'Did she just quit or was she fired?'
'She quit, she told us. Said it was very boring work.'
'Effie, did you ever hear her mention a man named Godfrey Knurr? He's a minister.'
'Godfrey Knurr? No.'
'Is Glynis a religious woman?'
'Not particularly. They're Episcopalian. But I never thought she was especially religious. But she's deep.'
'Oh yes,' I agreed, 'she's deep all right. Before her father's disappearance, was she in a good mood?'
Mrs Dark pondered that.
'I'd say so,' she said finally. 'She started changing after the Professor disappeared and in the last week she's gotten much worse.'
'Me,' I said. 'I'm troubling her. I told her I knew her father had been poisoned.'
'You didn't!'
'I did. Of course I didn't tell her I thought she had done it.'
'What are you going to do now?'
'Dig deeper. Try to find out what happened to the Professor. Effie, what kind of a car do the Stonehouses own?'
'A Mercedes.'
'Do they keep it in a garage over on 66th Street and West End?'
'Why, yes. The garage people bring it over when we need it. How did you know?'
'I've been looking around.'
'You surely have,' she said. 'Have you found the will yet?'
'Not yet. But I think I know where it is.'
'I don't see why it's so important,' she said. 'If he's dead 297
and didn't leave a will, the money goes to his wife and children anyway, doesn't it?'
'Yes,' I said, 'but if he left a will, he might have disinherited one of them.'
'Could he do that?'
'Probably. With good cause. Like attempted murder.'
'Oh,' she said softly, 'I hadn't thought of that.'
'Effie, can I count on your discretion about all this?'
She put a fat forefinger alongside a fatter nose.
'Mum's the word,' she said.
I rose, then bent swiftly to kiss her apple cheek.
'Thank you,' I said. 'I know it's not pleasant. But we agreed, it's got to be done. One last question: will Miss Glynis be in tonight? Did she say?'
'She said she's going to the theatre. She asked for an early dinner.'
'Uh-huh. So she'll be leaving about when?'
'Seven-thirty,' Mrs Dark said. 'At the latest.'
'Thank you very much,' I said. 'You've been very kind.'
I had a Big Mac and a Coke before I returned to the office. Yetta Apatoff was on the phone when I entered the TORT building. She blew me a kiss. I'm afraid I responded with a feeble gesture. Her scarf had come awry and the diving neckline of the green sweater now revealed a succulent cleavage. I wondered nervously when Mr Teitelbaum or Mr Tabatchnick would instruct their respective secretaries to order Yetta to cover up.
Mrs Kletz had left a note on my desk; she was indeed out distributing the reward posters to the taxi garages and had left me a copy of the poster. It looked perfect.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon typing out reports of my morning's activities and adding them to the Stonehouse file, along with the photocopies of the chemical analyses. Then I hacked away at routine inquiries until about 4.00 p.m., when I dialled the number of the Children's Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat Clinic in the Manhattan phone book and asked to speak to the director.
'Who is calling, please?' the receptionist asked.
'This is the Metropolitan Poison Control Board,' I said solemnly. 'It concerns your drug inventory.'
A hearty voice came on the line almost instantly.
'Yes sir!' he said. 'How may I be of service?'
'This is Inspector Waldo Bommer of the Metropolitan Poison Control Board, In view of the recent rash of burglaries of doctors' offices, clinics, hospitals, laboratories, and so forth, we are attempting to make an inventory of the establishments that keep poisonous substances in stock.'
'Narcotics?' he said. 'We have nothing like that. This is a clinic for underprivileged youngsters.'
'What we're interested in is poisons,' I said. 'Arsenic, strychnine, cyanide; things of that sort.'
'Oh, heavens no!' he said, enormously relieved. 'We have nothing like that in stock.'
'Sorry to bother you,' I said. 'Thank you for your time.'
My second call, to Atlantic Medical Research, was less successful. I went through my Poison Control Board routine, but the man said, 'Surely you don't expect me to reveal that information on the phone to a complete stranger? If you care to come around with your identification, we'll be happy to co-operate.'
He hung up.
It wasn't 5.00 p.m. yet, but I packed my briefcase with the Kipper and Stonehouse files, yanked on my hat and coat, and sallied forth. Yetta was not on the phone. She held out a hand to stop me.
'Josh,' she said, pouting, 'you didn't even notice.'
'I certainly did notice,' I said. 'The sweater looks lovely, Yetta.'
'You like?' she said, arching her chest.
'Fine,' I said, swallowing. 'And the scarf is just right.'
'Oh, this old thing,' she giggled, swinging it farther 299
aside. 'It just gets in my way when I type. I think I'll take it off.'
Which she did. I looked about furtively. There were people in the corridor. Was I a prude? I may very well have been.
'Josh,' she said eagerly, 'you said we might, you know, go out some night together.'
'Well, uh, we certainly shall,' I said with more confidence than I felt. 'Dinner, maybe the theatre or ballet.'
The image of Yetta Apatoff at a performance of Swan Lake shrivelled my soul. 'But I've been so busy, Yetta, Not only during the day, but working at home in the evening as well.'
'Uh-huh,' she said speculatively. She was silent a moment as I stood there awkwardly, not knowing how to break away. It was clear she was summing me up and coming to a decision.
'Lunch maybe?' she said.
'Oh absolutely,' I said. 'I can manage lunch.'
'Tomorrow,' she said firmly.
'Tomorrow?' I said, thinking desperately of how I might get out of it. 'Well, uh, yes. I'll have to check my schedule.
I mean, let's figure on lunch, and if I have to postpone you'll understand, right?'
'Oh sure,' she said.
Coolness there. Definite coolness.
I waved goodbye and stumbled out. I felt guilt. I had led her astray. And then I was angry at my own feeling of culpability. What, actually, had I done? Bought her a few lunches. Given her a birthday present. I assured myself that I had never given her any reason to believe I was. . It was true that I frequently stared at her intently, but with her physical attributes and habit of wearing knitted suits a size too small, that was understandable.
Such were my roiling thoughts as I departed the office that Monday evening, picking up a barbecued chicken, 300
potato salad, and a quart of Scotch on the way home. Back in Chelsea, I ate and drank with an eye on the clock. I had to be across the street from the Stonehouse apartment at 7.15 at the latest, and I intended to proceed to the Upper West Side at a less-frenzied pace than my recent forays.
Clad in my fleece-lined anorak, I made it there in plenty of time and assumed my station. It was a crisp night, crackling, the air filled with electricity. You get nights like that in New York, usually between winter and spring, or
