“Yes, sir,” I said, fainter than before. “It is.”
We all sat in silence. The quiet seemed to go on forever, although I suppose it was only a minute or two before Mr. Teitelbaum pushed himself from the table and leaned back in his chair.
“And what, precisely,” he said in an unexpectedly strong voice, “do you suggest be done next in this unpleasant matter?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Percy Stilton said, “I’m going to tell my lieutenant the whole story and see if I can get the Kipper case reopened. You gentlemen might help me there—if you have any influence that can be brought to bear.”
“What would be the advantage of reopening the case?” Leopold Tabatchnick asked.
“I would hope to get assigned to it full time,” the detective said. “With more personnel assigned as needed. To keep a stakeout on that houseboat so Knurr doesn’t take off. To dig deeper into the backgrounds and relationships of the people involved. To check Knurr’s bank account, and so forth. All the things that would be done in a homicide investigation.”
The two senior partners looked at each other again, and again I had the sense of communication between them.
“We are not totally without some influence,” Ignatz Teitelbaum said cautiously. “We will do what we can to assist you in getting the Kipper case reopened. But I must tell you in all honesty that I am not optimistic about bringing this whole affair to a successful solution, even with the most rigorous homicide investigation.”
“I concur,” Mr. Tabatchnick rumbled.
Mr. Teitelbaum scraped his chair farther back from the table and, not without some difficulty, crossed his knees. He sat there a moment, staring into space between Percy and me, not really seeing us. He was, I thought, composing his summation to the jury.
“First of all,” he said finally, “I would like to compliment you gentlemen—and especially you, Mr. Bigg—on your intelligence and persistence in this investigation.”
“Imaginative,” Mr. Tabatchnick said, nodding. “Creative.”
“Exactly,” Teitelbaum said. “You have offered a hypothesis that accounts for all known important facts.”
“It may be accurate,” Tabatchnick admitted almost grudgingly.
“It may very well be. Frankly, I believe it is. I believe your assumptions are correct,” Teitelbaum concurred.
“But they are still assumptions,” Tabatchnick persisted.
“You have little that is provable in a court of law,” Teitelbaum persevered.
“Certainly nothing that might justify legal action.” Tabatchnick was firm.
“No eyewitness, obviously. No weapons. In fact, no hard evidence of legal value.” Teitelbaum was firmer.
“Merely thin circumstantial evidence in support of what is, essentially, a theory.” Tabatchnick.
“We don’t wish to be unduly pessimistic, but you have told us nothing to indicate that continued investigation would uncover evidence to justify a criminal indictment.” Teitelbaum.
“You are dealing here with a criminal conspiracy.” The judgment was from Tabatchnick, but the coup de grace was delivered by Teitelbaum as follows:
“Really two criminal conspiracies with one individual, Knurr, common to both.”
Perce looked at them dazedly. I was shattered. I thought their rapid dialogue was a prelude to ordering me to drop the investigation. I glanced at Percy Stilton. He was staring intently at the two attorneys. He seemed entranced, as if he were hearing something I couldn’t hear, as if he enjoyed being a tennis ball in the Jurisprudential Open.
“It is an unusual problem,” Mr. Tabatchnick intoned, inspecting the spotted backs of his clumpy hands. “Sometimes unusual problems require unusual remedies.”
“When more than one person is involved in a major criminal enterprise,” Mr. Teitelbaum said, uncrossing his knees and carefully pinching the crease back into his trousers, “it is sometimes possible…”
His voice trailed away.
“You have shown such initiative thus far,” Mr. Tabatchnick said, “surely the possibility exists that…”
His voice, too, faded into silence.
Then, to my astonishment, the lawyers glanced at each other, a signal was apparently passed, and they rose simultaneously to their feet. Percy and I stood up. They reached across the table and the two of us shook hands with both of them.
“I shall look forward to your progress,” Tabatchnick said sternly.
