The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “All right. I’ve talked to a lot of people.”

  “Oh?” she said, knifing her steak into smaller slabs. “Who?”

  “Just about everyone. You and your husband, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Havistock. Roberta and Ross Minchen. Orson Vanwinkle. Natalie and her boyfriend.”

  “Oh, my,” she said, “you have been getting around.”

  I was fascinated by the way she ate. Those sharp white teeth tore into meat, greens, and a crusty baguette with ferocious joy. Something primitive in the way she consumed food, and I thought my initial reaction had been on target: she really had a lot of animality.

  “About Ross Minchen…” she said, busy with her lunch and not looking at me. “Don’t you think he’s…well, a wee bit odd?”

  “Odd?” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh…” she said vaguely, “sometimes he does strange things.”

  I could have sworn right then that she knew about the Minchens’ videocassettes, but I never mentioned them. “What kind of strange things, Vanessa?”

  “Well…for one thing, he likes to compose pornographic haiku—those three-line Japanese poems.”

  “Ross Minchen can write Japanese?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, laughing merrily. “He writes them in English. Some of them are quite amusing. Like dirty limericks, you know—but different.”

  Weirder and weirder.

  She ordered espresso for us and consulted the posted blackboard for desserts available. We agreed that everything offered sounded sinfully fattening, so we skipped. She took a pack of Kent III from her bag and held it out to me.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”

  “Smart you,” she said. “I’m hooked.” She extracted a cigarette, and instantly that infatuated waiter was at her side, snapping a lighter.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “My pleasure, madam,” he murmured, and moved regretfully away.

  “Isn’t he sweet?” she said, in the tones she might have used to comment, “What a nice fox terrier.” Then, smoking and sipping her coffee, she asked me my personal reactions to everyone in the Havistock family.

  “I’m always curious to know what people think, meeting us for the first time,” she said, an expert at the Wry Pout.

  I knew she was pumping me, ever so tenderly, to learn what I knew about the theft of the Demaretion. I should have told her that what I had learned could have been engraved on the head of a pin.

  I told her only what I was certain she already knew. I was determinedly discreet, and she listened without displaying any reaction until we got onto the subject of Orson Vanwinkle. Then her dark eyes glittered, she raised a hand to brush one of those wings of raven hair away from her face, and her expression became absolutely feral.

  “Orson Vanwinkle is a vile, vile man,” she said, very intensely. “And if I were you, I’d have nothing to do with him.”

  “I do have to question him,” I said mildly.

  “I suppose so, but never, ever trust him. He’s alienated everyone he’s known. Went through a dozen jobs before Archibald took pity on him and hired him as a secretary. What a mistake that was! The man’s a creep. Ugh!” she added, shaking her shoulders with disgust.

  She signaled for the bill, and when it arrived, she took a credit card from her brocaded handbag. “Isn’t plastic wonderful!” she said, and I agreed it was wonderful. I thanked her for a delightful lunch, and she said we must do it again soon.

  On our way out, the headwaiter, who apparently was an old friend, greeted her effusively. He thanked her for her patronage, and said he hoped to see her again soon. Then he kissed her fingers. I could swear he passed a small, folded piece of paper into her palm, but on the sidewalk, she fumbled in her purse to make certain she had her credit card, the little paper disappeared, and I wondered if I had imagined the whole thing.

  “Got to leave you here, Dunk,” she said. “My dentist is waiting. Nothing serious—just cleaning and a checkup, but I’ve put it off long enough.”

  “Thank you again for the lunch, Vanessa. I enjoyed it.”

  “We did have a good time, didn’t we?” she said, and leaned up to kiss my cheek. “Ta-ta,” she said.

  I started south, figuring I might stop at Bloomingdale’s to browse. I walked about twenty or thirty feet, then turned to look back. Vanessa was still standing in front of the restaurant, and when she saw me looking, we both waved. Then I continued south.

  At 61st Street, I turned again and looked back. The sidewalk was crowded, but I thought I saw her walking rapidly north on the avenue. I reversed course and went after her. My legs are long, and I can move when I want to. I followed her up to East 65th Street.

