Within three or four minutes Knurr arrived. I had expected him to pull up in a cab, then switch to the Mercedes, but instead he raced into the garage entrance, near where Glynis waited, and opened the passenger door of his old VW. As soon as she got in, he backed out fast, swung around, and headed northward again, shoving his way into traffic.
“Follow?” my driver said.
“Please,” I said.
“That guy is some cowboy. He drives like he don’t give a damn.”
“I don’t think he does,” I said.
We tailed them north. Knurr made a left onto 79th Street, then began to circle the block.
“Looking for a place to park,” the cabdriver commented knowledgeably. “If he pulls in, what do you want me to do?”
“Go down to the next corner and wait.”
That’s what happened. Knurr found a place to park on West 77th Street near Riverside Drive. We went past and pulled in close to the corner. Through the rear window, I watched them both get out and walk past. They passed by my parked cab, talking much too intently to notice me.
I let them turn north on the Drive before I paid and got out of the taxi.
“Thank you,” I said to the driver.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” he said.
As I followed Glynis Stonehouse and Godfrey Knurr into Riverside Park, I noted with relief that a few joggers and groups of raucous teenagers still braved the darkened expanse. And yet my nervousness increased as we penetrated deeper along lonely, descending paths, heading westward. I lurked as best I could in the shadows of leafless trees, trying to tread lightly. But I was being overcautious, for the couple ahead of me walking arm-in-arm were so intent on their talk that they seemed innocent of the secret sharer padding along behind them.
They walked around the rotunda, a large circular fountain girdled by a walk that was in turn enclosed by a ring of archways vaguely Roman in feeling. The fountain had long since ceased to operate; the basin was dried and cracked. All the white light globes were now shattered and dark. The archways were sprayed with graffiti. Splintered glass and broken bits of masonry grated underfoot. The ground was crumbling.
I paused briefly, not wanting to follow Glynis and Godfrey into one of those echoing passages lest they hear my footfall. I waited until they were clear on the other side of the fountain before hurrying through.
Ahead was the molten river, a band of gently heaving mercury in the nightlight. Across were the flickering lights of the Jersey shore. Closer, the swell of black water. I searched frantically about until I spotted them again, approaching the boat basin at 79th Street. I kept well back in the shadows as Glynis and Knurr walked onto the planked pier. They stopped briefly to speak to someone who appeared to be a watchman. Then they continued along one of the slips until they stepped down carefully onto the foredeck of what looked like a houseboat.
Lights came on inside the craft. When I saw curtains drawn across the wide windows, I turned and hurried back the way I had come.
3
I ARRIVED AT THE TORT building before 9:00 A.M. on Tuesday morning. The night security guard was still on duty, sitting at Yetta Apatoff’s desk.
“There was a telephone call for you about fifteen minutes ago, Mr. Bigg,” he said. “The guy wouldn’t leave a name or message, but said he’d call back.”
“Thank you,” I said, and went back to my office. My phone rang before I had a chance to take off my coat. I picked it up and said, “Hello?” A man’s voice growled, “You the guy who put up the posters?” I said I was. He said, “How much is the reward?”
I hadn’t even considered that. Fifty dollars seemed insufficient; a hundred might tempt a lot of fraudulent claims. But rather, I reasoned, too many replies than too few.
“A hundred dollars,” I said.
“Shit,” he said, and hung up.
The second call came in ten minutes later. Once again the first question asked was: “How much?”
“A hundred dollars,” I said firmly.
“Yeah, well, I carried the guy. Picked him up on Central Park West and 70th Street the night of January 10th.”
“What did he look like?”
“Well, you know, an average-sized guy. I didn’t get a real good look at him, but I’d say he was average.”
“Kind of short, fat, dumpish?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“Wearing a sweater and jacket?”
“Yeah, that’s the guy.”
“No, it isn’t,” I said.
“Fuck you,” he said and hung up.
