Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

'Don't let it get you down,' she advised. 'He gives everyone a hard time. Me, especially. Sometimes I think he's got the hots for me.'

'Shows he's got more sense than I thought,' I said.

'Hey, hey! ' she said. She turned and pushed me playfully. Almost off the stool.

'What was it all about?' she asked. 'That Stonehouse guy you mentioned on the phone?'

'That's the one,' I said. 'He was seeing Dr Stolowitz in October and November of last year. Remember him?'

'Do I ever!' she said. 'What a crab. Always complaining about something. He had to wait, or the office was too cold, or the Doc's cigars were stinking up the place. He was a real pain in the you know where.'

'Stolowitz should be happy he wasn't sued,' I said. 'This Stonehouse is always suing someone.'

'Is he suing you?'

'Not me personally,' I said, 'but maybe the outfit I work for.' Then I launched into the scenario I had contrived.

105

'I'm an investigator with the claims division of a health insurance company. Isley Insurance. Ever hear of us?'

'No,' she said, 'can't say that I have.'

'It's a small outfit,' I admitted. 'We specialize in health coverage for the faculties of educational institutions. You know: schools, colleges, universities — like that. Group policies. Well, this Stonehouse used to teach at New York University. He's retired now, but he's still covered because he pays the premiums personally. You follow?'

'Oh sure,' she said. 'I make out all the Medicare forms for Stolowitz. It's a pain in the you know what.'

'I agree,' I said. 'Well, you know when you fill out those forms, you have to state the nature of the illness — right?'

'Of course,' she said. 'Always.'

'Well, this Stonehouse refuses to state what was wrong with him. He says it's his own business, and asking him to reveal it is an invasion of his privacy.'

'He's whacko!' she burst out.

'Absolutely,' I said. 'No doubt about it. He refused to tell Medicare and they rejected his claim. Now he's suing them.'

'Suing Medicare?' she said, aghast. 'That's the US

Government!'

'Correct,' I said. 'And that's who he's suing. Can you believe it?'

'Unreal,' she said.

'Anyway, he also made a claim against my company, Isley Insurance. But he won't tell us what his illness was either. So naturally his claim was rejected, and now he's suing us. We'll fight it, of course, but it'll drag out and cost a lot of money. For lawyers and all. So we'd rather settle with him. How about some dessert?'

'Chocolate sundae,' she said promptly.

I had another cup of coffee, and after she demolished her sundae, I lighted her cigarette. I always carry matches for other people's cigarettes.

'So I went to Stolowitz,' I continued, 'figuring maybe he'd tell me what Stonehouse was suffering from. But no soap.'

'That's right,' she said. 'It's confidential between him and the patients. Me and the nurses, we got very strict orders not to talk about the patients' records. As if anyone wanted to. That place gives me the creeps. It's no fun working around sick people all the time, I can tell you.'

The waiter cropped separate checks in front of us. I grabbed up both.

'Here,' Ardis Peacock said halfheartedly, 'let's go Dutch.'

'No way,' I said indignantly. 'I asked you to lunch.'

We walked slowly back towards her office.

'This Stonehouse thing has me stumped,' I said, shaking my head. 'All we need is the nature of the illness he had.

Then we can process his claim. Now I guess we'll have to defend ourselves against his lawsuit.'

I glanced sideways at her, but she hadn't picked up on it.

'I wish there was some way of getting a look at his file,' I said fretfully. 'That's all it would take. We don't need the file; just a look to see what his ailment was.'

That did it. She took hold of my arm.

'It would save your company a lot of money?' she said in a low voice. 'Just to find out why Stonehouse was sick?'

'That's right,' I said. 'That's all we need.'

'Would it be like, you know, confidential?'

'I'd be the only one who would know where it came from,' I said. 'My company doesn't care where or how I get the information, just as long as I get it.'

We walked a few more steps in silence.

'Would you pay for it?' she asked hesitantly. 'I mean, I'm into those files all the time. It's part of my job.'

She wanted $500. I told her my company just wouldn't go above $100, ignoring inflation and how people must live somehow.

'All you want to know is what his sickness was — right?'

'Right,' I said.

'Okay,' she said. 'A hundred. Now?'

'Fifty now and fifty when you get me the information.'

'All right,' she smiled, as I discreetly slipped her the first payment. 'You'll be hearing from me.' With a cheery wave, Ardis strode off to work, and I hailed a cab for the East Side.

I stood on the sidewalk in front of the Kipper townhouse on East 82nd Street, between Fifth and Madison. To the west I could see the Metropolitan Museum. To the east the street stretched away in an imposing facade of townhouses, embassies, consulates, and prestigious foundations. No garbage collection problems on this block. No litter. No graffiti.

The Kipper home was an impressive structure of grey stone with an entrance framed in wrought iron. There were large bow windows on the third and fourth floors, the glass curved. I wondered what it cost to replace a pane. Above the sixth floor was a heavily ornamented cornice, and above that was a mansard roof of tarnished copper.

A narrow alleyway separated the Kipper building from the next building east. It had an iron gate and bore a small polished brass sign: DELIVERIES. I wondered if I would be sent around to the tradespeople's entrance.

Despite Detective Stilton's advice, I had decided not to attempt to claim that my visit was concerned with Sol Kipper's insurance. That would surely be handled by investigators from the insurance company involved, and I had neither the documentation nor expertise to carry off the impersonation successfully.

I rang the bell outside the iron grille door. The man who opened the carved oaken inner door almost filled the frame. He was immense, one of the fattest men I have ever seen. He was neither white nor black, but a shade of beige.

He looked like the Michelin tyre man, or one of those inflated rubber dolls which, when pushed over, bobs upright again. But I didn't think he'd bob upright from a knockdown. It would require a derrick.

'Yes, sah?' he inquired. His voice was soft, liquid, with the lilt of the West Indies.

'My name is Joshua Bigg,' I said. 'I am employed by Tabatchnick. Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum, who are Mrs Kipper's attorneys. I would appreciate a few minutes of Mrs Kipper's time, if she is at home.'

He stared at me with metallic eyes that bulged like the bowls of demitasse spoons. Apparently he decided I was not a potential assassin or terrorist, f o r. .

'Please to wait, sah,' he said. 'A m o m e n t. . '

He closed the door and I waited outside in the cold. True to his word, he was back in a moment and stepped down the short stairway to unlatch the iron door. He had unexpectedly dainty hands and feet, and moved in a slow, fastidious way as if he found physical action vulgar.

He led me into a tiled entrance hall that rose two floors and was large enough to accommodate a circus troupe. A wide floating staircase curved up to the left. There were double doors on both sides and a corridor that led to the rear of the house. The hall was decorated with live trees in pots and an oversized marble Cupid, his arrow aimed at me.

The butler took my hat and coat; I hung on to my briefcase. He then led me to the left, knocked once, opened the doors, and ushered me in.'