'Who the hell knows?' one of them said.
'She came out of nowhere,' the other said. 'A drifter.
Chicago, I think. Somewhere near there.'
'She doesn't talk about it.'
'He met her in Vegas.'
'Went out there on one of those gambling junkets and came back with a bride. Some bride! Some junket!'
'He lost!'
'We all lost.'
'A chippie.'
'A whore.'
'Everyone could see it but him. Pussy-whipped.'
'An old man like that. Our father. Pussy-whipped.'
'It hurt.'
They glowered at me accusingly. I ducked my head and made meaningless jottings in my notebook, pretending their anger was worth recording. Though I had learned more than I had hoped, there were questions I wanted desperately to ask, but I didn't dare arouse their suspicions.
'Well,' I said, 'I think that covers the matter of your father's personal belongings. There is one additional thing you may be able to help me with. A claim for a thousand dollars has been filed against the estate by an individual named Martin Reape. We have been unable to contact Mr Reape, and we wondered if either of you is acquainted with him or knows the reason for the claim.'
Again they looked at each other. Then shook their heads.
'Martin Reape?'
'Never heard of him.'
'We thought it might possibly be a business expense. Is there any way. .?'
'Sure. It can be checked out.'
'We got everything on film.'
'We can tell you if he was a supplier, a customer, or whatever. Heshie, give Al Baum a call.'
Heshie picked up a silver-coloured phone.
'Get me Al Baum,' he snapped. Then, in a moment,
'Al? Herschel. I'm sending you down a lawyer. He wants to check into a certain individual. To see if he's on our books. You understand? Right. Al, give him every possible co-operation.'
He hung up.
'That's Al Baum, our comptroller,' he said to me. 'He's on the 31st floor. If we've got this guy — what's his name?'
'Martin Reape.'
'If we've got this Martin Reape on our books, Al will put him on the screen and see if we owe him.
Okay?'
I stood up.
'Gentlemen,' I said, 'you've been very kind, and I appreciate it.'
'You filed for probate yet?'
'Well, uh, I think you better talk to Mr Tabatchnick about that. He's handling it personally.'
' Sure. . what else? Uncle Leo and Pop were old friends.
They go way back together.'
'Give Uncle Leo our best.'
'I'll do that,' I said. 'Thank you again for your time and trouble.'
I got out of there. They were still standing shoulder to shoulder behind the desk, still furious. Their cigars were much shorter now. The marble top was littered with white ash.
The 31st floor was different from the executive enclave on the 34th. Wood floors were carpeted with worn runners, walls were tenement green, chipped and peeling.
There was no receptionist; directly in front of the elevators 188
began a maze of flimsy metal cubicles. There was constant noise here; banging and clattering, shouted questions and screamed answers, and a great scurrying to and fro. Large office machines, some with keyboards, some with hidden keys clacking, some quiescent, burping forth a sheet or two of paper at odd moments.
I approached a desk where a young black man was shuffling through an enormous pile of computer printout.
He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and a steel comb pushed into his Afro.
'I beg your pardon,' I said timidly.
He continued his rapid riffling of the folded stack of paper before him.
'I beg your pardon,' I said, louder.
He looked up.
'Say what?' he said.
'I'm looking for Mr Baum. I wonder if — '
'Al!' he bawled at me. 'Oh you, Al! Someone here!'
I drew back, startled. Before I knew what was happening, my elbow was gripped. A little butterball of a man had me imprisoned.
'Yes, yes, yes?' he spluttered. 'Al Baum. What, what, what?'
'Joshua Bigg, Mr Baum,' I said. 'I'm the — '
'Who, who, who?' he said. 'From Lupowitz?'
'No, no, no,' I said. It was catching. 'From Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum. Mr Herschel Kipper just called and asked — '
'Right, right, right,' he said. 'Follow me. This way. Just follow me. Don't trip over the cables.'
He darted away and I went darting after him. We rushed into an enormous room where tall grey modules were lined up against the walls, all with tape reels whirling or starting and stopping.
'Computers,' I said foolishly.
'No, no, no,' Baum said rapidly. 'Data processing and 189
retrieval. Payrolls, taxes, et cetera, but mostly inventory.
Hundreds of yarns, hundreds of fabrics: all coded. What's this gink's name?'
'Reape,' I said. 'Martin Reape. R-e-a-p-e.'
I scurried after him into a cramped corner office where a young lady sat before a keyboard and what appeared to be a large television screen.
'Josie,' Baum said, 'look up a Martin Reape. R-e-a-p-e.'
He turned to me. 'What is he?' he asked. 'A supplier?
Buyer? What, what, what?'
'I don't know,' I said, feeling like an idiot. 'You may have paid him for something. A supplier. Call him a supplier.'
Josie's fingers sped over the keyboard. Mr Baum and I leaned over her shoulder, watching the screen. Suddenly printing began to appear, letter by letter, word by word, left to right, then down to the next line, with a loud chatter. Finally the machine stopped. The screen showed seven payments of five hundred dollars each. The payee was Martin Reape, the address was his 49th Street office.
The first payment was made in August of the previous year. The last payment was made one week prior to the death of Sol Kipper.
'There he is,' Al Baum said. 'That what you wanted?'
'Yes,' I said, feeling a fierce exaltation. 'Would it be possible to see the cancelled cheques?'
'Why not?' he said. 'We got everything on film. Josie?'
She pushed more buttons. The screen cleared, then was filled with a picture of the Kipmar Textile cheques made out to Martin Reape. I leaned closer to peer. All the cheques had been signed by Albert Baum, Comptroller.
I turned to him.
