“Wasn’t it awful?” she said. “Absolutely the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
And to Orson, I thought.
“Miss LeBaron,” I said, “I’ve been hired by the Havistock family to investigate the theft of a valuable coin that disappeared from their apartment. I thought it just possible that Orson might have mentioned it to you, and I was hoping we could talk.”
“About what?” she said.
Not too swift, this one.
“About the disappearance of the coin,” I said patiently. “Could you give me a few minutes today? I promise it won’t take long.”
“Gee, I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “My agent told me not to talk to anyone.”
“This isn’t a newspaper interview or anything like that, Miss LeBaron. Completely confidential.”
“I’m going to have my picture taken at noon,” she said, then giggled. “In a bikini. It’s going to be on the front page of something.”
“Isn’t that nice,” I said.
“The red, I think,” she said thoughtfully. “The knitted one.”
I wasn’t certain she had both oars in the water.
“How about three o’clock?” I urged. “I can come over to your place. It won’t take long.”
“Well … I suppose it’ll be all right. What did you say your name was?” She had a slight lisp.
I repeated it.
“My name is Dolly LeBaron,” she said primly.
“I know,” I said. “See you at three o’clock.”
Whew!
That gave me some hours to kill and, on the spur of the moment, I decided to call Hobart Juliana at Grandby & Sons and see if I could take him to lunch. He was delighted, and we made plans to meet at 12:30 at the health food place around the corner from Grandby’s.
“My treat,” I insisted. “I’ll talk to you about the Demaretion theft and bill Archibald Havistock for the lunch.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully.
We had mushburgers, alfalfa salad, and carrot juice. It was all so awful, it had to be good for you. Hobie got me caught up on office gossip. He reported that god had hemorrhoids, and Felicia Dodat was wearing green polish on her fingernails. Also, Hobie had brought in a fine collection of Mark Twain letters to Grandby’s for auction.
“Hobie, that’s wonderful!” I told him. “Congratulations. Have they replaced me yet?”
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m still all alone in our little cubbyhole. From what I hear, that asshole lawyer, Lemuel Whattsworth, told them not to reinstate you until the crook is caught and the fair name of Grandby and Sons is cleared. He said to hold your job in ‘abeyance’—you know the way he talks.”
“What are they doing about appraisals of coin collections?”
“Using independent dealers on a consulting basis. It’s costing god a lot of money—which makes me happy. You know, Dunk, you and I should have been making another fifty a week.”
“At least,” I agreed. “Hobie, when is the auction of the Havistock Collection scheduled?”
“It isn’t. The sale has been put on indefinite ‘Hold.’ With all the litigation going on—everyone suing everyone else or threatening to—all the attorneys got together and decided to postpone the auction until things get straightened out. The coins will remain in Grandby’s vault.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “I’ll bet Archibald Havistock wasn’t happy about it.”
“He wasn’t. I understand he screamed bloody murder—and who can blame him? Now he hasn’t got the coins and he hasn’t got the money. But he really doesn’t have a leg to stand on. You know the standard contract that Havistock signed. Grandby’s can schedule the auction at their discretion provided it’s held within twelve months after the delivery of the merchandise. Hey, Dunk, what do you think about Orson Vanwinkle’s murder?”
“I don’t know what to think about it.”
Hobie loves to gossip. He leaned across the table eagerly. “Did you hear anything that wasn’t printed in the papers?”
“A few little things,” I said cautiously. “Nothing important.”
He inched closer. “I can give you a charming tidbit,” he said, lowering his voice. “Vanwinkle was a member of what we call Manhattan’s gay community. Not an active member, just occasionally.”
“That’s impossible!” I burst out.
Hobie sat back. “Believe me, Dunk, I know.”
“But he had a sleep-in girlfriend!”
“So? A lot of guys swing both ways. From what I hear, Vanwinkle was a nasty piece of goods. But he spent money like there was no tomorrow, so he was tolerated.”
