Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

'Yes?' she said.

'Perdita?' I asked, 'Perdita Schug?'

'Yes. Who's this?'

'Joshua Bigg. You probably don't — '

'Josh!' she said. 'How cute! I was hoping you'd call.'

'Yes. . well. . how are you?'

'Bored, bored, bored,' she said. I wondered if she knew Al Baum. 'What I need is a little excitement. A new love.'

'Uh. . yes. Well, why I called. . I remembered you said Thursday was your day off. Am I correct?'

'Right on,' she said. 'I get off at noon tomorrow and I don't have to be back until Friday noon. Isn't that cute?'

'It certainly is,' I said bravely. 'What do you usually do on your day off?'

'Oh,' she said, 'This and that. I should go out to visit my dear old mother in Weehawken. You got any cuter ideas?'

'Well, I was wondering if you might care to have dinner with me tomorrow night?'

'I accept,' she said promptly.

'We can make it early,' I suggested, 'so you'll have plenty of time to get over to New Jersey.'

She laughed merrily.

'You're so funny, Josh,' she said, 'You're really a scream.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'Is there any place you'd like to go?

For dinner, I mean. Some place where we can meet?'

'Mother Tucker's,' she said. 'Second Avenue near Sixty-ninth Street. You'll like it. I hang out there all the time.

Seven or eight o'clock like that, OK?'

As I walked homeward west on my street, I saw Cleo Hufnagel coming east, arms laden with shopping. I hurried to help her.

'Thank you, Josh,' she said. 'I had no idea they'd be so heavy.'

She was wearing a red plaid coat with a stocking hat pulled down to her eyes. The wind and fast walking had rosied her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. She looked very

fetching and I told her so. She smiled shyly.

'Home from work so soon?' I asked as we climbed the steps.

'I had the day off,' she said, 'but I'll have to work Saturday. You're home early.'

'Playing hooky,' I said. I took the other bag of groceries while she hunted for her keys. She unlocked the doors and held them open for me.

'Can I carry these into your kitchen for you?' I asked.

'Oh no,' she said hastily. 'Thank you, but most of these things are for Mother.'

So I set the bags down in the hallway outside Mrs Hufnagel's apartment after huffing my way up to the second floor.

'Thank you so much, Josh,' Cleo said. 'You were very kind.'

I waved my hand. 'No tip necessary,' I said, and we both laughed. Then we just stood there, looking at each other.

It didn't bother me that I had to look up to meet her eyes. I blurted out, 'Cleo, would you like to come up to my place for a glass of wine after dinner?'

'Thank you,' she said in a low voice. 'I'd like that. What time?'

'About eight. Is that all right?'

'Eight is fine. See you then.'

I trudged up to my apartment, meditating on what I had done.

Checking my wine cellar, I found I was in short supply, so after I showered and got into my Chelsea clothes I headed out on a run to the liquor store. Bramwell Shank was there on the landing, waiting for me with the wine in his lap.

'Goddamn!' he shouted. 'I've been waiting here for you and all the time you've been in there!'

This was obviously my fault. I explained how I had come home early, and explained why, and offered to pick 193

up anything he needed from the stores, and got away with a promise to have a drink with him when I came back in.

This seemed a good idea or he might barge in later on my tete-a-tete with Cleo.

She arrived promptly at 8.00 p.m., knocking softly on my door. I leaped to my feet and upset what was left in a glass of wine on my chair arm. Fortunately, the glass fell to the rug without breaking, and none of the wine splashed on me.

'Coming!' I shouted. Hastily, I retrieved the glass and moved the armchair to cover the stain on the rug. Then I had to move the endtable to bring it alongside, and when I did that, the lamp tipped over. I caught it before it could crash, set it upright again, then rushed to the door.

'Come in, come in!' I said heartily and ushered her to the armchair. 'Sit here,' I said. 'It's the most comfortable.'

' Well. . ' Cleo Hufnagel said doubtfully, 'isn't it a little close to the fire? Could you move it back a bit?'

I stared at her, then started laughing. I told her what had happened just before she entered. She laughed, too, and assured me a stained rug wouldn't offend her. So we moved everything back in place.

'Much better,' she said, seating herself. 'I do that all the time. Spilling things, I mean. You shouldn't have bothered covering it.'

We settled down with drinks. Happily I asked her if she had noticed signs of rapprochement between Captain Shank and Madame Kadinsky. There had been signs of romance. That did it. In a moment she had kicked off her shoes and we were gossiping like mad.

Presently I heard myself saying, 'But if they married, they might tear each other to tatters. Argue, fight. You know.'

'Even that's better than what they had before, isn't it?'

The conversation was making me uneasy. I went into the kitchen to fetch fresh drinks.

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'Cleo,' I said when I came back, 'I really know very little about what you do. I know you work in a library.

Correct?'

'Yes,' she said, lifting her chin. 'I'm a librarian.'

I spent five minutes assuring her that I admired librarians, that some of the happiest hours of my life had been spent in libraries, that they were a poor man's theatre, a portal to a world of wonder, and she was in a noble and honoured profession, etc., etc. I really laid it on, but the strange thing was that I believed every word of it.

'You're very kind,' she said doubtfully. 'But what it comes down to is some bored housewife looking for the new Jackie Onassis book or a Gothic. You're with a legal firm, Josh?'

'Yes,' I said, 'but I'm not a lawyer. I'm just an investigator.'

I explained to her what I did. I found myself talking and talking. She seemed genuinely interested, and asked very cogent questions. She wanted to know my research sources and how I handled abstruse inquiries. I told her some stories that amused her: how I had spent one Sunday morning trying to buy beer in stores on Second Avenue (illegal), how I manipulated recalcitrant witnesses, how people lied to me and how, to my shame, I was becoming an accomplished liar.

'But you've got to,' she said. 'To do your job.'

'I know that,' I said, 'But I'm afraid that I'll find myself lying in my personal life. I wouldn't like that.'

'I wouldn't either,' she said. 'Could I have another drink?'

I came back from the kitchen with fresh drinks. She reached up with a languid hand to take her glass. She was practically reclining in the armchair, stretched out, her head far back, her stockinged feet towards the dying fire.

She was wearing a snug, caramel-coloured wool skirt, cinched with a narrow belt, and a tight black sweater that 195

left her neck bare. All so different from the loose, flowing costumes she usually wore. The last flickering flames cast rosy highlights on throat, chin, brow. She had lifted her long, chestnut hair free. It hung down in back of the chair.

I wanted to stroke it.

I was shocked at how beautiful she looked, that willowy figure stretched out in the dim light. Her features seemed softened. The hazel eyes were closed, the lips slightly parted. She seemed utterly relaxed.

'Cleo,' I said softly.

Her eyes opened.

'I just thought of something. I have a favour to ask.'

'Of course,' she said, straightening up in her chair.

I explained that one of my investigations involved a man who had been a victim of arsenic poisoning. I needed to know more about arsenic: what it was, how it affected the human body, how it could be obtained, how administered, and so forth. Could Cleo find out the titles of books or suggest other places where I might obtain that information?