The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “How are you, Ruby?” I asked.

  “Healthy,” she said. “God be thanked. And you?”

  “Hanging in there,” I said. “Mr. Havistock is expecting me. Would you tell him I’m here?”

  “I’ll tell,” she said, nodding.

  “Anyone else home? Mrs. Havistock? Natalie?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, after the lord of the manor is finished with me, could you and I have a little talk?”

  I had never noticed before how piercing her eyes were.

  “Yes,” she said. “All right. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  “Your office,” I said, trying a mild jape that fell flat.

  Archibald Havistock rose to his feet when I entered the library. He motioned me to the chair facing that enormous partners’ desk. It had deep kneeholes, like a tunnel, running through the two linked desks. You could hide a body in there.

  We exchanged pleasantries, and he gave me a plain white envelope. That was so like him. He preferred not to hand over a naked check. Too crass. Money should be chastely concealed.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, tucking the envelope into my shoulder bag without glancing at the contents. I could be as circumspect as he. “I wish I felt I was doing more to earn it.”

  He sat erect in his leather swivel chair. What a magisterial man! I swear that in a black robe he could have passed for a chief justice. But he was wearing a suit of gray flannel with a silken sheen, light blue shirt with white collar and cuffs, a subdued foulard tie. That silvered hair! Those icy azure eyes! Oh, God, I raved in my mind, if he was only thirty years younger or I was thirty years older.

  “No progress?” he asked with a small smile.

  “Well…” I said, not wanting to admit I was a total dolt, “I have made progress if that means collecting a great deal of information. But I haven’t yet been able to put it all together, see a logical pattern to everything that’s happened.”

  “I’m sure you will,” he said. “My wife has great confidence in you.”

  His wife did? Did that imply that he didn’t? Or was this my day for a paranoia attack?

  He swung gently back and forth in his swivel chair. He was wearing a cologne—not Aramis; I know that—but something subtle and stirring. Maybe, on another man, I might have thought it a bit much, but he had the presence to carry it off. My impression was that he didn’t give a tinker’s dam about what other people might think of how he dressed, talked, lived. He had achieved a kind of serenity.

  “Tell me,” he said, “how do you keep track of everything you’ve learned? All in your mind?”

  “I wish my memory was that good,” I said, “but it isn’t. No, I make notes in a journal. And add everything new I learn.”

  “Very wise,” he said, nodding. “I keep a daily diary of business dealings, telephone conversations, conferences, and so forth. It can be very useful.”

  “I hope my notebook will be. Right now I can’t make any sense out of it at all.”

  A small prevarication. It was beginning to come together.

  “You said there was something you wished to speak to me about, Miss Bateson. Something special?”

  “Just one question, sir. You may not want to answer it. Could you tell me how much you were paying Orson Vanwinkle?”

  He stared at me and didn’t answer immediately. Then: “This is important to your investigation?”

  “I think it is.”

  “I see no reason why I shouldn’t answer. He was paid eight hundred dollars a week. By check. So there is a paper trail if the police or anyone else wants to investigate. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know,” I said fretfully. “Except that he seemed to be living on a scale far beyond eight hundred a week.”

  “I was aware of that,” Mr. Havistock said, “and cautioned him about it more than once. But it did no good. As I think I told you, he was not a solid man. But he was my nephew, and I didn’t wish to cast him adrift. And, I must say, he fulfilled his duties. But I warned him about his debts.”

  I didn’t mention that dear old Horsy left a hundred grand when he shuffled off this mortal coil. Mr. Havistock would learn that soon enough—but I preferred he didn’t hear it from me. I stood up.

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your making time with—” Now there was a Freudian slip. But I caught it, I hoped! “Making time for me,” I finished. “I’d like to talk with Ruby for a few minutes, if I may.”

  He rose and proffered his hand. “Of course. As long as you like.”

  We shook hands and exchanged distant smiles. His clasp was exactly like the man: cool, dry, firm.