  It was the first time in my life I had ever “shadowed” anyone, but I had read enough detective mysteries to know the rudiments. Don’t get too close. Don’t fall too far behind. Use the show windows of stores as mirrors. If necessary, cross the street and tail from the other side. Try to be as nondescript as possible—a little difficult for a skinny six-two female with a mop of wild hair.

  But she never looked back, so I figured I was a success. She crossed the avenue, walked quickly toward Second, and entered a brownstone in the middle of the block. Then I crossed the street and inspected the residence from the other side. No dentist’s sign. No brass plaques at all. Nothing to indicate it was anything but private apartments. Vanessa Havistock was nowhere to be seen.

  I walked to Second Avenue, crossed the street again, and returned west. Taking a deep breath, I ducked into the vestibule of the building she had entered. Took a quick look at the names listed on the bellplate. No dentists. But there was one L. Wolfgang. That could have been Lenore Wolfgang, Archibald Havistock’s chunky attorney.

  I started out for Bloomies again, wondering if L. Wolfgang was the name on the slip of paper the headwaiter had handed her, wondering if L. Wolfgang was someone else, wondering if she had gone into one of the other apartments in the brownstone to spend a few innocent minutes with a friend before seeing her dentist.

  I didn’t buy anything at Bloomingdale’s, but I did pick up a steno’s spiral notebook at a nearby stationery store. Then I went home and spent the rest of the afternoon writing down everything I knew about the disappearance of the Demaretion. It was time, I thought, to get things organized and make certain I had a record of events, conversations, and impressions before I forgot them.

  It took longer than I expected it would—there was so much I kept going back again and again to add recalled details. Finally, early in the evening, I read over what I had written and was reasonably certain I had included everything. But it didn’t tell me a damned thing. I wondered how detectives like Al Georgio and Jack Smack could endure all those uncertainties and loose ends. I know they maddened me.

  I poured myself a glass of red wine from Al’s bottomless jug and put it on the floor alongside the couch. Then I lay down. That couch was only five feet long, so my bony ankles and feet hung over one end. I sipped slowly. Went over everything in my mind and couldn’t see any pattern at all. I hadn’t a clue.

  Except that I had heard something of significance that hadn’t registered. I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand, trying to jar my brain into awareness. It didn’t work. I finished the wine and set the glass carefully aside so I wouldn’t step on it when I got up. Then I napped. On the couch. I admit it.

  I was awakened about eight o’clock by the ringing of a bell. I started up dazedly, thought it was the phone, then realized it was the front door. I padded over in my bare feet and stared out the peephole. One advantage of living on the ground floor was that I could see who was ringing my bell in the vestibule. Al Georgio. I buzzed him in.

  “Disturbing you?” he asked.

  “You woke me up,” I said. “I was napping—can you believe it? At this hour?”

  “I wish I was.”

  “Tough day?”

  “The usual.”

  “Have you eaten?”
>
  “Oh, sure. I had something.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “A cheeseburger and a chocolate malt.”

  “Not tonight,” he said with that boyish smile. “We sent out for Chink. Everything in cardboard containers. Delicious.”

  “I can imagine. Al, there’s about enough of your wine left for a glass for each of us. How about it?”

  “Sure,” he said, “let’s kill it.”

  He sat on the couch, rubbing his forehead wearily. “I’ve really got nothing to tell you, Dunk. It’s all bits and pieces. But I wanted to stop by to see if you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No more threatening letters?”

  “Nope. For which I am thankful.”

  “I’ll take the one you got along with me. Like I told you, we’ll probably get nothing from it, but you never know. What have you been up to?”

  “Had lunch today with Vanessa Havistock.”

  “Did you? Get anything?”

  “Only that she doesn’t like Orson Vanwinkle,” I said, deciding not to tell him about that brownstone on East 65th Street. “But then, no one does.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “the guy’s not exactly Mr. Clean. He’s got a sheet—did you know that?”