I sighed, finished my strawberry strudel and black coffee, and started mechanically answering some of the routine research and investigation requests. I wondered if I dared bother Percy Stilton with what I had discovered—the houseboat at 79th Street—and what I was beginning to guess about how Godfrey Knurr had murdered Sol Kipper.
Stilton solved the problem by calling me at about 10:00 A.M.
“Listen, Josh,” he said, speaking rapidly, “I know you didn’t want me to call you at your office, but this is important. I’ve only got a minute. Can you meet me in the lobby of the Newsweek building? 444 Madison? Between 49th and 50th?”
“Well, yes, sure,” I said. “But I wanted—”
“About five minutes before four o’clock this afternoon.”
“I’ll be there, Perce,” I said, making rapid notes on my scratchpad. “But here are a few things I—”
“Got to run,” he said. “See you then.”
The line went dead. I hung up slowly, bewildered. The phone rang again almost immediately and I plucked it up, hoping Stilton was calling back.
“Josh,” Yetta Apatoff said, giggling, “you haven’t forgotten our lunch today, have you?”
“Of course not,” I lied bravely. “What time?”
“Noon,” she said. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
“Good,” I said, my heart sinking.
Another call:
“Yeah, I picked up the guy on that night. A tall, skinny gink, right?”
“Could be,” I said. “And where did you take him—to the Eastern Airlines ticket office on Fifth Avenue?”
“Yeah,” he said, “you’re right.”
“Waited for him and then drove him back to Central Park West and 70th Street?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t think so.”
He suggested an anatomical impossibility.
Inwardly cursing the venality of mankind, I hung up, then phoned the Kipper house. Chester Heavens answered. We exchanged polite greetings, inquired as to the state of each other’s health, and spoke gravely about the weather, which we agreed was both pleasant and bracing for that time of year.
“Chester,” I said, “Mr. Kipper died on Wednesday, January 24th. Is that correct?”
“Oh yes, sah,” he said somberly. “I shall never forget that date.”
“I don’t suppose you will. I know Mr. Godfrey Knurr arrived a few moments after the tragedy. Now my question is this: do you recall if he was at the house on Tuesday, January 23rd, the day before Mr. Kipper died?”
Silence. Then…
“I can’t recall, sah. But if you’ll be good enough to hang on a moment, I’ll consult the book.”
“Wait, wait!” I said hastily. “What book?”
“The house diary, sah,” he said. “The first Mrs. Kipper insisted it be kept. It was one of my father’s duties. After the first Mrs. Kipper and my father had both passed away, I kept it with the approval of the second Mrs. Kipper. What it is, sah, is a diary or log of visitors, delivery of packages, repairs to the house, appointments, and so forth. Many large homes keep such a daily record, sah. It is invaluable when it becomes necessary to send Christmas cards, thank you notes, invitations, or to question tradesmen about promised deliveries and things of that nature.”
“Very efficient,” I said, beginning to hope. “Could you consult the log, please, Chester, and see if the Reverend K
nurr visited on Tuesday, January 23rd?”
“Just a moment, sah.”
He was gone more than a moment. I had crossed all fingers of both hands and was trying to cross my toes within my shoes when the butler came back on the phone.
“Mr. Bigg?” he said. “Are you there?”
“I am here,” I told him.
“Yes, sah, the diary shows that the Reverend Knurr visited on Tuesday, January 23rd. He arrived at approximately 3:30 P.M.”
“Any record of when he left?”
“No, sah, there is no record of that.”
“Thank you, Chester,” I said gratefully, uncrossing my digits. “Just out of curiosity, where is this house diary kept?”
“In the kitchen, sah. In the back of one of the cutlery drawers.”
“I wonder if you would do me a favor, Chester. I wonder if you would take the house diary to your apartment and conceal it carefully. I realize that is a strange request, but it is very important.”
He didn’t speak for a while. Then he said softly:
“Very well, Mr. Bigg, I shall do as you request.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“My pleasure, sah,” he said.
