Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

I handed the wine to Mrs Hufnagel and told her the bottles were contributions from Shank and myself.

'Isn't that nice!' she said. 'Just look at this, Cleo. Look at what Mr Bigg brought!'

'And the Captain,' I reminded her.

' 'allo, 'allo, Joshy and Captain Shink!' Madame Zora Kadinsky carolled.

'Shank,' he said.

Cleo's apartment, obviously furnished to her mother's taste, was dull, overstuffed, suffocating. The great Hufnagel Plot was being forwarded.

The party was a punch-and-cookies affair. I was glad I'd had a ham sandwich late in the afternoon. The punch tasted like fruit juice.

'What the hell is this?' asked Captain Shank. 'No kick.

Dump about half the muscatel into it.'

I did so, and in a while I stole upstairs and got vodka and brandy to add to it. The guests had been stiffish, forcing themselves to try to match the abundant party styles of Mrs Hufnagel and Mme Kadinsky. But less than an hour after our arrival things were brightening up.

Mme Kadinsky sang 'Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life' and other suboperatic selections. The Captain bellowed and pounded the arm of his wheelchair. Urged by Madame Kadinsky and her mother, Cleo and I sedately danced to

'Stardust' rendered on an upright piano by Madame K.

Finkel showed signs of cutting in, but Mrs Hufnagel grappled him away to dance with her.

In time things progressed to a jig by Mrs Hufnagel, skirts held high to reveal thick support hose, and a final maudlin rendering of 'Auld Lang Syne.' A very morose Finkel and I had great trouble getting Bramwell Shank back upstairs.

I was too keyed up to attempt to sleep immediately, so I sat in the darkness of the living room, dressed for bed, staring into the cold fireplace. It was, perhaps, almost 1.30

a. m., and I was dozing happily, trying to summon the strength to rise and go to bed, when I heard a light knocking at my door, a timid tapping.

'Who is it?' I whispered hoarsely.

A moment of silence, then: 'Cleo, Cleo Hufnagel.'

I unlocked and unchained the door. She was still wearing her party clothes.

'I was just going to bed,' I said in a voice that sounded to me unnecessarily shrill.

'I just wanted to talk to you for a minute,' she said.

'Uh, sure,' I said, and ushered her in. She sat in my favourite armchair. I sat opposite her. I sat primly upright, 133

my pyjamaed knees together, my robe drawn tightly.

'First of all,' she said in a low voice, 'I want to thank you for what you did. The party was my mother's idea. I thought it would be horrible. And it was, until you helped.

Then it turned out to be fun.'

I made a gesture.

'Don't thank me,' I said. 'It was the punch.'

She smiled wanly. 'Whatever,' she said, 'I really enjoyed it.'

'I did, too,' I said. 'It was fun. I'm glad you invited me.'

'It was Mother's idea,' she repeated, then drew a deep breath. 'You see, I'm almost thirty years old, and she's afraid that I. . '

Her voice faded away.

'Yes,' I said gently, 'I understand.'

She looked up at me hopefully.

'Do you?' she said. Then: 'Of course you do. You're intelligent. You know what she's doing. Trying to do. I wanted you to know that it was none of my doing. I'm sure it must be very embarrassing to you and I wanted to apologize. For my mother.'

'Oh, Cleo,' I said. 'Listen, is it all right if I call you Cleo and you call me Josh?'

She nodded silently.

'Well, C l e o. . sure, I know what your mother's doing.

Trying to do. But is it so awful? I don't blame you and I don't blame her.'

'It's just so — so vulgar!' she burst out. 'And I wanted you to know that it wasn't my idea, that I'd never do anything like that.'

'I know,' I said consolingly. 'It must be very distressing for you. But don't condemn your mother, Cleo. She only wants what she thinks is best for you.'

'I know that.'

'She loves you and wants you to be happy.'

'I know that, too.'

'So, would it be so terrible if we just let her do her thing?

I mean, now that you and I know, it wouldn't be so awful to let her think she's helping — would it?'

'I guess not.'

We sat in silence awhile, not looking at each other.

'What about Adolph Finkel?' I asked finally.

'Oh no,' she said instantly. 'No. Did you see that he was wearing one brown shoe and one black shoe tonight?'

'No,' I said, 'I didn't notice.'

'But it's not only that,' she said. 'It's everything.'

'Is there anyone else you're interested in?' I asked. 'I don't mean to pry, but we're being so frank…'

'No,' she said. 'No one else.'

This was said in tones so empty, so devoid of hope, that my breath caught. I looked at her. She really was a tall, slender beauty, almost Spanish in her reserve and mystery.

It was criminal that she should be unwanted.

'Listen, Cleo,' I said desperately, 'this doesn't mean that we can't be friends. Does it?'

She raised luminous eyes to look at me steadily. I couldn't see any implication there. Just deep, deep eyes, unfathomable.

'I'd like that,' she said, smiling at last. 'To be friends.'

The whole thing lightened.

'We can learn some new dance steps. The Peabody.'

'The Maxixe,' she said and laughed a little.

Just before she slipped out into the hallway, she bent down to kiss my cheek. A little peck.

'Thank you,' she said softly.

By the time I had rechained and relocked the door, I was wiped out, tottering. I didn't want to think, or even feel. I just wanted sleep, to repair my punished body and dull a surfeit of impressions, memories, conjectures.

I fell into bed. I was halfway into a deep, dreamless slumber when my phone rang.

' 'Lo?'

'Josh?'

'Yes. Who is this?'

'Ardis. Ardis Peacock. Remember?'

I came suddenly awake.

'Of course I remember,' I said heartily. 'How are you, Ardis?'

'Where have you been?' she demanded. 'I been calling all night.'

'Uh, I had a late date.'

'You scamp, you!' she said. 'Listen, I got what you wanted on Stonehouse.'

'Wonderful?' I said. 'What was his illness?'

'Do I get the other fifty bucks?'

'Of course you do. What was it?'

'You'll never guess,' she said.

'What was it?' I implored.

'Arsenic poisoning,' she said.

I was waiting to see Mr Ignatz Teitelbaum on Monday morning, loitering outside his office and gossiping with Ada Mondora. She stared at me calculatingly.

'I don't know what to do,' she said.

'About what?' I asked innocently.

'About you,' she said. 'And Yetta Apatoff. And Hamish Hooter.'

'Oh,' I said. 'That.' With a shamed, sinking feeling to learn that my intimate affairs were a matter of public knowledge.

'There's an office pool,' she said. 'Didn't you know?'

I shook my head.

'You put up a dollar,' she explained, 'on who marries Yetta — you or Hooter. Right now the betting is about evenly divided, so all you can win is another dollar.'

'Who are you betting on?' I asked her.

She looked at me narrowly.

'I don't know,' she said. 'I haven't made up my mind.

Are you serious about her, Josh?'

'Sure,' I said.

'Uh-huh,' she said. 'We shall see what we shall see.'

The door of Mr Teitelbaum's office opened and Hamish Hooter exited, carrying a heavy ledger.

He looked at me, then looked at Ada Mondora, then strode away. Wordless.

'Mr Personality,' Ada said. 'You can go in now, Josh.'

He looked smaller than ever. He looked like a deflated football, the leather grained and wrinkled. He sat motionless behind that big desk, sharp eyes following me as I entered and approached. He jerked his chin towards an armchair. I sat down.

'Report?' he said, half-question and half-command.