  “A sheet?”

  “Criminal record. Minor stuff mostly. Traffic violations. Complaints by neighbors about excessive noise. A charge of public drunkenness. A couple of suits for bad debts that he eventually settled. The heaviest is a rape charge that was dropped. He probably paid off. A nasty son of a bitch.”

  “He certainly sounds like it,” I said slowly.

  “But all that stuff dates from more than five years ago,” Al said. “Since then he’s apparently cleaned up his act.”

  “Since he went to work for Archibald Havistock.”

  “Yeah,” Al said, staring at me, “I had the same idea. I guess he’s making a nice buck now, and Archibald told him to shape up or ship out.”

  I shook my head. “A leopard can’t change its spots,” I said.

  “And a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” Al said. “How are you, Dunk? I’ve missed you.”

  “That’s nice. And I’ve missed you, Al.”

  “This lousy job,” he said, groaning. “I never have time to do what I want to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Live a little. See you. See my daughter. Enjoy.”

  “Al, do you think this Demaretion thing will ever get cleared up?”

  He shrugged. “It’s getting colder and colder. We can spend just so much time on it, then it goes into the file. It’ll still be open, but with new stuff coming along every day, we’ve got to ration—”

  But just then my doorbell rang again.

  “Oh, God,” I said, “now who can that be?”

  “Jack Smack,” Al said with a rueful smile.

  He was right.

  The greeting between the two men was cool.

  “Hey, there,” Smack said.

  “How you doing?” Georgio said.

  And that was that. No shaking of hands. A kind of wary, glowering hostility. They both sat on the couch. I brought Jack a glass of his vodka. If Al was surprised that I knew what Jack drank, he didn’t show it.

  “How’s it going, Dunk?” Smack asked.

  “I’m surviving.”

  “She got a threatening letter,” Georgio said. “From the description, it sounds like it’s from the same slug your company has been dealing with. Could we take a look at it, Dunk, please?”

  I brought out the letter. The two detectives moved closer together on the couch and examined the sheet of paper, holding it lightly by the corners.

  “It’s the same,” Smack said. “I’d swear to it. Same paper, same typewriter, and the o’s are filled in, just like on the letters we got.”

  Georgio folded it up, put it back in the envelope, and slid it into his jacket pocket. “I’ll have our lab guys give it a look,” he said. “But I don’t think they’ll find any more than you got, Jack.”

  “They won’t,” Smack said. “We put some good people on it.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “You know what this letter means, don’t you, Dunk? A member of the Havistock family has to be involved. Who else would know you’ve been hired and are going around asking questions? Not an outside crook.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Al said. He turned to the other man. “Trade-off time?” he suggested.

  “Sure,” Jack said. “What have you got?”

  “Financial stuff.”

  “Okay. You go first.”

  “Archibald Havistock is worth about six mil. But a lot of it is in raw land, and mostly in his wife’s name. He’s not exactly in what they call a liquid condition. Not hurting, mind you, but not sleeping on a bed of greenbacks either.”

  “Maybe that’s why he decided to sell off his collection,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Smack said. “Well, son Luther is hurting. He’s in hock up to his pipik. The apartment, the car, the summer home—all on high-interest loans. And his out-of-pocket expenses must be brutal.”

  “Like Vanessa’s jewelry,” I said.

  “Right. I think Luther is on the ropes. He’s making about sixty-five thousand a year in salary and probably spending twice that. Maybe Daddy is helping him out, but I doubt it.”

  “What about the Minchens?” I asked.

  “They’re in good shape dollarwise,” Al Georgio said. “In addition to his salary, Ross is drawing against a trust fund. Not a big one but tidy. Enough to pay the rent every month. From what I hear, he’s a tight man with a buck.”

  “Heard the same thing,” Jack Smack said, nodding, “and I can’t figure it. He’s got a nice bank balance, but for the past two years or so he’s been making some hefty cash withdrawals and no investments to show for it. Five and ten Gs at a time.”