“I have every confidence,” Teitelbaum said in a more kindly tone.
Still stunned, I watched them move to the door. I was bewildered because I was sure they had told us something. What it was I did not know.
Mr. Teitelbaum had already opened the door to the corridor when he turned back to address me.
“Mr. Bigg,” he said softly, “is Tippi Kipper older than Glynis Stonehouse?”
“What?” I croaked. “Oh yes, sir,” I said, nodding madly. “By at least ten years. Probably more.”
“That might be a possibility,” he said pleasantly.
Then they were gone.
We sank back into our chairs. I waited as Percy lighted a cigarette, took two deep drags, and slumped down in his armchair. Clerks and paralegal assistants began to straggle into the library, heading for the stacks of law books.
I leaned toward Stilton. I spoke in a low voice.
“What,” I asked him, still puzzled, “was that all about? Those last things they said? I didn’t understand that at all. I’m lost.”
Percy put his head far back and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. Then, to demonstrate his expertise, he blew a large ring and puffed a smaller one within it.
“They’re not lawyers,” he said, almost dreamily, “they’re pirates. Pi-rates!”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“Incredible,” he said, shaking his head. “Infuckingcredible. Teitelbaum and Tabatchnick. T and T. T’n’T. TNT. They’re TNT all right. If I ever get racked up, I want those pirates on my side.”
“Perce, will you please tell me what’s going on?”
He straightened up in his chair, then hunched over toward me so our heads were close together.
“Josh, I think they’re right. That’s a hell of a plot you came up with about how Knurr offed Sol Kipper. Probably right on. But how are we going to prove it? Never. Unless we break Knurr or Tippi Kipper. Get one to spill on the other. And what have we got on Glynis Stonehouse? We can’t even prove she tried to poison her father. She shacks up with Knurr on a houseboat. So what? It’s not an indictable offense. Your bosses saw right away that the only way we’re going to snap this thing is to get one of the main characters to sing.”
“And how are we going to do that?”
“Oh, T and T were so cute!” he said, grinning and lighting another cigarette. “You notice that not once did either of them say anything that could be construed as an order or instructions to do anything illegal. All they did was pass out a few vague hints.”
“But what did they say?” I cried desperately.
“Shh. Keep your voice down. They want us to run a game on Knurr. A scam. A con.”
I looked at him, startled.
“How are we going to do that?”
“Spook him. Him and the ladies. Stir them up. Let them know they’re suspects and are being watched. Play one against the other. Work on their nerves. Wear them down. Push them into making some stupid move. Guerrilla warfare. Mousetrap them. You think Knurr and Tippi and Glynis are smarter than we are? I don’t. They got some nice games running, and so far they’ve worked. Well, we can run plots just as clever. More. That’s what T and T were telling us. Run a game on these people and split them. They were right; it’s the only way.”
“I get it,” I said. “Take the offensive.”
“Right!”
“And that last thing Teitelbaum said about Tippi Kipper being older than Glynis Stonehouse?”
“He was suggesting that we let Tippi know about Glyn
is.”
Before Perce and I took our leave of each other, we had decided on at least the first play of our revised game plan. I set about implementing it as soon as I got back to my office.
Mrs. Kletz and I sat down to compose a letter which Mrs. Kletz would then copy in her handwriting on plain paper. The finished missive reads as follows:
Dear Mrs. Kipper,
We have met casually several times, but I believe I know more about your private life than you are aware. You’ll see that I am not signing this letter. Names are not important, and I don’t wish to become further involved. I am writing only with the best of intentions, because I don’t want you to know the pain I suffered in a comparable situation.
Mrs. Kipper, I happen to know how close your relationship is with the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. I hope you will forgive me when I tell you that your “affair” is common knowledge and a subject of sometimes malicious gossip in the circles in which we both move.
I regret to inform you that the Reverend is also currently carrying on a clandestine “affair” with a beautiful young woman, Glynis Stonehouse. Believe me when I tell you that I have irrefutable proof of their liaison which has existed for several months.
