I awoke the next morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
Although Detective Stilton had insisted that all we had were unsubstantiated suspicions, what he had told me confirmed my belief that the death of Sol Kipper was not a suicide. And I was convinced that Stilton, despite his cautious disclaimers, felt the same way.
It had snowed slightly overnight; there was a light, powdery dusting on sidewalks and cars. But it was melting rapidly as the new sun warmed. The sky was azure; the air sparkled. It suited my mood perfectly, and as I set out for my appointment with the missing Yale Stonehouse's doctor, I took the weather as an augury of a successful day.
Dr Stolowitz had his offices on the street floor of a yellow brick apartment house that towered over neighbouring brownstones. I arrived at 8.15. His receptionist was tall, lanky, with a mobcap of frizzy red curls. Her thin features seemed set in a permanent expression of discontent. I noticed her extremely long, carmined fingernails 94
and a bracelet of a dozen charms on her bony wrist that jangled when she moved. She greeted me with something less than warmth.
'Joshua Bigg to see Dr Stolowitz,' I said, smiling hopefully.
'You're early,' she snapped. 'Sit down and wait.'
So I sat down and waited, coat and hat on my lap.
At precisely 8.25, another nurse came out — a little one this time — and beckoned to me.
'Doctor will see you now,' she said.
The man standing behind the littered desk was of medium height, stocky, with a heavy belly bulging in front of his short white jacket. He was wearing rimless spectacles with thick lenses that gave him a popeyed look. He was smoking a black cigar; the air was rancid with fumes.
'Good morning, Doctor,' I said.
'Five minutes,' he snapped. 'No more.'
'I understand that, sir.'
'Just what is your connection with Yale Stonehouse?' he demanded.
'As I explained to you on the phone,' I said patiently,
'I'm investigating the Professor's disappearance.'
'Are you a private detective?' he said suspiciously.
'No sir,' I said. 'I am employed by the Professor's attorneys. You may check with Mrs Stonehouse if you wish.'
He growled.
He hadn't asked me to be seated.
'All right,' he said. 'Ask your questions. I may answer and I may not.'
'Could you tell me when Professor Stonehouse consulted you, sir?'
He picked up a file from his desk and flipped through it rapidly, the cigar still clenched between his teeth.
'Seven times during October and November of last year.
Do you want the exact dates of those visits?'
'No, sir, that won't be necessary. But Mrs Stonehouse told me his illness started late last summer.'
'So?'
'But he did not consult you until October?'
'I just told you that,' he said peevishly.
'Could you tell me if Professor Stonehouse consulted any other physician prior to coming to you?'
'Now how the hell would I know that?'
'He mentioned no prior treatment?'
'He did not.'
'Doctor,' I said, 'I don't expect you to tell me the nature of the Professor's illness, but — '
'Damned right I won't,' he interrupted.
'But could you tell me if the Professor's illness, if untreated, would have proved fatal?'
His eyes flickered. Then he ducked his head, looked down, began to grind his cigar butt in an enormous crystal ashtray. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly mild.
'An ingrown toenail can be fatal if untreated.'
'But when Professor Stonehouse stopped coming to see you, was he cured?'
'He was recovering,' he said, the ill-tempered note coming back into his voice.
'Was his illness contagious?'
'What's this?' he said angrily. 'A game of Twenty Questions?'
'I am not asking you to tell me the specific illness, Doctor,' I said. 'Just whether or not it was contagious.'
He looked at me shrewdly.
'No, it was not a venereal disease,' he said. 'That's what you're really asking, isn't it?'
'Yes, sir. What would you say was the Professor's general mental attitude?'
'A difficult, cantankerous patient.' (Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!) 'But if you mean did he exhibit any symptoms of mental disability not connected with his illness, the answer is no, he did not.'
He didn't realize what he had just revealed: that there were symptoms of mental disorder connected to the Professor's ailment.
'Did he ever, in any way, give you a hint of indication that he intended to desert his wife and family?'
'He did not.'
'Would you characterize your patient's illness as a disease, Doctor?'
He looked at the clock on the wall.
'Your five minutes are up,' he said. 'Goodbye, Mr Bigg.'
I put on my coat in the outer office. Three or four people were waiting to see the doctor.
