old mother in Weehawken. You got any cuter ideas?”
“Well, I was wondering if you might care to have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“I accept,” she said promptly.
“We can make it early,” I suggested, “so you’ll have plenty of time to get over to New Jersey.”
She laughed merrily.
“You’re so funny, Josh,” she said. “You’re really a scream.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Is there any place you’d like to go? For dinner, I mean. Some place where we can meet?”
“Mother Tucker’s,” she said. “Second Avenue near Sixty-ninth Street. You’ll like it. I hang out there all the time. Seven or eight o’clock, like that, OK?”
As I walked homeward west on my street, I saw Cleo Hufnagel coming east, arms laden with shopping. I hurried to help her.
“Thank you, Josh,” she said. “I had no idea they’d be so heavy.”
She was wearing a red plaid coat with a stocking hat pulled down to her eyes. The wind and fast walking had rosied her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. She looked very fetching and I told her so. She smiled shyly.
“Home from work so soon?” I asked as we climbed the steps.
“I had the day off,” she said, “but I’ll have to work Saturday. You’re home early.”
“Playing hooky,” I said. I took the other bag of groceries while she hunted for her keys. She unlocked the doors and held them open for me.
“Can I carry these into your kitchen for you?” I asked.
“Oh no,” she said hastily. “Thank you, but most of these things are for Mother.”
So I set the bag down in the hallway outside Mrs. Hufnagel’s apartment after huffing my way up to the second floor.
“Thank you so much, Josh,” Cleo said. “You were very kind.”
I waved my hand. “No tip necessary,” I said, and we both laughed. Then we just stood there, looking at each other. It didn’t bother me that I had to look up to meet her eyes. I blurted out, “Cleo, would you like to come up to my place for a glass of wine after dinner?”
“Thank you,” she said in a low voice. “I’d like that. What time?”
“About eight. Is that all right?”
“Eight is fine. See you then.”
I trudged up to my apartment, meditating on what I had done.
Checking my wine cellar, I found I was in short supply, so after I showered and got into my Chelsea clothes I headed out on a run to the liquor store. Bramwell Shank was there on the landing, waiting for me with the wine in his lap.
“Goddamn!” he shouted. “I’ve been waiting here for you and all the time you’ve been in there!”
This was obviously my fault. I explained how I had come home early, and explained why, and offered to pick up anything he needed from the stores, and got away with a promise to have a drink with him when I came back in. This seemed a good idea or he might barge in later on my tete-a-tete with Cleo.
She arrived promptly at 8:00 P.M., knocking softly on my door. I leaped to my feet and upset what was left in a glass of wine on my chair arm. Fortunately, the glass fell to the rug without breaking, and none of the wine splashed on me.
“Coming!” I shouted. Hastily, I retrieved the glass and moved the armchair to cover the stain on the rug. Then I had to move the endtable to bring it alongside, and when I did that, the lamp tipped over. I caught it before it could crash, set it upright again, then rushed to the door.
“Come in, come in!” I said heartily and ushered her to the armchair. “Sit here,” I said. “It’s the most comfortable.”
“Well…” Cleo Hufnagel said doubtfully, “isn’t it a little close to the fire? Could you move it back a bit?”
I stared at her, then started laughing. I told her what had happened just before she entered. She laughed, too, and assured me a stained rug wouldn’t offend her. So we moved everything back in place.
“Much better,” she said, seating herself. “I do that all the time. Spilling things, I mean. You shouldn’t have bothered covering it.”
We settled down with drinks. Happily I asked her if she had noticed signs of rapprochement between Captain Shank and Madame Kadinsky. There had been signs of romance. That did it. In a moment she had kicked off her shoes and we were gossiping like mad.
Presently I heard myself saying, “But if they married, they might tear each other to tatters. Argue, fight. You know.”
“Even that’s better than what they had before, isn’t it?”
The conversation was making me uneasy. I went into the kitchen to fetch fresh drinks.
“Cleo,” I said when I came back, “I really know very little about what you do. I know you work in a library. Correct?”
“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’m a librarian.”
I spent five minutes assuring her that I admired librarians, that some of the happiest hours of my life had been spent in libraries, that they were a poor man’s theatre, a portal to a world of wonder, and she was in a noble and honored profession, etc., etc. I really laid it on, but the strange thing was that I believed every word of it.
“You’re very kind,” she said doubtfully. “But what it comes down to is some bored housewife looking for the new Jackie Onassis book or a Gothic. You’re with a legal firm, Josh?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I’m not a lawyer. I’m just an investigator.”
I explained to her what I did. I found myself talking and talking. She seemed genuinely interested, and asked very cogent questions. She wanted to know my research sources and how I handled abstruse inquiries. I told her some stories that amused her: how I had spent one Sunday morning trying to buy beer in stores on Second Avenue (illegal), how I manipulated recalcitrant witnesses, how people lied to me and how, to my shame, I was becoming an accomplished liar.
“But you’ve got to,” she said. “To do your job.”
“I know that,” I said, “but I’m afraid I’ll find myself lying in my personal life. I wouldn’t like that.”
“I wouldn’t either,” she said. “Could I have another drink?”
I came back from the kitchen with fresh drinks. She reached up with a languid hand to take her glass. She was practically reclining in the armchair, stretched out, her head far back, her stockinged feet toward the dying fire.
She was wearing a snug, caramel-colored wool skirt, cinched with a narrow belt, and a tight black sweater that left her neck bare. All so different from the loose, flowing costumes she usually wore. The last flickering flames cast rosy highlights on throat, chin, brow. She had lifted her long, chestnut hair free. It hung down in back of the chair. I wanted to stroke it.
I was shocked at how beautiful she looked, that willowy Figure stretched out in the dim light. Her features seemed softened. The
hazel eyes were closed, the lips slightly parted. She seemed utterly relaxed.
“Cleo,” I said softly.
Her eyes opened.
“I just thought of something. I have a favor to ask.”
“Of course,” she said, straightening up in her chair.
I explained that one of my investigations involved a man who had been a victim of arsenic poisoning. I needed to know more about arsenic: what it was, how it affected the human body, how it could be obtained, how administered, and so forth. Could Cleo find out the titles of books or suggest other places where I might obtain that information?
“I can do that,” she said eagerly. “I’m not all that busy. When do you need it?”
“Well…as soon as possible, I just don’t know where to start. I thought if you could give me the sources, I’d take it from there.”
“I’ll be happy to,” she said. “Did he die?”
“No, but he’s disappeared. I think the poisoning had something to do with it.”
“You mean whoever was poisoning him decided to, uh, take more direct measures?”
I looked at her admiringly. “You’re very perceptive.”
“I have a good brain, I know,” she said. It was not bragging; she was just stating a fact. “Too bad I never get a chance to use it.”
“Were you born in New York, Cleo?” I asked her.
“No,” she said, “Rhode Island.” She told me the story of her family. Her father had disappeared from Newport one day and Mrs. Hufnagel had brought tiny Cleo to Chelsea to live in the house, which had been bought with their last money as an investment.
I told her my little history—little in at least two ways. I told her how I was raised by my uncle and aunt and what I had to endure from my cousins.
“But I’m not complaining,” I said. “They were good people.”
“Of course they were, to take you in. But still…”
“Yes,” I said. “Still…”
We sat awhile in silence, a close, glowing silence.
“Another drink?” I asked finally.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Well, maybe a very small one. Just a sip.”
“A nightcap?” I said.
“Right,” she said approvingly.
“I’m going to have a little brandy.”
The Tenth Commandment Page 18