Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

the name of Martin Reape to her. Perhaps she'd said that I had asked prying questions, doubly suspicious coming from an attorneys' clerk supposedly engaged only in making an inventory of her husband's estate.

So the two of them must have decided I had to be removed from the scene. Or, at least, warned off.

Was that the way of it?

I had to admit that I wasn't comfortable with that theory. If I knew the name of Martin Reape, then presumably my employers did too, and putting me in the hospital wouldn't stop an inquiry into the alleged bills of the private detective. And as for my 'prying questions,' I had asked nothing that could not be accounted for by sympathetic interest.

I didn't know why Godfrey Knurr had set up the attack on me. But I was convinced he had. It made me sad. I admired the man.

I looked at my watch. It was a little after ten o'clock.

Perhaps if I went to Knurr's place on Carmine Street I could observe the three guttersnipes entering or leaving the club and thus confirm my suspicions.

Disregarding the dozen reasons why this was a foolish course of conduct, I turned off the lights, pulled my parka hood over my watch cap, made certain I had my warm gloves, and went out again into the darkness. It was not the easiest thing I have ever done in my life.

When a cab dropped me off on Carmine Street and Seventh Avenue, I found to my dismay that I had neglected to replenish my wallet. I had enough to pay and tip the driver but that would leave me with only about ten dollars in bills and change, just about enough to get me home again.

I walked east on Carmine Street, hooded head lowered, gloved hands thrust into capacious parka pockets. I walked on the opposite side of the street from the Reverend Knurr's club and inspected it as I passed.

At first I thought it was completely dark. But then, through the painted-over window, I saw a dull glow of light. That could have been nothing more than a nightlight, of course. The club might be empty, the Pastor out somewhere, and I could be wasting my time.

But remembering Roscoe Dollworth's instructions on the need for everlasting patience on a stakeout, I continued down the block, then turned and retraced my steps. I must have paraded down that block a dozen times, up and down.

At that point, already wearying of my patrol, I took up a station in the shadowed doorway of a Chinese laundry, not exactly opposite the Tentmakers Club, but in a position where I could observe the entrance without being easily seen.

I continued this vigil for approximately an hour, huddling in the doorway, then walking up and down the street and back, always keeping Knurr's club in view. The street was not crowded, but it wasn't deserted either. None of the other pedestrians seemed interested in my activities, but I took advantage of passing groups by falling in closely behind them, giving the impression, or so I hoped, that I was part of a late dinner party.

I was back in the doorway, stamping my feet softly, when the light brightened behind the painted window of the Tentmakers Club. I drew farther back into the shadows. I waited. Finally the front door opened. A shaft of yellowish light beamed out on to the sidewalk.

Godfrey Knurr came out. There was no doubt it was he; I saw his features clearly, particularly the slaty beard, as he turned to close and lock the door. He was hatless but wearing a dark overcoat with the collar turned up.

He tried the door, put the keys in his trouser pocket, and then started walking east, towards Sixth Avenue. He strode at a brisk clip, and I moved along with him on the other side of the street, keeping well back and close to the deep shadows of the storefronts and buildings.

He crossed Sixth and stopped at the curb, looking southward. He would raise his hand when a cab approached, then let it fall when he saw it was occupied. I hurried south on Sixth, ending up a block below Knurr. Then I ran across the avenue and took up my station at the curb.

I got the first empty cab to come along.

'Where to?' the driver said.

'Start your meter and stay right here,' I said. 'I've got about ten dollars. When I owe you eight, tell me and I'll give you ten and get out of your cab. All right?'

'Why not?' he said agreeably. 'Beats using gas. You got wife trouble?'

'Something like that,' I said.

'Don't we all?' he offered mournfully, then was silent.

The name of the registration card said he was Abraham Pincus. He was a grizzle-haired, middle-aged man with a furrowed brow under his greasy cap and deep lines from the corners of his mouth slanting down to his chin, like a ventriloquist's dummy.

'Mind if I smoke?' he asked.

The passenger's compartment was plastered with signs: PLEASE DO NOT SMOKE and DRIVER ALLERGIC TO SMOKING

and the like.

'What about these signs? I said.

'That's the day driver,' he said. 'I'm the night driver.'

I had been sitting forward on the rear seat, trying to peer through the bleared windshield to keep Reverend Knurr in sight. He had still not caught a cab. Finally, after about three minutes, one passed us with its roof lights on and began to pull into the curb where Knurr stood and signalled.

'All right,' I said. 'We're going to move now. Just drive north.'

'Why not?' Mr Pincus said equably, finishing lighting his cigar. 'You're the boss. For eight dollars' worth.'

I saw Knurr get into the taxi and start north on Sixth Avenue. Then my driver started up and we travelled north, keeping about a block behind Knurr's cab. At 14th Street, Knurr turned left.

'Turn left,' I said to my driver.

'We following that cab ahead?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'Why didn't you say so? All my life I been waiting for someone to get in my cab and say, "Follow that car!" Like in the movies and TV — you know? This was my big chance and you blew it. He the guy that's fooling around with your tootsie?'

'That's the one,' I said.

'I won't lose him,' he promised. 'Up to eight dollars, I won't lose him.'

Knurr's cab zigzagged northward and westward, with us a block behind but sometimes closing up tighter when my driver feared he might be stopped by a traffic light. Finally we were on Eleventh Avenue, heading directly northward.

'You from New Jersey?' A. Pincus asked.

'No,' I said. 'Why?'

'I thought maybe he's heading for the George Washington Bridge and Jersey. You can't go there for eight bucks.'

'No,' I said, 'I don't think he's going to New Jersey.'

'Maybe you and your creampuff can get back together again,' Mr Pincus said. 'As the old song goes. "Try a little tenderness." '

'Good advice,' I said, hunching forward on my seat, watching the taillights of the cab ahead.

Then we were on West End Avenue, still speeding north.

'He's slowing,' Pincus reported, then, 'he's stopping.'

I glanced up at a street sign. We were at 66th Street.

'Go a block past him, please,' I said. 'Then let me out.'

'Why not?' he said.

While I huddled down in my seat, we passed Knurr's halted cab and stopped a block farther north.

'You got about six bucks on the clock,' my driver said.

'Give or take. You want me to wait?'

'No,' I said, 'thank you. I'll get out here.'

I gave him nine dollars, figuring I could take the bus or subway home.

'Lots of luck,' Pincus said.

'Thank you,' I said. 'You've been very kind.'

'Why not?' he said. His cab roared away.

I was on the east side of West End Avenue, on a tree-lined block bordering an enormous apartment development. There were towering buildings and wide stretches of lawn, shrubbery, and trees everywhere. It must have been pleasant in daylight. At that time of night, it was shadowed, deserted, and vaguely sinister.

I had been watching Knurr through the rear window of my cab as he waited for a break in the traffic to dash across the avenue. Now I walked rapidly back to where his cab had stopped.