I had started going through the Manhattan Yellow 231
Pages, but was dismayed by the number of chemical laboratories listed and decided to entrust my new assistant with a sensitive assignment. I left a typed note, asking her to call each of the labs listed and say that she represented the attorneys handling the estate of the late Professor Yale Stonehouse. A question had arisen concerning a cheque the Professor had written to the lab without any accompanying voucher. She was to ask each laboratory to consult their files to establish the date of billing and the purpose for which the money was paid.
On my way out I stopped at Yetta Apatoff's desk to tell her that my assistant would be in at eleven. She giggled.
'Oh, Josh,' she said, 'she's so big and you're so small.
It's so funny seeing the two of you together.'
'Yes, yes,' I said impatiently. 'But I'm sure you and everyone else in the office will get used to it.'
'So funny! ' she repeated, squinching up her face in mirth. I wished she hadn't done that; it gave her the look of a convulsed porker.
I told her I'd return in plenty of time to take her to lunch at one o'clock. She nodded, still giggling as I left. It seemed to me she was exhibiting a notable lack of sensitivity.
I took a cab up to the Kipper townhouse, pondering what I might say to Tippi if I got the opportunity and how I might draw her out on matters not pertaining to my alleged inventory of her late husband's estate. I could devise no devilishly clever ploy, and decided my best approach was to appear the wide-eyed innocent.
Chester Heavens answered my ring at the outside iron gate. 'Good morning, sah,' he said, friendly enough.
'Good morning, Chester. I trust I am not causing any inconvenience by dropping by without calling first?'
'Not at all, sah,' he said, ushering me into the looming entrance hall and holding out his hands for my hat and coat. 'Mom is breakfasting in the dining room. If you'll
just wait a moment, sah, perhaps I should inform her of your arrival.'
I waited, standing, until he returned. 'Mom asks if you would care to join her for a cup of coffee, sah?'
'I'd like that very much.'
Mrs Kipper was seated at the head of a long table. In the centre was a silver bowl of camellias and lilies. She held a hand out to me as I entered.
'Good morning, Mr Bigg,' she said, smiling. 'You're out early this morning.'
'Yes, ma'am,' I said moving forward quickly to take her hand. 'I'm anxious to finish up. Almost as anxious, I imagine, as you are to see the last of me.'
'Not at all,' she murmured. 'You've had breakfast?'
'Oh yes, ma'am.'
'But surely you'll join me for a cup of coffee?'
'Thank you I'd like that.'
'Chester, will you clear these things away, please, and bring Mr Bigg a cup. And more hot coffee.'
'Yes, mom,' he said.
'Now you sit next to me, Mr Bigg,' Tippi said, gesturing towards the chair on her right. 'I've always enjoyed a late, leisurely breakfast. It's really the best meal of the day — is it not?' Her manner seemed patterned after Loretta Young or Greer Garson.
I must admit she made a handsome picture, sitting erect at the head of that long, polished table: Portrait of a Lady.
In pastels. She was wearing a two-layer nightgown peignoir, gauzy and flowing, printed with pale gardenias.
She seemed born to that splendid setting. If the Kipper sons had been telling the truth, if she had the background they claimed, she had effected a marvellous transformation. The silver-blonde hair was up, and as artfully coiffed as ever. No wrinkles in that half-century old face; its mask-like crispness hinted of a plastic surgeon's 'tucks.'
The brown eyes with greenish flecks showed clear whites, the nose was perfectly patrician, the tight chin carried high.
I felt a shameful desire to dent that assured exterior by risking her ire.
'Mrs Kipper,' I said, 'a small matter has come up concerning your late husband's estate, and we hoped you might be able to help us with it. During an inventory of your husband's office effects, a bill was found in the amount of five hundred dollars, submitted by a certain Martin Reape. It is marked simply: "For services rendered." We haven't been able to contact this Mr Reape or determine the nature of the services he rendered. We hoped you might be able to assist us.'
I was watching her closely. At my first mention of Martin Reape, her eyes lowered suddenly. She stretched out a hand for her coffee cup and raised it steadily to her lips. She did not look at me while I concluded my question, but set the cup slowly and carefully back into the centre of the saucer with nary a clatter.
It was a remarkable performance, but a calculated one.
She should not have taken a sip of coffee in the midst of my question, and she should have, at least, glanced at me as I spoke. Roscoe Dollworth had told me: 'They'll take a drink, light a cigarette, bend over to retie their shoelace — anything to stall, to give themselves time to think, time to lie believably.'
'Reape?' Mrs Kipper said finally, meeting my eyes directly. 'Martin Reape? How do you spell that?'
'R-e-a-p-e.'
She thought for a moment.
'Nooo,' she said. 'The name means nothing to me. Have you found it anywhere else in his records?'
'No, ma'am.'
Did I see relief in her eyes or did I just want to see it there as evidence of guilt?
'I'm afraid I can't help you,' she said, shaking her head 234
'My husband was involved in so many things and knew so many people with whom I was not acquainted.'
I loved that '. . people with whom I was not acquainted.' So much more aristocratic than '. . people I didn't know.' I was horribly tempted to ask her how Las Vegas was the last time she saw it. Instead, I said. .
'I understand your husband was very active in charitable work, Mrs Kipper.'
'Oh yes,' she said sadly. 'He gave generously.'
'So Mr Knurr told me,' I said.
There was no doubt at all that this was news to her, and came as something of a shock. She took another sip of coffee. This time the cup clattered back into the saucer.
'Oh?' she said tonelessly. 'I didn't know that you and Godfrey had discussed my husband's charities.'
'Oh my yes,' I said cheerfully. 'The Reverend was kind enough to invite me down to Greenwich Village to witness his activities there. He's a remarkable man.'
'He certainly is,' she said grimly. She took up her cigarette case, extracted and tapped a cigarette with short, angry movements. I was ready with a match. She smacked the cigarette into her mouth, took quick, sharp puffs. Now she was Bette Davis.
'What else did you and Godfrey talk about?' she asked.
'Mostly the boys he was working with and how he was trying to turn their physical energy and violence into socially acceptable channels.'
'Did he say anything about me?' she demanded. The mask had dropped away. I saw the woman clearly.
I hesitated sufficiently long so that she would know I was lying.
'Why, no, ma'am,' I said mildly, my eyes as wide as I could make them. 'The Reverend Knurr said nothing about you other than that you and your husband had made generous contributions to his programme.'
Something very thin, mean, and vitriolic came into that wrinkle-free face. It became harder and somehow menacing. All I could think of was the face of Glynis Stonehouse when I told her I knew of her father's poisoning.
'Oh yes,' she said stonily. 'We contributed. Take a look at Sol's cancelled cheques. You'll see.'
I could not account for her anger. It did not seem justified simply by the fact that I had had a private conversation with the Reverend Knurr. I decided to flick again that raw nerve ending.
'He did say how difficult it had been for you,' I said earnestly. 'I mean your husband's death.'