Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

Maybelle Hawks asked.

'No, I don't,' I confessed. 'I'll try to find out.'

'Uh-huh,' Stilton said. 'And while you're at it, try to get us a recent photograph of Glynis.'

'What for?'

'Oh, I don't rightly know,' he said lazily.

I made a note: Gly foto.

'Anything else?' I asked.

'I don't know how much time you can put in on this thing,' Perce said, 'but it would help if you could keep tabs on Knurr. Just to get some idea of the guy's schedule.

Where he goes, who he sees. Especially where he goes when he and Glynis take off in that black Mercedes from the West Side garage. That's another thing; try to find out if it's his car.'

'It's not. Knurr owns a battered VW,' I said.

'Sure,' Stilton said genially. 'He would. Fits right in with his image of a poor-but-honest man of the cloth. He's probably got a portfolio of blue-chip stocks that would knock your eye out. Well, that's about all I can think of, Josh,' He looked at Maybelle Hawks. 'You think of anything else, babe?'

'Not at the moment,' she said. 'I'd feel a lot surer about this whole thing if we could figure out how Knurr and Tippi put Sol Kipper over that railing. Also the suicide note.'

'You're a wise old fox,' he told her. 'Give it some thought. I'll bet you'll come up with something.'

'I wish I could say the same about you,' she murmured.

'Tonight.'

'Try me,' he said.

'I intend to,' she said. 'Josh, many thanks for the dinner. And you just keep right on. You're going to crash this; I know you are.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'Perce, would you be willing to give me your home telephone number?'

'Sure,' he said immediately, and did.

I waited with them until they got a cab. Maybelle swooped to kiss my cheek.

'I want to see more of you, Josh,' she said. 'Promise?'

'Of course,' I said.

'You'll come up and have dinner with us? I'm really a very good cook. Right, Perce?'

He flipped a palm back and forth.

'So-so,' he said.

'Bastard,' she said.

I walked home slowly, ashamed. I was embarrassed at confessing how I saw myself as a member of the persecuted minority of the short.

Still, it was true. You may believe I was obsessed by my size. Let me tell how I felt. I have already commented on the rewards society offers to men of physical stature. The tall are treated with respect; the short earn contempt or amusement. This is true only of men. 'Five-foot-two, eyes of blue' is still an encomium for a female. Our language reflects this prejudice. A worthy person is said to be 'A man you can look up to.' An impecunious man is suffering from 'the shorts.' To be short-tempered is reprehensible.

To short-circuit is to frustrate or impede. A shortfall is a deficiency.

Thus does our language reflect our prejudice. And the philosophy that I had in a moment of weakness divulged to Belle and Perce reflected my deepest feelings about being a midget. From my size, or lack of it, came my beliefs, dreams, ideas, emotions, fantasies, reactions. All of which would be put to the test whether I liked it or not, in the rocky week ahead.

I arrived at TORT the next morning before 9.00 a.m. My IN basket was piled high with requests for investigations and research, but after shuffling through them, I decided that most could be handled by Mrs Kletz and the rest could wait.

Shortly before ten, I phoned Gardner amp; Weiss, who did all the job printing for Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum. I spoke directly to Mr Weiss and explained what I wanted on the Stonehouse reward posters.

'No problem,' he said. 'I'll send a messenger for the photograph and copy. How many do you want?'

I had no idea. 'A hundred,' I said.

'Wednesday,' he said.

'This afternoon,' I said.

'Oh,' he said sadly. 'Oh, oh, oh.'

'It's a rush job. We'll pay.'

'Without saying,' he told me. 'You want to see a proof first?'

'No. I trust you.'

'You do?' he said.

'By one o'clock this afternoon?'

'I'll try. Only because you said you trust me. The messenger's on his way.'

I dug out the photograph of Professor Stonehouse and typed the copy for the poster: REWARD! A generous cash award will be paid to any cabdriver who can prove he picked up this man in the vicinity of Central Park West and 70th Street on the night of January 10th, this year. Then I added the TORT telephone number and my extension.

As usual, Thelma Potts was seated primly outside the 287

office of Mr Leopold Tabatchnick.

'Miss Potts!' I cried. 'You're looking uncommonly lovely this morning.'

'Oh-oh,' she said. 'You want something.'

'Well, yes. I have a friend who needs legal advice. I wondered if I could have one of Mr Tabatchnick's cards to give him.'

'Liar,' she said. 'You want to pretend you're Mr Tabatchnick.'

I was astonished. 'How did you know?' I asked her.

'How many do you need?' she asked, ignoring my question.

As I was leaving she dunned me for a dollar for the sick kit. I handed it over.

'Still betting on Hamish Hooter?' I asked her.

'I only bet on sure things,' she said loftily.

When Gertrude Kletz came in I called her into my office and showed her the photograph of Professor Stonehouse and the reward copy. I explained that she should expect the posters to be delivered by Gardner amp; Weiss in the early afternoon. Meanwhile, she could begin compiling a list of taxi garages, which she could get from the Yellow Pages.

'Or from the Hack Bureau,' she said.

I looked at her with admiration.

'Right,' I said. I told her the posters would have to be hand-carried to the garages and, with the permission of the manager, displayed on walls or bulletin boards.

'I'll need sticky tape and thumbtacks,' she said cheerfully. The Kipper file had hooked her; now the Stonehouse case had done the same. I could see it in her bright eyes. Her face was burning with eagerness.

I told her I was off to the lab to check into Stonehouse's tests, and that by the time I got back, she'd probably be out distributing the posters. I put on hat and coat, grabbed up my briefcase, and rushed out, waving at Yetta as I sailed past.

She was wearing the green sweater I had given her, but curiously this failed to stir me.

The chemical laboratory was on Eleventh Avenue near 55th Street. I took a cab over. Bommer amp; Son, Inc., was on the fourth floor of an unpretentious building set between a sailors' bar (BIG BOY DRINKS 75 CENTS DURING HAPPY HOUR, 9 TO 2 A.M.) and a gypsy fortune teller (READINGS. PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE. SICKNESS). The elevator was labelled FREIGHT ONLY, so I climbed worn stairs to the fourth floor, the nose-crimping smell of chemicals becoming more intense as I ascended.

The receptionist in the outer office was typing away at Underwood's first model. She stopped.

'I'd like to speak to Mr Bommer, please.'

In a few moments a stoutish man wearing a stained white laboratory coat flung himself into the office.

'Yes?' he demanded in a reedy voice.

The receptionist pointed me out. He came close to me, peering suspiciously at my face. I thought him to be in the sixties — possibly the 1860s.

'Yes?'

'Mr Waldo Bommer?'

'Yes.'

I proffered Mr Tabatchnick's card. He held it a few inches from his eyes and read it aloud: 'Leopold H.

Tabatchnick. Attorney-at-Law.' He lowered the card.

'Who's suing?' he asked me.

'No one,' I said. 'I just want a moment of your time. I represent the estate of Professor Yale Stonehouse. Among his papers is a cancelled cheque made out to Bommer amp; Son, with no accompanying voucher. The government is running a tax audit on the estate, and it would help if you could provide copies of the bill.'

'Come with me,' he said abruptly.

I followed him through a rear door into an enormous loft laboratory where five people, three men, two women, all elderly and all wearing stained laboratory coats, were seated on high stools before stone-topped workbenches.