After I left Hobie, promising to keep in touch, I still had about an hour to spare before my appointment with Dolly LeBaron. So I decided to walk over to her place, having a lot to think about. Also, I wanted to detour to get the number of that East 65th Street brownstone for Al Georgio.
I walked slowly because it was a steamy day. July was right around the corner and New York’s joyous summer humidity was building up. The sky was smoky, pressing down, and the sun was all haze. I was happy I had left my suede jacket at home; it would have been too much.
I thought about my conversation with Hobart Juliana during that dreadful lunch. (No more carrot juice for me!) Curiously, I found that I wasn’t disappointed or depressed to hear that I wasn’t to be immediately reinstated, despite the pleas by Al Georgio and Jack Smack. Maybe I was having too much fun playing girl detective. And the fact that Grandby’s hadn’t hired a replacement was a faint reason to hope they were keeping my job open for me.
I was sorry that the Havistock Collection wasn’t going to auction. I knew how disappointing that must be to Archibald, but I didn’t attach any great significance to the postponement. Boy, was I ever wrong!
Much more interesting, I thought, was Hobie’s revelation that Vanwinkle had been AC-DC. I had no idea what that meant to the twin investigations of his murder and the Demaretion robbery, but at least it was another clue to Orson’s personality. I wondered if Al and Jack knew about it. And if they did—why hadn’t they told me? Maybe they were trying to protect my tender sensibilities. It is to laugh!
I ambled along, trying not to raise a sweat, and noticed how the rhythm of the entire city had slowed. Not so many pedestrians rushing and shoving. Mostly they were sauntering, men carrying jackets over their arms. Even traffic seemed to be moving slower, and it might have been my imagination, but I thought taxi horns were muted and a dog day somnolence had descended on Manhattan.
I stopped first on East 65th Street and got the address of the L. Wolfgang brownstone. To make certain I wouldn’t foul up my report to Al, I jotted the number in a little notebook I carried in my shoulder bag. Then I walked around the block to East 66th and found Dolly LeBaron’s address. I stood on the sidewalk, staring up. This was no row house.
It was one of those high-rise glass and steel condominiums that were sprouting up all over Manhattan. This one soared forever, with a hard glitter, sharp edges, and the look of a Star Wars rocket ship about to blast off. The lobby was a clean subway station with palm trees, and the elevator was a sterile white cubicle that reminded me of a false molar. Sometimes I have weird reactions to my surroundings.
Dolly LeBaron lived on the 42nd floor—which would have been enough to give me a terminal attack of the jimjams. The hallway had all the charm of a hospital corridor, and even the apartment doors—plain, white, flat panels—looked like part of some gigantic maze. It really was a creepy place.
She opened the door herself.
“My name is Dolly LeBaron,” she said, smiling brightly. “What’s yours?”
“Mary Lou Bateson,” I said for the third time, reflecting that she wasn’t so great in the attention span department—or any other department demanding mental effort.
My first impression was one of shock—at how short she was. Couldn’t have been more than five-two, and she was wearing heels. Otherwise, she was much as Al and Jac
k had described her: a young, petite blonde with frizzy curls, plumpish figure, and skin seemingly so soft and yielding that you’d think a touch would cause a bruise.
What they hadn’t mentioned, and which perhaps I imagined, was a look of sweet innocence. A little girl in a woman’s body. She was wearing a sashed wrapper in a hellish Oriental print, and there was no doubt, from the occasional flash I got of calf, thigh, and arm, that her body was almost completely hairless. She didn’t have to shave her legs.
She led me into a one-bedroom apartment that dazzled, and I remembered my father’s comment when we had visited a similar place in Des Moines. “Looks like a Persian hoorhouse,” he had said.
Such a profusion of velvets, soft pillows, swagged drapes, mirrors, porcelain animals, ornate screens, serigraphs of female nudes on the walls, Art Deco female nudes on the tables, a plushy carpet (stained), and a leather rhinoceros bearing a hammered brass tray on its back. What, no incense?