'Thank you very much,' I said to the receptionist, giving her my best little-boy smile. It doesn't always work, but this time it did; she thawed.
'He's a bear, isn't he?' she whispered.
'Worse,' I whispered back. 'Is he always like that?'
She rolled her eyes. 'Always,' she said. 'Listen, may I ask you a personal question?'
'Five feet, three and three-eighths inches,' I said, and waved goodbye.
I stopped at the first phone booth I came to and called the office. I left a message for Thelma Potts telling her that I was engaged in outside work and would call later to let her know when I'd be in.
I took the Broadway bus down to 49th Street and walked over to the decrepit building where Marty Reape had his office. His name was still listed on the lobby directory, but when I got to the ninth floor, the door to Room 910 was open and a bearded man in stained painter's overalls was busy scraping with a razor blade at the outside of the frosted glass panel. Half of the legend, MARTIN REAPE: PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS, was already gone.
I stood behind the painter and peeked through the open door. The room was totally bare. No desk, chair, file cabinet, or anything else. Just stained walls, dust-encrusted window, cracked linoleum on the floor.
'Want something?' the painter demanded.
'Do you know what happened to the furniture in this office?'
'Ask the manager,' he said.
'Is this office for rent?'
'Ask the manager.'
'And where will I find the manager?'
'Downstairs.'
'Could you tell me his name?'
He didn't answer.
In the rear of the lobby was a steel door with a square of cardboard taped to it: MANAGER'S OFFICE. I opened the door with some effort. A flight of steel steps led steeply downward. I descended cautiously, hanging on to the gritty banister. A gloomy, cement-lined corridor stretched away to the back of the building. The ceiling was a maze of pipes and ducts. At the end of this tunnel was a scarred wooden door. I pushed in.
It was like going into a prisoner's cell. The only thing lacking was bars. Cement ceiling, walls, floor. No windows. The furniture looked like tenants' discards.
There were two people in that cubbyhole. A very attractive Oriental girl clattered away at an ancient Underwood, pausing occasionally to brush her long black hair away from her face. A small brown man sat behind the larger desk, talking rapidly on the telephone in a language I could not identify. There was a neat brass plate on his desk: CLARENCE NG, MANAGER.
Neither of the occupants had looked at me when I entered. I waited patiently. Mr Ng rattled on in his incomprehensible language, then suddenly switched to English.
'The same to you, schmuck!' he screamed, and banged 98
down the phone. Then he looked at me.
'Ah, may I be of service, sir?' he asked softly.
'Perhaps you can help me,' I said. 'I'm looking for Martin Reape, Room 910. But his office is completely empty.'
'Ah,' he said. 'Mr Reape is no longer with us.'
'Oh?' I said, 'Well, could you tell me where he moved?'
'Ah,' Mr Ng said, 'Mr Reape did not move. Mr Reape is dead.'
'Dead?' I cried. 'Good heavens! When did this happen?'
'Two days ago. Mr Reape fell under a subway train. You were, ah, a friend of his?'
'A client,' I said. 'This is terrible. He had some very important papers belonging to me. Do you know what happened to his files?'
'His, ah, widow,' Mr Ng said. 'She arrived yesterday and removed everything.'
'And you let her?' I exclaimed.
The manager turned his palms upwards and shrugged.
'A man's widow is entitled to his possessions.'
'But are you certain it was the widow?'
'Ah, Mr Reape owed two months' back rent,' Mr Ng said smoothly. 'The woman paid.'
'That doesn't prove she was actually his widow,' I said angrily.
The Oriental girl stopped typing, but didn't turn to look at me.
'It was her all right,' she said. 'I saw them together in the lobby once, and he introduced us.'
'You see?' Mr Ng said triumphantly. 'The widow.'
'Do you happen to have her phone number?'
'Ah, regrettably no.'
'The home address then?'
'Also, no.'
'Surely it was on his lease?' I said.
'No lease,' Mr Ng said. 'We rent by the month.'
'Well, I'll look it up in the phone book then,' I said.
Mr Ng paused for just a second. 'Ah, no,' he said sadly,
'Mr Reape had an unlisted number.'
