Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

I caught him up on that.

'Physically?' I said. 'But what of his personality, his character?'

Another of his maddening silences.

'Charm,' he said, then buried his nose in his glass. After he swallowed he repeated, 'Charm. A very special charm.

There was a golden glow about him.'

'He must have been very popular,' I said, hoping to keep his reminiscences flowing.

'You had to love him,' he said, sighing. 'In his presence you felt happy. More alive. He promised everything.'

'Promised?' I said, not understanding.

'I felt younger,' he said, voice low. 'More hopeful. Life seemed brighter. Just having him near.'

'Did he ever visit you here, in your home?'

Again he began to weep, and I despaired of learning anything of significance from this riven man.

I waited until his eyes stopped leaking. This time he didn't bother wiping the tears away. The wet glistened like oil on his withered face. He drank deeply, finished his whisky. His trembling hand pawed feebly for the full bottle on the floor. I served him. I had never before seen a man drink with such maniacal determination, as if unconsciousness could not come soon enough.

He lay there, wax fingers clamped around the glass on his bony chest. He stared unblinking at the ceiling. I felt I was sitting up with a corpse, waiting for the undertaker's men to come and take their burden away.

'I understand he was in trouble as a boy,' I continued determinedly. 'In a drugstore where he worked. He was accused of stealing.'

'He made restitution,' the old man said, his thin lips hardly moving. 'Paid it all back.'

'You gave him the money for that?' I guessed.

I hardly heard his faint, 'Yes.' Then. .

'I gave him so much!' he howled in a voice so loud it startled me. 'Not only money, but myself. I gave him my-400

self! I taught him about poetry and beauty. Love. He said he understood, but he didn't. He was playing with me. He teased me. All the time he was teasing me, and it gave him pleasure.'

I felt suddenly ill as I began to glimpse the proportions of this tragedy. Now I could understand that screeched,

'Nothing happened!' And the statue of David. And the whispered, 'Evil, evil, evil. . '

'You loved him?' I asked gently.

'So much,' he said in a harrowed voice. 'So much. . '

He lifted his head to drain his tumbler, then held it out to me in a quavery hand. I filled it without compunction.

'You never married, Reverend?' I asked.

'No. Never.' He was staring at the ceiling again, seeing things that weren't there.

'Did you tell Godfrey how you felt about him?'

'He knew.'

'And?'

'He used me. Used me! Laughing. The devil incarnate.

All I saw was the golden glow. And then the darkness beneath.'

'Knowing that, Pastor, why did you help him become a man of God?'

'Weakness. I did not have the strength of soul to withstand him. He threatened me.'

'Threatened you? How? You said that nothing happened.'

'Nothing did. But I had written him. Notes. Poems. They would have ruined me. The church. . '

Notes again. I was engulfed in notes, false and t r u e. .

I took a deep breath, trying to comprehend the extent of such perfidy. The pattern of Godfrey Knurr's life was becoming plainer. An ambition too large for his discipline to contain was the motive for trading on his charm. He moved grinning from treachery to treachery, leaving behind him a trail of scars, wounds, broken lives.

And finally, I was convinced, two murders that meant no more to him than a rifled cash register or this betrayed wreck of a man.

'So you did whatever he demanded?' I said, nailing it down. 'Got him out of scrapes, got him into the seminary?

Gave him money?'

'All,' he said. 'All. I gave him everything. My soul. My poor little shrivelled soul.'

His words 'shrivelled soul' came out slurred and garbled, almost lost between his whisky-loosened tongue and those ill-fitting dentures. I did not think he was far from the temporary oblivion he sought.

'Sylvia Wiesenfeld,' I said. 'You knew her?'

He didn't answer.

'You did,' I told him. 'Her father owned the drugstore where Godfrey stole the money. A lovely girl. So vulnerable. So willing. I saw her picture. Did she love Godfrey, too?'

His eyes were closed again. But his lips were moving faintly, fluttering. I rose, bent over him, put my ear close to his mouth, as if trying to determine if a dying man still breathed.

'What?' I said sharply. 'I didn't hear that. Please repeat it.'

This time I heard.

'I married them,' he said.

I straightened up, took a deep breath. I looked down at the shrunken, defenceless hulk. All I could think of was: Godfrey Knurr did that.

I took the whisky glass from his strengthless fingers and set it on the floor alongside the couch. He seemed to be breathing slowly but regularly. The tears had dried on his face, but whitish matter had collected in the corners of his eyes and mouth. Occasionally his body twitched, little moans escaped his lips like gas released from something corrupt.

I wandered about the lower floor of the house. I found a knitted afghan in the hall closet, brought it back to the parlour, and covered the Reverend Ludwig Stokes, a bright shroud for a grey man.

Then I went back into his study and poked about. I finally found a telephone directory in the lowest drawer of the old walnut desk. There was an S. Wiesenfeld on Sherman Street, not too far from the home of Goldie Knurr. It seemed strange that such tumultuous events had occurred in such a small neighbourhood.

The woman who answered my ring was certainly not Sylvia Wiesenfeld; she was a gargantuan black woman, not so tall but remarkable in girth. Her features, I thought, might be pleasant in repose, but when she opened the door, she was scowling and banging an iron frying pan against one redwood thigh. She looked down at me.

'We ain't buying,' she said.

'Oh, I'm not selling anything,' I hurriedly assured her.

'My name is Joshua Bigg. I represent a legal firm in New York City. I've been sent out to make inquiries into the background of Godfrey Knurr. I was hoping to have a few minutes' conversation with Miss Wiesenfeld.'

She looked at me suspiciously.

'You who? ' she said. 'You New York folks talk so fast.'

'Joshua Bigg.' I answered slowly. 'That's my name. I'm trying to obtain information about Godfrey Knurr. I'd like to talk to Sylvia Wiesenfeld for a few moments.'

'You the law?' she demanded.

'No,' I said, 'not exactly. I represent attorneys who, in turn, represent a client who is bringing suit against the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. I'm just making a preliminary investigation, that's all.'

'You going to hang him?' she demanded. 'I hope.'

I tried to smile.

' W e l l. . a h. . ' I said, 'I'm sure our client would like to.

May I speak to Miss Wiesenfeld for a few moments?'

She glared at me, making up her mind. That heavy cast-iron frying pan kept banging against her bulging thigh. I was very conscious of it.

' W e l l. . ' she said finally, 'all right.' Then she added fiercely, 'You get my honey upset, I break yo' ass!'

'No, no,' I said hastily, 'I won't upset her, I promise.'

She stared down at me again.

'You and me,' she said menacingly, 'we come to it, I figure I come out on top.'

'Absolutely,' I assured her. 'No doubt about it. I'll behave; I really will.'

Suddenly she grinned: a marvellous human grin of warmth and understanding.

'I do believe,' she said. 'Come on in, lawyer-man.'

She led me into a neat entrance hall, hung my coat and hat on an oak hall rack exactly like the one in Miss Goldie Knurr's home.

'May I know your name, please, ma'am?' I asked her.

'Mrs Harriet Lee Livingston,' she said in a rich contralto voice. 'I makes do for Miz Sylvia.'