'Yes, yes,' he said testily. 'I'll call you back.' He hung up abruptly.
Maybe his graham crackers had been stale.
I had no sooner hung up than Thelma Potts called. I took the elevator to the fourth floor with two clerks carrying stacks of law books up to their eyebrows.
'Twice in two days,' Thelma Potts said. 'My, what would this company do without you?'
'Stick with me, kid,' I said, 'and you'll be wearing diamonds.'
I knocked once and went in. He was feeding his fish, crumbling some white stuff into the tanks and making little sounds with his tongue and teeth. It sounded like, 'nk, nk, nk.'
'Mr Tabatchnick,' I said, 'I had a meeting with Marty about the Kipper estate.'
He went on feeding fish. 'Sit down and tell me,' he said.
When I mentioned the $50,000, Mr Tabatchnick's hand jerked and one of his finny friends got an unexpected banquet. I finished describing the meeting and he came back to his swivel chair behind the trestle table, dusting his hands.
'I like it less and less,' he said. 'If he had asked for five hundred, or a thousand, or even five thousand, I would 49
have assumed he was merely a cheap chiseller. But he obviously believes his information is of considerable value.
And if he is a private investigator, he may indeed have discovered something of consequence. Repeat exactly what he said regarding the nature of his information.'
'He said, quote, What I got is going to upset the applecart. With what I got, the Kipper will ain't worth the paper it's printed on. Unquote.'
'And he said he has another potential customer?'
'Yes, sir. He said he was meeting with them later today.
That's his word: " t h e m. " '
We sat in silence for a long time. Finally he stirred and said, 'I dislike this intensely. As an officer of the court I cannot become involved in shenanigans. At the same time, I have a responsibility to our deceased client and to the proper distribution of his estate as set forth in his last will and testament.'
He stared at me without expression. I didn't catch on for a moment. Then I knew what he wanted.
'Sir,' I said, 'is there anything odd about that will?'
'No, no,' he said. 'It's a relatively short and simple document. But I have not been entirely forthcoming with you, Mr Bigg. On the morning of the day he committed suicide, Sol Kipper called this office and said he wished to execute a new will.'
'I see,' I said softly.
'Do you?' he said. 'I don't. Now we have this "Marty"
claiming to have information that may invalidate the existing will.'
'Yes, sir,' I said. 'You want to pay him, Mr Tabatchnick?'
'I told you,' he thundered, 'I cannot let myself become involved!'
'Of course not, sir. But I'm not an officer of the court; I have latitude to act in this matter.'
That was what he wanted to hear. Mr Tabatchnick settled back, entwined his fingers across his solid stomach, 50
regarded me gravely.
'What do you propose, Mr Bigg?'
'The funds can't come from this firm, sir. There can be no connection, nothing on our books. The money must be made available from an outside source.'
He thought a moment. 'That can be arranged,' he said finally.
'And I must be the only contact Reape knows. No one else in the firm can speak to him or meet with him.'
'I agree.'
'The first thing for me to do is to call Reape and tell him we agree to his terms. Before he makes a deal with his other customers. I will then arrange a date for the transfer, postponing it as long as possible. Then I hand over the money and he hands over his information or delivers it orally.'
'Why do you wish to postpone the transfer as long as possible?'
'To give me time to devise some plan for getting the information without paying.'
'Splendid, young man!' he said. 'If you can. But your primary objective must be acquiring the information. I hope you understand that.'
'I do, sir.'
'Good. Keep me informed. I'll need a day or two to provide the funds.'
'Mr Tabatchnick, it would help if you could tell me something about the existing Kipper will. Specifically, who stands to inherit the most? And if the will is for some reason declared invalid, who would stand to profit the most?'
He looked down at his big hands, now clasped on the tabletop.
'For the moment,' he said in a low voice, 'I would prefer to keep that information confidential. Should the time come when it is vital to the successful conclusion of your, 51
ah, investigation, I will then make available to you a copy of the will.'
It was time for me to go.
'Mr Bigg,' he said.
I turned back from the door.
'This conversation never took place,' he said sternly.
'What conversation, sir?' I asked.
He almost smiled.
6
I called Marty Reape when I returned to my office. No answer. I wondered if he was meeting with his other customers.
I took off my jacket and started hacking away at inquiries that had been submitted by junior partners and associates. Most of these could be handled with a single phone call or a letter, or a look into Roscoe Dollworth's small library of dictionaries, atlases, almanacs, census reports, etc.
What was the Hispanic population of the Bronx in 1964?
How long does it take to repaint a car?
In what year was penicillin discovered?
Who was the last man to be electrocuted in New York State?
What are the ingredients of a Molotov cocktail?
I tried twice to call Marty Reape. Ada Mondora called to say I had an appointment with the Stonehouse family. I was to be at their apartment on Central Park West and 70th Street at 8.00 p.m.
It was then about 4.30. I decided that instead of going home I would do better to have my dinner midtown, then go to West 70th Street. I checked my wallet, then I called Yetta Apatoff.
'Oh, Josh,' she said. 'I wish you'd called sooner. I would have loved to, but just a half-hour ago Hammy asked me to have dinner with him.'
'Hammy?'
'Hamish. Hamish Hooter.'
She called him Hammy.
'Yes, well, I'm sorry you can't make it, Yetta. I'll try another time.'
'Promise?' she breathed.
'Promise.'
So I worked in the office until 6.30. I called Marty Reape twice more. No reply. I tried him again before I left the restaurant, where I ate alone. Again there was no answer. I began to fear that he had concluded a deal with his other customers.
I had time to spare, so I walked to 42nd Street, boarded a Broadway bus, and rode up to West 70th Street. Then I walked over to Central Park West. The sky was murky; a light drizzle was beginning to fall. Wind blew in sighing gusts and smelled vaguely of ash. A fitting night to investigate a disappearance.
The Stonehouses' apartment house was an enormous, pyramidal pile of brick. Very old, very staid, very expensive. The lobby was all marble and mirrors. I waited while the uniformed deskman called to learn if I would be received.
'Mr Bigg to see Mrs Stonehouse,' he announced. Then he hung up and turned to me. 'Apartment 17-B.'
The elevator had been converted to self-service, but the walls and ceiling were polished walnut with bevelled oval mirrors; the Oriental carpet had been woven to fit.
Seventeen-B was on the Central Park side. I rang the bell and waited for a long time. Finally the door was opened by a striking young woman. She smiled.
'Mr Bigg?' she said. 'Good evening, I'm Glynis Stonehouse.'
She hung my coat in a foyer closet. Then she led me down a long, dimly lighted corridor lined with antique maps and scenes of naval battles. I saw why it had taken so long to answer the door. It was a hike to the living room.
The apartment was huge.
She preceded me into a living room larger than my apartment. I had a quick impression of a blaze in a tiled fireplace, chairs and sofas of crushed velvet, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park. Then Glynis Stonehouse was leading me towards a smallish lady curled in the corner of an overstuffed couch, holding a half-filled wineglass. There was a bottle of sherry on the glass-topped table before her.