Perhaps his original will is in existence and still valid.'
I hadn't considered that possibility. It stunned me. But after pondering it a moment, it seemed unlikely to me.
After getting the results of those chemical analyses, Professor Yale Stonehouse would surely write a new will or amend the original. It was in character for him to do that.
He was an ill-natured, vindictive man; he would not take lightly an attempt to poison him.
'One final request, Mr Teitelbaum,' I said. 'I am convinced that when Professor Stonehouse left his home on the night of January 10th, he went somewhere by cab or in a car that was waiting for him. It was a raw, sleety night; I don't think he'd wait for a bus or walk over to the subway. I can't do anything about a car waiting for him, but I can attempt to locate the cab he might have taken. All taxi drivers are required to keep trip sheets, but it would be an enormous task checking all the trip sheets for that
night, even if the taxi fleet owners allowed me to, which they probably wouldn't. What I'd like to do is have posters printed up, bearing the photograph of Professor Stonehouse and offering a modest reward for any cabdriver who remembers picking him up at or near his home on the night of January 10th. I admit it's a very long shot. The posters could only go in the garages of fleet owners, and there are many independent cabowners who'd never see them. Still, there is a chance we might come up with a driver who remembers taking the Professor somewhere on that particular night.'
'Do it,' he said immediately. 'I approve. It will be part of that "diligent search" the law requires.'
He started to say more, then stopped. He brought two wrinkled forefingers to his thin lips and pressed them, thinking.
'Mr Bigg,' he said finally, 'I think you have conducted this investigation in a professional manner, and I wish to compliment you.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'However,' he said sonorously, 'it cannot be openended.
The responsibility of this office is, of course, first and foremost to our clients. In this case we are representing the missing Professor Stonehouse and his family. I cannot hold off indefinitely the filing of an application for the appointment of a temporary administrator of the Professor's estate. It would not be fair to the family. Can you estimate how much more time you will require to complete your investigation?'
'No, sir,' I said miserably. 'I can't even guarantee that I will ever complete it.'
He nodded regretfully.
'I understand,' he said. 'But I cannot shirk our basic responsibility. Another week, Mr Bigg. I'm afraid that's all I can allow you. Then I must ask you to drop your inquiries into this, uh, puzzling and rather distasteful affair.'
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him to go ahead with his legal procedures, but to let me continue digging. But in all honesty I didn't know what more I could do in the Stonehouse case after I placed those reward posters in taxi garages. Where did I go from there? I didn't know.
Mrs Gertrude Kletz had left a memo in the roller of my typewriter. It read:
Mr Bigg, your notes on the Kipper case question why Tippi was so upset when you told her you had a private meeting with Rev. Knurr. Well, if the two of them are in on this together, as you and I think, it would be natural for her to be upset because they are both guilty, and so must depend on each other. But they would be suspicious as neither of them are dumb, as you said, the other might reveal something or even connive to turn in the other, like when thieves fall out. I should think that if two people are partners in a horrible crime, they would begin to look at each other with new eyes and wonder. Because they both depend on each other so much, and they begin to doubt and wonder. I hope you know what I mean as I do not express myself very well.
G. K.
I knew what she meant, and I thought she might be right. If Tippi and Knurr were beginning to look at each other with 'new eyes,' it might be the chink I could widen, an opportunity I could exploit.
I called Percy Stilton. The officer who answered said formally, 'Detective Stilton is not available.' I gave my name and requested that he ask Detective Stilton to call me as soon as possible.
My second call was to Mrs Effie Dark. I chatted awhile with that pleasant, comfortable lady, and she volunteered the information I sought.
'Mr Bigg,' she said, 'I checked my liquor store bills, and Professor Stonehouse didn't order any Remy Martin for 251
almost two months before he disappeared. I don't know why, but he didn't.'
'Thank you, Effie,' I said gratefully. 'Just another brick in the wall, but an important one.'
We exchanged farewells and hung up. It was then late Friday afternoon, the business world slowing, running down. There is a late Friday afternoon mood in winter in New York. Early twilight. Early quiet. Everything fades.
Melancholy sweeps in. One remembers lost chances.
I sat there in my broom-closet office, the files of the Kipper and Stonehouse cases on my desk, and stared at them with sad, glazed eyes. So much passion and turbulence. I could not encompass it. Worse, I seemed to have been leeched dry of inspiration and vigour. All those people involved in those desperate plots. What were they to me, or I to them? It was a nonesuch with which I could not cope, something foreign to my nature.
Me, a small, quiet, indwelling, nonviolent man. Suddenly, by the luck and accident that govern life, plunged into this foreign land, this terra incognita. What troubled me most, I think, was that I had no compass for this terrain. I was blundering about, lurching, and more than discovering the truth, I wanted most to know what drove me and would not let me put all this nastiness aside.
Finally, forcing myself up from the despair towards which I was fast plummeting, I packed the Kipper and Stonehouse folders into my briefcase, dressed in coat, scarf, hat, turned off the lights, and plodded away from the TORT building, the darkness outside seeming not half as black as that inside, not as forbidding, foreboding.
I did arrive home safely. I changed to casual clothes, then built a small blaze in the fireplace. After that luncheon, I was not hungry, but I had a cup of coffee and a wedge of pecan coffee ring. I sat there, staring into the flames. The file folders on the Kipper and Stonehouse cases were piled on the floor at my feet. My depression was 252
again beginning to overwhelm me. I was nowhere with my first big investigation. I was a mild, out-of-place midget in a world of pushers and shovers. And I was alone.
I was alone, late on a Friday evening, wondering as we all must, who I was and what I was, when there came a hesitant tapping at my door. I rose, still frowning with my melancholic reverie, and opened the door to find Cleo Hufnagel, her features as sorrowful as mine. I think it would not, at that moment, have taken much for us to fall into each other's arms, weeping:
'Here,' she said stiffly, and thrust into my hands a sealed manila envelope.
'What is this?' I said bewilderedly.
'The information you wanted on arsenic.'
I felt the thickness of the envelope.
'Oh, Cleo,' I said, 'I didn't want you to do the research.
I just wanted the sources: where to look.'
'Well, I did it,' she said, lifting her chin. 'I thought it might — might help you. Good night.'
She turned to go. I reached out hastily, put a hand on her arm. She stopped, but she wouldn't look at me.
'Cleo, what is it?' I asked her. 'You seem to be angry with me.'
'Disappointed,' she said in a low voice.
'All right — disappointed. Have I offended you in any way? If I have, I apologize most sincerely. But I am not aware of — '
I stopped suddenly. Adolph Finkel!
'Cleo,' I started again, 'we said we wanted to be friends.
I know I meant it and I think you did, too. There must be honesty and openness between friends. Please, come inside, sit down, and let me tell you what happened. Give me that chance. If, after I have explained, you still wish to leave and never speak to me again, that will be your decision. But at least it will be based on facts.'