The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Don’t be silly. I just came up. We had a dinner for seven tonight. A lot of work.”

  “Oh? Was Mr. Knurr there?”

  “No. Which was odd. First we were told there’d be eight. But he didn’t show up. Usually he’s here all the time. Are you going to come by Mother Tucker’s tomorrow night?”

  “I’m certainly going to try,” I lied. “Listen, Perdita, I have an unusual question to ask you. When Sol Kipper was alive, did he ever write notes to his wife? You know, little short notes he’d leave where she’d find them?”

  “Oh sure,” she said promptly. “He was always writing her notes. She was running around so much, and then he’d go out and leave a note for her. I read a few of them. Love notes, some, or just messages.”

  “Did she keep them, do you think?”

  “Tippi? I think she kept some of them. Yes, I know she did. I remember coming across a pile of them in a box of undies in her dressing room. Some of them were hilarious. The poor old man was really in love with her. She had him hooked. And you know how.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you very much, Perdita. Sorry to bother you.”

  “And I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

  “I’m certainly going to try.” It was getting easier all the time.

  5

  THURSDAY MORNING: ALIVE, BUBBLING, laughing aloud. Cleo hadn’t wanted to upset her mother by staying the night, but I’d awakened steeped in her recent presence. I sang in the shower (“O Sole Mio”), looked out the window, and nodded approvingly at the pencil lines of rain slanting down steadily. Nothing could daunt my mood. I wore raincoat and rubbers to work, and carried my umbrella. It was the type of bumbershoot that extends with the press of a button in the handle. Very efficient, except that when a stiff wind was blowing, it cracked open and seemed to lift me a few inches off my feet.

  However, I arrived at the TORT building without misadventure and set to work planning my day’s activities.

  My first call was to Glynis Stonehouse. She came to the phone, finally, and didn’t sound too delighted to hear from me. I acted the young, innocent, optimistic, bouncy investigator, and I told her I had uncovered new information about her father’s disappearance that I’d like to share with her. Grudgingly, she said that she could spare me an hour if I came immediately.

  I thanked her effusively, ran out of TORT and, miraculously, given the weather, hailed a cab right in front of the building.

  In the Stonehouse hallway the formidable Olga Eklund relieved me of hat, coat, rubbers, and umbrella, and herded me into that beige living room where Glynis Stonehouse reclined in one corner of the velvet sofa, idly leafing through a magazine. Nothing about her posture or manner suggested worry.

  If she made an error, it was in her greeting.

  “Oh,” she said, “Mr. Bigg. Do sit down.”

  Too casual.

  I sat down, opened my briefcase, and began to rummage through it.

  “Miss Stonehouse,” I said enthusiastically, “I think I’m making real progress. You’ll recall that I told you I had discovered your father had been suffering from arsenic poisoning prior to his disappearance? Well, I’ve definitely established how he was being poisoned. The arsenic was being added to his brandy!”

  I handed her the copies of the chemical analyses. She looked at them. I don’t believe she read them: I plucked them from her fingers and replaced them in my briefcase.

  “Isn’t that wonderful?” I burbled on. “What a break!”

  “I suppose so,” she said in her husky, low-pitched voice. “But what does it mean?”

  “Well, it means we now know how the poison was administered.”

  “And what will you do next?”

  “That’s obvious, isn’t it?” I said, laughing lightly. “Find the source of the poison. You can’t buy arsenic at your local drugstore, you know. So I must check out everyone involved to see who had access to arsenic trioxide.”

  I stared at her. I thought there would be a reaction. There wasn’t.

  She sighed deeply.

  “Yes,” she said, “I suppose you will have to keep digging and digging until you discover the…what do the police call it?…the perpetrator? You’ll never give up, will you, Mr. Bigg?”

  “Oh no!” I said heartily. “I’m going to stick to it. Miss Stonehouse, may I speak to Effie Dark for a few moments? I’d like to find out who had access to your father’s brandy.”

  She looked at me.

  “Yes,” she said dully, “talk to Mrs. Dark. That’s all right.”

