The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Flash it.”

  The church’s personnel headquarters was a brightly lighted, brisk, efficient-appearing office in a five- or six-story commercial building on Forty-ninth between Madison and Park. The walls were painted a no-nonsense beige, the floors covered with practical vinyl tile; partitions between individual offices were steel. I saw no paintings of a religious nature on view. Typewriters clacked away merrily. Men and women moving along the corridors were all in mufti. Percy and I approached the matronly receptionist, and Perce identified himself. She didn’t seem surprised that the Bishop would be meeting with a detective of the New York Police Department. She spoke briefly into an intercom, then gave us a wintry smile.

  “You may go right in,” she said. “Turn left outside, go to the end, and turn right. Last office.”

  We found the Bishop’s office with no difficulty. The door was opened before we had a chance to knock. The man greeting us was tall and broad, though somewhat stooped and corpulent. He was wearing an old-fashioned suit of rusty cheviot and a gray doeskin waistcoat with white piping. His polka-dot bowtie was negligently knotted.

  He had a very full, almost bloated face, ranging in hue from livid pink to deep purple. The full, moist, bright rose lips parted to reveal teeth of such startling whiteness, size, and regularity that they could only have been “store-bought.” Set into this blood pudding of a face were sharp eyes of ice blue, the whites clear. And he had a great shock of steel-gray hair, combed sideways in rich billows.

  “I am Bishop Oxman,” he intoned in a deep resonant voice. “Won’t you gentlemen come in?”

  He ushered us into his office and seated us in leather armchairs in front of his glass-topped desk. Perce Stilton slid his identification across the desk without being asked, and I hastily dug in my wallet and did the same with Mr. Tabatchnick’s business card.

  While the Bishop was examining our bona fides slowly and with interest, I studied the bare office, its single bookcase, artificial rubber plant, and a framed photograph behind the Bishop. It appeared to be Bishop Oxman’s seminary graduating class.

  He returned our identification to us, sat back in his swivel chair, squirmed slightly to make himself more comfortable, then laced his pudgy fingers across his paunch. He wasted no time on pleasantries.

  “Detective Stilton,” he said in his rumbling bass-baritone, “when we spoke on the phone, you stated that a situation had arisen concerning one of our pastors that might best be handled by discussing it with me personally.” He glanced briefly at me. “And privately.”

  “Yes, sir,” Percy said firmly but with deference. “Before any official action is taken.”

  “Dear me,” Bishop Oxman said with a cold smile, “that does sound ominous.” But he didn’t seem at all disturbed.

  “It’s something I think you should be aware of,” Stilton went on, speaking with no hesitation. “Mr. Tabatchnick here represents a young woman who claims she was swindled out of her savings and an inheritance—slightly over ten thousand dollars—by the one of your clergymen who promised her he could double her money in six months.”

  “Oh my,” Bishop Oxman murmured.

  “This young lady further alleges that she was persuaded to hand over her money by the promise of the pastor that he would marry her as soon as her money increased.”

  “What is the young lady’s name?” the Bishop asked.

  “I don’t believe that is germane to this discussion at the present time,” Percy Stilton said.

  “How old is the young lady? Surely you can tell me that?”

  Stilton turned to me.

  “Mr. Tabatchnick,” he said, “how old is your client?”

  “Twenty-three,” I said promptly.

  Oxman turned those piercing eyes on me.

  “Has she been married before?”

  “No, sir. Not to my knowledge.”

  The Bishop raised his two hands, pressed them together in an attitude of prayer, then put the two forefingers against his full lips. He appeared to be ruminating. Finally:

  “Is your client pregnant, Mr. Tabatchnick?”

  Stilton looked at me.

  “Yes, sir,” I said softly, “she is. I have seen the doctor’s report. My client attempted to contact the clergyman to tell him, but was unsuccessful.”

  “She called the phone number he had given her,” Stilton broke in, “a number she had previously used, but it had been disconnected. Both she and Mr. Tabatchnick went to his apartment, in the Murray Hill section of Manhattan, but apparently he had moved and left no forwarding address. Mr. Tabatchnick then reported the matter to the police, and I was assigned to the investigation. I have been unable to locate or contact the man. I felt—and Mr. Tabatchnick agreed—that it would be best to apprise you of the situation before more drastic steps were taken.”