We sat on a couch as saggy as a hammock, and she looked about vaguely. Wondering, no doubt, where she was. Who I was. What day it was.
“Thank you for seeing me, Miss LeBaron,” I said. “It was very kind of you.”
“Dolly,” she said. “Everyone calls me Dolly. What do they call you?”
“Dunk,” I admitted.
“Dunk,” she repeated, and apparently it never occurred to her to question the derivation of that nickname. “Okay, Dunk.”
“How did the pictures go?” I asked her. “You in the red bikini.”
“Oh!” she said. “That was fun. This photographer said I had a marvelous body. He called me a vest-pocket Venus. Wasn’t that nice?”
“Very,” I said.
“He wanted to take some nudes to send to Playboy—test shots, you know—but my agent wanted to talk money first. Everything is money, isn’t it?”
“It surely is,” I agreed.
Even sitting on that droopy couch I towered over her and had to look down to meet her eyes. She was so small, soft, and vulnerable. I don’t know why, but I thought of her as a victim. She seemed so defenseless.
“About Orson Vanwinkle…” I reminded her. “That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
“Wasn’t it awful?” she said, wide-eyed. “Just awful.”
“It was, Dolly. How long had you known him?”
“Oh…” she said uncertainly, “maybe five years. Maybe more.”
“Was he good to you?”
“He sure was,” she said. “But he really was a crazy guy.”
“Crazy?”
“We had such crazy times together.”
“I can believe it.”
“I mean we were doing coke and everything.”
“Dolly, did you tell all this to the police?”
She tried to recall. “I may have,” she said finally. “I really don’t remember. There were so many of them.”
“How did you and Orson meet?”
“It was at a party. I think. Or maybe at a bar.”
“What were you doing before you met him?”
“I wanted to be a disc jockey,” she said. “A girl disc jockey. I thought that would be cute—don’t you think so?”
“I certainly do.”
“I love music. All kinds. Would you like to hear something? I have this marvy collection of tapes.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but not right now. Then you met Orson Vanwinkle. And…”
“He sort of took care of me.”
“Was he generous?”
“Oh, yes! Horsy bought me this apartment. And let me furnish it. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It’s lovely,” I assured her.
“Yes,” she said, looking about, “lovely. What do you think is going to happen to it now? I mean, it was in his name and all. He was paying the maintenance. Do you think he left it to me in his will?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, who cares?” she said with a bubble of laughter. “Now I’m beginning to make some money on my own. Maybe I can keep the apartment. Or meet someone…”
It was all so sad I wanted to weep.
“Dolly,” I said, “do you have any idea of who might have wanted to kill him?”
“Oh, no,” she said instantly. “He was such a sweet man. Crazy, but sweet.”
“Did you love him, Dolly?”
“Well…” she said, her eyes drifting away, “we had this situation.” I heard a slight lisp again.
“Did he ever talk to you about the theft of a coin from his uncle’s apartment?”
She frowned, trying to concentrate, and I found myself frowning in empathy.
“No,” she said finally, “I don’t remember anything like that.”
“But he always had plenty of money?”
“Plenty,” she said, laughing gaily. “Last winter he bought me a ranch mink. And we were going away together.”
“Going away? On a vacation? A cruise?”
“No. Forever. We were going to live on a French river.”
“A French river? You don’t mean the Riviera, do you?”
“Yes, that’s right, the French Riviera. We were going there to live. He told me all about it. It’s gorgeous, and you don’t have to wear a bra on the beach.”
“When were you going?”
“Real soon. Like in a month or so.”
“That’s a big move to make, Dolly.”
“Well, Horsy said he was coming into an inheritance from a rich relative. I wish I had one, don’t you? A rich relative?”
“I surely do. When did Orson first suggest that the two of you move to the French Riviera?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, drifting again. “Maybe a few weeks ago. Listen, are you sure you don’t want to hear some music? Horsy bought me a videocassette player. I’ve really got some groovy tapes.”
“Maybe some other time, Dolly,” I said, rising. “Thank you so much for letting me barge in.”
