The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Verbal reports,” I said. “Not written. And not weekly reports, but periodically—whenever I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Oh, Dunk,” Felicia Dodat said sorrowfully, “you’re being so difficult.”

  “Am I?” I said. “I thought I was being cooperative.”

  The lawyer looked at god. “Mr. Grandby,” he said, “are you willing to accept those terms?”

  The penguin squirmed. Then he nodded. “All right,” he said.

  “Oh, Dunk,” Felicia caroled, “it’s so nice having you back with us again.”

  I had two words for her, and they weren’t Happy Birthday.

  I stopped down to see Hobie Juliana and tell him the good news, but he was out of the office on an appraisal. So I left Grandby’s and walked back home through Central Park, proud of the way I had handled that confrontation. I was now making two salaries with complete freedom to conduct the investigation any way I chose. A slam dunk!

  I knew what Grandby’s was after, of course, and why they had put me back on salary. If a member of Archibald Havistock’s family was involved in the theft, they wanted to know about it as soon as possible. It would give them leverage in the anticipated lawsuit. Also, by paying me, they thought they were insuring against any possible cover-up on my part.

  Not very complimentary to me, but understandable.

  That night, mercifully free of phone calls—I had gibbered enough—I lay awake in bed a long time, thinking over the events and conversations of that day. But then I found I was not pondering the investigation so much as I was reflecting on myself, and what was happening to me.

  I was changing, no doubt about it; I was aware of it. I won’t say I was naive prior to my involvement with the Havistock Collection, but I was inclined to accept people at their face value, believing what they told me. I suppose I had lived a sheltered existence; crime and homicidal violence were things I read about in newspapers and novels, or saw in movies and on television.

  But during the past weeks I had become intimately acquainted with what I guess you could call the underbelly of life. People did lie. They were not what they seemed. And they were capable of acting irrationally, driven by passions they could not control.

  And my experiences with Al Georgio and Jack Smack were added evidence of how often the heart and glands overruled the mind and good sense. I suppose I should have learned all that at an earlier age, but I hadn’t. Finally, finally I was suffering a loss of ingenuousness, if not innocence.

  I was becoming, I thought, wiser, more cynical, street-smart. So something had been lost and something had been gained. But if you asked me what the bottom line was, I couldn’t have told you.

  22

  AFTER BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning, I devoted myself to “choring,” which is what, in my Iowa home, we called those endless boring tasks that had to be done: putting out the garbage, dusting, changing the linen, washing the sinks, etc. When I was satisfied with the way my apartment looked (it could have been more sparkling, but I lacked the willpower to tackle the windows), I left the house to pick up some dry cleaning.

  This time I was careful to inspect the vestibule and areaway before I ventured out. On my way to the dry cleaners, I passed a newsstand and thought I might buy a copy of Vogue to see what I should be wearing, wasn’t, and never would. But all thoughts of fashion fled when I glimpsed the screaming headline of the Post.

  HIPPY SOCIALITE TRIES SUICIDE. And there was a photograph of Natalie Havistock with a dopey grin, wearing a beaded headband and earrings that looked like they had been snipped from the lid of a sardine tin.

  I bought a Post and read the story on the sidewalk, oblivious to the people brushing by. It said that Natalie Havistock, younger daughter of wealthy tycoon Archibald Havistock (has there ever been a poor tycoon, I wondered), had been found unconscious in her bedroom at her parents’ home on East 79th Street, apparently after ingesting alcohol and drugs that had not yet been identified.

  She had been rushed to Wilson Memorial Hospital, only three blocks away, where, after treatment, doctors had pronounced her condition “stable.” Her parents stated that no note had been found, and could give no reason for their daughter’s attempted suicide.

  I trotted home, errands forgotten, and called the Havistock apartment. Busy signal. Waited a few minutes and called again. Still busy. Waited. Called. Busy. Finally, on the fourth try, I got through. Ruby Querita answered. I identified myself.

  “How is Nettie?” I asked. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Nada,” she said dolefully. “They all at the hospital. I don’t know how things are.”

  “All right,” I said. “Thank you, Ruby. Maybe I’ll go to the hospital myself and see what’s happening.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I told you, didn’t I? Sin and you must suffer. This family is marked. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You told me. Ruby,” I said, and hung up.

  My idea of a hospital is a big shiny place with wide corridors, white walls, and tiled floors. Everything spotless and gleaming. Forget it. Wilson Memorial looked like a crumbling castle right out of Young Frankenstein. Gloomy, gloomy, gloomy. With narrow hallways, walls painted a sick brown, and worn linoleumed floors. I learned later it was a sort of temporary refuge for the terminally ill. I could believe it. If they weren’t terminal when they were admitted, that place would push them over the edge.

  The nurse at the lobby desk gave me a sad smile. I told her I’d like to see Natalie Havistock.

  “Are you a member of the immediate family?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, “I am not. Actually, I don’t want to see Natalie, but I have an important message for her father. Mr. Archibald Havistock. I understand he’s here. As soon as I see him, I’ll be on my way.”

  The scam worked.

  “Room four-twelve,” she said, handing me a pass. “Please make your visit as brief as possible.”

