The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  I didn’t know why Godfrey Knurr had set up the attack on me. But I was convinced he had. It made me sad. I admired the man.

  I looked at my watch. It was a little after ten o’clock. Perhaps if I went to Knurr’s place on Carmine Street I could observe the three guttersnipes entering or leaving the club and thus confirm my suspicions.

  Disregarding the dozen reasons why this was a foolish course of conduct, I turned off the lights, pulled my parka hood over my watch cap, made certain I had my warm gloves, and went out again into the darkness. It was not the easiest thing I have ever done in my life.

  When a cab dropped me off on Carmine Street and Seventh Avenue, I found to my dismay that I had neglected to replenish my wallet. I had enough to pay and tip the driver but that would leave me with only about ten dollars in bills and change, just about enough to get me home again.

  I walked east on Carmine Street, hooded head lowered, gloved hands thrust into capacious parka pockets. I walked on the opposite side of the street from the Reverend Knurr’s club and inspected it as I passed.

  At first I thought it was completely dark. But then, through the painted-over window, I saw a dull glow of light. That could have been nothing more than a nightlight, of course. The club might be empty, the Pastor out somewhere, and I could be wasting my time.

  But remembering Roscoe Dollworth’s instructions on the need for everlasting patience on a stakeout, I continued down the block, then turned and retraced my steps. I must have paraded down that block a dozen times, up and down.

  At that point, already wearying of my patrol, I took up a station in the shadowed doorway of a Chinese laundry, not exactly opposite the Tentmakers Club, but in a position where I could observe the entrance without being easily seen.

  I continued this vigil for approximately an hour, huddling in the doorway, then, walking up and down the street and back, always keeping Knurr’s club in view. The street was not crowded, but it wasn’t deserted either. None of the other pedestrians seemed interested in my activities, but I took advantage of passing groups by falling in closely behind them, giving the impression, or so I hoped, that I was part of a late dinner party.

  I was back in the doorway, stamping my feet softly, when the light brightened behind the painted window of the Tentmakers Club. I drew farther back into the shadows. I waited. Finally the front door opened. A shaft of yellowish light beamed out onto the sidewalk.

  Godfrey Knurr came out. There was no doubt it was he; I saw his features clearly, particularly the slaty beard, as he turned to close and lock the door. He was hatless but wearing a dark overcoat with the collar turned up.

  He tried the door, put the keys in his trouser pocket, and then started walking east, toward Sixth Avenue. He strode at a brisk clip, and I moved along with him on the other side of the street, keeping well back and close to the deep shadows of the storefronts and buildings.

  He crossed Sixth and stopped at the curb, looking southward. He would raise his hand when a cab approached, then let it fall when he saw it was occupied. I hurried south on Sixth, ending up a block below Knurr. Then I ran across the avenue and took up my station at the curb.

  I got the first empty cab to come along.

  “Where to?” the driver said.

  “Start your meter and stay right here,” I said. “I’ve got about ten dollars. When I owe you eight, tell me and I’ll give you ten and get out of your cab. All right?”

  “Why not?” he said agreeably. “Beats using gas. You got wife trouble?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Don’t we all?” he offered mournfully, then was silent.

  The name of the registration card said he was Abraham Pincus. He was a grizzle-haired, middle-aged man with a furrowed brow under his greasy cap and deep lines from the corners of his mouth slanting down to his chin, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

  The passenger’s compartment was plastered with signs: PLEASE DO NOT SMOKE and DRIVER ALLERGIC TO SMOKING and the like.

  “What about these signs?” I said.

  “That’s the day driver,” he said. “I’m the night driver.”

  I had been sitting forward on the rear seat, trying to peer through the bleared windshield to keep Reverend Knurr in sight. He had still not caught a cab. Finally, after about three minutes, one passed us with its roof lights on and began to pull into the curb where Knurr stood and signaled.

  “All right,” I said. “We’re going to move now. Just drive north.”

  “Why not?” Mr. Pincus said equably, finishing lighting his cigar. “You’re the boss. For eight dollars’ worth.”