My case was looking better and better. I thought I had Knurr cold, and I refused to worry about how I might begin to prove it.
“I’ll check in later,” I told Chester conspiratorially.
“I’ll look forward to it, sah,” he said, then rang off.
The high points of my long, dull morning were two more inconclusive calls from cabdrivers. A few minutes before noon I went into the men’s room to freshen for lunch with Yetta. At an adjoining basin Hamish Hooter was combing his black, greasy locks sideways in a futile effort to conceal his growing tonsure.
He saw me reflected in the mirror and sucked his teeth noisily.
“See here, Bigg,” he said, the voice reedy but not aggrieved; smug, in fact. “I understand you’re having lunch with Yetta Apatoff today.”
“You understand correctly,” I said coldly.
He dried his hands busily on one paper towel. About a year previously, he had circulated a memo about the wasteful practice of using more than a single paper towel.
Hooter examined himself in the mirror with every evidence of approval. He passed a palm over his slicked-down hair. He attempted to straighten his rounded shoulders. He inhaled mightily, which caused his pot belly to disappear until he exhaled.
“Well,” he said, turning to face me, “have a good time. Enjoy it while you can.” Then he gave me a foxy grin and was gone.
When I walked out to meet Yetta, I saw at once that she was “dolled up” and looked especially glowing and attractive. I thought this was in anticipation of lunch with me, and I swelled with male satisfaction. At the same time I imagined how shattered she would be by the can’t-we-be-friends speech I had in mind. Especially when she’d gone to so much trouble.
Instead of the usual knitted suit she was wearing a dress of some shimmering stuff with a metallic gleam.
About her blonde curls was bound a light blue chiffon scarf. The electric combination of blue and green enhanced her creamy complexion, sweetly curved lips, and the look of innocence in those limpid brown eyes. Was I being too hasty in putting our relationship on a purely friendly basis?
We walked over to the Chinese restaurant, Yetta chattering briskly about a movie concerning creatures from outer space who descend to earth and turn everyone into toadstools. She assured me it had been one of the scariest movies she had ever seen.
“Also,” she added, “it made you think.”
Then she babbled on about a used car her brother was thinking of buying, and about a girl she went to high school with who had recently obtained a job with the telephone company. Even for Yetta it was a manic performance.
All became clear over the wonton soup.
“Josh,” she said breathlessly, “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
I stared at her, perplexed.
“First of all,” she started, “I want it definitely understood that you and I can still be friends.”
Naturally I resented that. It was my line.
“Second of all,” Yetta went on, “I have really enjoyed knowing you and these lunches and everything. I will never forget you, Josh.”
“What—” I began.
“And third of all,” she said in a rush, “Hamish Hooter asked me to marry him and I said yes. I know that must be a real downer for you, Josh, but I want you to know that I think I’m doing the right thing, and I’ve given it a lot of thought. He’s not as cute as you are, Josh, that I freely admit, but he says he loves me and he needs me. Josh, you don’t need me. Do you?”
There was no answer to that. I stared down into my soup bowl, saw it whisked away and a Number Three Combination slid into its place.
“Josh, don’t take it too hard,” Yetta pleaded. “It’s best for all of us.”
Could I tell her that my heart was leaping upward like a demented stag?
“You have your work,” she continued, “and I know how important it is to you. Will you pass the sweet-and-sour sauce, please? So I thought—Hamish and I thought—that this would be the best way to tell you, honestly and straight out. He wanted to be here, but I said it would be best if I told you myself…Josh,” Yetta Apatoff continued, staring at me with those guileless eyes, “I hope you don’t hate me?”
“Hate you?” I said, keeping any hint of glee out of my voice. “How could I? All I want is what makes you happy. Yetta, I wish you the best of everything. Hooter is a very lucky man.”
