The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Nonsense,” I said airily. “I’m on an expense account. Goodbye, Enoch, dear, and stay well.”

  “I survive,” he said philosophically. “At my age that’s an accomplishment.”

  I spent the remainder of that afternoon mentally drafting the questions I wanted to ask Luther and Vanessa Havistock. Actually, I had little hope of learning anything startling from either of them, despite what I had told Vanessa of the possibility of her knowing something vital she didn’t realize she knew.

  What I wanted, most of all, was to meet them personally and get a splanchnic reaction. I had done the same thing with Roberta and Ross Minchen, and temporarily decided they were the wimpiest of wimps. But from what I had heard about Vanessa Havistock, she was cut from a different bolt of cloth. Gold lamé.

  Natalie had called her a bitch. Al Georgio said she exuded sex. Orson Vanwinkle had insisted she was a slut. With a tattoo. Location not specified. And, from all accounts, father Archibald Havistock had to intervene to forestall a family scandal when rapacious Vanessa came on to Ross Minchen.

  (But could she sink nine out of ten foul shots with one hand? I could.)

  So I dressed like a ragamuffin for my meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Luther Havistock, feeling in a merry mood and wondering if I should take along a pen and pad and take notes as they answered my questions. I decided against it, figuring they’d speak more freely if they knew their words weren’t being recorded for posterity.

  Also, they’d think I was a complete incompetent. Let them.

  12

  AL GEORGIO HAD GIVEN me a hint of the richness of that Park Avenue apartment, but I wasn’t prepared for its splendor. It made my modest pad look like a subway locker, and completely outclassed the Havistock home on East 79th Street and Orson Vanwinkle’s Playboy spread on 85th. As Al had wondered, where was Luther’s wealth coming from?

  A panic sale of the stolen Demaretion?

  A little gink greeted me at the door, dressed in a kind of uniform, combination chauffeur-houseman. It was deep purple whipcord with a starched white shirtfront and lilac bow tie. Different. I think he was from India, Thailand, Korea, Cambodia, Vietnam, or possibly Detroit—someplace like that. I know he had a purple eyepatch and hissed.

  He ushered me into a living room that wasn’t as large as Grand Central Station. Not quite. Very plushy, and so big I couldn’t take it all in at one glance. I just had an initial impression of money, money, money. Original paintings, leather, glass, chrome, ankle-deep rugs, concealed lighting, crystal, brass, porcelains—it was a stage set, designed to accommodate a dozen actors.

  They were standing when I entered, each with a glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Hi, there, Noel Coward! But they were affable enough, not bothering to shake hands but offering me a martini (Stolichnaya in Baccarat crystal, I noted) which I declined, and got me seated in an enormous pouf of buttery suede about ten feet away from where they took their seats on a couch upholstered in zebra skin—or maybe it was giraffe. Anyway, it was exotic as hell.

  “I’m sorry to intrude upon you like this,” I began humbly, “but I’m sure Mr. Havistock has informed you that—”

  “Mabel,” Vanessa interrupted sharply.

  “Mrs. Havistock has informed you that I have been employed to try to discover what happened to the Demaretion, and in the process, hopefully, to clear members of the family of any complicity in the theft.”

  “It’s ridiculous!” Luther burst out. “No one has accused any of us. It’s an insult. Just because Father can’t collect on the insurance…”

  His voice trailed away, and I had a moment to take a close look at him. Not very prepossessing. A tall, attenuated man who seemed to have lost weight since he had that pinstripe tailored for him; it hung as slackly as a wet tent. Thinking it might be his first preprandial drink, I looked for the tremor Al Georgio had mentioned, and saw it.

  Al thought Luther Havistock was a man teetering on the edge of economic disaster. That wasn’t my take. I saw a man sliding into emotional collapse: vague stare, uncontrollable tic at the left corner of his mouth, endless crossing and recrossing of his knees, that high-pitched laugh Al had heard, and a broad, pale forehead slick with sweat that he kept swabbing with a trembling palm.

