Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

Small, soiled drifts of snow still lurked in the shadows.

There were melting patches of snow on tables and chairs.

The outdoor plants were brown and twisted. It was a mournful scene, a dead, winter scene.

He came up here, or was brought up here, and he leaped, or was thrown, into space. Limbs flailing. A boneless dummy flopping down. Suicide or murder, no 237

man deserved that death. It sent a bitter, shocking charge through my mouth, as when you bite down on a bit of tinfoil.

I felt, I knew, it had been done to him, but I could not see how. Four people in the house, all on the ground floor.

Four apparently honest people. And even if they were all lying, which of them was strong enough and resolute enough? And how was it done? Then, too, there was that suicide note…

Depressed, I descended to the first floor. I stuck my head into the kitchen and saw Chester Heavens and Mrs Bertha Neckin seated at the pantry table. They were drinking coffee from the same silver service that had just graced the dining room table.

Chester noticed me, rose immediately, and followed me out into the entrance hall where I reclaimed my hat and coat.

'Thank you, Chester,' I said. 'I hope I won't be bothering you much longer.'

'No bother, sah,' he said. He looked at me gravely. 'You are coming to the end of your work?'

His look was so inscrutable that for a moment I wondered if he knew, or guessed, what I was up to.

'Soon,' I said. 'It's going well. I should be finished with another visit or two.'

He nodded without speaking and showed me out, carefully trying the lock on the outer gate after I left.

I hailed a cab on Fifth and told the driver to drop me at the corner of Madison Avenue and 34th Street. From there I walked the couple of blocks to the ladies' wear shop to buy the green sweater for Yetta Apatoff. I described Yetta's physique as best I could, without gestures, and the kind saleslady selected the size she thought best, assuring me that with a sweater of that type, too small was better than too large, and if the fit wasn't acceptable, it could be exchanged. I had it gift-wrapped and then put into a shopping bag that effectively concealed the contents.

When I got back to my office, Mrs Gertrude Kletz was seated at her new desk in the corridor. She was on the phone, making notes I thought, gratified, that she looked very efficient indeed. I went to my own desk, sat down in my coat and hat, and made rapid, scribbled notes of my conversation with Mrs Tippi Kipper. My jottings could not convey the flavour of our exchange, but I wanted to make certain I had a record of her denial of knowing Martin Reape, her admission of heavy contributions to the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, and the anger she had exhibited when she learned of my meeting with Knurr.

I was just finishing up when my new assistant came into the office, carrying a spiral-bound stenographer's pad.

'Good morning, Mrs Kletz,' I said.

'Good morning, Mr Bigg.'

We beamed at each other. She was wearing a tent-like flannel jumper over a man-tailored shirt. I asked her if her desk, chair, telephone, and supplies were satisfactory, and she said they were.

'Did you get all my notes?' I asked her. 'Did they make sense to you?'

'Oh yes,' she said. 'No problems. I found the lab that did business with Professor Stonehouse.'

'You didn't?' I said, surprised and delighted. 'How many calls did it take?'

'Fourteen.' she said casually, as if it was a trifle. A treasure, that woman! 'They did two chemical analyses for Professor Stonehouse.' She handed me a note. 'Here's all the information: date and cost and so forth. They didn't tell me what the analyses were.'

'That's all right,' I said. 'I know what they were. I think.

Thank you, Mrs Kletz.'

'On the other research requests — I'm working on those now.'

'Good,' I said. 'Stick with it. If you have any questions, 239

don't be afraid to ask me.'

! Oh, I won' t be afraid,' she said.

I didn't think she would be — of anything. I made a sudden decision. From instinct, not reason.

'Mrs Kletz,' I said, 'I'm going out to lunch at one and will probably be back in an hour or so. If you get some time, take a look at the Kipper and Stonehouse files.

They're in the top drawer of the cabinet. I'd like your reaction.'

'All right,' she said placidly. 'This is interesting work, isn't it?'

'Oh yes,' I agreed enthusiastically. 'Interesting.'

I took off my coat and hat long enough to wash up in the men's room. Then I put them on again, took up my shopping bag, and sallied forth to take Yetta Apatoff to lunch.

Fifteen minutes later we were seated at a table for two in the Chinese restaurant on Third Avenue. I ordered eggrolls, wonton soup, shrimp with lobster sauce, and fried rice. After all, it was a birthday celebration. Before the eggrolls were served, I withdrew the gift-wrapped package from the shopping bag and presented it to Yetta.

'Many happy returns,' I said.

'Oh, Josh,' she said, her eyes moons, 'you shouldn't have. I had no idea. .!' She tore at the gift-wrapped package with frantic fingers. When she saw the contents, her mouth made an O of delighted surprise.

'Josh,' she breathed, 'how did you know? '

Understandably triumphant due to the lead I'd just taken over Hooter in the Apatoff Stakes, I nonetheless managed to smile modestly and flirt sheepishly for the rest of the meal. The warmth of Yetta's grasp as we parted definitely promised an escalation of our relationship in the very near future.

As I approached my office, I noted Mrs Kletz was poring over a file on her corridor desk. She was so 240

engrossed that she didn't look up until I was standing next to her.

'Which one is that?' I asked, gesturing towards the folder.

'The Kipper case. I'm almost finished with it. People,'

she intoned with a sweetly sad half-smile. She wasn't saying, 'The horror of them,' she was saying, 'The wonder of them.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Come into my office, please, when you're finished with it.'

I hung away my coat and hat and called Ada Mondora and asked for a meeting with Mr Teitelbaum. She said she'd get back to me.

Mrs Kletz had left on my desk the research inquiries she had answered, using the sources I had supplied. She'd done a thorough job and I was satisfied. I typed up first-draft memos to the junior partners and associates who had requested the information and left them for Mrs Kletz to do the final copies. She came into my office as I was finishing, carrying the Kipper file.

'Sit down, Mrs Kletz,' I said, motioning towards my visitor's chair. 'I have just one more rough to do and I'll be through. You did a good job on these, by the way.'

'Thank you, sir,' she said.

It was one of the few times in my life I had been called

'Sir.' I found it an agreeable experience.

I finished the final draft and pushed the stack across the desk to my assistant.

'I'll need two finished copies on these,' I said. 'Do what you can today and the rest can go over to Monday.' I drew the Kipper file towards me and rapped it with my knuckles.

'Strictly confidential,' I said, staring at her.

'Oh yes. I understand.'

'What do you think of it all?'

'Mr Bigg,' she said, 'is it always the one you least suspect?'

I laughed. 'Don't try to convince the New York Police Department of that. They believe it's always the one you most suspect. And they're usually right. Who do you suspect?'

'I think the widow and the preacher are in cahoots.' she said seriously. 'I think they were playing around before the husband died. He suspected and hired that private detective to make sure. When he had the evidence, he decided to change his will. So they killed him.'

I looked at her admiringly.