  “You better believe it,” I said. “Hospitals depress me.

  “Me, too,” she said mournfully, which I thought was an odd thing for a nurse to say.

  I found the dismal corridor outside room 412. I also found Ross Minchen sitting on a scarred wooden bench, cracking his knuckles like a maniac.

  “Hello, Ross,” I said.

  He looked up, and it took him a couple of beats to recognize me. “Oh, hi,” he said, not rising. “Dunk—right? How’re you doing?”

  “How is Nettie doing?”

  “Okay, I guess. They pumped her out. They’re releasing her at noon. Mabel and Archibald are in with her now. The cops took off.”

  “I thought Roberta and Vanessa would be here.”

  “They were,” he said, “but they left. I think they had some shopping to do.”

  “And Luther?” I said. “Wasn’t her brother here?”

  “Luther? No, he didn’t show up. I guess he’s busy. I’m just waiting to drive them all back home. Then I’ve got to get to the office.”

  “Sure you do,” I said, sitting down beside him. “I’ll bet your work is piling up.”

  “It really is,” he said, nodding. “Unless I’m there every day, you wouldn’t believe how things pile up.”

  Mr. Wimp himself, with those scrawny locks of hair combed sideways across his balding skull. Hard to believe this guy was the producer of X-rated videocassettes. You’d have thought that knitting antimacassars was more in his line.

  “Ross,” I said, “have you any idea why Nettie would do such a thing?”

  “Gee,” he said, “I really don’t. Of course, she runs with a wild gang. I mean, they’re probably dropping dope and all that. I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

  I didn’t either.

  Then stupid me, I had to ask: “Are you and Roberta going to Vanessa’s party?” I heard myself saying it and could have chomped off my tongue.

  “No,” he said. “Is she having a party?”

  “Probably not,” I said hastily. “After this business with Natali
e. It was a very vague thing. She’ll probably call it off.”

  “We don’t see much of them,” he said, looking down at his big, spatulate hands. “Vanessa and Roberta don’t get along.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said. “Families should stick together.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “that’s what I think. We tried to get Vanessa and Luther to join our, ah, little circle, but they weren’t interested. How about you?” he said, brightening. “Have you thought about it?”

  “Frequently,” I said.

  “And?”

  “Still thinking,” I told him.

  “Nothing to it,” he said. “It’s fun—you’ll see. We’re having another do next Friday. Can you make it?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said then, swiftly, “Wasn’t it awful about Orson Vanwinkle?”

  He looked at me, unblinking. “The man was a crud,” he said. “I don’t mean I wanted him dead, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t be a hypocrite either and pretend I’m all broken up at his passing. I figure he got what he deserved.”

  “No one seems to have liked him,” I said. “Except Dolly LeBaron.”

  “Oh, her,” he said scornfully. “As greedy as he was. They were two of a kind. Listen, about next Friday, why don’t you—”

  But I was saved from more excuses when Mabel and Archibald Havistock came out of room 412. I rose and went to them.

  “How is she?” I said anxiously.

  “Much better,” Mrs. Havistock said. “We’re taking her home in an hour. Thank you for your concern and for coming by.”

  “How did you hear about it?” Archibald asked.

  I reckoned he might as well know. “It’s on the front page of today’s Post,” I told him.

  “Oh, yes,” he said bitterly, “it would be.”

  Ross Minchen was still seated on his wooden bench, playing a merry tune on his knuckles. I gently urged the Havistocks down the corridor, away from him. I moved them to the end of the hallway, to a window where we could look out at a shadowy airshaft.

  They were two somber people, faces creased with sorrow. But they retained their dignity, both of them erect and steady. I admired their stalwartness. Both seemed capable of absorbing blows without flinching and without complaint. Well, I thought, they have each other, and that’s how they survive.

  “I promised you a progress report,” I said. “If you feel this is a bad time for it, please tell me and we’ll leave it for later.”

  “No, no,” Archibald said. “Let’s have it now. What have you found out?”

  “First,” I said, “I must tell you that Grandby and Sons have put me back on the payroll, with the understanding that I can spend all my time investigating the robbery. If you object to that, if you feel there’s a conflict of interest involved, I want you to know that I’ll reject their offer and work only for you.”

  He looked at me a long moment. “Thank you,” he said finally. “You are a very straightforward young woman. I like that. No, I see no reason why you should not be employed by Grandby’s at the same time you’re working for us. Actually, we all want the same thing, don’t we? Have you discovered who stole the Demaretion?”

  “No, I have not. But I do feel I am making progress. Orson Vanwinkle promised his girlfriend that they’d soon be leaving the country permanently to live on the French Riviera. That certainly sounds like he expected to come into a great deal of money shortly, and makes him the Number One suspect.”

  Husband and wife exchanged glances, just the briefest of eye-flickers.

  “But I don’t believe it,” I went on. “Mostly because I cannot possibly conceive how Orson could have switched display cases. It was a physical impossibility.”

  “Perhaps he had accomplices,” Mabel Havistock said faintly.