  Georgio looked up sharply. “Regularly? On a monthly basis?”

  “No,” Jack said, “four or five times a year. But it could still be blackmail. As far as I can find out, he doesn’t play the horses or keep a cupcake on the side.”

  Maybe, I thought morosely, Ross Minchen was spending it all on porn videotapes.

  “We were talking about Orson Vanwinkle before you came in,” Georgio said. “Now there’s a case. Five years ago he was in brokesville, but now he’s living the life of Riley.”

  “Right,” Smack said. “And there isn’t even any Mrs. Riley. I don’t know where he’s getting the loot, but he seems to be floating through life.”

  “Maybe Mr. Havistock is paying him a good salary,” I said.

  Jack shook his head. “I couldn’t find out how much he’s making, but it couldn’t be enough to pay for Vanwinkle’s toys. If his salary covers his brandy bills, it would surprise me. Did you get any skinny on the younger daughter?” he asked Georgio. “The born-again hippie?”

  “She draws a sweet allowance,” Al said. “A trust fund when she marries—if ever. I think most of her allowance goes to that spade lover of hers, and the other crazies she runs around with. She’s supporting the whole kooky cell.”

  Then we were all silent, looking at each other, then looking down at our drinks. I had a panicky moment when I wondered if the two men were trying to outlast each other, waiting for the rival to leave. If that were true, the three of us might be sitting there, wordless, when the sun rose over Brooklyn.

  “Well,” I said brightly, “if financial need was the motive for swiping the Demaretion, then Luther Havistock seems to be the best bet. Am I right?”

  The two detectives nodded, not too confidently.

  “It makes sense logically,” Georgio said, “but I just can’t buy it. Even assuming he could have made the switch when Archibald was in the living room, I still don’t think he’s got the balls for it.”

  “I agree,” Smack said, “but his wife has. Two desperate people. They could have been working together. She pushed him into it. That woman would steal the torch from the Statue of Li
berty if she could figure a way to carry it.”

  Silence again. I looked at them, sitting side by side on the couch. Al so heavy, solid, and dependable. Jack the tap dancer, slender, carefree, and oh so elegant. If I had my druthers—which? I honestly didn’t know.

  “Well…” Georgio said, sighing and heaving himself to his feet, “I’ve got to be going.”

  Smack finished his drink hastily. “Me, too,” he said, rising. “It’s been a long day.”

  I watched with dismay as both of them moved to the door. Both of them! I wanted to knock their heads together. But instead I kissed their cheeks and smiled sweetly when they thanked me for the drinks. Then I locked, bolted, and chained the door. The idiots!

  I washed the glasses, emptied the ashtrays, and went in to shower. I washed my damned hair furiously, then tried to do something with it. As Al would have said, zip, zero, and zilch. I put on my pajamas and there I was—alone in bed again. It was getting tiresome.

  17

  THE NEXT DAY WAS a roller coaster. It started up, then swooped into the pits, and ended on the heights again. A little shattering, but it wasn’t dull.

  For breakfast, I had cranberry juice, an English muffin with blackberry preserve, and decaf coffee while I plowed through the morning Times. Then I went back to my steno notebook and entered everything I had heard the previous evening from Al Georgio and Jack Smack on the financial status of the Havistocks. I was convinced if I was organized, efficient, eventually my detailed notes on the crime would reveal the solution. Ho-ho.

  The first phone call of the day came from Hobart Juliana—which pleased me mightily. Not only because I wanted to keep our friendship intact, but also because he had some good news to pass along. We chatted awhile about what was going on in his life, in my life, and life in general, and then he sprang a surprise.

  “Dunk,” he said, “I heard some office gossip this morning on very good authority. It concerns you, so I thought you should know.”

  “What? What?”

  “Well, apparently, from what I heard, the police detective and the insurance detective, both of them, came in to talk to god and Felicia Dodat. They swore there’s absolutely no way you could have been involved in the disappearance of the Demaretion, and they said you should get your job back again, and it was cruel and unusual punishment to keep you on unpaid leave of absence.”