Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

The will specifically forbade his daughter, Glynis 349

Stonehouse, from sharing in his estate because she had

'deliberately and with malice aforethought' attempted to cause his death by adding arsenic trioxide to his brandy. In proof of which, he was attaching to this will copies of chemical analyses made by Bommer amp; Son and a statement by Dr Morris Stolowitz that Professor Stonehouse had indeed been suffering from arsenic poisoning.

In addition, the will continued, if the testator was found dead by violence or by what appeared to be an accident, he demanded the police conduct a thorough investigation into the circumstances of his demise, with the knowledge that his daughter had tried to murder him once and would quite possibly try again, with more success.

The will had been witnessed by Olga Eklund and Wanda Chard. I could understand the loopy maid signing anything the Professor handed her and promptly forgetting it.

But Wanda Chard?

I carefully folded up the papers on their original creases, tucked them back into the hull of the Prince Royal, reattached hull to plaque, and wiped both with my handkerchief. Then, holding the tablet by the edges with my fingertips, I rehung it on the wall, adjusted it so it was level, and returned to the kitchen.

'Thank you, Effie,' I said, bending to kiss her cheek.

She looked up at me. I thought I saw tears welling.

'It's the end of everything, isn't it?' she asked.

I couldn't lie to her.

'Close to it,' I said.

I went back into the living room. Glynis Stonehouse was standing at one of the high windows, staring down at the rain-lashed street. She turned when she heard me come into the room.

'Finished?' she asked.

'Finished,' I said. 'Mrs Dark tells me your mother isn't feeling well. I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Stonehouse.

Please convey to her my best wishes and hope for her quick recovery.'

'Thank you,' she said.

She stood tall and erect. She had recovered her composure. She looked at me steadily, and there was nothing in her appearance to suggest that she knew how close she was to disaster.

'I'll keep you informed of the progress of my investigation, Miss Stonehouse.'

'Yes,' she said levelly, 'you do that.'

She was so strong. Oh, but she was strong! If she had weakened, briefly, that weakness was gone now; she was resolute, determined to see it through. I admired her. She was a woman of intelligence and must have known she was in danger, walking the edge. I bade her a dignified good day, then hightailed it across town to the Kipper manse.

Chester Heavens greeted me with his usual aplomb, but I sensed a certain reticence, almost a nervousness in his replies to my chatter about his health, the weather, etc. We were standing in the echoing entrance hall when I became aware of raised voices coming from behind the closed doors of the sitting room.

'Mom is at home, sah,' the butler informed me gravely, looking over my head.

'So I hear,' I said. 'And Mr Knurr?'

He nodded slowly.

I hid my pleasure.

'Chester,' I said, 'I won't stay long. This may be my last visit.'

'Oh?' he said. 'I am sorry to hear that, sah.'

'Just a few little things to check out,' I told him.

He bowed slightly and moved away towards the kitchen.

I stood at the front door and looked towards the rear of the house. The doorway could not be seen from the kitchen. Then I moved to the elevator. That was in plain view of anyone in the kitchen or pantry.

I saw Mrs Bertha Neckin standing at the sink. She glanced up and I waved to her, but she didn't respond.

I took the elevator up to the fifth floor and went swiftly into Tippi Kipper's dressing room. I set down my briefcase and began searching. It wasn't hard to find: a cedar-smelling box of filigreed wood with brass corners. It appeared to be of Indian handicraft. It was tucked under a stack of filmy lingerie in a bottom dresser drawer. I may have blushed when I handled those gossamer garments.

The box was unlocked and filled with a carelessly tossed pile of notes. There were jottings on his personal stationery, on sheets from notepads, on raggedly torn scrap paper, and one on a personal cheque of Solomon A.

Kipper, made out to Tippi Kipper in the amount of 'Ten zillion dollars and all my love' and signed 'Your Sol.'

I scanned the notes quickly. My heart cringed. Most were love letters from an old man obviously obsessed to the point of dementia by a much younger woman whose seductive skills those notes spelled out in explicit detail.

And there were notes of apology.

'I am sorry, babe, if I upset you.' Wasn't so bad for starters, but then I came across 'Please forgive me for the way I acted last night. I realize you had a headache, but I couldn't help myself, you looked so beautiful.' As I read on, a pattern of increasing desperation, dependence, and humiliation emerged.

'Can you ever forgive me?' Then, 'Here is a little something for you to make up for what I said last night. Am I forgiven?'

It was punishment, reading those revelations of a dead man. I stole two of them:

'Tippi, I hope you will pardon me for the pain I caused you.' And, 'My loving wife, please forgive me for all the trouble I made. I promise you that you'll never again have any reason to doubt my everlasting love for you.'

Those two, I thought, would serve as suicide notes as well as the one found prominently displayed in the master bedroom after Sol Kipper's plunge.

I tucked the two notes into my briefcase, closed and replaced the box, and then went up the rear staircase to the sixth floor. I entered the party room, went over and stood with my back against the locked French doors leading to the terrace.

I looked at my watch. I allowed fifteen seconds for the act of throwing Kipper over the wall. Then I started running. I went down the rear staircase as fast as I could. I dashed along the fifth-floor corridor to the main staircase. I went bounding down rapidly, swinging wildly around the turns. I came down to the entrance hall, rushed over to the front door. I looked at my watch, gasping. About ninety seconds. He could have made it. Easily.

There was no one about, and no sounds from the sitting room. I found my outer garments and donned them and went out into the chill rain without saying goodbye to Chester. I walked towards Fifth Avenue, intending to catch a cab. I was almost there when who should fall into step alongside but the Reverend Godfrey Knurr.

'Joshua!' he said, moving under the shelter of my umbrella. 'This is nice. Chester told us you were about. If you say this is good weather for ducks, I may kick you!'

He was bright again, his manner jaunty.

I didn't panic. I knew he had been waiting for me, but in a way I couldn't understand, I welcomed the confrontation. Maybe I thought of it as a challenge.

'Pastor,' I said, 'good to see you again. I didn't want to interrupt you and Mrs Kipper.'

He rolled his eyes in burlesque dismay.

'What an argument that was,' he said carefully, taking my arm. 'Want to hear about it?'

'Sure.'

He looked about.

'Around the corner,' he said. 'Down a block or so. Posh 353

hotel. Nice cocktail lounge. Quiet. We can talk — and keep dry. On the outside at least.'

A few minutes later we were standing at the black vinyl, padded bar in the cozy lounge of the Stanhope, the room dimmed by rain-streaked windows in which the Metropolitan Museum shimmered like a Monet. We were the only customers, and the place was infused with that secret ambience of a Manhattan bar on a rainy day, comfortably closed and begging for quiet confessions.

Knurr ordered a dry Beefeater martini up, with lemon peel. I asked for a bottle of domestic beer. When our drinks were served, he glanced around the empty room.