began.
'Reopen the case?' he said. 'No way can I do that on the evidence we've got. If I even suggested it, my loot would have me committed. You're the Chief Investigator — so investigate.'
'But I don't know where to start,' I burst out. 'I know I should talk to the Kipper family and servants, but I don't know I should talk to the Kipper family and servants, but I know what excuse I can give them for asking questions.'
'Tell them what you told me,' he advised. 'Say you're collecting information to justify the insurance claim.
They'll buy it.'
'You didn't,' I pointed out.
'They're not as cynical as I am,' he said, grinning
'They'll believe what you tell them. Just remember what I said about lying. Keep it simple; don't try to gussy it up.
While you're nosing around, I'll see what I can find out about how Marty Reape died. From what you told me, it's probably been closed as an accident — but you never know.
Keep in touch. If anything turns up, you can always reach me at that number you've got or leave a message and I'll 92
call back. Can I call you at Tabatchnick and whatever?'
I thought about that.
'Better not, Perce,' I said. 'I'd rather keep our, uh, relationship confidential.'
'Sure.' he said. 'I understand.'
'I'll give you my home phone number. I'm in almost every night.'
'That'll do fine.'
He copied my number in a little notebook he carried. It was black pinseal with gold corners. Like all his possessions, it looked smart and expensive.
I paid the bill, left a tip, and we walked towards the door.
'I still don't think it was a suicide,' I said.
'You may be right,' he said mildly. 'But thinking something and proving it are entirely different. As any cop can tell you.'
We put on our coats and moved out on to the sidewalk.
He was wearing a navy blue chesterfield and a black homburg. A dandy.
'Thanks for the dinner, Josh,' he said. 'Real good.'
'My pleasure,' I said.
'Which way you going?' he asked.
'Ninth Avenue. I'll catch a downtown bus. I live in Chelsea.'
'I'll walk you over,' he said, and we headed westward.
'Don't give up on this one, Josh,' he said, suddenly earnest. 'I can't do it; my plate is full. But I've got the feeling someone is jerking us around, and I don't like it.'
'I'm not going to give up,' I said.
'Good,' he said. 'And thanks for meeting with me and filling me in.
'Listen,' he added hesitantly, 'if what you think turns out to be right, and someone snuffed Sol Kipper and pushed Marty Reape under a train, then they're not nice people — you know? So be careful.'
93
'Oh sure. I will be.'
'You carry a piece?' he asked suddenly.
It was a few seconds before I understood what he meant.
'Oh no,' I said. 'I don't believe in violence.'
He sighed deeply.
'And a little child shall lead them,' he said. 'Good night, Josh.'
8
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,
'Reopen the case?' he said. 'No way can I do that on the evidence we've got. If I even suggested it, my loot would have me committed. You're the Chief Investigator — so investigate.'
'But I don't know where to start,' I burst out. 'I know I should talk to the Kipper family and servants, but I don't know I should talk to the Kipper family and servants, but I know what excuse I can give them for asking questions.'
'Tell them what you told me,' he advised. 'Say you're collecting information to justify the insurance claim.
They'll buy it.'
'You didn't,' I pointed out.
'They're not as cynical as I am,' he said, grinning
'They'll believe what you tell them. Just remember what I said about lying. Keep it simple; don't try to gussy it up.
While you're nosing around, I'll see what I can find out about how Marty Reape died. From what you told me, it's probably been closed as an accident — but you never know.
Keep in touch. If anything turns up, you can always reach me at that number you've got or leave a message and I'll 92
call back. Can I call you at Tabatchnick and whatever?'
I thought about that.
'Better not, Perce,' I said. 'I'd rather keep our, uh, relationship confidential.'
'Sure.' he said. 'I understand.'
'I'll give you my home phone number. I'm in almost every night.'
'That'll do fine.'
He copied my number in a little notebook he carried. It was black pinseal with gold corners. Like all his possessions, it looked smart and expensive.
I paid the bill, left a tip, and we walked towards the door.
'I still don't think it was a suicide,' I said.
'You may be right,' he said mildly. 'But thinking something and proving it are entirely different. As any cop can tell you.'
We put on our coats and moved out on to the sidewalk.
He was wearing a navy blue chesterfield and a black homburg. A dandy.
'Thanks for the dinner, Josh,' he said. 'Real good.'
'My pleasure,' I said.
'Which way you going?' he asked.
'Ninth Avenue. I'll catch a downtown bus. I live in Chelsea.'
'I'll walk you over,' he said, and we headed westward.
'Don't give up on this one, Josh,' he said, suddenly earnest. 'I can't do it; my plate is full. But I've got the feeling someone is jerking us around, and I don't like it.'
'I'm not going to give up,' I said.
'Good,' he said. 'And thanks for meeting with me and filling me in.
'Listen,' he added hesitantly, 'if what you think turns out to be right, and someone snuffed Sol Kipper and pushed Marty Reape under a train, then they're not nice people — you know? So be careful.'
93
'Oh sure. I will be.'
'You carry a piece?' he asked suddenly.
It was a few seconds before I understood what he meant.
'Oh no,' I said. 'I don't believe in violence.'
He sighed deeply.
'And a little child shall lead them,' he said. 'Good night, Josh.'
8
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,
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