  In better condition, he would have been presentable. Not as handsome as Archibald, but pleasant enough. He had a small echo of his father’s firm jaw, full mouth, and ice-blue eyes. But all in a minor key, reduced and brought low. I had an absurd notion of a stalwart house, buffeted by the elements and allowed to molder and decay. No maintenance. That was Luther Havistock’s problem: no maintenance.

  I took them through that morning and afternoon when the Havistock Collection was packed and the Demaretion disappeared. They answered all my questions readily enough, and substantiated what Al Georgio, and I, had already learned from Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Havistock.

  “You must realize,” Vanessa said, staring with amusement at my denim muumuu, “it was a party day. The whole family was there. People were standing, sitting, mixing drinks, milling about. It’s impossible to remember where any one person was at any particular time.”

  “But do you remember your father-in-law coming into the living room for a few moments before the shipment of the collection began?”

  “That I remember very well. He asked if everyone was present and having a birthday drink. Then he went back to the library.”

  “I remember it, too,” Luther said. “Father came in to play the host for a few minutes.”

  “Did either of you see Mr. Vanwinkle conduct the armed guards into the library to start loading the coin collection for the transfer to Grandby’s?”

  “No,” Vanessa said. “The living room door to the corridor was open, but I didn’t notice anything. Did you, dear?”

  “No,” Luther said. “Nothing.”

  I wasn’t willing to give up. “Did either of you, at any time, notice anything odd or out of the ordinary that morning? Anything that you might have shrugged off at the time, but could have some bearing on what happened?”

  They looked at each other.

  “Not me,” Luther said, wiping his damp brow. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Nor did I,” Vanessa said. “Unless—No, it’s too silly.”

  “What was it, Mrs. Havistock?”

  “Well, as you probably know, the party was catered. The food had been delivered a few hours previously. All cold things. I remember wandering into the kitchen to see what we would be eating. I expected Ruby to be there, preparing the buffet. But she wasn’t there. Some of the caterer’s platters had been unwrapped, and some had not. As if she had left the kitchen in the middle of getting things ready.”

  “Do you recall when this happened—your visit to the kitchen? Was it before or after Mr. Archibald Havistock came into the living room?”

  She looked at me directly, not blinking. “I honestly can’t recall.”

  “And what did you do after you noticed that Ruby Querita was not there?”

  “I took a piece of divine Brie from one of the uncovered platters and went back into the living room nibbling on it.”

  “And was Mr. Archibald Havistock in the living room when you returned?”

  “I honestly don’t remember. Oh, I don’t suppose it means anything at all. Ruby could have gone to the front door to let someone in, or maybe she was in the John—there are a dozen innocent explanations of why she wasn’t in the kitchen. But you said you wanted to know everything,” she added brightly, “so I thought I’d mention it.”

  Quite a woman. She was wearing a Halston sheath that would have paid my rent for two months: a tube of shimmering bottle-green satin that hung from a single shoulder strap and touched her body lightly at bosom and hip. Nothing raunchy about it, but it hinted.

  She was almost as tall as her husband, but while his shrunken frame spoke of desiccation, drained of vitality, she was bursting with vigor. I could understand why men found their senses reeling and eyeballs po
pping. As Detective Georgio had said, she exuded sex. But there was nothing obvious about her, nothing of the hooker.

  She sat demurely, ankles crossed, hands clasped in her lap. But there was no missing the ripe curves of her full body. She was not beautiful. “Striking” is the word, with long, gleaming black hair parted in the middle, falling close in raven wings. Witchy. A coffin face saved from hardness by full, artfully colored lips. She made Felicia Dodat look like a Boy Scout.

  It may have been pure bitchiness on my part, and envy, but I found her a little vulgar. There was a looseness about her that’s hard to explain. She was certainly not blowsy, but I could see why men might immediately imagine her naked. Animal! That was it! She had an animal quality. In bed she might be a voracious tiger. In anger, I could see her snarling, spitting, clawing.

  “Mrs. Havistock,” I said boldly, “would you say that yours is a happy family?”

