'So you did talk about me,' she accused.
'Briefly,' I said. 'Only in passing. I hope some day, Mrs Kipper, you'll tell me about your experiences in the theatre. I'm sure they must have been fascinating.'
She hissed.
'He told you that?' she said. 'That I was in the theatre?'
'Oh no,' I said. 'But surely it's a matter of common knowledge?'
'Well. . maybe,' she said grudgingly.
'As a matter of fact,' I said innocently, 'I think I heard it first from Herschel and Bernard Kipper.'
'You've been talking to them? ' she said, aghast.
'Only in the line of duty,' I said hastily. 'To make a preliminary inventory of your late husband's personal effects in his office. Mrs Kipper, I'm sorry if I've offended you. But the fact of your having been in the theatre doesn't seem to me to be degrading at all. Quite the contrary.'
'Yes,' she said tightly. 'You're right.'
'Also,' I said, 'as an employee of a legal firm representing your interest, you can depend upon my rectitude.'
'Your what? '
'I don't gossip, Mrs Kipper. Whatever I hear in connection with a client goes no farther than me.'
She looked at me, eyes narrowing to cracks.
'Yeah,' she said, and I wondered what had happened to
'Yes.' Then she asked: 'What a client tells a lawyer, that's confidential, right?'
'Correct, Mrs Kipper. It's called privileged information.
The attorney cannot be forced to divulge it.'
Those eyes widened, stared at the ceiling.
'Privileged information,' she repeated softly. 'That's what I thought.'
Knowing she believed me to be an attorney, I awaited some startling confession. But she was finished with me.
Perhaps Knurr had told her I was not a member of the bar.
In any event, she stood suddenly and I hastened to rise and move her chair back.
'Well, I'm sure you want to get on with your work, Mr Bigg,' she said, extending her hand, the lady again.
'Yes, thank you,' I said, shaking her hand warmly. 'And for the coffee. I've enjoyed our talk.'
She sailed from the room without answering, her filmy robes floating out behind her.
'Have a good day,' I called after her, but I don't think she heard me.
I felt I had to spend some time in the townhouse to give credence to my cover story, so I took the elevator up to the sixth floor. I went into the empty, echoing party room and wandered about, heels clacking on the bare floor. I was drawn to those locked French doors. I stood there, looking out on to the terrace from which Sol Kipper had made his fatal plunge.
Small, soiled drifts of snow still lurked in the shadows.
There were melting patches of snow on tables and chairs.
The outdoor plants were brown and twisted. It was a mournful scene, a dead, winter scene.
He came up here, or was brought up here, and he leaped, or was thrown, into space. Limbs flailing. A boneless dummy flopping down. Suicide or murder, no 237
man deserved that death. It sent a bitter, shocking charge through my mouth, as when you bite down on a bit of tinfoil.
I felt, I knew, it had been done to him, but I could not see how. Four people in the house, all on the ground floor.
Four apparently honest people. And even if they were all lying, which of them was strong enough and resolute enough? And how was it done? Then, too, there was that suicide note…
Depressed, I descended to the first floor. I stuck my head into the kitchen and saw Chester Heavens and Mrs Bertha Neckin seated at the pantry table. They were drinking coffee from the same silver service that had just graced the dining room table.
Chester noticed me, rose immediately, and followed me out into the entrance hall where I reclaimed my hat and coat.
'Thank you, Chester,' I said. 'I hope I won't be bothering you much longer.'
'No bother, sah,' he said. He looked at me gravely. 'You are coming to the end of your work?'
His look was so inscrutable that for a moment I wondered if he knew, or guessed, what I was up to.
'Soon,' I said. 'It's going well. I should be finished with another visit or two.'
He nodded without speaking and showed me out, carefully trying the lock on the outer gate after I left.
I hailed a cab on Fifth and told the driver to drop me at the corner of Madison Avenue and 34th Street. From there I walked the couple of blocks to the ladies' wear shop to buy the green sweater for Yetta Apatoff. I described Yetta's physique as best I could, without gestures, and the kind saleslady selected the size she thought best, assuring me that with a sweater of that type, too small was better than too large, and if the fit wasn't acceptable, it could be exchanged. I had it gift-wrapped and then put into a shopping bag that effectively concealed the contents.
When I got back to my office, Mrs Gertrude Kletz was seated at her new desk in the corridor. She was on the phone, making notes I thought, gratified, that she looked very efficient indeed. I went to my own desk, sat down in my coat and hat, and made rapid, scribbled notes of my conversation with Mrs Tippi Kipper. My jottings could not convey the flavour of our exchange, but I wanted to make certain I had a record of her denial of knowing Martin Reape, her admission of heavy contributions to the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, and the anger she had exhibited when she learned of my meeting with Knurr.
I was just finishing up when my new assistant came into the office, carrying a spiral-bound stenographer's pad.
'Good morning, Mrs Kletz,' I said.
'Good morning, Mr Bigg.'
We beamed at each other. She was wearing a tent-like flannel jumper over a man-tailored shirt. I asked her if her desk, chair, telephone, and supplies were satisfactory, and she said they were.
'Did you get all my notes?' I asked her. 'Did they make sense to you?'
'Oh yes,' she said. 'No problems. I found the lab that did business with Professor Stonehouse.'
'You didn't?' I said, surprised and delighted. 'How many calls did it take?'
'Fourteen.' she said casually, as if it was a trifle. A treasure, that woman! 'They did two chemical analyses for Professor Stonehouse.' She handed me a note. 'Here's all the information: date and cost and so forth. They didn't tell me what the analyses were.'
'That's all right,' I said. 'I know what they were. I think.
Thank you, Mrs Kletz.'
'On the other research requests — I'm working on those now.'
'Good,' I said. 'Stick with it. If you have any questions, 239
don't be afraid to ask me.'
! Oh, I won' t be afraid,' she said.
I didn't think she would be — of anything. I made a sudden decision. From instinct, not reason.
'Mrs Kletz,' I said, 'I'm going out to lunch at one and will probably be back in an hour or so. If you get some time, take a look at the Kipper and Stonehouse files.
They're in the top drawer of the cabinet. I'd like your reaction.'
'All right,' she said placidly. 'This is interesting work, isn't it?'
'Oh yes,' I agreed enthusiastically. 'Interesting.'
I took off my coat and hat long enough to wash up in the men's room. Then I put them on again, took up my shopping bag, and sallied forth to take Yetta Apatoff to lunch.
Fifteen minutes later we were seated at a table for two in the Chinese restaurant on Third Avenue. I ordered eggrolls, wonton soup, shrimp with lobster sauce, and fried rice. After all, it was a birthday celebration. Before the eggrolls were served, I withdrew the gift-wrapped package from the shopping bag and presented it to Yetta.
'Many happy returns,' I said.
'Oh, Josh,' she said, her eyes moons, 'you shouldn't have. I had no idea. .!' She tore at the gift-wrapped package with frantic fingers. When she saw the contents, her mouth made an O of delighted surprise.
'Josh,' she breathed, 'how did you know? '