The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  I figured that within a day or two the poor thing would be dead—or maybe it would be twice as tall.

  “Beautiful apartment,” I said. “Just splendid.”

  “You like it?” he said, beginning to mumble. “Wanna move in—temporarily?”

  “Oh, Horsy,” I said, “you sweep a girl off her feet.”

  I glanced at him to see how he was taking this bit of mild whimsy and to my horror I saw he was listing badly. He was slowly, slowly slumping sideways, his whole body leaning limply. I hastily came around in front of him and lifted the glass of brandy from his fingers.

  I watched, fascinated, as he became hors de combat—you should excuse the expression. Within a moment he was completely out, eyes closed, breathing stertorously. His upper torso had fallen sideways onto the crimson lips. I lifted up his legs, made him as comfortable as I could, and looked down at him.

  “Oh,” I intoned aloud, “how have the mighty fallen.” But he didn’t stir.

  I cabbed home, and had just enough money to pay the driver, though I had to undertip him.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, “but it’s all I have.”

  “That’s okay, lady,” he said cheerily. “Give us a kiss and all is forgiven.”

  “Catch you next time,” I said hastily, and scurried into my sanctuary, locking, bolting, and chaining the door behind me.

  I slumped into my favorite chair, brooding about the last few hours. I was surprised to find I felt a little more kindly toward Orson Vanwinkle. Sympathy, I guess. The poor poop. Trying so hard to be something he could never be. But pity didn’t stop me from wondering about his flashy wealth. Where was his money coming from?

  That was exactly the same question Jack Smack asked when he called a few hours later. I gave him a rundown of my afternoon with Orson Vanwinkle, leaving out only the business about Havistock’s signet ring. That was my baby. But I told Jack everything else, including Horsy’s fervid pantings and grapplings.

  Smack totally disregarded that. “Where is the guy getting his loot?” he said. “Not from his secretarial job. I can’t believe dear old Uncle Archibald pays that much. I’ll have to look into it.”

  “Will you tell me what you find out?” I asked him.

  “Sure, Dunk,” he said. “We’re partners, aren’t we? And there’s nothing between Vanessa and Orson?”

  “No romance, if that’s what you’re thinking. He kept calling her a slut, and I think he was sincere.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Jack said. “By the way, we closed all the Venetian blinds on our floor like the anonymous letter writer wanted, signaling our willingness to make a deal, but we haven’t heard anything more from him. Not yet. Hey, Dunk, how about some dinner tonight?”

  “No,” I said promptly, “thank you, but I can’t make it.”

  “Sure,” he said, not at all put out. “We’ll make it another time. Have a good evening. I’ll be in touch.”

  A minute later I was wondering why I had rejected him. I was all dressed up with no place to go, and he was a handsome, dashing guy. Considering the state of my checking account, I could have used a free dinner.

  I think my quick decision had something to do with that afternoon with Orson Vanwinkle. I had enough of men for one day. I was tired of the hassle. I suppose that sounds stupid, that a brief encounter with a drunken idiot could sour me on the entire male sex, even for one evening, but that’s the way it was.

  So I got out of my silk sheath, Mexican beads, and black lace pantyhose, and pulled on my ratty flannel bathrobe with the frayed cord. I had a can of Campbell’s chicken soup and a salami sandwich. Bas cuisine.

  And spent a lonely and forlorn evening. Sometimes I don’t understand myself.

  11

  THEY SAT AS SOLIDLY as Easter Island statues—Mr. Archibald Havistock and Mrs. Mabel Havistock—grim-visaged monoliths glowering at me. I won’t say I was frightened, but I was awed.

  Both were stiffly erect, and I wondered if, in private, they ever allowed themselves the pleasure of slumping. Probably not. In their world it simply wasn’t done. She so hard, square, and chunky; he so impeccably groomed and complete. They could have posed for “Urban American Gothic”; both had steel in them, and not a little arrogance.