  “Oh, my,” she said, laughing lightly, “that is a personal question. All families have skeletons in the closet, don’t they? But generally speaking, I’d say yes, ours is a happy family. Wouldn’t you say so, Luther?”

  “Yes,” he said, busy refilling his martini glass from a crystal pitcher.

  My ploy of arousing her disdain and contempt, of getting her to underestimate me, seemed to be getting nowhere. She could not have been more gracious or cooperative. Why did I have the feeling she was at least one step ahead of me?

  Perhaps it was her jewelry that numbed me. With that bottle-green Halston sheath, she wore matching diamond choker, earrings, and bracelet. Nothing garish or ostentatious, mind you, but absolutely overwhelming. And she wore all that ice casually, as if each glittering stone was a merit badge.

  Before I was rendered dumb by jealousy, I tried once more to get through that chromium plating Natalie had mentioned.

  “Mrs. Havistock, can you think of anyone, within or outside the family, who might be capable of stealing the Demaretion? Either from need of money or from motives of revenge or whatever.”

  She frowned for a moment, considering. “I honestly can’t,” she said finally. “Can you, Luther?”

  “No,” he said.

  It suddenly occurred to me that in the past fifteen minutes she had used the adverb “honestly” at least three times. Maybe that was her way of talking, an affectation. But mother taught me to be suspicious of people who keep assuring you how honest they are. “I wouldn’t lie to you” and “To tell you the truth…” Hang on to your wallet then, mother had said, and count your rings after you shake hands.

  I knew I wasn’t going to get anything more from Vanessa and Luther. I rose, thanked them for their kindness and cooperation, and moved toward the door. Then that woman did surprise me. She came close, took my arm, gave me a smile that gleamed as brightly as her diamonds.

  “I like you,” she said. “Could we have lunch?”

  “Thank you,” I said, shocked. “I’d enjoy that very much.”

  “I’ll give you a call,” she said, squeezing my bicep, and the purple eyepatch with the hiss showed me out.

  I had Lean Cuisine spaghetti dinner that night, with some greens picked up at the salad bar at my local deli. I also had two glasses of red wine from the jug Al Georgio had left. So when he called around ten o’clock, I was in a mellow mood.

  “How’s the private eye doing?” he asked.

  “No hits, no runs, no errors,” I said. “At least I hope that last is correct. I saw Luther and Vanessa this evening.”

  “Oh?” he said. “That’s interesting. I’d like your take on those two. And I’ve got a couple of goodies for you. Listen, I’ve finished up all the typing I had to do, and I’m on my way home to Queens. How’s about I stop at your place—no more than half an hour, I swear—and we compare notes?”

  “Sure,” I said, “come ahead. I just had some of your wine so I owe you. Did you have dinner tonight?”

  “Yeah, I ate.”

  “What did you have?”

  “A cheeseburger. At my desk. With a chocolate malt.”

  I sighed. “Al, that’s no way to eat.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said. “See you in about fifteen minutes, Dunk.”

  He looked wearier than ever, and accepted a glass of his red wine gratefully.

  “You’re working too hard,” I told him.

  “Ahh,” he said, “it comes with the territory. So how did you make out with Vanessa and Luther?”

  I gave him a complete rundown. He listened intently, not interrupting. When I finished, he rose to refill his wineglass.

  “That business about Ruby Querita being absent from the kitchen—that’s pretty thin stuff, Dunk.”

  “I know it is.”

  “But I’ll check it out. Ruby’s brother, the guy in the clink on a drug rap—well, his lawyer is filing an appeal on the grounds of new evidence. Lawyers cost money. So maybe Ruby saw a chance of grabbing some big bucks. It doesn’t listen—I don’t think she’s got the brains to pull it—but I’ll give it a look-see. What did you think of Luther?”

  “You said you thought he was in a financial bind, a potential bankrupt. Maybe. But I thought he’s heading for an emotional crackup. Al, the guy is barely functioning.”

  “Yeah,” he said, staring at me, “you may be right. And Vanessa?”

  “Were you attracted to her?” I asked him.

  “Of course I was,” he said gruffly. “I told you she came on to me. And even if she hadn’t, I’d have been jolted. She’s a lot of woman.”