  I saw Knurr get into the taxi and start north on Sixth Avenue. Then my driver started up and we traveled north, keeping about a block behind Knurr’s cab. At 14th Street, Knurr turned left.

  “Turn left,” I said to my driver.

  “We following that cab ahead?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? All my life I been waiting for someone to get in my cab and say, ‘Follow that car!’ Like in the movies and TV—you know? This was my big chance and you blew it. He the guy that’s fooling around with your tootsie?”

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “I won’t lose him,” he promised. “Up to eight dollars, I won’t lose him.”

  Knurr’s cab zigzagged northward and westward, with us a block behind but sometimes closing up tighter when my driver feared he might be stopped by a traffic light. Finally we were on Eleventh Avenue, heading directly northward.

  “You from New Jersey?” A. Pincus asked.

  “No,” I said. “Why?”

  “I thought maybe he’s heading for the George Washington Bridge and Jersey. You can’t go there for eight bucks.”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t think he’s going to New Jersey.”

  “Maybe you and your creampuff can get back together again,” Mr. Pincus said. “As the old song goes, ‘Try a little tenderness.’”

  “Good advice,” I said, hunching forward on my seat, watching the taillights of the cab ahead.

  Then we were on West End Avenue, still speeding north.

  “He’s slowing,” Pincus reported, then, “he’s stopping.”

  I glanced at a street sign. We were at 66th Street.

  “Go a block past him, please,” I said. “Then let me out.”

  “Why not?” he said.

  While I huddled down in my seat, we passed Knurr’s halted cab and stopped a block farther north.

  “You got about six bucks on the clock,” my driver said. “Give or take. You want me to wait?”

  “No,” I said, “thank you. I’ll get out here.”

  I gave him nine dollars, figuring I could take the bus or subway home.

  “Lots of luck,” Pincus said.

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

  “Why not?” he said. His cab roared away.

  I was on the east side of West End Avenue, on a tree-lined block bordering an enormous apartment development. There were towering buildings and wide stretches of lawn, shrubbery, and trees everywhere. It must have been pleasant in daylight. At that time of night, it was shadowed, deserted, and vaguely sinister.

  I had been watching Knurr through the rear window of my cab as he waited for a break in the traffic to dash across the avenue. Now I walked rapidly back to where his cab had stopped.

  As I scurried southward, I spotted him on the west side of West End. He was heading for the brightly lighted entrance of a public underground garage in the basement of one of the tall apartment houses bordering the river. There were large signs in front stating the parking rates by the hour, day, week, and month.

  I positioned myself across the street from the garage, standing in the deep shadow of a thick-trunked plane tree. I watched Knurr walk rapidly into the bright entrance. As he approached the attendant’s booth, a woman stepped out of the shadows, and she and t
he Reverend embraced briefly. Then an attendant appeared. He and Knurr spoke for a moment. The Pastor handed him something. The attendant turned and disappeared. Knurr and the woman remained where they were, close together, conversing, his arm about her shoulders.

  She was wearing what I guessed to be a mink coat that came a little lower than calf-length. It was very full and had a hood that now covered her head, shadowing her features.

  Finally, a long, heavy car came rolling into the lighted area of the garage entrance. It was a black Mercedes-Benz sedan, gleaming, solid, and very elegant. The garage attendant got out of the driver’s side and handed something to Godfrey Knurr. The Reverend then gave something to the attendant.

  Knurr opened the door on the passenger’s side. He assisted the lady into her seat, then went around to the driver’s side, got in, slammed the door—I heard it chunk from where I stood—and slowly, carefully, pulled out into West End Avenue. He turned north. I watched the taillights fade away.

  I wasn’t thinking about where he might be heading. I couldn’t care less. I was too shocked.

  For when he had helped the woman into the car, she had flung back the hood of her fur coat. Her features, for a brief moment, were revealed in the bright light. I saw her clearly.

  It wasn’t Tippi Kipper.

