'Yes,' she said softly, 'I think you're right. If someone was trying to kill h i m. . '
'Someone obviously was.'
'But why?'
'Miss Stonehouse,' I said, 'I just don't know. My investigation hasn't progressed that far. As yet.'
'But you are making progress?'
It was my turn to be noncommittal.
'I have discovered several things,' I said, 'that may or may not be significant. But to get back to my original question, can you think of any way your father may have been poisoned? Other than the cocoa?'
She stared at me a long moment, but she wasn't seeing me.
'No,' she said,!I can't. We all ate the same things, drank the same things. Father bought bottled water, but everyone drank that.'
'He wasn't on a special diet of any kind?'
'No.'
' Well. . ' I said, 'if you recall anything, please let me know.'
'Mr Bigg,' she said slowly, 'you said you suspected me of poisoning my father's cocoa.'
'Not exactly,' I said. 'For a time I did think the cocoa you served him might have been poisoned. But anyone in the household could have done that. But I realized I was mistaken after Mrs Dark told me she finished the leftover cocoa every morning.'
'She told you,' Glynis Stonehouse said steadily. 'I've never seen Mrs Dark have a cup of cocoa in the morning, and I don't believe anyone else has either.'
Again our eyes locked, but this time she was really looking at me, her gaze challenging, unblinking.
The sleet had lessened, but the sky was still drooling. I ducked into a kerbside phone kiosk on Columbus Avenue and called the office, and chatted with Yetta Apatoff. I reminded her of our lunch date on Friday. She hadn't forgotten. Yetta said the office manager had left me a message. He had hired a temporary assistant for me. She would appear at my office at three o'clock, which still gave me time to run downtown to visit the good Reverend Knurr.
I took the Seventh Avenue IRT local down to Houston Street and walked up to Carmine Street. I stopped at a bodega along the way and bought a six-pack. I had the address, but was a few minutes early, so I walked by across the street, inspecting the premises. It was no smaller or larger than any of the other storefronts on the street. But the glass window and door had been painted a dark green.
An amateur sign across the front read: TENTMAKERS CLUB.
I crossed the street and went in. The door rang a bell as it opened.
'Halloo?' Knurr's voice shouted from the rear.
'Joshua Bigg,' I yelled back.
'Be with you in a minute, Joshua. Make yourself at home.'
There was a small open space as one entered. Apparently it was used as an office, for there was a battered wooden desk, an old, dented file cabinet, three chairs (none of which matched), a coat tree, and several cartons stacked on the floor. They all seemed to be filled with used and tattered paperback novels.
Beyond the makeshift office was a doorway curtained with a few yards of sleazy calico nailed to the top of the frame. I pushed my way through and found myself in a large bare chamber with fluorescent lights overhead. On the discoloured walls were charts showing positions and blows in judo, jiu-jitsu, and karate. There were also a few posters advertising unarmed combat tournaments.
In one corner was a tangle of martial arts jackets, kendo staves and masks, dumbbells. There was a rolled-up wrestling mat against one wall.
I was inspecting an illustrated directory of kung fu positions and moves taped to the wall when the Reverend Godfrey Knurr entered from a curtained rear doorway.
'Joshua,' he said, 'good to see you. Thanks for coming.'
'Here,' I said, thrusting the damp brown bag at him. 'I brought along a cold six-pack. For lunch.'
He peeked into the bag.
'Wonderful,' he said. 'Come on back. I'll put the beer in the fridge and you can hang your things away.'
There was a short corridor that debouched into kitchen and bedroom.
The kitchen was just large enough to contain a wooden table and four chairs, refrigerator, sink, cabinets, and a tiny stove. The walls were pebbled with umpteen coats of paint. There was a small rear window looking out on to a sad little courtyard, squalid in the rain. The same view was available from the window in the bedroom. This was a monk's celclass="underline" bed, closet, chest of drawers, straight-back chair, bedside table with lamp and telephone, a bookcase.
'Not quite the Kipper townhouse, is it?' Knurr said. He was putting the beer in the refrigerator when we heard the jangle of the front door bell.
'They'll be coming in now,' he said. 'Let's go up front.'
I followed him to the gym. He was wearing a grey sweatsuit, out at elbow and knee. His sneakers were stained and torn; the laces broken and knotted.
Three boys were taking off wet things in the office. They tossed their outer apparel on to the desk, then came back to the larger room where they divested themselves of shoes, sweaters, shirts, and trousers, kicking these into a corner.
Knurr introduced me casually: 'Joshua, these brutes are Rafe, Tony, Walt. This is Josh.'
We all nodded. They appeared to me to be about 13 to 15, bodies skinny and white, all joints. Their faces and necks were pitted with acne.
The bell jangled again; more boys entered. Finally Knurr had a dozen boys milling around the gym in their drawers and socks.
'Cut the shit!' the Reverend yelled. 'Line up and let's get started.'
They arranged themselves in two files, facing him. At his command they began to go through a series of what I presumed were warmup exercises, following Knurr. He stood with left foot advanced, left arm extended, hand clenched, knuckles down. The right foot was back, right arm cocked, right fist clenched. Then, at a shouted 'Hah!'
everyone took a step forward on to the right foot, striking an imaginary opponent with the right fist while bending the left arm and retracting the left fist to the shoulder. At the second 'Hah!' they all took a step backwards to their original position.
I revised my guess at their age group upwards to 12 to 17. Some of them were quite large, including a six-foot black. There were four blacks, one Oriental, and two I thought were Hispanic. All were remarkably thin, some painfully so, and most had the poor skin tone of slum kids.
There were scars and bruises in abundance, and one shambling youth had a black patch over one eye.
Knurr led them through a series of increasingly violent exercises, culminating with a series of high front and back kicks.
After the exercise period was finished, Godfrey Knurr assigned partners and the boys paired off. They went through what appeared to me to be mock combat. No actual blows were struck, no kicks landed, but it was obvious that all the youths were in dead earnest, punching and counterpunching, kicking out and turning swiftly to avoid their opponents' kicks. As they fought, Knurr moved from pair to pair, watched them closely, stopped them to demonstrate a punch or correct the position of their feet. He had a few words to say to each boy in the room.
'All right,' he shouted finally. 'That's enough. Unroll the mat. We'll finish with a throw.'
The wrestling mat was spread in the centre of the bare wood floor. They gathered around and I moved closer.
Knurr strode out on to the mat and beckoned one of the lads.
'Come on, Lou,' he said. 'Be my first victim.'
There was laughter, some calls and rude comments as the six-foot black stepped forward on the mat to face Knurr.
'All right,' Knurr said, 'lead at me with a hard right.
And don't tighten up. Stay loose. Ready?'
Lou fell into the classic karate stance, then punched at 208
Knurr's throat with his right knuckles. The pastor executed a movement so fast and flowing that I could scarcely follow it. He plucked the black's wrist out of the air, lifted it as he turned, bent, put a shoulder into the boy's armpit, pulled down on the arm, levered up, and Lou's feet went flying high in the air, cartwheeling over Knurr's head. He would have crashed on to the mat if Knurr hadn't caught him about the waist and let him down gently.