'Watch your tongue, girl,' he said warningly again, and again she stuck out her tongue at him. It seemed to be a ritual.
'I gather the Reverend is a frequent visitor,' I said musingly, pouring myself another half-cup of coffee.
'Where is his church?'
'He does not have a regular parish, sah,' the butler said.
'He provides personal counselling and works with the poor young in Greenwich Village. Street gangs and such.'
'But he is a frequent visitor?' I repeated.
'Oh yes. For several years.' Here the butler leaned close to me and whispered, 'I do believe Mrs Kipper is now taking religious instruction, sah. From Reverend Knurr.
Since the death of her husband.'
'The shock,' I said.
'The shock,' he agreed, nodding. 'For then it was brought home to her the shortness of life on this earth, and the eternity of life everlasting. And only those who seek the love of the Great God Jehovah shall earn the blessing thereof. Yea, it is written that only from suffering and turmoil of the spirit shall we earn true redemption and forgiveness for our sins.'
Then I knew what his passion was.
The monitor buzzer sounded again and I welcomed it. I stood up.
'I really must be going,' I said. 'Chester, I appreciate your invaluable assistance. As I told you, I shall be back again. I will call first. If it is inconvenient for you or Mrs Kipper, please tell me and I'll schedule another time.'
Perdita preceded me along the corridor to the entrance hall. I watched her move. She helped me on with my coat.
'Bundle up,' she said, pulling my collar tight. 'Keep warm.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Thank you.'
'Thursday is my day off,' she said.
'Oh?'
'We all have our private phones,' she said. 'I'm in the book. Schug. S-c-h-u-g.'
Back home that evening in my favourite chair, eating a spaghetti Mug-o-Lunch, I scribbled notes to add to the Kipper file and jotted a rough report of my conversations with Dr Stolowitz and Ardis Peacock.
I was interrupted in my work by a phone call. I was delighted to hear the voice of Detective Percy Stilton. His calling proved he was sincere in his promise to co-operate.
I was almost effusive in my greetings.
'Whoa,' he said. 'Slow down. I got nothing great to tell you. I checked on Marty Reape. Like I figured, they closed it out as an accident. No witnesses came forward to say otherwise. What did they expect? In this town, no one wants to get involved. One interesting thing though: he had a sheet. Nothing heavy or they would have pulled his PI licence. But he was charged at various and sundry times.
Simple assault; charges dropped. Attempted extortion; charges dropped. Trespassing; no record of disposal. That tell you anything?'
'No,' I said.
'Well, I asked around,' Perce said. 'This Reape apparently was a cruddy character. But they didn't find 128
any great sums of money on the corpse. And they didn't find anything that looked like legal evidence of any kind.
And that's about it. You got anything?'
I told him how I had gone to Reape's office looking for the evidence, left out how I had been conned by Mr Ng; I described the mourners at The Dirty Shame. He laughed.
I told him I thought that someone had got to Blanche Reape before me, because she had money to pay the office rent and pick up the bill for the funeral party.
' Well. . yes,' Stilton said cautiously. 'That listens. I can buy that. If the case was still open, I'd go over and lean on the lady and see if I could find out where those greenies came from. But I can't, Josh. She sounds like a wise bimbo, and if I throw my weight around, she might squeal.
Then it gets back to the brass, and my loot wants to know what I'm doing working on a closed case. Then my ass is out on a branch, just hanging there. You understand?'
'Of course I understand,' I said, and told him I didn't think there was anything we could do about Mrs Reape other than rifling her apartment in hopes that she still had the evidence that got her husband killed. And burglary was out of the question.
Then I told Stilton about my afternoon visit to the Kipper townhouse. He listened carefully, never interrupting until I mentioned that I had asked Chester Heavens if Sol Kipper had cried out while he was falling, and the butler said they hadn't heard a thing until the awful sounds of the body thumping to earth.
'Son of a bitch,' Percy said again.
'What's wrong?' I asked.
'Nothing,' he said, 'except that I should have asked that question and didn't. You're okay, Josh.'
I was pleased. I finished my report and we agreed I had discovered nothing that shed any additional light.
'Except that religious angle,' Perce said. 'Knurr being a 129
minister and that fat butler sounding like a religious fanatic.'
'What does that mean?' I asked.
'Haven't the slightest,' he admitted cheerfully. 'But it's interesting. You're going to keep on with it, Josh?'
'Oh sure,' I said. 'I'm going back there as often as I can.
I want to talk to the cook-housekeeper, and I'd like to look around a little more. How do you like my cover story?'
'Fantastic,' he said. 'You're becoming a hell of a liar.'
'Thank you,' I said faintly.
10
I slept late on Saturday morning and woke to find it was snowing: big fat flakes that were piling up rapidly. But the radio reported it would taper off by noon, and temperatures were expected to rise to the upper 30s.
I had a large breakfast and spent the day in the apartment, housecleaning and thinking about the cases.
In the early evening I showered and, in honour of the occasion, shaved. I dressed in a white oxford cloth shirt with a maroon rep tie, a navy blue blazer, grey flannel slacks, and polished black moccasins. Now I looked like a prep school student — but I was used to that.
I was tucking a white handkerchief into my breast pocket when someone knocked on my front door.
'Who is it?' I called before unlocking.
'Finkel,' came the reply.
I opened the door, smiling, and motioned Adolph Finkel inside. He was the fourth-floor tenant who lived across the 130
hall from Madame Zora Kadinsky.
'Uh, good evening, Bigg,' he said. 'I guess we're supposed to help Shank get downstairs.'
I glanced at my watch.
'We have a few minutes,' I said. 'How about a drink to give us strength?'
' W e l l. . don't go to any bother.' But he let me press some Scotch on him.
'Happy days,' I said.
'You're all dressed up,' he said sadly. 'I worked today and didn't have time to change.'
'You look fine,' I assured him.
He looked down at himself.
'The manager told me I shouldn't wear brown shoes with a blue suit,' he said. 'The manager said it doesn't look right for a shoe salesman to wear brown shoes with a blue suit. Of course, it's a ladies' shoestore where I w o r k. . but still. What do you think, Bigg?'
'Maybe black shoes would look better.'
'I could go up and change,' he said earnestly. 'I have a pair of black shoes.'
'Oh, don't bother,' I said. 'I doubt if anyone will notice.'
He was tall, six-one at least, and exceedingly thin, with rounded shoulders, bent neck, head pecked forward like a hungry bird. He had a wild mass of kinky, mouse-coloured hair hanging over a low brow. His complexion was palely blotched, washed-out. He had hurt eyes.
Apology was in his voice and in his manner. There is an ancient story of two men condemned to be shot to death.
One spits in the face of his executioner. His companion reproves him, saying, 'Don't make trouble.' That was Adolph Finkel.
'Uh, do you think the party will be in Mrs Hufnagel's apartment,' he asked me, 'or in Cleo's?'
'I really don't know. Probably Mrs Hufnagel's.'