  When I found my way to the kitchen, I discovered Ruby Querita hunched over the stainless steel sink, snapping string beans and weeping. I put an arm about her shoulders.

  “Ruby,” I said, “what’s the matter?”

  She shook her head, not answering.

  “Your brother?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Life is unfair,” she said.

  I wanted to say, “So what else is new?” but I didn’t.

  “Ruby,” I said, “you can be responsible for your own life, but not for other people’s. Isn’t that true?”

  She nodded dumbly, ran cold water over the beans in a colander, and let them drain in the sink. Then she dried her hands on a kitchen towel and we sat down at the table. She had stopped crying.

  I hunched forward, keeping my voice low. This was to be a confidential exchange of gossip—just between us girls.

  “Ruby,” I said, almost whispering, “the last time we spoke you hinted that the Havistocks had sinned, that the family was cursed. What did you mean by that?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Please do,” I urged. “I’m trying to find out who stole the Demaretion. Everyone is under suspicion. That includes you. The police think you may be involved, that you took the coin to finance your brother’s appeal. I know that’s completely ridiculous, you wouldn’t do anything like that, but you’ve got to help me to find out who actually did it. You can see that, can’t you?”

  She was silent.

  “Whatever you tell me,” I went on, “is strictly between you and me. I have a tight mouth. I’ll repeat it to no one. But I’ve got to find out what’s going on in this house.”

  “The daughter,” she said. “Natalie. She runs around with bad people. She steals. Stays out all hours. Sometimes she is gone a day. Two. I think she takes drugs. She is wild. A black boyfriend. She doesn’t go to church.”

  Nothing new for me there.

  “And…?” I prompted her.

  “The other one, the older daughter, Roberta, she is married to an evil man. Evil! They do things—I will not tell you. But I hear them talking. Because I am a servant, they think I have no ears. But God will punish them.”

  I looked at her, wondering if Roberta and Ross had ever tried to recruit her for their TV spectaculars. It was hard to believe, but with people as flaky as the Minchens, anything was possible. If I learned they had cast a giraffe and a cocker spaniel, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.

  “That’s awful, Ruby,” I said, trying to sound shocked and disgusted. “To think things like that are going on.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “But it is true.”

  “Do you think Mr. and Mrs. Havistock are aware of all this?”

  She thought a moment. “About Natalie,” she said finally, “they know. About their other daughter and her husband, I think they don’t know, but they suspect. They have heard things. But how can you reject your children?”

  “You can’t,” I said.

  “No, you can’t. So you must suffer. And hope eventually they will see the Light of God that makes a glory of our days.”

  “What about the son, Ruby? Luther and his wife. Do they behave?”

  “That woman!” she burst out. “She is a devil! She shows herself—you know? She tempts men, leading them into transgression. No good will come from her. She has
sold her soul.”

  “I heard,” I said carefully, “that at one time she made a play for Roberta’s husband, and Mr. Havistock had to break it up. Is that true?”

  She nodded darkly. “And friends of the family. The men. And delivery boys. She likes to show her devil’s power. She will burn in hell!”

  I began to get just a little frightened. That kind of religious mania scared me. Keep thinking that way and you might decide to rid the world of evildoers by killing them. It was God’s will, wasn’t it?

  “Ruby,” I said, “can’t Luther control his wife? Make her stop acting like that.”

  “He is not a man,” she said scornfully. “He is a slave.”

  “A slave? To what?”

  She cupped her two flat breasts under the black bombazine, making them jut. Then she reached under the table, and I could only guess that she was grasping her crotch. The gestures were undeniably gross, but there was no mistaking their meaning.

  “He is a man possessed,” she said. “And there is more,” she added, staring into my eyes. “But so wicked, I cannot tell you.”

  And despite my pleading, she would say no more. So I left, needing a breath of even that sulfur-laden outside air to rid myself of the heavier fumes within the Havistock apartment. What a Gothic family that tribe had turned out to be!

