It was time for me to go.
'Mr Bigg,' he said.
I turned back from the door.
'This conversation never took place,' he said sternly.
'What conversation, sir?' I asked.
He almost smiled.
6
I called Marty Reape when I returned to my office. No answer. I wondered if he was meeting with his other customers.
I took off my jacket and started hacking away at inquiries that had been submitted by junior partners and associates. Most of these could be handled with a single phone call or a letter, or a look into Roscoe Dollworth's small library of dictionaries, atlases, almanacs, census reports, etc.
What was the Hispanic population of the Bronx in 1964?
How long does it take to repaint a car?
In what year was penicillin discovered?
Who was the last man to be electrocuted in New York State?
What are the ingredients of a Molotov cocktail?
I tried twice to call Marty Reape. Ada Mondora called to say I had an appointment with the Stonehouse family. I was to be at their apartment on Central Park West and 70th Street at 8.00 p.m.
It was then about 4.30. I decided that instead of going home I would do better to have my dinner midtown, then go to West 70th Street. I checked my wallet, then I called Yetta Apatoff.
'Oh, Josh,' she said. 'I wish you'd called sooner. I would have loved to, but just a half-hour ago Hammy asked me to have dinner with him.'
'Hammy?'
'Hamish. Hamish Hooter.'
She called him Hammy.
'Yes, well, I'm sorry you can't make it, Yetta. I'll try another time.'
'Promise?' she breathed.
'Promise.'
So I worked in the office until 6.30. I called Marty Reape twice more. No reply. I tried him again before I left the restaurant, where I ate alone. Again there was no answer. I began to fear that he had concluded a deal with his other customers.
I had time to spare, so I walked to 42nd Street, boarded a Broadway bus, and rode up to West 70th Street. Then I walked over to Central Park West. The sky was murky; a light drizzle was beginning to fall. Wind blew in sighing gusts and smelled vaguely of ash. A fitting night to investigate a disappearance.
The Stonehouses' apartment house was an enormous, pyramidal pile of brick. Very old, very staid, very expensive. The lobby was all marble and mirrors. I waited while the uniformed deskman called to learn if I would be received.
'Mr Bigg to see Mrs Stonehouse,' he announced. Then he hung up and turned to me. 'Apartment 17-B.'
The elevator had been converted to self-service, but the walls and ceiling were polished walnut with bevelled oval mirrors; the Oriental carpet had been woven to fit.
Seventeen-B was on the Central Park side. I rang the bell and waited for a long time. Finally the door was opened by a striking young woman. She smiled.
'Mr Bigg?' she said. 'Good evening, I'm Glynis Stonehouse.'
She hung my coat in a foyer closet. Then she led me down a long, dimly lighted corridor lined with antique maps and scenes of naval battles. I saw why it had taken so long to answer the door. It was a hike to the living room.
The apartment was huge.
She preceded me into a living room larger than my apartment. I had a quick impression of a blaze in a tiled fireplace, chairs and sofas of crushed velvet, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park. Then Glynis Stonehouse was leading me towards a smallish lady curled in the corner of an overstuffed couch, holding a half- filled wineglass. There was a bottle of sherry on the glass-topped table before her.
'My mother,' Glynis said. Her voice was low-pitched, husky, and almost toneless.
'Mrs Stonehouse,' I said, making a little bow. 'I'm Joshua Bigg from Mr Teitelbaum's office. I'm happy to meet you.'
'My husband's dead, isn't he?' she said. 'I know he's dead.'
I was startled by her words, but even more shocked by her voice. It was trilly and flutelike.
'Mother,' Glynis said, 'there's absolutely no evidence of that.'
'I know what I know,' Mrs Stonehouse said. 'Do sit down, Mr Bigg. Over there, where I can look at you.'
'Thank you.' I took the chair she had indicated. I was thankful that my feet touched the floor, though only just.
'Have you dined?' she asked.
'Yes, ma'am, I have.'
'So have we, she said brightly, 'and now I'm having a glass of sherry. Glynis isn't drinking. Glynis never drinks.
Do you, dear?'
'No, Mother,' the daughter said patiently. 'Would you care for something, Mr Bigg?'
'A glass of sherry would be welcome,' I said. 'Thank you.'
Glynis got a glass from a bar cart and filled it from her mother's bottle. She handed it to me, then seated herself at the opposite end of the couch. She was graceful and controlled.
'Mr Teitelbaum told Mother you will be investigating my father's disappearance.'
'Yes,' I said. 'We believe the police have done everything they possibly can, but surely it will do no harm to go over it again.'
'He's dead,' Mrs Ula Stonehouse said.
'Ma'am,' I said, 'according to Mr Teitelbaum, you believed your husband had met with an accident and was suffering from amnesia.'
'I did think that,' she said, 'but I don't anymore. He's dead. I had a vision.'
Glynis Stonehouse was inspecting her fingernails. I took out a notebook and pen. 'I hate to go over events which I'm sure are painful to you,' I said. 'But it would help if you could tell me exactly what happened the evening the Professor disappeared.'
Mrs Stonehouse did most of the talking, her daughter correcting her now and then or adding something in a quiet voice. I took notes as Mrs Stonehouse spoke, but it was really for effect, to impress them how seriously Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum regarded their plight.
I glanced up frequently from my scribbling to stare at Mrs Stonehouse.
As she talked, sipping her sherry steadily and leaning forward twice to refill her glass, her eyes, as pale as milk glass, flickered like candle flames. She had a mop of frizzy blonde curls, a skin of chamois, and a habit, or nervous tic, of touching the tip of her retrousse nose with her left forefinger. Not pushing it, just touching it as if to make certain it was still there.
She had fluttery gestures, and was given to quick expressions — frowns, smiles, pouts, moues — that followed one another so swiftly that her face seemed in constant motion. She was dressed girlishly in chiffon. In her tucked-up position she was showing a good deal of leg.
She spoke rapidly, as if anxious to get it all out and over with. That warbling voice rippled on and on, and after a while it took on a singsong quality like a child's part rehearsed for a school play.
On the 10th of January the Stonehouse family had dinner at 7.00 p.m. Present were Professor Yale Stonehouse, wife Ula, daughter Glynis, and son Powell.