  I had received a phone call from Orson Vanwinkle about ten o’clock that morning. No indication of hangover, no apologies. And he spoke in such circumspect tones I was certain someone was standing at his elbow.

  “Miss Bateson,” he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Havistock would like to meet with you here at their apartment at eleven-thirty this morning. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Meet with me?” I said, startled. “What for?”

  “Ah…to discuss a matter to your advantage. Will you be able to make it?”

  “Okay,” I said breezily, “I’ll be there.”

  I was greeted at the door by housekeeper Ruby Querita, dour as ever, and ushered into that Frank Campbell living room. And there sat Archy and Mabel, planted, as if they had grown to their velvet club chairs, unable or unwilling to rise and greet me.

  They wasted no time getting down to business. Mrs. Havistock carried the ball. I admired the way she lifted her chin as she spoke. It almost smoothed out the wattles. Almost.

  “Miss Bateson,” she said crisply, “you impress me—you impress us, my husband and me—as an intelligent and alert young lady.”

  She paused, and I didn’t know whether to simper or dig a toe into their Aubusson and mutter an “Aw, shucks.”

  “I am sure,” she continued, “you are aware of the activities of Detective Georgio of the New York Police Department and Mr. John Smack, who represents the insurance company covering the loss of the Demaretion by Grandby and Sons.”

  “I know both men,” I said cautiously.

  “Then I am sure you are aware that both feel the theft was committed by a member of my—by a member of our family.”

  “Ridiculous!” Archibald Havistock said angrily.

  I said nothing.

  “There are two factors to be considered…” Mrs. Havistock went on. “First, while any member of this family is under suspicion, recompense for the loss of the Demaretion will be delayed. Second, we deem it a personal insult that a family member should be suspected. All that dreadful publicity! I was brought up, Miss Bateson, to believe that a lady’s name appeared in the public print only three times: when she was born, married, and died. I absolutely deny that any Havistock could be capable of such a crime. Archibald, do you agree with me?”

  “Absolutely,” he boomed out in his resonant voice.

  “What I—what we would like to propose,” Mrs. Havistock said, “is that we employ you in a private capacity. To investigate the robbery of this valuable piece of property.”

  It took me a couple of ticks to realize she was talking about the Demaretion. It was like calling the Mona Lisa “a valuable piece of property.”

  Then as my resentment faded, astonishment set in. They wanted to hire me to find out whodunit! I was as shocked as if I had been floored under the basket while going up for a dunk shot. Apparently she took my shaken silence for doubt or rejection because she started the hard sell:

  “We know that you are on leave of absence from Grandby’s, so your time is your own. We can promise you complete cooperation—not only from my husband and myself, but from all the members of our family. Naturally, we expect to pay for your services. We feel that neither of the two official investigators has your knowledge of the inside world of numismatics.”

  By that time my wits had settled back into place. “Mrs. Havistock,” I said, “if you wish to hire me to investigate the theft of the Demaretion, I’d be happy to take the assignment, and be very appreciative of your trust in me. But if you’re hiring me to give your entire family a clean bill of health, that I cannot do. I would like the job—but with no guarantees that I won’t find a family member guilty.”

  They turned slowly to stare at each other. If a signal passed between them
, I didn’t see it.

  “Look, Mrs. Havistock,” I argued, “you and your husband have complete faith in the loyalty of your family. That’s very commendable, but you can’t expect me to become a partner in any cover-up, if one becomes necessary. That I won’t do, and the deal is off. But if you’re willing to give me carte blanche, tell me to try to find out who stole the Demaretion, and let the chips fall where they may, then yes, I would accept—but only under those conditions.”

  “Archibald,” she said, troubled, “what do you think?”

  “Let’s do it,” he said. “I think Miss Bateson’s conditions are reasonable.”

