'Well, uh, sure,' he said. 'I'll certainly do that.'
'Thank you.' I said humbly. 'And once again, I wish you every happiness.'
Next I did what most TORT employees did when they had an intraoffice problem: I went to Thelma Potts.
The news had already spread; she greeted me with a sympathetic smile. 'I'm sorry, Mr Bigg,' she said.
'The better man won,' I said.
Then she said something so completely out of character that she left me open-mouthed.
'Bullshit,' Thelma Potts said. 'You're well out of it. The girl is a moron. Not for you.'
' W e l l. . ' I said, 'at least you won.'
'You did, too,' she assured me with some asperity. 'Did you come up here for sympathy?'
'Not exactly,' I said. 'I've got a problem. Nothing to do with Yetta,' I added hastily.
'What's the problem?'
'I want to get together with Mr Teitelbaum and Mr Tabatchnick in a kind of conference. I have a lot to tell them, and it's very important, but I don't want to tell them
separately. I was hoping you would speak to Ada Mondora and maybe the two of you might arrange something.'
'It's that important?'
'It really is, Miss Potts. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't. It concerns a case each of them is handling, and the two cases have come together in a very peculiar fashion.'
'Kipper and Stonehouse?' she asked.
'Miss Potts,' I said, 'is there anything you don't know?'
'Ada and I have lunch together almost every day,' she said. 'When do you want to meet with the two Mr T's?'
'As soon as possible.' I thought of my appointment with Detective Percy Stilton. 'Not today, but tomorrow. If you can set it up.'
'I'll talk to Ada,' she said, 'and we'll see what we can do.
I'll let you know.'
'Thank you,' I said gratefully. 'I don't know what we'd all do without you.'
She sniffed.
I bent swiftly to kiss her soft cheek.
'Now that I've been jilted,' I said 'I'm available.'
'Oh you! ' she said.
I returned to my office and took calls from two more cabdrivers, one of them drunk, then did routine stuff until it was time to leave for my meeting with Stilton. I packed my scruffy briefcase, put on hat and coat, and peeked cautiously out into the corridor.
Yetta Apatoff was seated at her receptionist's post, hands clasped primly on the desk. I ducked back into my office and waited a few moments. When I peeked out again, she was in the same position, still as a statue. I ducked back inside again. But the third time I peered out, she was busy on the phone, and I immediately sailed forth and gave her a sad smile and a resigned wave of my hand as I passed.
Cowardly conduct, I know.
I arrived early at the Newsweek building. A few minutes 312
before 4.00 p.m., Percy Stilton came up behind me and stuck a hard forefinger in my ribs.
'Perce,' I said, 'I've got to tell you. I was — '
'Sure,' he said, 'but later. We've got a four o'clock appointment with Bishop Harley Oxman. He's in charge of personnel for the church the Reverend Godfrey Knurr belongs to. You just do as little talking as possible and follow my lead. In this scam, you play a lawyer.'
'I've got Mr Tabatchnick's business card,' I offered.
'Beautiful,' he said. 'Flash it.'
The church's personnel headquarters was a brightly lighted, brisk, efficient-appearing office in a five- or six-storey commercial building on Forty-ninth between Madison and Park. The walls were painted a no-nonsense beige, the floors covered with practical vinyl tile; partitions between individual offices were steel. I saw no paintings of a religious nature on view. Typewriters clacked away merrily. Men and women moving along the corridors were all in mufti. Percy and I approached the matronly receptionist, and Perce identified himself. She didn't seem surprised that the Bishop would be meeting with a detective of the New York Police Department. She spoke briefly into an intercom, then gave us a wintry smile.
'You may go right in,' she said. 'Turn left outside, go to the end, and turn right. Last office.'
We found the Bishop's office with no difficulty. The door was opened before we had a chance to knock. The man greeting us was tall and broad, though somewhat stooped and corpulent. He was wearing an old-fashioned suit of rusty cheviot and a grey doeskin waistcoat with white piping. His polka-dot bowtie was negligently knotted.
He had a very full, almost bloated face, ranging in hue from livid pink to deep purple. The full, moist, bright rose lips parted to reveal teeth of such startling whiteness, size, and regularity that they could only have been 'store-bought.' Set into this blood pudding of a face were sharp eyes of ice blue, the whites clear. And he had a great shock of steel-grey hair, combed sideways in rich billows.
'I am Bishop Oxman,' he intoned in a deep resonant voice. 'Won't you gentlemen come in?'
He ushered us into his office and seated us in leather armchairs in front of his glass-topped desk. Perce Stilton slid his identification across the desk without being asked, and I hastily dug in my wallet and did the same with Mr Tabatchnick's business card.
While the Bishop was examining our bona fides slowly and with interest, I studied the bare office, its single bookcase, artificial rubber plant, and a framed photograph behind the Bishop. It appeared to be Bishop Oxman's seminary graduating class.
He returned our identification to us, sat back in his swivel chair, squirmed slightly to make himself more comfortable, then laced his pudgy fingers across his paunch. He wasted no time on pleasantries.
'Detective Stilton,' he said in his rumbling bass-baritone, 'when we spoke on the phone, you stated that a situation had arisen concerning one of our pastors that might best be handled by discussing it with me personally.'
He glanced briefly at me. 'And privately.'
'Yes, sir,' Percy said firmly but with deference. 'Before any official action is taken.'
'Dear me,' Bishop Oxman said with a cold smile, 'that does sound ominous.' But he didn't seem at all disturbed.
'It's something I think you should be aware of,' Stilton went on, speaking with no hesitation. 'Mr Tabatchnick here represents a young woman who claims she was swindled out of her savings and an inheritance — slightly over ten thousand dollars — by one of your clergymen who promised her he could double her money in six months.'
'Oh my,' Bishop Oxman murmured.
'This young lady further alleges that she was persuaded to hand over her money by the promise of the pastor that 314
he would marry her as soon as her money increased.'
'What is the young lady's name?' the Bishop asked.
'I don't believe that is germane to this discussion at the present time,' Percy Stilton said.
'How old is the young lady? Surely you can tell me that?'
Stilton turned to me.
'Mr Tabatchnick.' he said, 'how old is your client?'
'Twenty-three,' I said promptly.
Oxman turned those piercing eyes on me.
'Has she been married before?'
'No, sir. Not to my knowledge.'
The Bishop raised his two hands, pressed them together in an attitude of prayer, then put the two forefingers against his full lips. He appeared to be ruminating. Finally:
'Is your client pregnant, Mr Tabatchnick?'
Stilton looked at me.
'Yes, sir,' I said softly, 'she is. I have seen the doctor's report. My client attempted to contact the clergyman to tell him, but was unsuccessful.'
'She called the phone number he had given her,' Stilton broke in, 'a number she had previously used, but it had been disconnected. Both she and Mr Tabatchnick went to his apartment, in the Murray Hill section of Manhattan, but apparently he had moved and left no forwarding address. Mr Tabatchnick then reported the matter to the police, and I was assigned to the investigation. I have been unable to locate or contact the man. I felt — and Mr Tabatchnick agreed — that it would be best to apprise you of the situation before more drastic steps were taken.'