I watched the Plymouth pull away, Stilton sitting next to Tippi Kipper in the back seat. When the car had turned the corner and disappeared, I walked over to Fifth Avenue and headed south. I decided to walk down to the TORT building.
I should have been exultant but I wasn't. It was the morality of what I had done that was bothering me. All that chicanery and deceit. I would have committed almost any sin to demolish Godfrey Knurr, but conniving in the escape of Tippi Kipper from justice was more than I had bargained for. And I had connived. I had worked almost as hard as Percy Stilton to convince her to betray Knurr. It had to be done. But as Perce had said, she was going to walk. An accomplice to murder. Was that fair? Was that justice?
I realized I didn't really know what 'justice' meant. It was not an absolute. It was not a colour, a mineral, a species. It was a human concept (what do animals know of justice?) and subject to all the vagaries and contradictions of any human hope. How can you define justice? It seemed to me that it was constant compromise, moulded by circumstance.
I would make a terrible judge.
The brisk walk downtown refreshed my spirits. The sharp air and exercise were cleansing. By the time I signed in with the security guard at TORT building, I had come to terms with what I had done. I was still regretful, but guilt was fading. I reckoned that if all went well, in a few weeks I would be proud of my role in bringing the Reverend Godfrey Knurr to justice — whatever that was.
Mrs Gertrude Kletz had left me a sheaf of notes and a stack of requests for investigations and research. I set to work with pleasure, resolutely turning my mind from the Kipper and Stonehouse cases and concentrating on my desk work.
I laboured all afternoon with no breaks except to rise occasionally to stretch, walk into the corridor to loosen my knees. I accomplished a great deal, clearing my desk of most of the routine matters and making a neat list of those that would require personal investigation.
Shortly before 5.00 p.m., after trying to resist the urge, I called Percy Stilton's office. I was told he was 'in conference' and could not come to the phone, so I assumed the interrogation of Tippi Kipper was continuing.
I put away the Kipper and Stonehouse files, emptying my cruddy briefcase. I considered buying a new one.
Perhaps an attache case, slender and smart. But that battered briefcase had been left to me by Roscoe Dollworth and I was superstitious enough to believe it had magical properties: good luck and wisdom.
I left the TORT building at about 5.50, remembering to take with me the wrapped red kite, string, and winder. I signed out, walked over to Broadway and took a bus down to West 23rd Street. I went directly to Woody's Restaurant, trying to recall how long it had been since I had enjoyed a decent dinner.
As usual, Nitchy was on duty, looking especially attractive in her exotic, gypsy way. I told her so and she tapped her fingers against my cheek.
'No princess tonight, Josh?' she asked.
'Not tonight,' I said, smiling tiredly.
I think she caught my mood, because she ushered me to a small table in a quiet corner and left me alone. I had two Scotch-and-waters, a club steak, baked potato, string beans, salad, a bottle of beer, coffee and brandy.
When I left, I was subdued, thoughtful, content. I carried the kite back to my apartment and settled in to wait. I tried to read but ended up with a copy of Silas Marner on my lap, staring into the cold fireplace and trying to make sense of everything that had happened in the last month.
I came to no great conclusions, was subject to no great revelations. I tried to understand what motives, what passions, might drive apparently sane men and women to commit the act of murder. I could not comprehend it, and feared the fault was mine: I was not emotional enough, not feeling enough to grasp how others of hotter blood, of stronger desires, might be driven to kill.
I was a mild little man, temperate, reflective. Nothing in my life was dramatic except what was contributed by others. It seemed incredible that I could survive in a world of such fiery wants and insatiable appetites.
When the phone rang at about 8.20, I did not leap to answer it, but moved slowly, calmly. I think I may have been dreading what I expected to hear.
'Josh?' Stilton's voice.
'Yes.'
'Percy. She spilled. Everything. It went down the way you figured. She doesn't know exactly how he did it — a karate chop or a hunk of pipe. She didn't ask. She didn't want to know. Ditto Martin Reape and his wife. Knurr just told her not to worry, he'd take care of everything.'
'And he did,' I said.
'Yes,' Perce said. 'Jesus, I'm tired. Anyway, we're organized now. There's a team up at the Stonehouse apartment, looking for the will. Another at Knurr's place in the Village. And another staked out at his houseboat.
We're also going into the Kipper townhouse. I don't think they'll find anything there, but you never can tell.'
'No hairs?' I said. 'Dust? Crumbs of tobacco?'
'Come on,' Stilton said, laughing. 'You know that was all bullshit.'
'Yes,' I said.
'Anyway, we've got a fistful of warrants. Lou and I are going up to the houseboat. Want to drag along?'
I came alive.
'I certainly do,' I said.
'Pick you up at your place,' Percy said. 'Josh, do us a favour?'
'Of course. Anything.'
'We're starved. Get us some sandwiches, will you? And maybe a six-pack?'
'That's easy,' I said. 'What kind of sandwiches?'
'Anything. We'll pay you.'
'Nonsense. This will be on Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum.'
'You're sure?'
'Absolutely.'
'We'll be outside your place in half an hour.'
I had secured the sandwiches and was waiting on the sidewalk when the dusty-blue Plymouth pulled up, Lou driving. I climbed into the back seat. I handed the brown paper bag to Stilton, up front.
'I got them at a deli on Tenth Avenue,' I said. 'Roast beef on white with mayonnaise, and bologna on rye with mustard. Two of each. And a cold six-pack of Miller's. Is that all right?'
'Plasma,' Lou groaned. 'Plasma!'
They dived into the bag and ripped tabs from the beer cans. Percy turned sideways, talking to me as he ate.
'We got the Stonehouse will,' he said. 'They're going through Glynis's personal stuff now. She wasn't there. Her mother says she went to a matinee this afternoon. She's probably with Knurr. No sign of the two of them yet. If we haven't picked them up by midnight, we'll put out an all-precincts, then gradually expand it if needed.'
'They're searching Knurr's social club on Carmine Street?' I asked.
'Oh sure,' Stilton said. 'Found a lot of financial records.
He was doing all right. How does half a mil grab you?'
'Incredible,' I said.
'Ah, well,' Lou mumbled, starting another half-sandwich, 'he was a hard worker.'
'What about Chester Heavens' house diary?'
'Got it,' Percy said. 'Also Tippi's collection of notes her husband wrote her. Josh, the DA will want all the paper you're holding. Monday morning will be time enough.'
'Does Tippi have legal counsel?'
'She does now,' he said. 'Not from your firm. Some hotshot criminal lawyer. He and the DA's man are kicking it around right now, sewing up the deal. Lots of screaming.'
'Do you really think she'll go free?'
'Probably,' he said without interest. Then he looked at me closely. 'Josh, it happens all the time. You give a