  “Very well,” she said, lifting her heavy chin again, “we will employ you with the understanding that there will be no restrictions on your investigation. We will pay you four hundred dollars a week, plus expenses, for a period of one month. At the end of that time we will meet again to review your progress and determine whether your investigation should continue under the same terms, or whether your employment should be terminated. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Yes, it is,” I said promptly, “as long as you can promise me the cooperation of all the members of your family.”

  “I can promise you that,” Archibald Havistock said grimly. “In return, I ask only that in the unlikely event you discover a member of the family is the thief, I will be told before you take your information to the authorities.”

  I nodded, never imagining the horrendous results of my casual agreement.

  So we settled things, and he went into his den-library and returned with a check for four hundred dollars, which I accepted gratefully. We then decided it would be best if they reported to Al Georgio and Jack Smack that I had been employed as their private snoop, and ask both men to cooperate with me fully.

  “How do you intend to start?” Mr. Havistock asked curiously.

  I didn’t have to ponder that. “I think I’ve met all your immediate family except for Mr. and Mrs. Luther Havistock. I would like to talk to your son and daughter-in-law this evening, but it would help if you’d call them first, explain who I am and what my job is. Then I’ll call for an appointment.”

  “I’ll arrange it,” Mrs. Havistock said decisively. “You’ll have no problem there. They will see you.”

  What a gorgon! But I hadn’t the slightest doubt that she would deliver. This was one grande dame, and when she said, “Jump!” the other Havistocks asked only, “How high?”

  They both had the decency to rise when I departed. We shook hands formally, and I promised to deliver periodic verbal reports on my progress. We all agreed it would be best to put nothing in writing.

  When I exited from the living room, Orson Vanwinkle was waiting for me in that muffled corridor. He might have been listening at the living room door or peering through the keyhole; I wouldn’t have put it past him.

  He conducted me to the outside door, looked about warily, then clamped a hot hand on my shoulder, leaning forward to whisper:

  “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

  “Unforgettable,” I told him.

  He gave me a smarmy smile.

  I hadn’t been home more than an hour when the phone calls started coming in. The first two were from Al Georgio and Jack Smack. I thought both men would be outraged at my accepting employment as a private detective to inquire into a crime they were investigating, but they seemed to accept my new job with equanimity.

  “Look,” Al said, “you’ll be able to get closer to the family than I can with a badge. We’ll trade information, won’t we?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m counting on it.”

  “We’re still partners, aren’t we?” Jack Smack asked. “I’ll keep you up to speed on what I’m doing, and you tip me on anything you dig out. Okay?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m counting on it.”

  Their reasonableness surprised me. Until I decided that neither of them considered me a threat. What investigative experience did I have? I was just a long drink of water with a passion for pizza and more energy than brains. They might use me, but I don’t think either of them took me seriously. That was all right; if they wanted to believe me a lightweight, I’d go along with that. It had something to do with catching more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.

  The third phone call was from Vanessa Havistock, and it wasn’t as pleasant. As a matter of fact, it was downright snarly.

  “I have been informed,” she stated in icy tones, “that my husband and I are expected to meet with you this evening and answer your questions about the burglary.”

  “Robbery,” I said. “I hope it won’t be too much of an inconvenience, Mrs. Havistock. I can make it at any time you suggest, and I promise you it shouldn’t take long.”

  “We have already answered endless questions by the New York City detective and that man with the odd name from the insurance company. How much longer are we to be harassed in this manner?”

  I could feel my temper beginning to simmer, but I was determined to play it cool. Making an enemy of this woman would get me nowhere.

  “I know how distressing it must be for you, Mrs. Havistock,” I said meekly. “But really, no one wishes to harass you. All we’re seeking is information.”

  “But I know nothing about it. Absolutely nothing.”

  “You were there when the coin was taken,” I pointed out. “At the birthday party planned for your mother-in-law. It’s possible you noticed something that made no impression on you at the time, but which might provide a vital clue in solving the crime.”

  A two-beat pause, then…

  “You really think so?” she said thoughtfully. “That I might know something I don’t know I know?”