“Oh, Josh,” she said, sighing, “you’re so nice and understanding. I knew you would be. I told Hammy—that’s what I call him: Hammy—I said, ‘Hammy, his heart may be broken, but he’ll wish me the best of everything.’ That’s what I told Hammy. Josh, is your heart broken? Could I have the mustard, please?”
I resisted the urge to suggest to Yetta that we go Dutch, and the lunch hour passed reasonably amicably, all things considered.
My first visitor upon my return to TORT was Hamish Hooter. “See here, Bigg,” he said. “I guess Yetta told you the news?”
“She did,” I said, “and I want to wish the two of you the best of everything.”
“Yes?” he said, surprised. “Well, uh, thanks.”
“I hope you’ll be very happy together,” I went on enthusiastically. “I’m sure you will be. Congratulations.”
“Uh, thanks,” he said again. “Listen, Bigg, you’re being very decent about this.”
I made an “it’s nothing” gesture.
“If there’s anything I can do…” he went on lamely.
“Well, there is something. You know I’ve got an assistant now. Temporary at the moment, but my workload seems to increase every day. If a larger office becomes available, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me in mind.”
“Well, uh, sure,” he said. “I’ll certainly do that.”
“Thank you,” I said humbly. “And once again, I wish you every happiness.”
Next I did what most TORT employees did when they had an intraoffice problem: I went to Thelma Potts.
The news had already spread; she greeted me with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bigg,” she said.
“The better man won,” I said.
Then she said something so completely out of character that she left me open-mouthed.
“Bullshit,” Thelma Potts said. “You’re well out of it. The girl is a moron. Not for you.”
“Well…” I said, “at least you won.”
“You did, too,” she assured me with some asperity. “Did you come up here for sympathy?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve got a problem. Nothing to do with Yetta,” I added hastily.
“What’s the problem?”
“I want to get together with Mr. Teitelbaum and Mr. Tabatchnick in a kind of conference. I have a lot to tell them, and it’s very important, but I don’t want to tell them separately.
I was hoping you would speak to Ada Mondora and maybe the two of you might arrange something.”
“It’s that important?”
“It really is, Miss Potts. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. It concerns a case each of them is handling, and the two cases have come together in a very peculiar fashion.”
“Kipper and Stonehouse?” she asked.
“Miss Potts,” I said, “is there anything you don’t know?”
“Ada and I have lunch together almost every day,” she said. “When do you want to meet with the two Mr. T’s?”
“As soon as possible.” I thought of my appointment with Detective Percy Stilton. “Not today, but tomorrow. If you can set it up.”
“I’ll talk to Ada,” she said, “and we’ll see what we can do. I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you,” I said gratefully. “I don’t know what we’d all do without you.”
She sniffed.
I bent swiftly to kiss her soft cheek.
“Now that I’ve been jilted,” I said, “I’m available.”
“Oh you!” she said.
I returned to my office and took calls from two more cab-drivers, one of them drunk, then did routine stuff until it was time to leave for my meeting with Stilton. I packed my scruffy briefcase, put on hat and coat, and peeked cautiously out into the corridor.
Yetta Apatoff was seated at her receptionist’s post, hands clasped primly on the desk. I ducked back into my office and waited a few moments. When I peeked out again, she was in the same position, still as a statue. I ducked back inside again. But the third time I peered out, she was busy on the phone, and I immediately sailed forth and gave her a sad smile and a resigned wave of my hand as I passed.
Cowardly conduct, I know.
I arrived early at the Newsweek building. A few minutes before 4:00 P.M., Percy Stilton came up behind me and stuck a hard forefinger in my ribs.
“Perce,” I said, “I’ve got to tell you. I was—”
“Sure,” he said, “but later. We’ve got a four o’clock appointment with Bishop Harley Oxman. He’s in charge of personnel for the church the Reverend Godfrey Knurr belongs to. You just do as little talking as possible and follow my lead. In this scam, you play a lawyer.”
“I’ve got Mr. Tabatchnick’s business card,” I offered.
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