They have been seen together by witnesses whose word cannot be doubted. Their frequent trysts, always late at night, are held aboard his houseboat moored at the 79th Street boat basin. Were you aware that the Reverend Knurr owned a lavishly furnished houseboat and uses it for midnight meetings with this young beautiful woman? And possibly others?
As I said, Mrs. Kipper, I am writing only to spare you the agony I recently endured in a similar situation. I wish now that a concerned friend had written to me as I am writing to you, in time to prevent me from acting foolishly and deserting a loving husband and family for the sake of an unfaithful philanderer.
I have been able to obtain a photograph of the other woman, Glynis Stonehouse, which I am enclosing with this letter.
Forgive me for writing of matters which, I am sure, must prove painful to you. But I could not endure seeing a woman of your taste and refinement suffer as I suffered, and am suffering.
A Friend
When Mrs. Kletz finished copying the letter, we sealed it with the snapshot of Glynis Stonehouse in a plain manila envelope. Mrs. Kletz addressed it in her hand.
“Just ring the bell at the front gate,” I instructed her, as I prepared to send her out on this important assignment. “The butler, a big man, will come out. Tell him you have a letter for Mrs. Kipper, give it to him, and walk away as quickly as you can.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Bigg,” she said. “I’ll get out of there fast.”
She put on her Tam O’Shanter and a loden coat as billowy as a tent and set out. A half-hour later I locked the Kipper and Stonehouse files securely away and left the office. Uncharacteristically I took a cab home, so anxious was I to find a message from Cleo. I found it slipped under my door: “Miss Cleo Hufnagel accepts with pleasure Mr. Joshua Bigg’s kind invitation to dinner tonight in his apartment at 8:00 P.M.”
Smiling, I changed into parka and watch cap, and then checked my larder, refrigerator, and liquor supply. I made out a careful list of things I needed and then set forth with my two-wheeled shopping cart. It was a cold, misty evening, and I didn’t dawdle. I bought two handsome club steaks; baking potatoes; sour cream already mixed with chives; butter (should she prefer it to the sour cream); a head of iceberg lettuce; a perfectly shaped, plasma-colored tomato; a cucumber the size of a tough, small U-boat, and just as slippery; a bottle of creamy garlic dressing; and a frozen blueberry cheesecake. I also purchased two small shrimp cocktails that came complete with sauce in small jars that could later be used as juice glasses. A paper tablecloth. Paper napkins. An onion.
I also bought a cold six-pack of Ballantine ale, two bottles of Chianti in raffia baskets, and a quart of California brandy.
And two long red candles. On impulse I stopped at a florist’s shop and bought a long-stemmed yellow rose.
She tapped on my door a few minutes after 8:00 and came in smiling. She bent swiftly to kiss my cheek. She had brought me a loaf of crusty sour rye from our local Jewish bakery. It was a perfect gift; I had forgotten all about bread. Fortunately I had butter.
I gave her the yellow rose, which came close to bringing tears to her eyes and earned me another cheek-kiss, warmer this time. I led her to my favorite armchair and asked her if she’d like a fire.
“Maybe later,” she said.
I poured a glass of red wine for her and one for myself.
“Here’s to you,” I toasted.
“To us,” she said.
I told her what we were having for dinner.
“Sounds marvelous,” she said in her low, whispery voice. “I like everything.”
Suddenly, due to her words or her voice or her smile, something struck me.
“What’s wrong?” Cleo asked anxiously.
I sighed. “I bought a kite. And a ball of string and a winder. But I left them all at the office. I forgot to bring them home.”
She laughed. “We weren’t going to fly it tonight. But I’m glad you remembered.”
“It’s a red kite,” I told her. “Listen, I have to go into the kitchen and get things ready. You help yourself to the wine.”
“Can’t I come in with you?” she said softly. “I promise I won’t get in the way.”
