'That's why most leapers go higher up than six storeys.
They want to kill themselves, but they don't want to take the chance of being crippled for life. This Kipper owned a textile company. He was semi-retired, his sons run the business, but Kipper went there for a few hours three or four days a week. The office is on the thirty-fourth floor of a building in the garment centre. He could have gone out a window there and they'd have had to pick him up with a blotter.'
'Perce, what actually killed him when he went off the sixth-floor terrace?'
'He landed on his head. Crushed his skull. All right, it could happen from six floors. He could also break both arms and legs, have internal injuries, and still live. That could happen, too. It couldn't happen from thirty-four floors. That's the first thing that bothered me: a suicide from the sixth floor. It's like trying to blow your brains out with a BB gun.
'The second thing was this: When jumpers go out, from a window, ledge, balcony, whatever, they usually drop straight down. I mean, they just take one giant step out into space. They don't really leap. Practically all the jumpers I've seen have landed within six feet of the side of the building. They usually squash on the sidewalk. When they go from a really high place, maybe their bodies start to windmill. But even then they hit the sidewalk or, at the most, crush in the top of a parked car. But I've never seen any who were more than, say, six or seven feet out from the side of the building. Kipper's body was almost ten feet away.'
I puzzled that out.
'Perce, you mean someone threw him over?'
'Who? There were four other people in that house — remember? Kipper weighed about one-sixty. None of the women could have lifted him over that terrace wall and thrown him so he landed ten feet from the side of the building. And the only man, the butler, is so fat it's all he can do to stand up. Maybe Kipper just took a flying leap.'
'An old man like that?'
'It's possible,' he said stubbornly. 'The third thing is even flimsier than the first two. It's that suicide note. It said: "I am sorry for all the trouble I've caused." Get it?
"Caused." Please forgive me for something I've done.
That note sounds to me like he's referring to something he did in the past, not something he was planning to do in a few minutes. Also, the note is perfectly legible, written in straight lines with a steady hand. Not the kind of handwriting you'd expect from a guy so mixed up in his skull that a few minutes later he was going to take a high dive from his terrace. But again, it's possible. I told you it's flimsy. All the things that bug me are flimsy.'
'I don't think they are,' I said hotly. 'I think they're important.'
He gave me a half-smile, looked at his watch, and began to stow away his cigarette case and lighter.
'Listen,' I said desperately, 'where do we go from here?'
'Beats me,' he said.
'Can't you — ' I began.
'Reopen the case?' he said. 'No way can I do that on the evidence we've got. If I even suggested it, my loot would have me committed. You're the Chief Investigator — so investigate.'
'But I don't know where to start,' I burst out. 'I know I should talk to the Kipper family and servants, but I don't know I should talk to the Kipper family and servants, but I know what excuse I can give them for asking questions.'
'Tell them what you told me,' he advised. 'Say you're collecting information to justify the insurance claim.
They'll buy it.'
'You didn't,' I pointed out.
'They're not as cynical as I am,' he said, grinning
'They'll believe what you tell them. Just remember what I said about lying. Keep it simple; don't try to gussy it up.
While you're nosing around, I'll see what I can find out about how Marty Reape died. From what you told me, it's probably been closed as an accident — but you never know.
Keep in touch. If anything turns up, you can always reach me at that number you've got or leave a message and I'll call back. Can I call you at Tabatchnick and whatever?'
I thought about that.
'Better not, Perce,' I said. 'I'd rather keep our, uh, relationship confidential.'
'Sure.' he said. 'I understand.'
'I'll give you my home phone number. I'm in almost every night.'
'That'll do fine.'
He copied my number in a little notebook he carried. It was black pinseal with gold corners. Like all his possessions, it looked smart and expensive.
I paid the bill, left a tip, and we walked towards the door.
'I still don't think it was a suicide,' I said.
'You may be right,' he said mildly. 'But thinking something and proving it are entirely different. As any cop can tell you.'
We put on our coats and moved out on to the sidewalk.
He was wearing a navy blue chesterfield and a black homburg. A dandy.
'Thanks for the dinner, Josh,' he said. 'Real good.'
'My pleasure,' I said.
'Which way you going?' he asked.
'Ninth Avenue. I'll catch a downtown bus. I live in Chelsea.'
'I'll walk you over,' he said, and we headed westward.
'Don't give up on this one, Josh,' he said, suddenly earnest. 'I can't do it; my plate is full. But I've got the feeling someone is jerking us around, and I don't like it.'
'I'm not going to give up,' I said.
'Good,' he said. 'And thanks for meeting with me and filling me in.
'Listen,' he added hesitantly, 'if what you think turns out to be right, and someone snuffed Sol Kipper and pushed Marty Reape under a train, then they're not nice people — you know? So be careful.'
93
'Oh sure. I will be.'
'You carry a piece?' he asked suddenly.
It was a few seconds before I understood what he meant.
'Oh no,' I said. 'I don't believe in violence.'
He sighed deeply.
'And a little child shall lead them,' he said. 'Good night, Josh.'
8
I awoke the next morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
Although Detective Stilton had insisted that all we had were unsubstantiated suspicions, what he had told me confirmed my belief that the death of Sol Kipper was not a suicide. And I was convinced that Stilton, despite his cautious disclaimers, felt the same way.
It had snowed slightly overnight; there was a light, powdery dusting on sidewalks and cars. But it was melting rapidly as the new sun warmed. The sky was azure; the air sparkled. It suited my mood perfectly, and as I set out for my appointment with the missing Yale Stonehouse's doctor, I took the weather as an augury of a successful day.
Dr Stolowitz had his offices on the street floor of a yellow brick apartment house that towered over neighbouring brownstones. I arrived at 8.15. His receptionist was tall, lanky, with a mobcap of frizzy red curls. Her thin features seemed set in a permanent expression of discontent. I noticed her extremely long, carmined fingernails 94
and a bracelet of a dozen charms on her bony wrist that jangled when she moved. She greeted me with something less than warmth.
'Joshua Bigg to see Dr Stolowitz,' I said, smiling hopefully.
'You're early,' she snapped. 'Sit down and wait.'
So I sat down and waited, coat and hat on my lap.
At precisely 8.25, another nurse came out — a little one this time — and beckoned to me.
'Doctor will see you now,' she said.
The man standing behind the littered desk was of medium height, stocky, with a heavy belly bulging in front of his short white jacket. He was wearing rimless spectacles with thick lenses that gave him a popeyed look. He was smoking a black cigar; the air was rancid with fumes.