  “And what is this clergyman’s name?”

  “The Reverend Godfrey Knurr,” Percy said. “That’s K-n-u-r-r.”

  The Bishop nodded and pulled his phone toward him. He dialed a three-digit number and waited. Then:

  “Timmy? Would you see if you can find a file on Godfrey Knurr? That’s K-n-u-r-r,” he rumbled, then hung up. Speaking to us again, he announced with solemnity, “Unfortunately this is not a unique situation. But I must tell you that frequently the minister involved is entirely innocent. A young woman misinterprets sympathy and understanding. When the pastor tries to convince her that his interest is spiritual she becomes hysterical. In her disturbed state, she makes all kinds of wild accusations.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stilton said, “I can imagine. But a complaint has been made and I’ve got to check it out.”

  “Dear me, of course! In any event I’m glad you came to me before pursuing the matter further. It’s possible the clergyman in question is not a clergyman at all, but a con man acting the role and preying on lonely women.”

  But such was not to be the case. The Bishop had hardly ceased speaking when there was a light tap on the office door, it was opened, and a young man entered with a manila folder. He placed it carefully on Oxman’s desk and turned to leave.

  “Thank you, Timmy,” the Bishop called. Then he picked up the folder and read the label on the tab. Then he looked at us. “Oh dear,” he said dolefully, “I’m afraid he’s one of ours. Godfrey Mark Knurr. Well, let’s see what we’ve got…”

  He began to scan the documents in the folder. We sat in silence, watching him. One of the things he looked at was a glossy photograph.

  “Handsome man,” he said.

  We waited patiently while the Bishop went through all the papers. Then he shut the folder. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he said with a thin smile, “it appears that Mr. Knurr has been a naughty boy again?”

  “Again?” Stilton said.

  Bishop Oxman sighed. “Sometimes,” he said, “I feel there should be limits to Christian charity. The Reverend Knurr came to us from Chicago where he served as assistant pastor. He seems to have been very popular with the congregation. It appears that he became, ah, intimate with the twenty-two-year-old daughter of one of the vestrymen. When her pregnancy could no longer be concealed, she named Mr. Knurr, claiming he had promised to marry her. In addition, she said, she had made several substantial loans to him. Loans which were never repaid, needless to say. The affair seems to have been hushed up. Knurr, who continued to protest his innocence despite some rather damning evidence against him, was banished from Chicago and sent here.”

  “Can they do that, sir?” I asked curiously. “Can the church of another city stick New York with one of their problems?”

  “Well,” the Bishop said, “Knurr may have been part of, ah, an exchange program, so to speak. One of their bad apples for one of ours. Of course there was no possibility of Knurr getting a church here. We are already burdened with a worrisome oversupply of clergymen, and their numbers are increasing every year. But I assure you that the great majority of our pastors are honorable, God-fearing men, deeply conscious of the
ir duties and responsibilities.”

  “So what did you do with Knurr?” Stilton asked.

  “He retained his collar,” Oxman said, “and was allowed to make his own way, with the understanding that because of his record, assignment to a parish was out of the question. According to these records, our last communication from the Reverend Godfrey Knurr was a letter from him requesting permission to open a sort of social club for underprivileged youngsters in Greenwich Village. He felt he could raise the required funds on his own. Permission was granted. But there is nothing in his file to indicate if he actually followed through on his proposal. And, I am sorry to say, there is no current address or telephone number listed.”

  “Where was the letter sent from?” Detective Stilton asked. “The one that asked permission to open the social club?”

  “Oh dear,” he said. “No address given.”

  “How about next-of-kin?” Stilton asked. “Have you got that?”

  “Yes, that I know we have,” the Bishop said, digging through the papers. “Here it is. A sister, Goldie Knurr, living in Athens, Indiana. Would you like the address?”

  “Please,” the detective said.

  Percy and I were the only ones in the elevator going down. “You did fine,” Stilton said.

  “Thank you.”

