Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

'Still, arsenic trioxide is frequently used in medical and chemical laboratories for research. It is obtained from chemical supply houses by written order, and they must know with whom they are dealing. I mean, a stranger can't just write in and order a pound of arsenic. The usual order from a lab will be for 100 to 500 grammes at a time. In its crudest form, it costs about ten dollars for 250 grammes.

High-purity arsenic trioxide costs about a dollar a gramme. It seems to me that the easiest thing for a poisoner to do would be to steal a small amount of arsenic trioxide from the stock room of a research laboratory or a chemical lab at a university. Such a tiny bit is needed to kill someone that the amount stolen would probably never be noticed and — Oh, Josh!' she cried.

She dropped her research papers to the floor, slipped from the chair, fell on to her knees, twisted and flung herself into my arms. In that position, both of us kneeling, we were nearly of a height, and embraced eagerly. We kissed. Our teeth clinked. We kissed. We murmured such things as 'I never — ' and 'I didn't — ' and 'I can't — ' and 'I wouldn't — ' All of which soon became 'I wanted — ' and 'I hoped — ' and 'I wished — ' and, finally, 'I love — '

Not a sentence was finished, nor was there need for it.

After a while, weak with our osculatory explorations, we simply toppled over, fell to the floor with a thump, and lay close together, nose to nose in fact, staring into each other's eyes and smiling, smiling, smiling.

'I don't care,' Cleo Hufnagel said in her low, hesitant voice. 'I just don't care.'

'I don't either,' I said. 'About anything but us.'

'Us,' she said, wonder in her voice.

'Us,' I repeated. I smoothed the hair away from her temples, touched the smooth skin of her brow. When I pressed her yielding back, she moved closer to me, and we clove. I began to scratch her spine gently through the flannel of her jumper. She closed her eyes and purred with contentment.

'Don't stop,' she said. 'Please.'

'I do not intend to,' I said, and scratched away assiduously, widening the base of my operations to include shoulder blades and ribs.

'Oh,' she sighed. 'Oh, oh, oh. Are you a virgin, Josh?'

'No.'

260

'I am.'

'Ah?'

'But I don't want to be,' she said. Then her eyes flicked open and she looked at me with alarm. 'But not tonight,'

she added hastily.

'I understand,' I assured her gravely. 'This is grand. Just being with you.'

'And having you scratch my back is grand,' she sighed.

'That's beautiful. Thank you.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'Another brandy?'

'I don't think so,' she said thoughtfully. 'I feel just right. How old are you, Josh?'

'Thirty-two.'

'I'm thirty-four,' she said sadly.

'So?'

'I'm older than you are.'

'But I'm shorter than you are.'

She wriggled around so she could hold my face between her palms. She stared intently into my eyes.

'But that doesn't make any difference,' she said. 'Does it? My being older or your being shorter? That's not important, is it?'

'No,' I said, astonished, 'it's not.'

'I've got to tell you something awful,' she said.

'What?'

'I must get up and use your bathroom.'

When we kissed goodnight I had to lift on to my toes as she bent down. But I didn't mind that, and neither of us laughed.

'Thank you for a lovely evening,' I said.

She didn't answer, but drew her fingertips gently down my cheek. Then she was gone.

I remember the next day very well, since it had such an impression on what was to follow. It was the first Saturday of March, a gruff, blustery day with steely light coming from a phlegmy sky. The air had the sharp smell of snow, and I hurried through my round of weekend chores, laying in enough food so that I could enjoy a quiet, relaxed couple of days at home even if the city was snowed in.

I took care of laundry, drycleaning, and shopping. I bought wine and liquor. I cleaned the apartment. Then I showered and shaved, dressed in slacks, sweater, sports jacket, and carpet slippers. A little after noon, I settled down with the morning Times and my third cup of coffee of the day.

I think I was annoyed when the phone rang. I was enjoying my warm solitude, and the jangle of the bell was an unwelcome reminder of the raw world outside my windows.

'Hello?' I said cautiously.

'Josh!' Detective Percy Stilton cried. 'My main man!

I'm sitting here in my drawers, my old lady's in the kitchen doing something to a chicken, and I'm puffing away on a joint big as a see-gar and meanwhile investigating this fine jug of Almaden Mountain White Chablis, vintage of last Tuesday, and God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world, and what can I do for you, m'man? I got a message you called.'

'You sound in fine fettle, Perce,' I said.

'Fine fettle?' he said. 'I got a fettle on me you wouldn't believe — a tough fettle, a boss fettle. I got me a sweet forty-eighter, and nothing and nobody is going to pry me loose from hearth and home until Monday morning. You want to know about that crazy elevator — right? Okay, it was on the sixth floor when the first blues got to the Kipper townhouse. They both swear to it. So? What does that prove? Sol could have taken it up to his big jump.'

'Could have,' I said. 'Yes. It's hard to believe an emotionally disturbed man intent on suicide would wait for an elevator to take him up one floor when he could have walked it in less than a minute. But I agree, yes, he could have done it.'

'Let's figure he did,' Stilton said. 'Let's not try jamming facts into a theory. I've known a lot of good men who messed themselves up doing that. The trick is to fit the theory to the facts. How you doing? Any great detecting to report?'

'Two things,' I said.

I told him about those bills from Martin Reape I had found at Kipmar Textiles. The bills that had been approved for payment by Sol Kipper. And the cancelled cheques endorsed by Reape.

I awaited his reaction. But there was only silence.

'Perce?' I said. 'You there?'

He started speaking again, and suddenly he was sober. .

'Josh,' he said, 'do you realize what you've got?'

'Well, yes, certainly. I've established a definite connection between Sol Kipper and Marty Reape.'

'You goddamned Boy Scout!' he screamed at me.

'You've got hard evidence. You've got paper. Something we can take to court. Up to now it's all been smoke. But now we've got paper. God, that's wonderful!'

It didn't seem so wonderful to me, but I supposed police officers had legal priorities of which I was not aware. I went ahead and told Detective Stilton what I had learned about Tippi Kipper and the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, that they were having an affair and it had existed prior 263

to Sol Kipper's death.

'Where did you get that?' he asked curiously.

I hesitated a moment.

'From the maid,' I said finally.

He laughed. 'Miss Horizontal herself?' he said. 'I'm not going to ask you how you got her to talk; I can imagine.

Well, it could be true.'

'It would explain the Kipper-Reape connection,' I argued. 'Sol got suspicious and hired Marty to find out the truth. Reape got evidence that Knurr and Tippi were, ah, intimate. That's when Sol called Mr Tabatchnick and wanted to change his will.'

'Uh-huh. I follow. Sol gets dumped before he can change the will. Maybe the lovers find and destroy the evidence. Photographs? Could be. Tape recordings.

Whatever. But street-smart Reape has made copies and tries blackmail. Goodbye, Marty.'

'And then after he gets bumped, his grieving widow tries the same thing.'

'It listens,' Stilton admitted. 'I'd be more excited if we could figure out how they managed to waste Sol. And come up with the suicide note. But at least we've got more than we had before. When I get in on Monday, I'll run a trace on Knurr.'