I thanked Mr Ng and left. I walked through that dank tunnel and was almost at the stairway when I heard a shouted 'Hey, you!' I turned. The Oriental girl was running towards me.
'Ten bucks,' she said.
'What?' I said.
'Ten bucks,' she repeated. 'For the Reapes' address.'
She plucked the bill from my fingers and was already flying back down the tunnel.
'It's in the phone book,' she called.
I had little doubt but that Mr Ng would get his share of the money.
I had to walk two blocks before I could find a Manhattan telephone directory. I opened it with some trepidation, fearing that I had been twice gulled. But it was there: the 49th Street office and another on 93rd Street.
I took an uptown bus on Eighth Avenue, still smarting at the ease with which I and my money had been parted.
The Reapes lived on Sorry Street, between Somber and Gaunt. The tallest building on the block appeared to be a welfare hotel; most of the brownstones had been converted to rooming houses, with drawn shades at the windows instead of curtains; and the basement stores all had front windows tangled with dusty ivy, drooping ferns, and scrawny philodendrons. Graffiti was everywhere, much of it in Spanish. I wondered what puta meant.
The Reapes' house was one of the better buildings, a three storey structure of grey stone, now greasy and chipped. There were few remnants of its former elegance: a fancily carved lintel, bevelled glass in the door panels, an ornate brass escutcheon around the knob.
I pushed the bell alongside M. REAPE and waited.
Nothing. I tried again. Still no answer. I tried once more, with no result. When I went back down to the sidewalk, an elderly lady with blue hair was just starting up the steps.
She was laden down with two heavy bags of groceries.
'May I help you, ma'am?' I asked.
She looked at me, frightened and suspicious.
'Just up to the front door,' I said. 'Then I'll go away.'
'Thank you, young man,' she said faintly.
I carried her bags up and left them beside the inner door.
When I came out again, she had negotiated only three steps, pausing on each one to catch her breath.
'Asthma,' she said, clutching her chest. 'It's bad today.'
'Yes, ma'am,' I said sympathetically. 'I wonder if you — '
'Sometimes it's like a knife,' she said, wheezing. 'Cuts right through me.'
'I'm sure it's painful,' I said. 'I'm looking for — '
'Didn't get a wink of sleep last night,' she said. 'Cough, cough, cough.'
'Mrs Reape,' I said desperately. 'Mrs Martin Reape. She lives here. I'm trying to find her.'
The suspicion returned.
'What do you want with her?' she demanded. 'You're too sawed off to be a cop.'
'I'm not a cop,' I assured her. 'It's about her husband's insurance.'
That hooked her.
'Did he leave much?' she whispered.
'I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that. I'm sure you understand. But I think Mrs Reape will be happy to see me.'
' Well. . ' the old lady said, sniffing, 'she ain't exactly hurting from what I hear. Unless I miss my guess, young man, you'll find her at The Dirty Shame. That's a saloon on the next block towards Broadway.'
The Dirty Shame was one long, reasonably clean room, with a few tables and booths in the rear. But most of the action was at the bar. When I entered there was no doubt that a party was in progress. There must have been at least forty men and women in attendance.
The air was clotted with smoke and the din was continuous — shouts, laughter, snatches of song — competing with a juke box playing a loud Irish jig. Two bartenders were hustling and the bartop was awash. A beefy, red-faced celebrant clamped an arm about my shoulders.
'Friend of Marty's?' he bawled.
'Well, actually, I'm — '
'Step right u p, ' he shouted, thrusting me towards the bar. 'Blanche is picking up the tab.'
A glass of beer was handed to me over the heads of the mob. My new friend slapped me heartily on the back; half my beer splashed out. Then he turned away to welcome another newcomer.
It was a raffish crew that filled The Dirty Shame. They all seemed to know each other. I moved slowly through the throng, looking for the widow.
I finally found her, surrounded by a circle of mourners who were trying to remember the words of 'When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.' She was a suety woman with a mass of carroty hair, heavily made up. She wore a white moustache of beer foam. Her widow's weeds were of some thin, shiny material, straining at the seams and cut low enough in front to reveal the exuberant swell of a freckled bosom which had been heavily powdered.
'Mrs Reape,' I said, when she paused for breath, 'I'd like to express my — '
'What?' she yelled, leaning down to me from her stool.
