Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

The archways were sprayed with graffiti. Splintered glass and broken bits of masonry grated underfoot. The ground was crumbling.

I paused briefly, not wanting to follow Glynis and Godfrey into one of those echoing passages lest they hear my footfall. I waited until they were clear on the other side of the fountain before hurrying through.

Ahead was the molten river, a band of gently heaving mercury in the nightlight. Across were the flickering lights of the Jersey shore. Closer, the swell of black water. I searched frantically about until I spotted them again, approaching the boat basin at 79th Street. I kept well back in the shadows as Glynis and Knurr walked on to the planked pier. They stopped briefly to speak to someone who appeared to be a watchman. Then they continued along one of the slips until they stepped down carefully onto the foredeck of what looked like a houseboat.

Lights came on inside the craft. When I saw curtains drawn across the wide windows, I turned and hurried back the way I had come.

I arrived at the TORT building before 9.00 a.m. on Tuesday morning. The night security guard was still on duty, sitting at Yetta Apatoff's desk.

'There was a telephone call for you about fifteen minutes ago, Mr Bigg,' he said. 'The guy wouldn't leave a name or message, but said he'd call back.'

'Thank you,' I said, and went back to my office. My phone rang before I had chance to take off my coat. I picked it up and said, 'Hello?' A man's voice growled,

'You the guy who put up the posters?' I said I was. He 304

said, 'How much is the reward?'

I hadn't even considered that. Fifty dollars seemed insufficient; a hundred might tempt a lot of fraudulent claims. But rather, I reasoned, too many replies than too few.

'A hundred dollars,' I said.

'Shit,' he said, and hung up.

The second call came in ten minutes later. Once again the first question asked was: 'How much?'

'A hundred dollars,' I said firmly.

'Yeah, well, I carried the guy. Picked him up on Central Park West and 70th Street the night of January 10th.'

'What did he look like?'

'Well, you know, an average-sized guy. I didn't get a real good look at him, but I'd say he was average.'

'Kind of short, fat, dumpish?'

'Yeah, you could say that.'

'Wearing a sweater and jacket?'

'Yeah, that's the guy.'

'No, it isn't,' I said.

'Fuck you,' he said and hung up.

I sighed, finished my strawberry strudel and black coffee, and started mechanically answering some of the routine research and investigation requests. I wondered if I dared bother Percy Stilton with what I had discovered — the houseboat at 79th Street — and what I was beginning to guess about how Godfrey Knurr had murdered Sol Kipper.

Stilton solved the problem by calling me at about 10.00

a. m.

'Listen, Josh,' he said, speaking rapidly, 'I know you didn't want me to call you at your office, but this is important. I've only got a minute. Can you meet me in the lobby of the Newsweek building? 444 Madison? Between 49th and 50th?'

'Well, yes, sure,' I said. 'But I wanted — '

'About five minutes before four o'clock this afternoon.'

'I'll be there, Perce,' I said, making rapid notes on my scratchpad. 'But here are a few things I — '

'Got to run,' he said. 'See you then.'

The line went dead. I hung up slowly, bewildered. The phone rang again almost immediately and I plucked it up, hoping Stilton was calling back.

'Josh,' Yetta Apatoff said, giggling, 'you haven't forgotten our lunch today, have you?'

'Of course not,' I lied bravely. 'What time?'

'Noon,' she said. 'I've got a lot to tell you.'

'Good,' I said, my heart sinking.

Another call:

'Yeah, I picked up the guy on that night. A tall, skinny gink, right?'

'Could be,' I said. 'And where did you take him — to the Eastern Airlines ticket office on Fifth Avenue?'

'Yeah,' he said, 'you're right.'

'Waited for him and then drove him back to Central Park West and 70th Street?'

'Uh. . yeah.'

'No,' I said, 'I don't think so.'

He suggested an anatomical impossibility.

Inwardly cursing the venality of mankind, I hung up, then phoned the Kipper house. Chester Heavens answered.

We exchanged polite greetings, inquired as to the state of each other's health, and spoke gravely about the weather, which we agreed was both pleasant and bracing for that time of year.

'Chester,' I said, 'Mr Kipper died on Wednesday, January 24th. Is that correct?'

'Oh yes, sah,' he said sombrely. 'I shall never forget that date.'

'I don't suppose you will. I know Mr Godfrey Knurr arrived a few moments after the tragedy. Now my question is this: do you recall if he was at the house on Tuesday, January 23rd, the day before Mr Kipper died?'

Silence. Then. .

'I can't recall, sah. But if you'll be good enough to hang on a moment, I'll consult the book.'

'Wait, wait!' I said hastily. 'What book?'

'The house diary, sah,' he said. 'The first Mrs Kipper insisted it be kept. It was one of my father's duties. After the first Mrs Kipper and my father had both passed away, I kept it with the approval of the second Mrs Kipper. What it is, sah, is a diary or log of visitors, delivery of packages, repairs to the house, appointments, and so forth. Many large homes keep such a daily record, sah. It is invaluable when it becomes necessary to send Christmas cards, thank you notes, invitations, or to question tradesmen about promised deliveries and things of that nature.'

'Very efficient,' I said, beginning to hope. 'Could you consult the log, please, Chester, and see if the Reverend Knurr visited on Tuesday, January 23rd?'

'Just a moment, sah.'

He was gone more than a moment. I had crossed all fingers of both hands and was trying to cross my toes within my shoes when the butler came back on the phone.

'Mr Bigg?' he said. 'Are you there?'

'I am here,' I told him.

'Yes, sah, the diary shows that the Reverend Knurr visited on Tuesday, January 23rd. He arrived at approximately 3.30 p.m.'

'Any record of when he left?'

'No, sah, there is no record of that.'

'Thank you, Chester,' I said gratefully, uncrossing my digits. 'Just out of curiosity, where is this house diary kept?'

'In the kitchen, sah. In the back of one of the cutlery drawers.'

'I wonder if you would do me a favour, Chester. I wonder if you would take the house diary to your apartment and conceal it carefully. I realize that is a strange 307

request, but it is very important.'

He didn't speak for a while. Then he said softly:

'Very well, Mr Bigg, I shall do as you request.'

'Thank you,' I said.

'My pleasure, sah,' he said.

My case was looking better and better. I thought I had Knurr cold, and I refused to worry about how I might begin to prove it.

'I'll check in later,' I told Chester conspiratorially.

'I'll look forward to it, sah,' he said, then rang off.

The high points of my long, dull morning were two more inconclusive calls from cabdrivers. A few minutes before noon I went into the men's room to freshen for lunch with Yetta. At an adjoining basin Hamish Hooter was combing his black greasy locks sideways in a futile effort to conceal his growing tonsure.

He saw me reflected in the mirror and sucked his teeth noisily.

'See here, Bigg,' he said, the voice reedy but not aggrieved; smug, in fact. 'I understand you're having lunch with Yetta Apatoff today.'

'You understand correctly,' I said coldly.

He dried his hands busily on one paper towel. About a year previously, he had circulated a memo about the wasteful practice of using more than a single paper towel.

Hooter examined himself in the mirror with every evidence of approval. He passed a palm over his slickeddown hair. He attempted to straighten his rounded shoulders. He inhaled mightily, which caused his pot belly to disappear until he exhaled.