3
Olga Eklund agreed to meet me in a health-food cafeteria on Irving Place. The salad, full of sprouted seeds, was really pretty good. I washed it down with some completely natural juice.
I listened to her lecture on health and diet as patiently as I could. When she paused I said, 'So when you told me Professor Stonehouse was being poisoned, you were referring to the daily food served in his house?'
'Yah. Bad foods. I tell them all the time. They don't listen. That Mrs Dark, the cook — everything with her is butter and cream. Too much oil. Too rich.'
'But everyone in the house eats the same thing?'
'Not me. I eat raw carrots, green salads with maybe a little lemon juice. Fresh fruit. I don't poison myself.'
'Olga,' I said, 'you serve the evening meal every night?'
'Except on my day off.'
'Can you recall Professor Stonehouse eating or drinking anything the others didn't eat or drink?'
She thought for a moment.
'No,' she said. Then: 'Except at night maybe. After I left.'
'Oh? What was that?'
'Every night he worked in his study. Late, he would have a cup of cocoa and a brandy before he went to bed.'
I was alive again.
'Where did the cocoa come from?'
'Come from?' she asked, puzzled. 'From Holland.'
'I mean, who made the cocoa every night for Professor Stonehouse?'
'Oh. Mrs Dark made it before she went to bed and before I went home. Then, when the Professor wanted it late, Glynis would heat it up, skim it, and bring it to his study.'
'Every night?'
'I think so.'
'No one else in the house drank the cocoa?'
'I don't know.'
It was sounding better and better.
'Let me get this sequence right,' I said. 'Every night Mrs Dark made a pot of cocoa. This was before you went home and before she went to bed. Then, later, when the Professor wanted it, Glynis would heat it up and bring it to him in his study. Correct?'
'Yah,' she said placidly, not at all interested in why I was so concerned about the cocoa.
'Thank you, Olga,' I said. 'You've been very helpful.'
'Yah,' she said, surprised.
'Does Glynis go out very often? In the evening, I mean.'
'Oh, yah.'
'Does she have a boyfriend?'
She pondered that.
'I think so,' she said, nodding. 'Before, she was very sad, quiet. Now she smiles. Sometimes she laughs. She dresses different. Yah, I think she has a man who makes her happy.'
'How long has this been going on? I mean, when did she start to be happy?'
'Maybe a year ago. Maybe more. Also, one night she said she was going to the theatre. But I saw her that night in a restaurant on 21st Street. She did not see me and I said nothing to her.'
'Was she with anyone?'
'No. But I thought she was waiting for someone.'
'What time of night was this?'
'Perhaps nine, nine-thirty. If she had gone to the theatre, as she said, she would not be in the restaurant at that time,'
'Did you ever mention that incident to her?'
'No,' she said, shrugging. 'Is no business of mine.'
'What do you think of Powell Stonehouse, Olga?'
'He poisons himself with marijuana cigarettes.' (She pronounced it 'mary-jew-anna.') 'Too bad. I feel sorry for him. His father was very mean to him.'
I drained the remainder of all that natural goodness in my glass and rose to my feet.
'Thank you again, Olga,' I said, 'for your time and trouble. The food here is delicious. You may have made a convert of me.'
What a liar I was getting to be.
When I got back to TORT I was confronted by Hamish Hooter, that tooth-sucking villain. 'See here,' Hooter said indignantly, glaring at me from sticky eyes, 'what's this about a secretary?'
'I need one,' I said. 'I spoke of it to Mr Tabatchnick.'
' I am the office manager,' he said hotly. 'Why didn't you speak to me? '
'Because you would have turned me down again,' I said in what I thought was a reasonable tone. 'All I want is a temporary assistant. Someone to help out with typing and filing until I complete a number of important and complex investigations.'
I had always thought the description 'He gnashed his teeth' was a literary exaggeration. But Hamish Hooter did gnash his teeth. It was a fascinating and awful thing to witness,
'We'll see about that,' he grated, and whirled away from me.
As soon as I reached my desk I phoned Yetta Apatoff and made a lunch date for Friday, then got back to business.
Headquarters for Kipmar Textiles were located in a building on Seventh Avenue and 35th Street. When I phoned, a dulcet voice answered, 'Thank you for calling Kipmar Textiles,' and I wondered what the reaction would be if I screamed that I was suing Kipmar for six zillion dollars. After being shunted to two more extensions, I finally got through to a lady who stated she was Miss Gregg, secretary to Mr Herschel Kipper.
I forbore commenting on the aptness of her name and occupation, but merely identified myself and my employer and asked if it might be possible for me to see Mr Herschel Kipper and/or Mr Bernard Kipper at some hour that afternoon, at their convenience. She asked me the purpose of my request, and I replied that it concerned an inventory of their late father's estate that had to be made for tax purposes.
She put me on hold — for almost five minutes. But I was not bored; they had one of those attachments that switches a held caller to a local radio station, so I heard the tag end of the news, a weather report, and the beginning of a country singer's rendition of 'I Want to Destroy You, Baby,' before Miss Gregg came on the line again. She informed me that the Kipper brothers could see me 'for a very brief period' at 3.00 p.m. I was to come directly to the executive offices on the 34th floor and ask for her. I thanked her for her kindness. She thanked me, again, for calling Kipmar Textiles. It was a very civilized encounter.
I walked over from the TORT building, starting out at 2.30, heading due west on 38th. I strolled down Fifth Avenue to 35th, where I made a right into the garment district and continued over to Seventh. The garment centre in Manhattan is quintessentially New York. From early in the morning till late at night it is thronged, jammed, packed. The rhythm is frantic. Handtrucks and pedestrians share the sidewalks. Handtrucks, pedestrians, taxis, buses, private cars, and semi-trailers share the streets. There is a cacophony that numbs the mind: shouts, curses, the bleat of horns, squeal of brakes, sirens, bells, whistles, the blast of punk rock from the open doors of music shops, the demanding cries of street vendors and beggars.
I suppose there were streets in ancient Rome similar to these, and maybe in Medieval European towns on market day. It is a hurly-burly, a wild tumult that simply sweeps you up and carries you along, so you find yourself trotting, dashing through traffic against the lights, shouldering your way through the press, rushing, rushing. Senseless and invigorating.