'I can't hear you with all this fucking noise.'
'I want to tell you how sorry I — '
'Sure, sure,' she said, patting my shoulder. 'Very nice.
Hey, your glass is empty! Tim, let's have a biggie over here! You a friend of Marty's?'
'Well, actually,' I said, 'I was a client.'
Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought her smile froze and became a grimace, wet lips stretched to reveal teeth too perfect to be her own.
'A client?' she repeated. 'Well, he didn't have many of those.'
She started to turn away, and I went on with a rush, fearing to lose her.
'Mrs Reape,' I said hurriedly, 'I went up to your husband's office, but everything's been — '
'Yeah,' she said casually, 'I cleaned the place out. He had a bunch of junk there, but I got a couple of bucks from the ragpicker.'
'What about his records?' I asked. 'The files? He had some important paper of mine.'
'No kidding?' she said, her eyes widening. 'Jeez, I'm real sorry about that. I threw all that stuff out in the gobbidge last night.'
'Then it might be in the garbage cans in front of your house?' I said helpfully.
'Nah,' she said, not looking at me. 'They collected early this morning. All that paper's in the city insinuator by now.'
'Do you remember, if — '
But then I was shouldered out of the way.
I left my stein on a table and slipped away from The Dirty Shame as inconspicuously as I could.
I put in a call to the office. Yetta Apatoff said no one had been looking for me.
'Josh, did you see that sweater I happened to mention to you?' she inquired.
I told her I had seen it and thought it lovely.
'It's so revealing,' she said, giggling. 'I mean, it doesn't leave anything to the imagination.'
'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' I said. 'Exactly. Listen. Yetta, I won't be in until after lunch in case anyone wants me.
Okay?'
'Sure, Josh,' she said. 'And green's really my colour — don't you think?'
I finally got off the phone.
I arrived on West 74th Street with time to spare. I took up my station across the street from the office of Dr Morris Stolowitz and down the block towards Columbus Avenue. The redheaded receptionist came out a few minutes after noon. I scurried across the street and walked directly towards her.
I lifted my head with a start of surprise. Then I stopped.
I tipped my hat.
'We meet again,' I said, smiling.
She stopped, too, and looked down at me.
'Why, it's Mr Bigg,' she said. 'Listen, I hope you weren't insulted this morning. You know, when I asked you a personal question?'
'I wasn't insulted,' I assured her. 'People are always commenting on my size. In a way, it's an advantage; they never forget my name.'
'Mine neither,' she said. 'Not that my name is so great.
People are always making jokes about it.'
'What is your name?'
'Peacock, Ardis Peacock.'
'Ardis Peacock? Why, that's a lovely name. The peacock is a beautiful bird.'
'Yeah,' she said, 'with a big tail. You live around here?'
'No, just taking care of business. I'm getting hungry and thought I'd grab something to eat. Any good places in the neighbourhood?'
'Lots of them,' she said. 'There's a McDonald's on 71st Street and Amsterdam, and a Bagel Nosh on the east side of Broadway. But I usually go around the corner to Columbus Avenue. There's all kinds of restaurants there — Mexican, Indian, Chinese, whatever.'
'Sounds good,' I said. 'Mind if I walk along with you?'
'Be my guest,' she said.
We started back towards Columbus.
'Ever think of getting elevator shoes?' she asked me.
'Oh, I've thought of it, but they'd only give me another inch or so. Not enough to make a real difference. What I need is stilts.'
'Yeah,' she said, 'it's a shame. I mean, here I am a long drink of water, and I think it's a drag. You should be taller and I should be shorter. But what the hell.'
'You carry it well,' I told her. 'You've got good posture, and you're slender. Like a model.'
'Yeah?' she said, pleased. 'No kidding?'
We ate at the Cherry Restaurant on Columbus Avenue, between 75th and 76th streets. Ardis ordered shrimp with lobster sauce. I had ham and scrambled eggs with home fries.
'That boss of yours gave me a hard time this morning,' I said casually.
'Don't let it get you down,' she advised. 'He gives everyone a hard time. Me, especially. Sometimes I think he's got the hots for me.'
'Shows he's got more sense than I thought,' I said.
