matches for other people's cigarettes.
'So I went to Stolowitz,' I continued, 'figuring maybe he'd tell me what Stonehouse was suffering from. But no soap.'
'That's right,' she said. 'It's confidential between him and the patients. Me and the nurses, we got very strict orders not to talk about the patients' records. As if anyone wanted to. That place gives me the creeps. It's no fun working around sick people all the time, I can tell you.'
The waiter cropped separate checks in front of us. I grabbed up both.
'Here,' Ardis Peacock said halfheartedly, 'let's go Dutch.'
'No way,' I said indignantly. 'I asked you to lunch.'
We walked slowly back towards her office.
'This Stonehouse thing has me stumped,' I said, shaking my head. 'All we need is the nature of the illness he had.
Then we can process his claim. Now I guess we'll have to defend ourselves against his lawsuit.'
I glanced sideways at her, but she hadn't picked up on it.
'I wish there was some way of getting a look at his file,' I said fretfully. 'That's all it would take. We don't need the file; just a look to see what his ailment was.'
That did it. She took hold of my arm.
'It would save your company a lot of money?' she said in a low voice. 'Just to find out why Stonehouse was sick?'
'That's right,' I said. 'That's all we need.'
'Would it be like, you know, confidential?'
'I'd be the only one who would know where it came from,' I said. 'My company doesn't care where or how I get the information, just as long as I get it.'
We walked a few more steps in silence.
'Would you pay for it?' she asked hesitantly. 'I mean, I'm into those files all the time. It's part of my job.'
She wanted $500. I told her my company just wouldn't go above $100, ignoring inflation and how people must live somehow.
'All you want to know is what his sickness was — right?'
'Right,' I said.
'Okay,' she said. 'A hundred. Now?'
'Fifty now and fifty when you get me the information.'
'All right,' she smiled, as I discreetly slipped her the first payment. 'You'll be hearing from me.' With a cheery wave, Ardis strode off to work, and I hailed a cab for the East Side.
9
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the Kipper townhouse on East 82nd Street, between Fifth and Madison. To the west I could see the Metropolitan Museum. To the east the street stretched away in an imposing facade of townhouses, embassies, consulates, and prestigious foundations. No garbage collection problems on this block. No litter. No graffiti.
The Kipper home was an impressive structure of grey stone with an entrance framed in wrought iron. There were large bow windows on the third and fourth floors, the glass curved. I wondered what it cost to replace a pane. Above the sixth floor was a heavily ornamented cornice, and above that was a mansard roof of tarnished copper.
A narrow alleyway separated the Kipper building from the next building east. It had an iron gate and bore a small polished brass sign: DELIVERIES. I wondered if I would be sent around to the tradespeople's entrance.
Despite Detective Stilton's advice, I had decided not to attempt to claim that my visit was concerned with Sol Kipper's insurance. That would surely be handled by investigators from the insurance company involved, and I had neither the documentation nor expertise to carry off the impersonation successfully.
I rang the bell outside the iron grille door. The man who opened the carved oaken inner door almost filled the frame. He was immense, one of the fattest men I have ever seen. He was neither white nor black, but a shade of beige.
He looked like the Michelin tyre man, or one of those inflated rubber dolls which, when pushed over, bobs upright again. But I didn't think he'd bob upright from a knockdown. It would require a derrick.
'Yes, sah?' he inquired. His voice was soft, liquid, with the lilt of the West Indies.
'My name is Joshua Bigg,' I said. 'I am employed by Tabatchnick. Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum, who are Mrs Kipper's attorneys. I would appreciate a few minutes of Mrs Kipper's time, if she is at home.'
He stared at me with metallic eyes that bulged like the bowls of demitasse spoons. Apparently he decided I was not a potential assassin or terrorist, f o r. .
'Please to wait, sah,' he said. 'A m o m e n t. . '
He closed the door and I waited outside in the cold. True to his word, he was back in a moment and stepped down the short stairway to unlatch the iron door. He had unexpectedly dainty hands and feet, and moved in a slow, fastidious way as if he found physical action vulgar.
He led me into a tiled entrance hall that rose two floors and was large enough to accommodate a circus troupe. A wide floating staircase curved up to the left. There were double doors on both sides and a corridor that led to the rear of the house. The hall was decorated with live trees in pots and an oversized marble Cupid, his arrow aimed at me.
The butler took my hat and coat; I hung on to my briefcase. He then led me to the left, knocked once, opened the doors, and ushered me in.'
This was obviously not the formal living room; more like a family room or sitting room. It was impossible to make a chamber of that size cosy or intimate, but the decorator had tried by placing chairs and tables in groups. He only succeeded in making the place look like the card-room of a popular club. But it was cheerful enough, with bright colours, flower prints on the walls, and what to my untrained eye appeared to be an original Cezanne over the mantel.
There were two people in this cavern. As I walked towards them, the man rose to his feet, the woman remained seated, fitting a cigarette into a gold holder.
I repeated my name and those of my employers. The man shook my hand, a firm, dry grip.
'Mr Bigg,' he said. 'A pleasure. I am Godfrey Knurr.
This lady is Mrs Kipper.'
I set the briefcase I had been lugging all day on the floor and moved forward to light her cigarette.
'Ma'am,' I murmured, 'I'm happy to meet you.'
'Thank you,' she said, holding out a slender white hand.
'Won't you sit down, Mr Bigg? No, not there. That's Godfrey's chair.'
'Oh, Tippi,' he said in a bright, laughing voice. 'Any chair will do. I think there are enough of them.'
But I didn't take his chair. I selected one closer to the small fire in the grate and so positioned that I could look at both of them without turning.
'What a beautiful home you have, Mrs Kipper,' I said.
'Breathtaking.'
'More like Grand Central Station,' Knurr said in his ironic way. Then he said exactly what Perce Stilton had said: 'A terrible waste of space.'
Mrs Kipper made a sound, a short laugh that was almost a bark.
'You see, Mr Bigg,' she said, 'Mr Knurr is a minister, the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. He does a great deal of work with the poor, and he's hinted several times that it would be an act of Christian charity if I allowed a mob of his ragamuffins to live in my lovely home.'
'Beginning with me,' Knurr said solemnly, and they both laughed. I smiled politely.
'Ma'am,' I said, 'I hope you'll pardon me for not phoning in advance, but I was in the neighbourhood on other
