'Yes. I am having the whole matter of the status of the assets of a missing person researched at the present moment. I believe I will be able to petition the court to grant the family an allowance for living expenses prior to the time her missing husband is declared legally dead — if indeed he is ever so declared.'
'If he is, sir,' I said, 'I mean, declared legally dead at some future time, who gets the money? How is the estate divided?'
'The third problem,' Mr Teitelbaum said sombrely.
'Mrs Stonehouse cannot find her husband's will. It seems to be missing.'
4
The moment I returned to my office, I called Marty again.
Still no answer. It was then 4.25 p.m. I finished my report on the time trials, read it over, put the original in my OUT
basket, and the carbon in my file cabinet. I then started two new folders, labelling them KIPPER and STONEHOUSE.
At the moment, I had nothing to put in the latter, and only Marty's phone number to file in the former.
I relaxed for a few moments, put my feet up on the desk, and reviewed my recent interview with Teitelbaum.
All Teitelbaum wanted me to do was to meet and interview the Stonehouse family and servants, to ask them any questions I thought might be germane to the disappearance of the Professor, and generally to nose about and try to make some educated guesses as to what had actually happened.
'You are a clever young man,' Mr Teitelbaum had said.
'Perhaps you will think of an approach or an angle that the police have neglected.'
When he or the assigned TORT attorney went into court to beg that an allowance be granted to the Stonehouse family from the missing man's assets, Teitelbaum wanted to be able to assure the bench that every possible effort had been made to locate the Professor.
'We can already present the unsuccessful efforts of the New York Police Department,' he'd suggested. 'In addition, I want to show that Mrs Stonehouse made a personal effort, working through us, her legal representative, to find her husband. I want you to keep a careful record of the number of hours you spend on this inquiry.
The more, the better — without neglecting your other responsibilities, of course. In addition to that, I plan to 40
place advertisements in the local papers offering a reward for information on the fate and present whereabouts of Professor Stonehouse. We may even have fliers printed up and distributed in their neighbourhood, making the same offer of reward. Personally, I do not feel anything will come of these efforts, but the purpose is to prove to the court that we have made a bona fide effort to locate the missing man prior to petitioning for the right to draw on his assets without his permission.'
That made sense to me. It was no great blow to my self-esteem to know that my investigation was to be merely part of a legal ploy and that no great results were expected.
Back in my office at four minutes to five, I dialled Marty's number once again. This time it was picked up after the third ring. A man's voice answered:
'Yeah?'
'Marty?'
'Yeah. Who's this?'
'I'm calling for Mr Leopold Tabatchnick.'
'About time. You got in just under the wire.'
'I've been calling all day.'
'Yeah?' he said. 'Well, I been in and out.'
It was a thick, clotty voice with an uneducated New York accent. He was silent, waiting for me to speak.
'Mr Tabatchnick wants me to meet with you,' I said politely. 'At your convenience. To discuss matters relevant to the estate of Solomon Kipper.'
'That's what I'm here for,' he said cheerily. 'I'm selling, and you're buying — right?'
'Uhh, that's to be determined,' I said hastily. 'When and where can we meet?'
He paused a moment, then:
'There's a gin mill on West 46th Street between Eighth and Ninth. Closer to Ninth. Called the Purple Cow. Meet me there at 11.30 tomorrow morning. Got that?'
I had been scribbling quick notes.
'I have it,' I said. 'How will I know you?'
'I'll be sitting in the last booth on the left,' he said. Then his voice turned guttural. 'You coming alone?'
'Of course,' I said.
'Good,' he said. 'No foolishness.'
He clicked off.
I hung up slowly, staring down at my notes. I tried to analyze how he had sounded. Not menacing, I finally concluded, but very sure of himself.
I sighed, added that note to the Kipper file, and stored it away in my steel cabinet. Then I put on my coat and started home, exchanging 'Good nights' with the other departing employees. Yetta Apatoff's desk was bare; apparently she had already left.
It had been a grey day, raw, the light coarse and the air smelling damply of snow. But the temperature had moderated somewhat; the wind still nibbled, but it had freshened, and the evening sky showed patches of pale blue. Rather than try to jam my way aboard crowded buses, I decided to walk home to the West 20s.
I lived on a street in Chelsea that had once been lined with private homes. Most of the houses had cast-iron railings in front, sandstone steps leading up to ornate front doors. Those that hadn't been gutted still had marble fireplaces and high ceilings with plaster embellishments.
My building had adequate heat and hot water because the owner lived there. On the first floor was a firm of architects, Armentrout amp; Pook; and Hooshang Aboudi, Inc., importers of general merchandise.
The owner and her daughter, Hermione and Cleo Hufnagel, lived on the second floor in separate apartments. I shared the third floor with Bramwell Shank, an elderly ex-ferryboat captain who was confined to a wheelchair. On the top floor, the fourth, were the apartments of Madama Zora Kadinsky, who said she had once sung at the Met and still practised scales during the day.
The other fourth-floor apartment was occupied by Adolph Finkel, a retail shoe salesman.
The apartments were dark but the ceilings were high and the fireplaces worked. I paid $350 a month plus utilities.
On this particular evening Bramwell Shank was waiting for me in the third-floor hallway. His bottle of muscatel was in his lap, with a clean glass ready for me and a half-empty one he was sipping. He wheeled himself into my apartment as soon as I unlocked the door and launched into a recital of the day's TV activities before I could get my coat off.
In his prime he must have been a stalwart bruiser, with solid shoulders, corded arms, and fists that looked like geological specimens. Now, imprisoned in a wheelchair, puddled by drink, he still had a thrusting, assertive brawler's presence. His voice rattled the windows and all his gestures were outsize and violent.
Because he was bald, he wore a captain's cap all day; below the peak of the cap was a pulpy face that ranged from pink to deep purple. He wore black turtleneck sweaters and a brass-buttoned blue officer's jacket.
I let him thunder on about the shows he had seen and when he paused to fill our glasses again, I asked him if he'd care to eat with me.
'I was planning to scramble some eggs with salami,' I said. 'Maybe a salad. And a piece of pie. You're welcome to share, Captain.'
'Nah,' he said. 'I already made my own slop and et it.
Where'd you get the pie — Powerful Katrinka give it to you?'