She rose too, then unfastened her sash and spread the wrapper wide. She looked down at her naked body with what I can only describe as a puzzled look.
“You really think Playboy would be interested?” she asked.
I stared for a moment. “I really think they would,” I told her.
“Maybe I should diet,” she said.
“No,” I said hastily, “don’t do that.”
She walked me to the door. What a pair we made! Female Mutt and Jeff.
“Come back soon,” she caroled, giving me a sappy smile.
The moment I got home, I went to one of my illustrated coin books—for reasons I’ll never understand. I stared at the photo of the Demaretion. To most people it would simply be a flat, round piece of metal, a medium of exchange. Enoch Wottle had taught me what it really meant, what avid collectors saw in it.
You thought of how old it was, how it had been minted, and the uses to which it had been put: dowry, bribery, ransom, tribute, rent, wages, investment, and on and on. Then you dreamed of all the people, now dead and gone, who had handled it.
If only that single dekadrachm could have talked! What a tale of human bravery, frailty, conquest, and defeat. Why, that one coin could have meant success or failure, joy or despair. The same might hold true for a U.S. dime. Take one out of your pocket right now, and let your fancies explode. Who owned it before you? What were their lives like? Was that lousy dime important to them? It might have meant the difference between life and death; it was possible.
And now here was the Demaretion, a piece of metal almost 2500 years old, affecting the lives of a disparate set of characters from would-be Bunny Dolly LeBaron to austere Archibald Havistock. There was magic in money, magic to move people, affect their lives and turn them in ways they had never planned.
I closed the coin book and sat staring at the ceiling. That talk with Dolly had really shaken me. First of all, her soft vulnerability, ignorant innocence, and unthinking trust were enough to make me rethink my own life—what I wanted and where I was going.
&n
bsp; And also, what she had said gave me the glimmer of an idea so outrageous, so unbelievable, that I tried to put it out of my mind. But it wouldn’t go, and I consulted my spiral notebook to prove it or refute it. I couldn’t do either, so I finally solved all my problems: I took a nap.
I awoke, groggy, at about six o’clock, and switched on my air conditioner. It was an old, wheezy window unit, but it worked, thank God, and while it was reducing my apartment from sauna to livable, I went in to shower. Halfway through, the phone rang—doesn’t it always?—and I dashed out. It was Jack Smack.
“Hi, Dunk,” he said cheerfully. “What’cha doing?”
“Dripping,” I said. “You got me out of the shower.”
“Sorry about that,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “How do you feel about chili?”
“Love it,” I said, remembering that tasteless mushburger at lunch.
“Good. There’s a new Tex-Mex place on West Twenty-third. How’s about meeting me there in, oh, about an hour? We’ll do the whole bit: chili and rice with enchiladas, chopped onions and cheese, jalapeños, and a lot of cold Mexican beer. How does that grab you?”
“Ulcer time,” I said, “but it sounds marvelous.”
He gave me the address, and I went back to finish my shower. I wondered how much I should tell him, and Al Georgio, about what I had learned that day from Hobart Juliana and Dolly LeBaron. I was beginning to consider holding out on them—only because I was certain they were holding out on me. If it was going to be a three-way competition, I wasn’t about to give anything away. If they wanted to trade, fine. But they’d get nothing for nothing.
The Tex-Mex joint turned out to be crowded, hot, smoky, and aromatic. We had to wait at the bar for almost a half-hour, but when we were finally seated, it was worth it; the food was really super. Hot, but not too hot. I mean steam didn’t come out your ears, but the back of your scalp began to sweat.
We dug into our platters (liberally sprinkled with red-pepper flakes), and Jack Smack wasted no time…
“So tell me,” he said, “how are you doing on the Demaretion?”
“Okay,” I said cautiously. “Nothing earth-shaking. I talked to Dolly LeBaron today.”
“Did you?” he said. “Learn anything?”
“Not much. Is she my competition?” I don’t know why I asked that. It just came out, and I was ashamed.
The Eighth Commandment Page 18