having come this far in betraying Mr Tabatchnick's trust, I felt I might as well go all the way.
'There's another thing,' I said. 'On the morning of the day Sol Kipper died, he called Tabatchnick and set up an appointment. He said he wanted to change his will.'
Stilton had been turning his cigarette lighter over and over in his long fingers, looking down at it. Now he stopped his fiddling and raised his eyes slowly until he was staring at me.
'Jesus,' he breathed, 'the plot thickens.'
'All right,' I said, sitting back. 'That's my trade. Now let's have yours. Do you really think Sol Kipper committed suicide?'
He didn't hesitate.
'That's the official verdict,' he said, 'and the file is closed. But there were things about it that bugged me from the start. Little things. Not enough to justify calling it homicide, but things, three, to be exact, that just didn't set right with me. First of all, committing suicide by jumping from the sixth floor is far from a sure thing. You can jump from a higher place than that and still survive.
'That's why most leapers go higher up than six storeys.
They want to kill themselves, but they don't want to take the chance of being crippled for life. This Kipper owned a textile company. He was semi-retired, his sons run the business, but Kipper went there for a few hours three or four days a week. The office is on the thirty-fourth floor of a building in the garment centre. He could have gone out a 90
window there and they'd have had to pick him up with a blotter.'
'Perce, what actually killed him when he went off the sixth-floor terrace?'
'He landed on his head. Crushed his skull. All right, it could happen from six floors. He could also break both arms and legs, have internal injuries, and still live. That could happen, too. It couldn't happen from thirty-four floors. That's the first thing that bothered me: a suicide from the sixth floor. It's like trying to blow your brains out with a BB gun.
'The second thing was this: When jumpers go out, from a window, ledge, balcony, whatever, they usually drop straight down. I mean, they just take one giant step out into space. They don't really leap. Practically all the jumpers I've seen have landed within six feet of the side of the building. They usually squash on the sidewalk. When they go from a really high place, maybe their bodies start to windmill. But even then they hit the sidewalk or, at the most, crush in the top of a parked car. But I've never seen any who were more than, say, six or seven feet out from the side of the building. Kipper's body was almost ten feet away.'
I puzzled that out.
'Perce, you mean someone threw him over?'
'Who? There were four other people in that house — remember? Kipper weighed about one-sixty. None of the women could have lifted him over that terrace wall and thrown him so he landed ten feet from the side of the building. And the only man, the butler, is so fat it's all he can do to stand up. Maybe Kipper just took a flying leap.'
'An old man like that?'
'It's possible,' he said stubbornly. 'The third thing is even flimsier than the first two. It's that suicide note. It said: "I am sorry for all the trouble I've caused." Get it?
"Caused." Please forgive me for something I've done.
91
That note sounds to me like he's referring to something he did in the past, not something he was planning to do in a few minutes. Also, the note is perfectly legible, written in straight lines with a steady hand. Not the kind of handwriting you'd expect from a guy so mixed up in his skull that a few minutes later he was going to take a high dive from his terrace. But again, it's possible. I told you it's flimsy. All the things that bug me are flimsy.'
'I don't think they are,' I said hotly. 'I think they're important.'
He gave me a half-smile, looked at his watch, and began to stow away his cigarette case and lighter.
'Listen,' I said desperately, 'where do we go from here?'
'Beats me,' he said.
'Can't you -' I
'There's another thing,' I said. 'On the morning of the day Sol Kipper died, he called Tabatchnick and set up an appointment. He said he wanted to change his will.'
Stilton had been turning his cigarette lighter over and over in his long fingers, looking down at it. Now he stopped his fiddling and raised his eyes slowly until he was staring at me.
'Jesus,' he breathed, 'the plot thickens.'
'All right,' I said, sitting back. 'That's my trade. Now let's have yours. Do you really think Sol Kipper committed suicide?'
He didn't hesitate.
'That's the official verdict,' he said, 'and the file is closed. But there were things about it that bugged me from the start. Little things. Not enough to justify calling it homicide, but things, three, to be exact, that just didn't set right with me. First of all, committing suicide by jumping from the sixth floor is far from a sure thing. You can jump from a higher place than that and still survive.
'That's why most leapers go higher up than six storeys.
They want to kill themselves, but they don't want to take the chance of being crippled for life. This Kipper owned a textile company. He was semi-retired, his sons run the business, but Kipper went there for a few hours three or four days a week. The office is on the thirty-fourth floor of a building in the garment centre. He could have gone out a 90
window there and they'd have had to pick him up with a blotter.'
'Perce, what actually killed him when he went off the sixth-floor terrace?'
'He landed on his head. Crushed his skull. All right, it could happen from six floors. He could also break both arms and legs, have internal injuries, and still live. That could happen, too. It couldn't happen from thirty-four floors. That's the first thing that bothered me: a suicide from the sixth floor. It's like trying to blow your brains out with a BB gun.
'The second thing was this: When jumpers go out, from a window, ledge, balcony, whatever, they usually drop straight down. I mean, they just take one giant step out into space. They don't really leap. Practically all the jumpers I've seen have landed within six feet of the side of the building. They usually squash on the sidewalk. When they go from a really high place, maybe their bodies start to windmill. But even then they hit the sidewalk or, at the most, crush in the top of a parked car. But I've never seen any who were more than, say, six or seven feet out from the side of the building. Kipper's body was almost ten feet away.'
I puzzled that out.
'Perce, you mean someone threw him over?'
'Who? There were four other people in that house — remember? Kipper weighed about one-sixty. None of the women could have lifted him over that terrace wall and thrown him so he landed ten feet from the side of the building. And the only man, the butler, is so fat it's all he can do to stand up. Maybe Kipper just took a flying leap.'
'An old man like that?'
'It's possible,' he said stubbornly. 'The third thing is even flimsier than the first two. It's that suicide note. It said: "I am sorry for all the trouble I've caused." Get it?
"Caused." Please forgive me for something I've done.
91
That note sounds to me like he's referring to something he did in the past, not something he was planning to do in a few minutes. Also, the note is perfectly legible, written in straight lines with a steady hand. Not the kind of handwriting you'd expect from a guy so mixed up in his skull that a few minutes later he was going to take a high dive from his terrace. But again, it's possible. I told you it's flimsy. All the things that bug me are flimsy.'
'I don't think they are,' I said hotly. 'I think they're important.'
He gave me a half-smile, looked at his watch, and began to stow away his cigarette case and lighter.
'Listen,' I said desperately, 'where do we go from here?'
'Beats me,' he said.
'Can't you -' I
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