  It was Glynis Stonehouse.

  Part III

  1

  THAT NIGHT I AWOKE frequently, dozed off as often, and finally lost all ability to determine if I was fully conscious or dreaming. I vividly remember wondering if I had actually seen Glynis Stonehouse and Godfrey Knurr together.

  My brain continued churning all night, and things were no better when I arose early Sunday morning, showered, dressed, and poked disconsolately at a bowl of sodden corn flakes. I simply didn’t know what to do. It seemed to me I was in over my head and badly in need of wise counsel.

  I hated to bother Percy Stilton, but what I had learned was of such moment that I wanted him to know at once. I dialed the only number I had for him and learned that he wouldn’t be in the precinct until Monday morning.

  “Couldn’t you call him at home and ask him to contact me?” I tried to convey the urgency of the situation to the officer on the other end of the phone.

  “Can’t anyone else help you?” he asked, still reticent.

  “No,” I said firmly. “It’s got to be Stilton. It’s really very important, honest, to me and to him.”

  Silence.

  “A case he’s on?” he said finally.

  “Yes,” I said, lying valiantly. “Just call and ask him to call Joshua Bigg. As soon as possible.”

  A short silence again, then: “What was that name—Pigg?”

  “Bigg. B-i-g-g. Joshua Bigg. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.”

  “I’ll tell him that,” the officer said.

  I tried to read the Sunday papers. I watched TV for a while, but didn’t see it. My phone finally rang shortly before noon.

  “Hello?” I said breathlessly.

  The voice was low, husky, soothing. “Mr. Bigg?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Maybelle Hawks,” she said pleasantly. “I am Percy Stilton’s consenting adult.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Bigg, Perce received your message, but he’s really in no, ah, condition to speak intelligibly to you at the moment.”

  “Is he ill?” I asked anxiously.

  “You might say that,” she replied thoughtfully. “Nothing fatal. I would judge that he will recover, in time. But right now he’s somewhat unhinged. It being Sunday morning. I do hope you understand.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said miserably. “He’s hung over.”

  “Oh, Mr. Bigg,” she laughed gaily, “that is the understatement of the year. He’s comatose, Mr. Bigg. Com-a-tose. He asked that I return your call and explain why it might be best if you call him at the precinct tomorrow.”

  “Miss Hawks,” I said, “is—”

  “Call me Belle,” she said.

  “Thank you. Belle, is there no chance of my seeing him today? It really is urgent. I wouldn’t be bothering you if it wasn’t. Surely Perce, and you too, of course, have to eat sometime today. It would give me great pleasure if you would both join me for dinner some place. Any place.”

  “Mr. Bigg, you sound to me like a sober, reasonable man.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, “I mean to be.”

  “Then you must realize that right now, this second, if I mention food to Percy Stilton, he’s like to give me a shot in the chops.”

  “Oh no, ma’am,” I said hastily. “Not right this minute.

  What I was thinking was that later this evening, say around six o’clock, he might be recovered sufficiently, and the both of you might be hungry enough to join me for dinner.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “You’re getting through to me, Mr. Bigg. All right, I’ll see what I can do with the Incredible Hulk here. Where do you want to eat?”

  We settled on Woody’s at about 6:00 P.M.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon leafing through the Sunday papers and then the Stonehouse file once again. I left my apartment at 5:30 and walked to Woody’s. It wasn’t dark yet, but still I scanned the street before I left the vestibule, and my head was on a swivel during my rapid walk to 23rd Street.

  Nitchy greeted me after I had hung my hat and coat on the front rack.

  “No princess tonight, Josh?” she said.

  “Not tonight, Nitchy,” I said.

  “It’ll happen,” she said confidently. “One of these nights you’ll waltz through that door with a princess on your arm. You’ll see.”

  As usual she was looped with bangles, hoops, and amulets. Her black helmet of hair gleamed wickedly, and the heavy eye shadow and precisely painted lips accented her sorceress look. She gave me a table where I could watch the front door.