  “She is that,” I agreed. “But there’s more there than meets the eye. She wants to have lunch with me. She says she likes me.”

  “Don’t tell me she’s coming on to you?”

  “No, nothing like that. I think she just wants to know what’s going on. She’s figuring on becoming bosom buddies, excuse the expression, so she can pump me. Which makes me wonder why. Al, you said you had things to report.”

  He loosened his tie, slumped deeper into the couch.

  “A few things,” he said. “The FBI came in on this. It’s a local crime so they’ve got no jurisdiction. But anytime there’s a heist like this—big cash or art work or, say, something small or valuable—they figure there’s a good chance of it having been hustled across the state line for fencing, so they’re interested. They weren’t heavy about it—just wanted to know what was going on, and would I keep them informed, and did I need any help—ya-ta-ta-ta. The usual bullshit. No problem. Then we got in touch with Interpol. They’re ready to cooperate—which will add a little muscle to those letters Finkus, Holding is sending out. That’s Jack Smack’s insurance company. Did you know they’re contacting coin dealers all over the world?”

  I nodded.

  “Sure you did,” he said without rancor. “And I suppose you know they got a letter from the crook, or someone who says he is, asking if they’d be interested in a buy-back?”

  I nodded again.

  “Well, they signaled yeah, they’d be interested, and today they got a second letter. The guy wants two hundred grand for the Demaretion.”

  I looked at him, shocked. “Al, how do you know all this? Don’t tell me that Jack told you.”

  He tried to laugh. “That guy wouldn’t give me the time of day. No, he didn’t tell me. But I have a contact at Finkus, Holding. One hand washes the other.”

  “Two hundred thousand?” I said, still astonished. “Isn’t that a lot for a thief to ask from the insurance company?”

  “A lot?” he said. “It’s ridiculous!”

  “What do you think Finkus, Holding will do?”

  “Try to bargain him down. They might spring for a hundred Gs—but I doubt it. They’ll wait until the crook realizes he’s got no other option except to take the coin to a fence and hope he can get ten percent. Then he’ll settle. I still say it isn’t a professional goniff. It’s someone in the family.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I think you’re right. Al, I could scramble you some eggs if you’re hungry.”


  “No,” he said, face creasing into that warm smile. “Thanks, Dunk, but I’ll skip. But I’ll have a little more wine if you don’t mind.”

  “Help yourself. It’s yours.”

  I watched him as he sat brooding on the couch. Such a big, tired, solid man. Like Luther Havistock, he needed maintenance and wasn’t getting it. I had never felt in a more comforting mood.

  “Al,” I said, “the last time you were here I said something about your staying the night in my bed—if you made the pitch. You said that when I decided, you wanted to be the first to know. All right, you are. Stay the night?”

  He smiled wanly. “You’re a sweetheart, you are. I’d love to, Dunk. But I’m beat, I need a hot shower, and more than anything else I need sleep. I wouldn’t be any good for you.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” I said. “Go take your shower.”

  Bodies are nice. I know that probably sounds inane, but it’s true. Bodies are warm and smooth and slide on each other. I’m not talking about sex; I mean holding and hugging and saying silly things. You take your clothes off and you start giggling, don’t you? Well, I do. Maybe not laughing out loud but feeling like it.

  Al was wrong; he was very good for me. There’s a lot to be said for snuggling. Closeness. That was what I had been starved for. He was no Adonis, but I was no Venus. If he had a layer of suet over hard muscles (those cheeseburgers and chocolate malts!), I was all twigs and splinters, being stretched out and bony.

  Maybe it was our physical disparateness that put us in such a good mood. There was nothing heavy about what we did; it was just cuddling and kissing and touching. I think he was as hungry for it as I was. The intimacy. It doesn’t always have to be sweat and shouts. It can be smiling affection.

  We did some frivolous things, I suppose, but at the time they seemed important to me, and I think they were important to him. But there were no fervid avowals of passion—nothing like that. I suppose you’ll think it was just a casual one-night stand, but it wasn’t. It was significant.