Now we got four people downstairs, and only Sol Kipper upstairs — right? In the back of the townhouse there's a patio. Most of it is paved with tiles, and there's aluminium furniture out there: a cocktail table, chairs, an umbrella table — stuff like that. Farther in the rear is a small garden: a tree, shrubs, flowers in the summer, and so on. But most of the patio is paved with tiles. There are two ways of getting out there: one door through the kitchen, and French doors from the dining room.
'A few minutes after three, the four people hear a tremendous crash and a big, heavy thump on the patio.
They all hear it. They rush to the kitchen door and look out, and there's Sol Kipper. He was squashed on the tiles.
That was the thump they heard. And one of his legs had hit the umbrella table, dented it, and overturned it. That was the crash they heard. They ran out, took one look, and knew Sol Kipper was as dead as a mackerel — no joke intended.'
Stilton finished his dinner. He pushed back his chair, 86
crossed his knees, and adjusted his trouser crease. He lighted a cigarette and sipped at what remained of his ale.
'Instant hysteria,' he went on. 'Mrs Kipper fainted, the cook started bawling, and right about then the front doorbell rang.'
'The guest?' I said.
'Right. Reverend Knurr. The butler went to the front door, let him in, and screamed out what had just happened. I gather this Knurr more or less took charge then. He's a put-together guy. He called 911, and he got Tippi Kipper revived, and the others quieted down. By the time I got there, they had found the suicide note. How about some coffee?'
'Sure,' I said. 'Dessert? A brandy?'
'A brandy would be fine,' he said. 'May I suggest Remy Martin?'
So I ordered two of those and a pot of coffee.
'I've got a lot of questions,' I said tentatively.
'Thought you might have,' he said. 'Shoot.'
'Are you sure there were only four people in the house besides Sol Kipper?'
'Absolutely. We searched every room when we got there. No one. And the witnesses swear no one left.'
'The time sequence you gave me of what happened — did you get that from Mrs Kipper?'
'And the servants. And Reverend Knurr. All their stories matched within a minute or so. None of them sounded rehearsed. And if you're figuring maybe they were all in on it together, forget it. Why should they all gang up on the old guy? According to the servants, he treated them just right. A fast man with a buck. The wife says the marriage was happy. None of them showed any signs of a struggle.
No scratches or bruises — nothing like that. And if one of them, or all of them, wanted to get rid of Sol, it would have been a lot easier to slip something into one of his pill bottles. You should have seen his medicine chest. He had a drugstore up there. And, of course, there was the suicide note. In his writing.'
'Do you remember what it said?' I asked. 'Exactly?'
'It was addressed to his wife. It said: 'Dear Tippi.
Please forgive me. I am sorry for all the trouble I've caused.' It was signed ' Sol. ' '
I sighed. Our coffee and cognac arrived, and we sat a moment in silence, then sipped the Remy Martin. Very different from the California brand I drank at home.
'Did you check the wall on the terrace?'
Stilton looked at me without expression.
'You're all right,' he said. 'Dolly did a good job on you.
Yes, we checked the terrace wall. It's a roughly finished cement, painted pink. There were scrape marks on the top where Kipper went over. And there were crumbs of pink cement on the toes of his shoes, stuck in the welt. Any more questions?'
'No,' I said, depressed. 'Maybe I'll think of some later, but I can't think of any now. So it was closed out as a suicide?'
'Did we have any choice?' Detective Percy Stilton said, almost angrily. 'We have a zillion homicides to work on. I mean, out-and-out, definite homicides. How much time can we spend on a case that looks like a suicide no matter how you slice it? So we closed the Kipper file.'
I took a swallow of brandy, larger than I should have, and choked on it. Stilton looked at me amusedly.
'Go down the wrong way?' he said.
I nodded. 'And this suicide,' I said, still gasping, 'it sticks in my throat, too. Perce, how do you feel about it? I mean personally? Are you absolutely satisfied in your own mind that Sol Kipper committed suicide?'
He stared at me, bulging his cheek with his tongue, as if trying to make up his mind. Then he poured himself more coffee.
'It's trade-off time,' he said softly.
'What?' I said. 'I don't understand.'
'A trade-off,' he said. 'Between you and me. You tell me what your interest is in how Sol Kipper died and I'll tell you what I personally think.'
I took a deep breath and wished I had never asked Mr Tabatchnick if I could tell the detective about Marty Reape. Tabatchnick had definitely said no. If I hadn't asked, I could have traded with Stilton without a qualm. I pondered where my loyalty lay. I decided.
'It means my job,' I said, 'if any of this gets out.'
'No one will hear it from me,' Stilton said.
'All right,' I said. 'I trust you. I've got to trust you. Here it is. . '
And I told him all about Marty Reape. Everything, beginning with his telephone call to Mr Tabatchnick, then my call to him, my meeting with him, what he said and what I said, the decision to meet his price, and how he died Wednesday evening under the wheels of a subway train.
Stilton listened closely to this recital, not changing expression. But he never took his eyes off me, and I noticed he chain-smoked while I was speaking. He was about to light another when I finished. He broke the cigarette in two and threw it down.
'I smoke too damned much,' he said disgustedly,
'What do you think?' I said, leaning forward eagerly,
'about Marty Reape?'
'Your boss could be right,' he said slowly. 'Reape could have been a cheap chiseller trying to pull a con.'
'But he was killed!' I said vehemently.
'Was he?' Stilton said. 'You don't know that. And even if he was, that doesn't prove he had the information he claimed. Maybe he tried to pull his little scam on some other people who aren't as civilized as you and your boss, and they stepped on him.'
'But he knew the size of the Kipper estate,' I argued.
'Doesn't that prove he knew the family or had some 89
dealings with them?'
'Maybe,' he said. 'And maybe Sol Kipper told someone what's in his will, and maybe that someone told Marty Reape. Or maybe Reape just made a lucky guess about the size of the estate.'
It was very important to me to convince this professional detective that my suspicions about the death of Sol Kipper had merit and justified further investigation. So, 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.