  “It’s quite possible,” I said earnestly. “That’s why I’m so anxious to talk to you and your husband. To refresh your memories and see if we can uncover something that will help end this dreadful affair.”

  “It’s been a nightmare. All those tabloid stories…Even my hairdresser wants to talk about it. Oh, very well,” she said, reverting to her petulant tone, “we’ll see you at six-thirty this evening. We’ll give you an hour. No more.”

  She hung up abruptly. I was looking forward to meeting that vixen. I decided to dress in my dowdiest, like Eliza Doolittle, the guttersnipe, before Professor Higgins converts her to a grand lady. I wanted Vanessa Havistock to feel immediately superior to me, to underestimate me and believe she had nothing to fear.

  I made the fourth telephone call. Because the Havistocks were paying expenses, I called Enoch Wottle in Tucson, Arizona. Since he left New York, we had corresponded frequently, exchanging letters at least once a month. I often asked his advice on numismatic matters, not so much that I needed it, but because I wanted him to feel his perception and experience were still valued.

  But this was the first time we had talked together in almost three years, and it was a touching experience for both of us. I know I cried a little, and I think he was similarly affected. We spent the first few minutes getting caught up on personal matters: his arthritis, my lack of suitors, his son’s home and the grandchildren.

  “Enoch,” I said, “tell me the truth: how do you like Tucson?”

  He sighed. “Manhattan it ain’t,” he said with heavy good humor. “You want a hot pastrami sandwich at two in the morning, where do you go?”

  I laughed. “Enoch, you never in your life ate a hot pastrami sandwich at two in the morning.”

  “I know,” he agreed, “but in New York you know it’s there.”

  Then I got down to business. I had already written him about the loss of the Demaretion, and he had read about it in the newspapers and numismatic journals to which he still subscribed. Now I brought him up to date on recent happenings, including my employment by the Havistocks. He cautioned me about that.

  “Dunk, darling,” he said, “you are dealing here with someone who took the risk of stealing something worth a great deal of money. That can only mean someone desperate. I
beg you, be very, very careful. People stupid enough to commit such a crime may do even more reckless things. Do not endanger yourself.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Enoch,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”

  Ah, the optimism of the innocent!

  Then I told him I had supplied Jack Smack with a list of coin dealers all over the world, and his insurance company was getting out letters of warning, asking for information on anyone trying to peddle the stolen Demaretion.

  “Now you know that’s not going to do much good,” I said. “There are some dealers who’ll do anything to turn a buck, especially if they’re buying for a client. The Demaretion could disappear into a private collection and never be seen again.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” he said mournfully.

  I told him that I knew he had many old friends in the trade, and asked if he could call or write the most knowledgeable of his contacts and see if he could pick up any information, or even gossip, about a Demaretion coming on the market.

  “The Havistocks will pay all expenses,” I said, “but I admit it’ll be a lot of work for you.”

  “Work?” he said. “Not work but a pleasure. Of course I’ll do it. I’ll get started today. You know, by now that dekadrachm could be in Sweden, Saudi Arabia, Iceland—anywhere. Smuggling a single coin across borders is the easiest thing imaginable. You put it in your pocket with your other coins. What customs inspector wants to look at small change? Of course, Dunk, I will be happy to see what I can find out. It will give me something to do. My son insists I play shuffleboard. I hate shuffleboard.”

  Then I told him of the anonymous letter Finkus, Holding, Inc., had received, purportedly from the crook, asking if they’d be interested in a buy-back. They had signaled an affirmative but, as far as I knew, had not yet received a second letter.

  “I don’t know,” Enoch Wottle said dubiously. “It sounds like a con game to me. After a major theft like this by some big shark, the barracudas gather around, hoping to pull a smaller swindle. But you never know. Dunk, this is a fascinating chase. I will do what I can to help. Please call me as often as you like. And reverse the charges.”