Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

I thanked her effusively, ran out of TORT and, miraculously, given the weather, hailed a cab right in front of the building.

In the Stonehouse hallway the formidable Olga Eklund relieved me of hat, coat, rubbers, and umbrella, and herded me into that beige living room where Glynis Stonehouse reclined in one corner of the velvet sofa, idly leafing through a magazine. Nothing about her posture or manner suggested worry.

If she made an error, it was in her greeting.

'Oh,' she said, 'Mr Bigg. Do sit down.'

Too casual.

I sat down, opened my briefcase, and began to rummage through it.

'Miss Stonehouse,' I said enthusiastically, 'I think I'm making real progress. You'll recall that I told you I had discovered your father had been suffering from arsenic poisoning prior to his disappearance? Well, I've definitely established how he was being poisoned. The arsenic was being added to his brandy!'

I handed her copies of the chemical analyses. She looked 345

at them. I don't believe she read them. I plucked them from her fingers and replaced them in my briefcase.

'Isn't that wonderful?' I burbled on. 'What a break!'

'I suppose so,' she said in her husky, low-pitched voice.

'But what does it mean?'

'Well, it means we now know how the poison was administered.'

'And what will you do next?'

'That's obvious, isn't it?' I said, laughing lightly. 'Find the source of the poison. You can't buy arsenic at your local drugstore, you know. So I must check out everyone involved to see who had access to arsenic trioxide.'

I stared at her. I thought there would be a reaction.

There wasn't.

She sighed deeply.

'Yes,' she said, 'I suppose you will have to keep digging and digging until you discover the. . what do the police call it?. . the perpetrator? You'll never give up, will you, Mr Bigg?'

'Oh no!' I said heartily. 'I'm going to stick to it. Miss Stonehouse, may I speak to Effie Dark for a few moments? I'd like to find out who had access to your father's brandy.'

She looked at me.

'Yes,' she said dully, 'talk to Mrs Dark. That's all right.'

I smiled my thanks, bent to reclasp my briefcase. Before I could stand, she said:

'Mr Bigg, why are you doing this?'

I shook my head, pretending puzzlement.

'Doing what, Miss Stonehouse?'

'All these questions. This — this investigation.'

'I'm trying to find your father.'

Her body went slack. She melted. That's the only way I can describe it. Suddenly there was no complete outline around her. Not only in her face, which sagged, but in her limbs, her flesh. All of her became loose and without 346

form. It was a frightening thing to see. A dissolution.

'He was a dreadful man,' she said in a low voice.

I think I was angered then. I tried to hide it, but I'm not certain I succeeded.

'Yes,' I said, 'I'm sure he was. Everyone says so. An awful person. But that's not important, is it?'

She made a gesture. A wave of the hand. A small, graceful flip of dismissal. Of defeat.

Effie Dark was seated at the white enamelled table, an emptied coffee cup before her. There was a redolence, and it took me a few seconds to identify it: the air smelled faintly of brandy.

She looked up listlessly as I entered, then smiled wanly.

'Mr Bigg,' she said, and pulled out a chair for me. 'It's nice to see a cheerful face.'

'What's wrong, Effie?' I asked, sitting down.

'Problems?'

' O h. . ' she said, sighing, 'there's no light in this house any more. The missus, she's taken to her bed and won't get out of it.'

'She's ill?'

'Sherry-itis. And Miss Glynis is as down as I've ever seen her. I even called Powell, thinking a visit from him might help things. But he says he must avoid negative vibrations.

That means he's scared misery might be catching. W e l l. . '

she said, sighing again, 'I was figuring on retiring in a year or two. Maybe I'll do it sooner.'

'What will you do, Effie?' I asked softly.

'Oh, I'll make do,' she said, drawing a deep breath. 'I have enough. It's not the money that worries me, it's the loneliness.'

'Move somewhere pleasant,' I suggested. 'Warm, sunny weather. Maybe Florida or California. You'll make new friends.'

Suddenly she perked up. Those little blueberry eyes twinkled in her muffin face. She lifted one plump arm and 347

poked fingers into the wig of marcelled yellow-white hair. I could have sworn I heard her dentures clacking.

'I might even find myself a husband,' she said, looking at me archly. 'What do you think of that, Mr Bigg. Think I'm too fat?'

' "Pleasantly plump" is the expression, Effie. There are many men who appreciate well-endowed women.'

'Well-endowed?' she spluttered. 'How you do go on!

You're medicine for me, Mr Bigg, you truly are. See? I'm laughing for the first time in days. But I don't suppose you stopped by just to make a silly old woman happy. You need some help?'

'Thank you,' I said gratefully. I lowered my voice.

'Effie, is the door locked to Professor Stonehouse's study?'

She nodded, staring at me with bright eyes.

'You have a key?'

Again the nod.

I thought for a moment. 'What I'd like you to do is this: I'll wait here while you go out and unlock the door to the study and then come back. I'll go into the study. You'll be here, so you won't see me enter. I'll only be a few minutes.

No more than five. I swear to you I will not remove anything from the study. Then I will come back here to say goodbye, and you can relock the study door. That way, if you're ever asked any questions, you can say truthfully that you never saw me in the study, didn't see me go in or come out.'

She considered that for a while.

'Glynis is here,' she said. 'In the living room, I think.

And the Sexy Swede is wandering around someplace.

Either of them could catch you in there.'

'I know,' I said.

'I hope I'm doing the right thing,' she said.

When I was inside the study, I closed the door softly behind me. I went directly to the wall where the model ship 348

hulls were displayed. I moved along the bottom row, rapping on the hulls gently with a knuckle. Some sounded solid, some hollow. I found the Prince Royal in the middle of the third row. I stood on tiptoe to lift the Prince Royal plaque off picture hooks nailed into the wall.

I carried the model hull to the desk and set it on top of the littered papers and maps. I switched on the desk lamp. I picked up a pencil and tapped the hull form twice. It sounded hollow. So far so good.

I grasped the hull and lifted gently. It came away. As easily as that. Just came right off. I was astonished, and looked to see what had been holding it to the plaque. Eight small magnets, inch-long bars, four inset into the hull and four in the plaque. They gripped firmly enough to hold the hull when the tablet was on the wall, but released with a slight tug.

Of course I was more interested in the papers folded inside. Most were thin, flimsy sheets, of the weight used for carbon copies. I unfolded them carefully, handling them by the corners. The top four sheets were not typed, but handwritten. It took me awhile to read it through. The writing was as crabbed, mean, and twisted as the man himself.

I, Yale Emerson Stonehouse, being of sound mind and body …

It was all there: the holographic last will and testament of the missing Professor Stonehouse. He started by making specific cash bequests. Fifty thousand to his alma mater, and twenty thousand to Mrs Effie Dark, which I was happy to see. Then there were a dozen cash bequests to cousins and distant relatives, none of whom was to receive more than a thousand dollars, and one of whom was to inherit five bucks. Olga Eklund got one hundred.

The bulk of his estate was to be divided equally between his wife, Ula Stonehouse, and his son, Powell Stonehouse.