'Hey, hey! ' she said. She turned and pushed me playfully. Almost off the stool.
'What was it all about?' she asked. 'That Stonehouse guy you mentioned on the phone?'
'That's the one,' I said. 'He was seeing Dr Stolowitz in October and November of last year. Remember him?'
'Do I ever!' she said. 'What a crab. Always complaining about something. He had to wait, or the office was too cold, or the Doc's cigars were stinking up the place. He was a real pain in the you know where.'
'Stolowitz should be happy he wasn't sued,' I said. 'This Stonehouse is always suing someone.'
'Is he suing you?'
'Not me personally,' I said, 'but maybe the outfit I work for.' Then I launched into the scenario I had contrived.
105
'I'm an investigator with the claims division of a health insurance company. Isley Insurance. Ever hear of us?'
'No,' she said, 'can't say that I have.'
'It's a small outfit,' I admitted. 'We specialize in health coverage for the faculties of educational institutions. You know: schools, colleges, universities — like that. Group policies. Well, this Stonehouse used to teach at New York University. He's retired now, but he's still covered because he pays the premiums personally. You follow?'
'Oh sure,' she said. 'I make out all the Medicare forms for Stolowitz. It's a pain in the you know what.'
'I agree,' I said. 'Well, you know when you fill out those forms, you have to state the nature of the illness — right?'
'Of course,' she said. 'Always.'
'Well, this Stonehouse refuses to state what was wrong with him. He says it's his own business, and asking him to reveal it is an invasion of his privacy.'
'He's whacko!' she burst out.
'Absolutely,' I said. 'No doubt about it. He refused to tell Medicare and they rejected his claim. Now he's suing them.'
'Suing Medicare?' she said, aghast. 'That's the US
Government!'
'Correct,' I said. 'And that's who he's suing. Can you believe it?'
'Unreal,' she said.
'Anyway, he also made a claim against my company, Isley Insurance. But he won't tell us what his illness was either. So naturally his claim was rejected, and now he's suing us. We'll fight it, of course, but it'll drag out and cost a lot of money. For lawyers and all. So we'd rather settle with him. How about some dessert?'
'Chocolate sundae,' she said promptly.
I had another cup of coffee, and after she demolished her sundae, I lighted her cigarette. I always carry matches for other people's cigarettes.
'So I went to Stolowitz,' I continued, 'figuring maybe he'd tell me what Stonehouse was suffering from. But no soap.'
'That's right,' she said. 'It's confidential between him and the patients. Me and the nurses, we got very strict orders not to talk about the patients' records. As if anyone wanted to. That place gives me the creeps. It's no fun working around sick people all the time, I can tell you.'
The waiter cropped separate checks in front of us. I grabbed up both.
'Here,' Ardis Peacock said halfheartedly, 'let's go Dutch.'
'No way,' I said indignantly. 'I asked you to lunch.'
We walked slowly back towards her office.
'This Stonehouse thing has me stumped,' I said, shaking my head. 'All we need is the nature of the illness he had.
Then we can process his claim. Now I guess we'll have to defend ourselves against his lawsuit.'
I glanced sideways at her, but she hadn't picked up on it.
'I wish there was some way of getting a look at his file,' I said fretfully. 'That's all it would take. We don't need the file; just a look to see what his ailment was.'
That did it. She took hold of my arm.
'It would save your company a lot of money?' she said in a low voice. 'Just to find out why Stonehouse was sick?'
'That's right,' I said. 'That's all we need.'
'Would it be like, you know, confidential?'
'I'd be the only one who would know where it came from,' I said. 'My company doesn't care where or how I get the information, just as long as I get it.'
We walked a few more steps in silence.
'Would you pay for it?' she asked hesitantly. 'I mean, I'm into those files all the time. It's part of my job.'
She wanted $500. I told her my company just wouldn't go above $100, ignoring inflation and how people must live somehow.
'All you want to know is what his sickness was — right?'
'Right,' I said.
'Okay,' she said. 'A hundred. Now?'
'Fifty now and fifty when you get me the information.'
'All right,' she smiled, as I discreetly slipped her the first payment. 'You'll be hearing from me.' With a cheery wave, Ardis strode off to work, and I hailed a cab for the East Side.