  “But I knew you would,” he went on, “or I’d have made you rehearse. The scam was necessary, Josh, because if I had just waltzed in there and asked to see the file on Knurr, without a warrant or anything, the Bishop would have told me to go peddle my fish. He looks sleepy, but he’s no dummy.”

  In the lobby, Stilton paused to light a cigarette.

  “Perce,” I said, “how did you get on to this office? I didn’t even know which sect Knurr belongs to.”

  “I looked him up in the telephone book and got the address of that boys’ club of his in Greenwich Village. Then I called Municipal Records downtown and got the name of the owner of the building. Then I went to see him and got a look at Knurr’s lease for that storefront. Like I figured, when he signed the lease he had to give a permanent or former address. It was the headquarters of his church. I called them and they referred me to Bishop Oxman’s personnel offices. So I called him.”

  I shook my head in wonderment.

  “It’s a lot easier,” the detective assured me, “when you can flash your potsy.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got maybe a half-hour. You have something to tell me? There’s a bar around the corner. Let’s have a beer and I’ll listen.”

  In the corner of a small bar on East 48th Street I asked, “Perce, that story you dreamed up about Knurr swindling a girl in New York was almost word for word what he actually pulled out in Chicago. How did you know?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t,” he said. “Josh, the bad guys don’t have all the luck. Sometimes we get lucky, too. I figured if we were right about him, that con about your client would be right in character. Now I’m wondering if we got enough on the guy for me to go to my lieutenant and ask that the Kipper case be reopened.” He pondered a moment. “No, I guess not,” he said finally. “What happened in Chicago a couple of years ago is just background. It’s got fuck-all to do with how Sol Kipper died. You got things to tell me?”

  I told him about the reward posters and the calls that had come in, and how I had obtained copies of the chemical analyses of Professor Stonehouse’s brandy.

  “Mmm,” Stilton grunted. “Good. More paper.”

  I told him I had obtained a photograph of Glynis Stonehouse and the name of the clinic where she presently did volunteer work and the medical laboratory where she had been employed a year ago.

  “I checked out the clinic on the phone,” I said, “and they claim they don’t stock poisons. It sounds logical; it’s an eye, ear, nose and throat clinic for children. I got nowhere with the medical lab.”

  “Give me the name and address,” the detective said. “I’ll pay them a call.”

  He copied the information into his elegant little notebook.

  Finally I told him about following Glynis Stonehouse to her rendezvous with Godfrey Knurr, and then tailing the two of them to the 79th Street boat basin.

  “That’s interesting,” Stilton said thoughtfully. “You’re doing fine, Josh.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve saved the best till last. I think I know how he killed Sol Kipper.”

  The detective stared at me for a moment.

  “Let’s have another beer,” he said.

  “There’s an old gentleman who lives in the apartment across the hall from me,” I said. “He’s confined in a wheelchair and he’s been rather lonely. Sometimes when I come home from work, he’s waiting for me in his chair on the landing. Just to talk, you know. Well, a few times in the past month I’ve gotten home early, and he didn’t know I was already in my apartment, and when I came out later, there he was on the landing, waiting for me.”

  Stilton looked at me, puzzled.

  “So?” he asked.

  “That’s what gave me the idea of how Knurr killed Sol Kipper. I was already inside the apartment.”

  He had started to take a gulp of beer, but suddenly put his full glass back on the bar and sat there, staring straight ahead.

  “Yeah,” he breathed. “That sucker! That’s how he did it. Let me tell you: He was in the house all the time. Probably hiding in one of those empty rooms. Only Tippi knew he was there. She leaves her husband, comes downstairs. Knurr goes up to the master bedroom on the fifth floor and wastes Sol Kipper. Maybe with one of those karate chops of his or with the famous blunt instrument—who knows? Then he carries—”

  “No,” I said, “that’s no good. Sol Kipper wasn’t a heavy man, but it would be a difficult task to carry him up that narrow rear staircase to the sixth floor. I think Knurr rang for the elevator and took Kipper’s body up that way.”

  “Right,” Stilton said decisively. “The first blues on the scene found the elevator on the sixth floor. All right, he gets Sol up on the terrace and throws him over. I mean literally throws him. That’s why the body was so far from the base of the wall.”