  I smiled my thanks, bent to reclasp my briefcase. Before I could stand, she said:

  “Mr. Bigg, why are you doing this?”

  I shook my head, pretending puzzlement.

  “Doing what, Miss Stonehouse?”

  “All these questions. This—this investigation.”

  “I’m trying to find your father.”

  Her body went slack. She melted. That’s the only way I can describe it. Suddenly there was no complete outline around her. Not only in her face, which sagged, but in her limbs, her flesh. All of her became loose and without form. It was a frightening thing to see. A dissolution.

  “He was a dreadful man,” she said in a low voice.

  I think I was angered then. I tried to hide it, but I’m not certain I succeeded.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’m sure he was. Everyone says so. An awful person. But that’s not important, is it?”

  She made a gesture. A wave of the hand. A small, graceful flip of dismissal. Of defeat.

  Effie Dark was seated at the white enameled table, an emptied coffee cup before her. There was a redolence, and it took me a few seconds to identify it: the air smelled faintly of brandy.

  She looked up listlessly as I entered, then smiled wanly.

  “Mr. Bigg,” she said, and pulled out a chair for me. “It’s nice to see a cheerful face.”

  “What’s wrong, Effie?” I asked, sitting down. “Problems?”

  “Oh…” she said, sighing, “there’s no light in this house anymore. The missus, she’s taken to her bed and won’t get out of it.”

  “She’s ill?”

  “Sherry-itis. And Miss Glynis is as down as I’ve ever seen her. I even called Powell, thinking a visit from him might help things. But he says he must avoid negative vibrations. That means he’s scared misery might be catching. Well…” she said, sighing again, “I was figuring on retiring in a year or two. Maybe I’ll do it sooner.”

  “What will you do, Effie?” I asked softly.

  “Oh, I’ll make do,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “I have enough. It’s not the money that worries me, it’s the loneliness.”

  “Move somewhere pleasant,” I suggested. “Warm, sunny weather. Maybe Florida or California. You’ll make new friends.”

  Suddenly she perked up. Those little blueberry eyes twinkled in her muffin face. She lifted one plump arm and poked fingers into the wig of marcelled yellow-white hair. I could have sworn I heard her dentures clacking.

  “I might even find myself a husband,” she said, looking at me archly. “What do you think of that, Mr. Bigg. Think I’m too fat?”

  “‘Pleasingly plump’ is the expression, Effie. There are many men who appreciate well-endowed women.”

  “Well-endowed?” she spluttered. “How you do go on! You’re medicine for me, Mr. Bigg, you truly are. See? I’m laughing for the first time in days. But I don’t suppose you stopped by just to make a silly old woman happy. You need some help?”

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully. I lowered my voice. “Effie, is the door locked to Professor Storehouse’s study?”

  She nodded, staring at me with bright eyes.

  “You have a key?”

  Again the nod.

  I thought a moment. “What I’d like you to do is this: I’ll wait here while you go out and unlock the door to the study and then come back. I’ll go into the study. You’ll be here, so you won’t see me enter. I’ll only be a few minutes.
No more than five. I swear to you I will not remove anything from the study. Then I will come back here to say goodbye, and you can relock the study door. That way, if you’re ever asked any questions, you can say truthfully that you never saw me in the study, didn’t see me go in or come out.”

  She considered that for a while.

  “Glynis is here,” she said. “In the living room, I think. And the Sexy Swede is wandering around someplace. Either of them could catch you in there.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “I hope I’m doing the right thing,” she said.

  When I was inside the study, I closed the door softly behind me. I went directly to the wall where the model ship hulls were displayed. I moved along the bottom row, rapping on the hulls gently with a knuckle. Some sounded solid, some hollow. I found the Prince Royal in the middle of the third row. I stood on tiptoe to lift the Prince Royal plaque off picture hooks nailed into the wall.

  I carried the model hull to the desk and set it on top of the littered papers and maps. I switched on the desk lamp. I picked up a pencil and tapped the hull form twice. It sounded hollow. So far so good.