  “Who?” I demanded. “The guards from the armored van? Ruby Querita? I don’t think so. Mr. Havistock, you were out of your library for perhaps two minutes. The switch had to be made then: a prepared empty display case, sealed with your signet ring, substituted for the case containing the Demaretion. It had to be done by someone in the family, someone present in the apartment for the birthday party.”

  “Not Nettie?” Mr. Havistock said, his magisterial features expressionless, ice-blue eyes revealing nothing. “Don’t tell me it was Nettie?”

  I didn’t answer his question, but asked one of my own: “The Post story said Nettie didn’t leave any note. Is that correct?”

  Mabel nodded, eyes skimmed with grief. “We can’t understand it,” she said. “She was always such a bright, cheerful child. Laughing and joking. Perhaps it was something we did. Or failed to do.”

  I had been debating with myself whether or not to tell them. But now, seeing that imposing woman suffering from a guilt trip, I thought I would.

  “There are some things you should know,” I said. “What I’m going to tell you is rumor and supposition. Nothing is proven. Orson Vanwinkle was bisexual. He had many homosexual encounters. This comes from a reliable source. Nettie’s boyfriend is a black. Are you aware of that?”

  “We are,” Mr. Havistock said stonily.

  “Her boyfriend was also one of Orson’s homosexual contacts,” I said. “I wish I could have spared you this, but I don’t want you to blame yourselves for a situation over which you had no control.”

  They didn’t crumple. If anything, they straightened, drew deep breaths. They seemed to have a source of stamina I wished I could have tapped.

  “You’re certain of this?” Archibald asked.

  “Mr. Havistock, I’m not certain of anything. I’m just reporting what I’ve heard. That’s what you’re paying me for. But I think what I’ve heard is true. And it might possibly explain Natalie’s suicide attempt. She discovered her boyfriend’s, uh, sexual proclivities, argued with him about it, and he refused to change the way he lives.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mabel said, completely flummoxed. “Why would those two men have anything to do with each other? They belonged to different worlds.”

  “Money,” I said promptly. “I think Orson was paying Akbar El Raschid and, through him, financing that gang of kooks Akbar commands. Maybe it was just the excitement Orson liked. The threat of violence. Radical chic.”

  Archibald Havistock thought about it a long time while we all stared out at that haunted airshaft. Then he turned to me.

  “Possible,” he said. “It’s possible. Orson was what I’d call a flighty man. Not quite as steady as I would have liked. Are the police aware of what you’ve told us, Miss Bateson?”

  “They’re aware of Vanwinkle’s sexual activities,” I said. “Whether or not they know about his liaison with Nettie’s boyfriend—that I don’t know. They’ll probably find out.”

  He nodded. “Do you have anything else to tell us?”

  “No, sir, not at the moment. A lot of wild guesses, crazy ideas, rumors I’ve got to track down. But nothing that even resembles fact or evidence. Do you want me to continue my investigation?”

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Havistock said. “We want to know the truth. Don’t we, Archibald?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “All right,” I told them, “I’ll keep at it. Now I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

  They waited.

  “May I go in to see Natalie? Just for a few minutes?”

  They looked at each other.

  “You won’t disturb her?” Mrs. Havistock said. “Ask questions?”

  “Of course not. I do like her and I want her to know I care.”

  “All right,” Archibald said. “Just for a few minutes.”

  I started away from them, then turned back. I addressed Mrs. Havistock.

  “Ma’am,” I said, “the last time we spoke you mentioned that you and your husband are involved in estate planning.”

  “Yes,” she said, “that’s correct.”

  “Does that include the drawing up of new wills for both of you?”

  “It does,” Mr. Havistock said. “Why do yo
u ask?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” I said fretfully. “Except money seems to be the thread that runs through everything: the stealing of the Demaretion and the murder of Orson Vanwinkle. Have the wills been completed?”

  “No,” he said, “they have not.”

  I thought he was a little short with me, and I assumed he resented my intrusion into his private financial affairs. But I would not stop.

  “Were members of your family aware that you were preparing new wills?”

  “I assume they were,” he said. “Don’t you think so, Mabel?”

  “I’m sure they were,” she said. “We made no secret of it.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said. “I’ll get back to you the moment I have anything important to report.”

  23

  POOR NATALIE LOOKED SO weak and drawn, white as the sheets she was lying on. She held out a thin hand to me.

  “I can’t do anything right, can I?” she said.

  “You’re alive,” I said, kissing her cold fingertips. “That’s right. How are you, love?”

  “Oh…” she said, “I don’t know. I’m not thinking straight.”

  “You’ll clear up,” I assured her. “I just stopped in for a few minutes to say hello.”

  “It was sweet of you,” she said. “Did you find out who boosted the coin?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You will,” she said. “You’re a determined lady. The cops haven’t found out who snuffed Orson, have they?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, who cares,” she said. “That little Barbie Doll of his—what’s her name?”

  “Dolly LeBaron.”

  “Yeah, a real dolly. She’ll find another bankroll, and in a year—a year? Hell, within a month—the world will be rolling along without him. That’s what’s going to happen to all of us, isn’t it?”

  “Nettie, don’t talk like that. Your mother and father are outside. They’re really shook. They love you and want you to have a happy life. You’re important to them.”