  “Then Knurr goes down—How does he go down?”

  “He takes the stairs. Because the elevator door on the main floor can be seen from the kitchen. And also, the elevator was found on the sixth floor by the first officers to arrive.”

  “Tippi fainted,” I reminded him, “or pretended to.”

  “Sure. To give Knurr time to get downstairs. Then he goes out the front door, turns right around, rings the bell, and waits for the butler to let him in.”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding, “I think so. You can’t see the front door from the kitchen, so even if they were inside when he exited, he was safe. Perce, I think he stayed in the house overnight. The butler keeps a house diary of visitors, deliveries, and so forth. He has a record of the Reverend Godfrey Knurr arriving on Tuesday the 23rd, the day before Kipper died.”

  “Oh wow,” Percy said, “that’s beautiful. I hate to admit it, but I got to admire him for that. The balls!”

  “Then you think that’s how it was done?” I said eagerly.

  “Got to be,” Perce said. “Got to! Everything fits. It was just a matter of planning and timing. That guy is one cool cat. When we take him, I’m bringing along a regiment of marines. But what about the suicide note?”

  “I can’t explain it,” I confessed. “Right now I can’t. But I’m going to give it some thought.”

  “You do that,” he said, patting my arm. “Give it some thought. I’m beginning to think Roscoe Dollworth knew exactly what he was doing when he got you the job. Chief Investigator? You better believe it! Josh, I think now I got enough to ask my loot to reopen the Kipper case. I’ll lay out the whole shmeer for him, how it ties into the Stonehouse disappearance, and how—”

  “Perce,” I said, “could you hold off for just a day or two?”

  “Well…sure, but why?”

  “I’m trying to set up a conference with Mr. Tabatchni
ck and Mr. Teitelbaum. Teitelbaum’s the senior partner who represents the Stonehouse family. I want to tell the two of them everything we’ve discovered and suggest how the two cases are connected. I want them to let me devote all my time to the investigation and stick to it no matter how long it takes. I’d like you to be there at the conference. They have some clout, don’t they? Political clout?”

  “I guess they do.”

  “Well, if we get them on our side first, won’t it help you to get the Kipper case reopened and maybe be assigned to it full time?”

  “Maybe it would,” he said slowly. “Maybe it would at that.” He ruffled my hair with his fingertips. “You’re a brainy little runt,” he said.

  I didn’t resent it at all.

  We were back on the sidewalk, about ready to part, when Stilton snapped his fingers.

  “Oh Jesus!” he said. “I forgot to tell you. There was nothing in Records on Knurr, which was why I pulled that scam at the church office. Just to get some background on the guy. But Tippi Kipper—she’s another story. She’s got a sheet. It goes back almost twenty years—but it’s there.”

  “She’s done time?” I said unbelievingly.

  “Oh no,” the detective said. “Just charged. No record of trial or disposition.”

  “Charged?” I said. “With what?”

  “Loitering,” he said, “for the purpose of prostitution.”

  4

  BEFORE I LEFT FOR work early Wednesday morning, I slid a note under Cleo’s door: “Mr. Joshua Bigg respectfully requests the pleasure of Miss Cleo Hufnagel’s company at dinner in Mr. Bigg’s apartment tonight, Wednesday, at 8:00 P.M. Dress optional. RSVP.”

  I went off to work planning the menu.

  I found a memo on my desk from Ada Mondora stating that Mr. Teitelbaum and Mr. Tabatchnick would meet with me in the library at 2:00 P.M. I called Percy, but he wasn’t in. I left a message asking him to call back as soon as possible. I then started to type notes on our meeting with Bishop Harley Oxman for the Kipper file.

  I was interrupted by a nervous call from Mrs. Gertrude Kletz. She had broken a tooth and the dentist could only take her at eleven o’clock. Would it be acceptable if she came in from twelve to four? I told her that would be fine. A cabdriver called who claimed to have picked up Professor Stonehouse on the night of January 10th. He described his passenger as being short, in his middle 40s, with a noticeable limp.