  I grasped the hull and lifted gently. It came away. As easily as that. Just came right off. I was astonished, and looked to see what had been holding it to the plaque. Eight small magnets, inch-long bars, four inset into the hull and four in the plaque. They gripped firmly enough to hold the hull when the tablet was on the wall, but released with a slight tug.

  Of course I was more interested in the papers folded inside. Most were thin, flimsy sheets, of the weight used for carbon copies. I unfolded them carefully, handling them by the corners. The top four sheets were not typed, but handwritten. It took me awhile to read it through. The writing was as crabbed, mean, and twisted as the man himself.

  I, Yale Emerson Stonehouse, being of sound mind and body…

  It was all there: the holographic last will and testament of the missing Professor Stonehouse. He started by making specific cash bequests. Fifty thousand to his alma mater, and twenty thousand to Mrs. Effie Dark, which I was happy to see. Then there were a dozen cash bequests to cousins and distant relatives, none of whom was to receive more than a thousand dollars, and one of whom was to inherit five bucks. Olga Eklund got one hundred.

  The bulk of his estate was to be divided equally between his wife, Ula Stonehouse, and his son, Powell Stonehouse. The will specifically forbade his daughter, Glynis Stonehouse, from sharing in his estate because she had “deliberately and with malice aforethought” attempted to cause his death by adding arsenic trioxide to his brandy. In proof of which, he was attaching to this will copies of chemical analyses made by Bommer & Son and a statement by Dr. Morris Stolowitz that Professor Stonehouse had indeed been suffering from arsenic poisoning.

  In addition, the will continued, if the testator was found dead by violence or by what appeared to be an accident, he demanded the police conduct a thorough investigation into the circumstances of his demise, with the knowledge that his daughter had tried to murder him once and would quite possibly try again, with more success.

  The will had been witnessed by Olga Eklund and Wanda Chard. I could understand the loopy maid signing anything the Professor handed her and promptly forgetting it. But Wanda Chard?

  I carefully folded up the papers on their original creases, tucked them back into the hull of the Prince Royal, reattached hull to plaque, and wiped both with my handkerchief. Then, holding the tablet by the edges with my fingertips, I rehung it on the wall, adjusted it so it was level, and returned to the kitchen.

  “Thank you, Effie,” I said, bending to kiss her cheek.

  She looked up at me. I thought I saw tears welling.

  “It’s the end of everything, isn’t it?” she asked.

  I couldn’t lie to her.

  “Close to it,” I said.

  I went back into the living room. Glynis Stonehouse was standing at one of the high windows, staring down at the rain-lashed street. She turned when she heard me come into the room.

  “Finished?” she asked.

  “Finished,” I said. “Mrs. Dark tells me your mother isn’t feeling well. I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Stonehouse. Please convey to her my best wishes and hope for her quick recovery.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She stood tall and erect. She had recovered her composure. She looked at me steadily, and there was nothing in her appearance to suggest that she knew how close she was to disaster.

  “I’ll keep you informed of the progress of my investigation, Miss Stonehouse.”

  “Yes,” she said levelly, “you do that.”

  She was so strong. Oh, but she was strong! If she had weakened, briefly, that weakness was gone now; she was resolute, determined to see it through. I admired her. She was a woman of intelligence and must have known she was in danger, walking the edge. I bade her a dignified good day, then high-tailed it across town to the Kipper manse.

  Chester Heavens greeted me with his usual aplomb, but I sensed a certain reticence, almost a nervousness in his replies to my chatter about his health, the weather, etc. We were standing in the echoing entrance hall when I became aware of raised voices coming from behind the closed doors of the sitting room.

  “Mom is at home, sah,” the butler informed me gravely, looking over my head.

  “So I hear,” I said. “And Mr. Knurr?”

  He nodded slowly.

  I hid my pleasure.

  “Chester,” I said, “I won’t stay long. This may be my last visit.”

  “Oh?” he said. “I am sorry to hear that, sah.”

  “Just a few little things to check out,” I told him.