  They weren’t very late—not more than fifteen minutes. The moment Maybelle Hawks entered the restaurant, and the heads of everyone in the front room began to turn, I realized who she was.

  She was one of the most famous high-fashion models in Manhattan. Her classic features had adorned dozens of haute couture magazines, she had posed in the nude for many artists and photographers, and a scholarly art critic had written a much quoted monograph on her “Nefertiti-like beauty” and “ethereal sensuality.” She towered over Stilton, who lurked behind her. I guessed her to be 6-4 or 6-5. She was wearing a supple black leather trenchcoat, mink-lined. It hung open, revealing a loose chemise-styled shift in soft, plum-colored wool. There was a fine gold chain about the strong stalk of her neck.

  I could see why that art critic had thought of Nefertiti. Her head seemed elongated, drawn out in back so that it had the shape of a tilted egg. Her hair was a cap of tight black curls.

  Oriental eyes, Semitic lips, a thin scimitar of a nose. All of her features seemed carved, polished, oiled. Her teeth were unbelievably white.

  They made it to my table and sat down. From close range, Percy wasn’t looking so good. He was as elegantly clad as the first time I had seen him, but the eyes were sunk deeply and bagged. The whites were reddish and he blinked frequently. There was a sallow tinge to his cordovan skin.

  Nitchy asked if we’d like a drink. Belle saw my glass of white wine and said that’s what she’d have. Percy raised his bloodshot eyes to Maybelle Hawks.

  “Please, babe,” he croaked piteously.

  “Nitchy,” Belle said in tones that were more song than speech, “please bring this basket case a shot of cognac with about a quart of ice water for a chaser.”

  “Coming up,” Nitchy said. She looked sympathetically at Perce. “Got the whim-whams?” she asked.

  “Whim-whams?” Belle said with a scoffing laugh. “This is the guy who swore he could mix grass, martinis, wine, bourbon, and brandy stingers. ‘I can handle it,’ he said.”

  “Belle,” Stilton implored. “Don’t shout.”

  When our drinks were served, Perce sat the
re staring at his brandy. He took a deep breath. Then he bent forward so he had to lift the glass only a few inches to his lips. He took half of it in one gulp. Then he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.

  “Jesus!” he said finally. “Did you hear that hit?”

  He took another deep breath, sat back in his chair, drained off his glass of ice water. Nitchy was there with a pitcher to fill it up again.

  “Well now,” Percy Stilton said, looking at us with a weak grin. “This is what I should have done eight hours ago.”

  “I wanted you to suffer,” Maybelle Hawks said.

  Stilton finished his cognac and handed the empty glass to Nitchy. “Another plasma, please, nurse,” he said.

  By the time Belle and I had finished our wine, the detective seemed recovered, lighting a cigarette with steady fingers, laughing and joking, surveying his surroundings with interest.

  “Nice, comfy place,” he said, nodding. “How’s the food?”

  Nitchy was still hovering, proud at having Maybelle Hawks in her establishment. I had seen her boasting at other tables.

  “For you,” she said to Stilton, “I suggest a rare sirloin, a mixed green salad, and nothing else.”

  “Marry me,” he said.

  “I’ll have the same, please,” Belle said. “Oil and vinegar on the greens.”

  I ordered a hamburger and another round of drinks.

  “All right, Josh,” Percy said, “what’s all this about?”

  I glanced quickly toward Maybelle Hawks. Stilton caught it. “She knows everything. She thinks it’s interesting.”

  “Fascinating,” she said.

  “You know all the people involved?” I asked her. “Tippi Kipper? Godfrey Knurr? Marty Reape?”

  She nodded.

  “Good,” I said. “But what I have to say will be new to both of you. I’ve got a lot to tell.”

  “Talk away,” Percy Stilton said. “We’re listening.”

  I told them about the Stonehouse case: the arsenic poisoning, how I thought it had been done, the personalities of the people involved, how I was attempting to locate a cabdriver who might have picked up Professor Stonehouse on the night he disappeared. They listened intently.