  I told myself that other than learning Orson Vanwinkle had been making eight hundred a week, I had heard nothing new. What Ruby Querita had related, I already knew, or had guessed. But her fanaticism had given the revelations an ominous weight. I walked quickly away from the Havistock manse before a thunderbolt came down from heaven and destroyed them all. That Ruby was getting to me.

  I wondered what was so wicked that she wouldn’t speak of it. Then I pondered my next move. I found a sidewalk telephone kiosk in working order (the third I tried), and called Hobart Juliana at Grandby & Sons. Thank God he was in.

  “Hobie darling,” I said cheerfully, “how are you?”

  “Miserable,” he said. “All alone and longing for company. Your company. When are you coming back to join me?”

  “Soon,” I said. “I hope. Hobie, I’m in your neighborhood, and I’d love to see you. I’d come up, but I’m afraid Madam Dodat might grab me and demand a progress report on my investigation. That I don’t need. Could you sneak out for a little while? I’ll buy you a drink at the Bedlington bar. How about it?”

  “I’m on my way,” he said happily.

  It was so good to see him again; he really was a sweetheart. We sat in that dim, cloistered cocktail lounge (only one other customer), held hands, and Hobie got me caught up on all the latest office gossip. It was rumored that Felicia Dodat was going to have a tummy-tuck, and it was said that Stanton Grandby was taking pills for flatulence. Fascinating.

  “What about you, Dunk?” Hobie said, almost nose to nose with me in the gloom. “Anything happening on the Demaretion?”

  “I think so. I think I’m getting somewhere. But it’s taking a lot of digging. Hobie, you’ve helped me so much, I hate to ask for another favor.”

  “Ask away!” he cried. “What are friends for?”

  “Do you like intrigue?”

  “Like it? I love it, love it, love it!”

  “Well, there’s this woman—Vanessa Havistock. She’s married to Luther, Archibald’s son. She’s got this absolutely divine body and doesn’t mind showing it.”

  “Couldn’t care less,” he said, grinning.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m just trying to describe her. Anyway, I suspect she’s cheating on her husband. Everyone says she comes on to anything in pants—but that might be just malicious rumors. I mean she’s beautiful, and people may resent her for that.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps not. Where there’s smoke, there’s usually one hell of a fire.”

  “What I’d like to do,” I went on, “is try to prove it out one way or another. She buys her clothes at an Italian boutique on Madison—Vecchio’s. You know it?”

  “Oh, yes. Bloody expensive.”

  “It is that. I think maybe the manager, a guy named Carlo, might be steering tricks her way. You understand?”

  “I’m keeping up, sweet.”

  “Are you a good actor, Hobie?”

  “Good? The stage lost a great star when I decided to devote my life to postage stamps. What do you want me to do?”

  “Call her,” I said. “She’s in the book. Phone her and say you’re from Wilkes-Barre or Walla Walla or some such place. Tell her you’re in town for a business meeting, you’re lonely, and would like to take a lovely lady out to dinner. Say that Carlo of Vecchio’s suggested you call her.”

  “Oh, my God,” Hobie said, “that’s beautiful! Dunk, you’re a naughty, naughty woman.”

  “I know,” I said. “I want to get her reaction. If she hangs up on you, that’s one answer. If she’s interested, that’s another.”

  “Do it right now,” he said. “There’s a phone in the lobby.”

  “She may not be in,” I warned.

  “Then I’ll try later,” he said, slid off the barstool and headed for the lobby. He had a kind of John Wayne sidle, and I never did figure out if it was natural or if he was kidding the world.

  While he was gone, I wondered if I should have told him about Vanessa’s arrest for loitering for the purpose of prostitution. Then I thought this test would be more legitimate if Hobie knew nothing of her police record.

  He was back in less than five minutes, drained his kir, and motioned to the bartender for another.

  “Was she in?” I asked.