  He bowed slightly and moved away toward the kitchen. I stood at the front door and looked toward the rear of the house. The doorway could not be seen from the kitchen. Then I moved to the elevator. That was in plain view of anyone in the kitchen or pantry.

  I saw Mrs. Bertha Neckin standing at the sink. She glanced up and I waved to her, but she didn’t respond.

  I took the elevator up to the fifth floor and went swiftly into Tippi Kipper’s dressing room. I set down my briefcase and began searching. It wasn’t hard to find: a cedar-smelling box of filigreed wood with brass corners. It appeared to be of Indian handicraft. It was tucked under a stack of filmy lingerie in a bottom dresser drawer. I may have blushed when I handled those gossamer garments.

  The box was unlocked and filled with a carelessly tossed pile of notes. There were jottings on his personal stationery, on sheets from notepads, on raggedly torn scrap paper, and one on a personal check of Solomon A. Kipper, made out to Tippi Kipper in the amount of “Ten zillion dollars and all my love” and signed “Your Sol.”

  I scanned the notes quickly. My heart cringed. Most were love letters from an old man obviously obsessed to the point of dementia by a much younger woman whose seductive skills those notes spelled out in explicit detail.

  And there were notes of apology.

  “I am sorry, babe, if I upset you.” Wasn’t so bad for starters, but then I came across “Please forgive me for the way I acted last night. I realize you had a headache, but I couldn’t help myself, you looked so beautiful.” As I read on, a pattern of increasing desperation, dependence, and humiliation emerged.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” Then, “Here is a little something for you to make up for what I said last night. Am I forgiven?”

  It was punishment, reading those revelations of a dead man. I stole two of them:

  “Tippi, I hope you will pardon me for the pain I caused you.” And, “My loving wife, please forgive me for all the trouble I made. I promise you that you’ll never again have any reason to doubt my everlasting love for you.”

  Those two, I thought, would serve as suicide notes as well as the one found prominently displayed in the master bedroom after Sol Kipper’s plunge.

  I tucked the two notes into my briefcase, closed and replaced the box, and then went up the rear staircase to the s
ixth floor. I entered the party room, went over and stood with my back against the locked French doors leading to the terrace.

  I looked at my watch. I allowed fifteen seconds for the act of throwing Kipper over the wall. Then I started running. I went down the rear staircase as fast as I could. I dashed along the fifth-floor corridor to the main staircase. I went bounding down rapidly, swinging wildly around the turns. I came down to the entrance hall, rushed over to the front door. I looked at my watch, gasping. About ninety seconds. He could have made it. Easily.

  There was no one about, and no sounds from the sitting room. I found my outer garments and donned them and went out into the chill rain without saying goodbye to Chester. I walked toward Fifth Avenue, intending to catch a cab. I was almost there when who should fall into step alongside but the Reverend Godfrey Knurr.

  “Joshua!” he said, moving under the shelter of my umbrella. “This is nice. Chester told us you were about. If you say this is good weather for ducks, I may kick you!”

  He was bright again, his manner jaunty.

  I didn’t panic. I knew he had been waiting for me, but in a way I couldn’t understand, I welcomed the confrontation. Maybe I thought of it as a challenge.

  “Pastor,” I said, “good to see you again. I didn’t want to interrupt you and Mrs. Kipper.”

  He rolled his eyes in burlesque dismay.

  “What an argument that was,” he said carefully, taking my arm. “Want to hear about it?”

  “Sure.”

  He looked about.

  “Around the corner,” he said. “Down a block or so. Posh hotel. Nice cocktail lounge. Quiet. We can talk—and keep dry. On the outside, at least.”

  A few minutes later we were standing at the black vinyl, padded bar in the cozy lounge of the Stanhope, the room dimmed by rain-streaked windows in which the Metropolitan Museum shimmered like a Monet. We were the only customers, and the place was infused with that secret ambience of a Manhattan bar on a rainy day, comfortably closed in and begging for quiet confessions.

  Knurr ordered a dry Beefeater martini up, with lemon peel. I asked for a bottle of domestic beer. When our drinks were served, he glanced around the empty room. “Let’s take a table,” he said.