Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

She was gone a short while.

'That's odd,' she said. 'I was checking the cupboard. I remember having two bottles in there. There's one there now and one unopened bottle in the Professor's study.'

'Do you recall buying any new bottles of Remy Martin in the month or six weeks before the Professor disappeared?'

Silence again for a moment.

'That's odd,' she repeated. 'I don't remember buying any, but I should have, him going through three bottles a month. But I can't recall ordering a single bottle. I'll have to go through my bills to make sure.'

'Could you do that, Effie?'

'Be glad to,' she said briskly. 'Now I've got to ring off; something's beginning to scorch.'

'You've been very kind,' I said hurriedly. 'A big help.'

'Really?' she said. 'That's nice.'

We hung up.

If I had been Professor Stonehouse, learning I was a victim of arsenic poisoning, I would have set out to discover how it was being done and who was doing it. And,

I was certain, he had discovered who had been doing the fiddling.

It was then getting on to 6.00 p.m. I had no idea how long it would take me to get uptown in the storm, so I donned rubbers, turned up the collar of my overcoat, pulled my hat down snugly, and started out. I said goodnight to the security guard and stepped outside.

I was almost blown away. This was not one of your soft, gentle snowfalls with big flakes drifting down slowly in silence and sparkling in the light of streetlamps and neon signs. This was a maelstrom, the whole world in turmoil.

Snow came whirling straight down, was blown sideways, even rose up in gusty puffs from drifts beginning to pile up on street corners.

There were at least twenty people waiting for the Third Avenue bus. After a wait that seemed endless but was probably no more than a quarter-hour, not one but four buses appeared out of the swirling white. I wedged myself aboard the last one. The ride seemed to take an eternity. At 69th, five other passengers alighted and I was popped out along with them. I fought my way eastward against the wind, bent almost double to keep snow out of my face.

And there, right around the corner on Second Avenue, was a neon sign glowing redly through the snow: MOTHER TUCKER'S.

'Bless you, Mother,' I said aloud.

Perdita was there, in the front corner of the bar, perched on a stool, wearing a black dress cut precariously low. Her head was back, gleaming throat exposed, and she was laughing heartily at something the man standing next to her had just said. The place was jammed in spite of the weather, but Perdita was easy to find.

She saw me almost the instant I saw her. She slid off the barstool with a very provocative movement and rushed to embrace me with a squeal of pleasure, burying me in her embonpoint.

220

'Josh!' she cried, and then made that deep, growling sound in her throat to signify pleasure. 'I never, never, never thought you'd show up. I just can't believe you came out in all this shit to see little me.' Her button eyes sparkled, her tongue darted in and out between wet lips.

'You poor dear, we must get you thawed out. Col, see if you can get a round from Harry.'

'What's your pleasure, sir?' her companion asked politely.

'Scotch please, with water.'

We introduced ourselves. He was Clyde Manila — Colonel Clyde Manila. Perdita called him Col, which could have meant in his case either Colonel or Colonial.

A bearded bartender, working frantically, heard the call, paused, and cupped his ear towards Colonel Manila.

'More of the same, Harry, plus Scotch and water.'

Harry nodded and in a few moments set the drinks before us. I reached for my wallet but Harry swiftly extracted the required amount from the pile of bills and change on the bar in front of the Colonel.

'Thank you, sir,' I said. 'The next one's on me.'

'Forget it,' Perdita advised. 'The Col's loaded. Aren't you, sweetheart?'

!I mean to be, ' he said, swallowing half his drink in one enormous gulp. 'No use trying to get home on a night like this — what?' His tiny eyes closed in glee.

He was genially messy in effect — white walrus moustache, swollen boozy nose, hairy tweed hacking jacket, all crowned with an ill-fitting ginger toupee.

'I'm awfully hungry,' I said. 'Perdita, do you think there's any chance of our getting a table?'

'Sure,' she said. 'Col, talk to Max.'

Obediently he moved away, pushing his way through the mob.

'A pleasant place,' I said to Perdita, who was winking at someone farther down the bar.

'This joint?' she said. 'A home away from home. You can always score here, Josh. Remember that: you can always score at Mother Tucker's. Here comes Col.'

I turned to see Colonel Manila waving wildly at us.

'He's got a table,' Perdita said. 'Let's go.'

'Is he going to eat with us?' I asked.

'Col? No way. He never eats.'

I wanted to thank him for obtaining a table for us, but missed him in the crush.

At the table she said, 'I want another drink, and then I want a Caesar salad, spaghetti with oil and garlic, scampi, and a parfait for dessert.'

I cringed from fear that I might not have enough to pay for all that. I do not believe in credit cards.

'What are you drinking?' I asked.

'Who knows?' she said. 'I've been here since one o'clock this afternoon.'

A waitress appeared in a T-shirt that said 'Flat is Beautiful.' We settled on a drink for Perdita and the waitress left.

'Don't worry about the check,' Perdita said breezily.

'Colonel Manila will pay.'

'Absolutely not,' I said indignantly. 'I invited you. He doesn't have to pay for our dinner.'

'Don't be silly,' she said. 'He likes to buy me things. I told you — he's loaded. Light my cigarette.'

Talking to her was no problem; it was only necessary to listen. She babbled through our second round of drinks, through her gargantuan meal and a bottle of Chianti. I tried, several times, to bring the conversation around to the Kipper household, saying such things as: 'I imagine this is better food than Mrs Neckin's.' But Perdita picked up on none of these leads; her monologue would not be interrupted. I gave up and asked for a check, but the waitress assured me, 'It's been taken care of.'

'I told you,' Perdita said, laughing. 'The Colonel's always doing things like that for me. He thinks it buys him something.'

'And does it?' I asked her.

'Sure,' she said cheerfully. 'What do you think? Let's go back to the bar.'

This was not really necessary as she was quite drunk already. We rejoined the Colonel, and the idea of going to Hoboken for clams was raised. I said I wouldn't. Two young men came and whispered in Perdita's ear and she told them to bug off. They disappeared quickly. The noise was incredible.

Colonel Clyde Manila was seated, lopsided, on Perdita's barstool. The moment he saw us, he slid off and bowed to Perdita.

'Keeping it warm f'you, dear lady,' he said, in a strangled voice.

'Colonel,' I shouted, 'I want to thank you for your kindness. The dinner was excellent.'

Those pale little eyes seemed to have become glassy.

'Good show,' he said.

'May I buy you a drink, sir?' I asked.

'Good show,' he said.

'Oh, don't be such a pooper, Josh,' Perdita said. 'Come dance with me.'

She clasped me in her arms, closed her eyes, began to shuffle me about. 'I just love Viennese waltzes,' Perdita Schug said dreamily.

'I think that's "Beautiful O h i o, " ' I said.

'Nasty brutes,' Colonel Manila said. He was at my shoulder, staggering after us around the minuscule dance floor. 'They smell, y'know. Did you ever sheep a shear?' I had suspected that he was Australian.

'The last time I saw Paris,' Perdita crooned in my ear.

'Let's you and me make yum-yum.'