  “She was in, and she’s guilty as hell. I told her I was Ralph Forbes—that’s the name of my consenting adult—and I was from Tulsa, in town for a bankers’ convention. Carlo of Vecchio’s had suggested I might call her. Could she join me for dinner at Lutèce, and maybe a night on the town later? Cabarets, discos, piano bars—whatever turned her on. If she was an innocent, she’d have told me to get lost and hung up immediately. But oh, no. Dunk, I could almost hear her ears perk up.”

  “She agreed?” I asked eagerly.

  “Of course not,” Hobie said. “She’s too smart for that. She gave me some jazz about canceling previous plans and she’d call me back. What she’s doing, of course, is checking with Carlo at Vecchio’s. Did he give her name to a Ralph Forbes from Tulsa?”

  “When she said she’d call you back, what number did you give her?”

  “The one on the pay phone I called from,” Hobie said smugly. “What else?”

  I leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “You’re a genius,” I told him. “But you think if Carlo had confirmed, she would have called back?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “That lady is hot to trot. She’s not the kind you pay in advance. She’s the kind you get it off with, and then say, ‘Oh, darling, you’ve made me so happy, I want to buy you a gift. But I don’t know your sizes or tastes. If I give you money, will you buy yourself something nice and pretend it’s from me?’ She’ll protest and then finally agree. A lot of women are like that—and more men than you can imagine. I’ve done it myself. It leaves you a small measure of self-esteem. Better than finding cash on the mantel after the guy has gone.”

  “Oh, Hobie,” I said, gripping his arm, “you’ve been such a big help. When this is all over, I’m going to buy you the greatest dinner at the Four Seasons you’ve ever had in your life.”

  He took up my hand to kiss my fingertips. “I’ll nudge you,” he said. “But the dinner isn’t that important. Just come back to share our office again. That’ll make me happier than anything.”

  We stared at each other. Tender and sad.

  “It’s a crazy world,” he said, “isn’t it?”

  “It is that,” I said.

  When we came out of the Bedlington, the air had freshened, and I decided I could walk home without fear of dropping from asphyxiation at the feet of Daniel Webster’s statue. The long walk gave me a chance to think. Mostly about Vanessa Havistock.r />
  The way she lived was so inexplicable to me. Married to a guy with a good job. Apartment on Park Avenue. Apparently all the money in the world. So why play the strumpet? Maybe that question contained the answer: she was playing. Her strident sexuality was a role. Blessed with sensual flesh, she was using it as a costume.

  That began to make sense to me. It had little to do with the disappearance of the Demaretion, but I wanted to understand the people involved. Al Georgio had said Vanessa was actually Pearl Measley from South Carolina. I could extrapolate a lot from that: small-town girl adrift in the big city with nothing to sell but herself.

  Then, maybe with memories of a deprived childhood, she gets hooked on things: jewelry, ball gowns, paintings, cars, a smart apartment and groovy vacation home—all the panoplies of wealth. But she never forgets where it all comes from—the luscious source.

  That was how I saw her: not so much a greedy woman but one terrified by poverty and lack of status. She would, I thought, do anything to maintain her hard-fought and hard-won battle against life. She had vanquished Pearl Measley. Now she was Vanessa Havistock—and don’t you forget it, buster!

  And when I arrived home, sweated and aching pleasantly from my hike, I emptied my mailbox, and there was a letter from the lady herself: a cutesy invitation to a cocktail party and buffet dinner on Tuesday evening. “Wear whatever you like—or nothing at all!”

  I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

  I showered, shampooed, pulled on an oversized khaki shirt I had bought many moons ago at an army surplus store on Forty-second Street. It had been laundered so many times it felt like silk, and was so big it fitted like a burnoose. I padded around the house, wearing that and nothing else, feeling deliciously depraved.

  I had just started adding notes on the day’s events in my journal when I got a call from Jack Smack. He sounded slightly aggrieved.

  “Where the hell you been, Dunk?” he demanded. “I’ve been phoning all day.”

  “I had lunch with Hizzoner,” I told him, “and then I had to go down to the Federal Reserve to settle a squabble about interest rates.”

  He laughed. “Okay,” he said, “I deserved that. How you coming on the Demaretion?”