I couldn’t remember ever having been so content in my life. I think my feeling—in addition to the beamy effects of the food and wine—came from a realization of the sense of home. I had never known a real home. Not my own. And there we were in a tiny, messy kitchen, fragrant with cooking odors and the smoke of candles, quiet with our comfort, walled around and shielded.
It was a new experience for me, being with a woman I liked. Liked? Well…wanted to be with. I didn’t have to make conversation. She didn’t have to. We could be happily silent together. That was something, wasn’t it?
After dinner, she murmured that she’d help me clean up.
“Oh, let’s just leave everything,” I said, which was out of character for me, a very tidy man.
“You’ll get roaches,” she warned.
“I already have them,” I said mournfully, and we both smiled. Her large, prominent teeth didn’t offend me. I thought them charming.
We doused the candles and straggled back to the living room. We decided a blaze in the fireplace would be superfluous; the apartment was warm enough. She sat in the armchair. I sat on the floor at her feet. Her fingers stroked my hair idly. I stroked her long, prehensile toes. Her bare toes. She groaned with pleasure.
“Do you like me, Cleo?” I asked.
“Of course I like you.”
“Then, if you like me, will you rise from your comfortable chair, find the bottle of brandy in the bar, open it, and pour us each a small glass of brandy? The glasses are in the kitchen cupboard.”
“Your wish is my command, master,” she said humbly.
She was back in a few moments with glasses of brandy, handed me one and, while she was bent over, kissed the top of my head. Then she resumed her sprawling position in the armchair, and I resumed stroking her toes.
“It was a wonderful dinner,” she said sighing.
“Thank you.”
“I’m a virgin,” she said in exactly the same tone of voice she had said, “It was a wonderful dinner.”
What could I answer with but an equally casual, “Yes, you mentioned it last time.”
“Did I also mention I don’t want to be?” she added thoughtfully.
“Ah,” I said, hoping desperately that I could eventually contribute something better than monosyllables. When it occurred to me almost at once that a lunge qualified as something better, the ice broke.
I have told you that she was tall. Very tall. And slender. Very slender. But I was not prepared for the sinuous elegance of her body, its lithe vigor. And the sweetness of her skin. She was a rope dipped in honey.
; Initially, I think, there was a certain embarrassment, a reticence, on my part as well as hers. But this reserve soon vanished, to be replaced by a vigorous tumbling. She was experiencing new sensations, entering a new world, and wanted to know it all.
“What’s this?” she asked eagerly. “And this?”
She was amazed that men had nipples capable of erection. She was delighted to learn that many of the things that aroused her, aroused me; that there could be as much (or more) pleasure in the giving as in the taking. She wanted to know everything at once, to explore, probe, understand.
“Am I doing this correctly?” she asked anxiously. And, “Is it all right if I do this?” and, “What must I do now?”
“Shut up,” I replied.
We may have roared. We certainly cried out, both of us, and I dimly recall looking into a face transformed, ecstatic, and primitive. When it was over, we lay shuddering with bliss, so closely entwined that my arms ached with the strain of pulling her closer, as if to engulf her, and I felt the muscular tremor in those long, flexible legs locked about me.
“I love you,” she said later.
“I love you,” I said.
I buried my face in the soft hollow of neck and shoulder. My toes caressed her ivory shins.
I interrupted our idyll for business reasons only once that evening. Feeling I had to be honest, I informed Cleo that I had to call the floozie spotted earlier leaving my apartment by the evil Finkel. Further, I would seemingly be arranging a rendezvous, really an interrogation. Should Cleo mistakenly conclude I was growing bored with her, I would be glad to prove her wrong as soon as I completed the call. She laughed and kissed me merrily.
The phone rang three times before Perdita Schug answered.
“Yes?”
“Perdita?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Joshua Bigg.”
“Josh!”
“I apologize for calling so late, Perdita. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
The Tenth Commandment Page 32