The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Thanks,” Felicia said briefly, tossing my manuscript aside.

  “When do you think we might have an answer?” I ventured.

  “When we get it,” she said shortly, and I had a brief, violent desire to wire-brush her seamed pantyhose. That woman brought out the worst in me.

  Nothing happened for almost two weeks. I gloomed around the office, hardly able to answer my correspondence or do appraisals on the little bits and pieces of large estates that came across my desk. Hobie counseled patience, patience, and more patience.

  “The one thing you don’t want to do,” he told me, “is to bug Madam Dodat. Treat it casually. Make her think that appraising a two-million-dollar collection is just routine, and you couldn’t care less if Grandby’s gets it or not. Play it cool, Dunk.”

  But I couldn’t play it cool; the Havistock coins meant too much to me. Especially that gorgeous Demaretion. I found myself gallivanting madly all over town for distraction, to movies, art galleries, new restaurants. Then coming home to sip a big shot of raspberry-flavored brandy so I could sleep at night.

  Finally, into the third week, on a bright, sunshiny May afternoon, crisp and clear, I took Hobie’s and my coffee mugs into the ladies’ room, hoping to scour them clean of their accumulated crud.

  Felicia Dodat was standing before one of the mirrors, preening, touching her raven hair, stroking her eyebrows with a fingertip.

  I put the two coffee mugs into a sink and ran hot water into them. Soaked a paper towel and started to scrub them out.

  “I understand they call you ‘Dunk,’ ” Felicia said, still staring at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that.

  “That’s right.”

  “Dunk,” she repeated. “What an odd name.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She raised her skirt to tug up her pantyhose. I would never do that in front of anyone, woman or man. Then she smoothed down her skirt and inspected herself again. I swear she nodded with approval.

  “Dunk,” she said again, and laughed.

  She started out, then paused at the door.

  “Oh, by the way…” she said, as if she had suddenly recalled a detail of no importance. “Did I tell you we got the Havistock Collection?”

  4

  NEW PROBLEMS NEVER ENCOUNTERED before: the logistics of moving the Havistock Collection from the owner’s apartment on East 79th Street to the basement vault of Grandby & Sons on Madison Avenue. Stanton Grandby had signed the auction contract, but I got the donkeywork.

  I met four times with Mr. Havistock, Mr. Vanwinkle, a representative of the insurance company carrying a policy on the collection, and a burly gentleman from the armored truck service that was to make the actual transfer. We finally agreed on a plan and assignment of responsibilities that seemed to please everyone.

  The move would be effected in this manner:

  Archibald Havistock would seal the thirteen display cases holding his collection with strips of masking tape on all four sides, plus a blob of sealing wax near the lock which he would imprint with a heavy silver signet ring he sometimes wore.

  I made a mild objection to this form of sealing, fearing it would mar the surface of those lovely teakwood cases. But Mr. Havistock stated he would have no need for the cases after his collection was sold, and in any event they could easily be refinished.

  I would stand by, a witness to the sealing process to insure that each case contained the requisite number of coins. After sealing, each case would be slid into a protective Styrofoam outer container in which, I was told, Nate Colescui, the casemaker, had delivered his handicraft. Each container would be plainly marked with large pasted labels: Mr. Havistock’s name and address, ditto for Grandby & Sons, and heavy numerals, 1 to 13.

  After I had witnessed the loading of the Styrofoam containers and their sealing with masking tape, the men from the armored van service would take over. With armed guards in attendance, they would take the thirteen containers down to ground level via the freight elevator. Once they were loaded into the truck, the driver would sign a receipt. A copy to Mr. Havistock, a copy to the insurance company, a copy to Grandby & Sons.

  I would then scurry back to my office—by cab, if I could find one; I was not allowed to ride in the armored truck. I would oversee the unloading of the thirteen containers and their safe storage in our vault. When all thirteen cases were accounted for, I would sign a receipt—copies to everyone—and the Havistock Collection became the responsibility of Grandby & Sons.

  It all sounded so simple and logical.

  I should mention at this time that during the planning sessions I met two more members of the Havistock family: wife, Mabel, and unmarried daughter, Natalie (called Nettie). In addition, I was told, the Havistocks had a married son and daughter-in-law, Luther and Vanessa Havistock, and a married daughter and son-in-law, Roberta and Ross Minchen.

  But when the collection was moved, I was personally acquainted only with Archibald Havistock, nephew Orson Vanwinkle, wife Mabel, and daughter Nettie.

  Mabel Havistock was a square, chunky matron with bluish hair and the jaw of a longshoreman. She was the sort of woman, I thought, who probably wore a brown corset with all kinds of straps, laces, buckles, and snaps. She looked somewhat ogreish, but I must admit she was civil enough when we were introduced, though her cold glance immediately pegged me as the costume jewelry type. Her pearls were real.

  I liked Natalie, the unmarried daughter, much more. She was the “baby” of the Havistock family, and a wild one. The T-shirt and stone-washed jeans type, with a mop of uncombed dirty-blond curls and an unbra-ed bosom that made me reflect once again that life is unfair.

  Nettie and I spoke briefly, but really hit it off, discovering we were both pizza mavens. She asked to stop by Grandby & Sons to learn how the auction of her daddy’s coins would be organized. I told her to come along anytime. I wanted to witness Felicia Dodat’s reaction when this fast-talking, sandal-clad wildebeest descended on her.

  Anyway, the date of the Great Move finally arrived: a rare Tuesday in June that only needed birdcalls on Manhattan streets to make the morning perfect. I took it as a good omen, that the day would end as splendidly as it began.

  I alerted our vault manager and was happy to see he had already made space for the Havistock Collection. Then I sauntered over to East 79th Street and was delighted to find the armored truck had already arrived, right on schedule, and was parked in the service alley alongside the apartment house. A bored driver sat slumped behind the wheel.

  The antique concierge knew me by now, and gave me a limp wave of a plump palm as I went directly to the elevator bank. I rode up to the 9th floor. In the corridor was parked a four-wheeled dolly from the armored truck. Two uniformed and armed guards were sitting on it, smoking, and looked up as I arrived.

  “All set?” I asked brightly.

  “We’ll never be setter,” one of them said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  I was admitted to the Havistock apartment by an employee I had never seen before: a stringy, dour-faced lady swaddled in black bombazine with white apron. Maid? Housekeeper? Cook?

  “I am Mary Bateson from—” I started.

  “They’re in the back,” she growled, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

  So I walked down that depressing corridor by myself, wondering if I had announced, “Hi! I’m Ma Barker, and I’ve come to steal the Havistock Collection.” Would she have growled, “They’re in the back,” and shown me where to go? Probably. So much for tight security.

  They were awaiting me in that splendid library, both busy sealing the thirteen display cases. Orson Vanwinkle was neatly cutting strips of masking tape, and his uncle was just as neatly applying them to sides and lids. If Archibald Havistock felt any sadness or depression at seeing his collection go on the block, he gave no sign. As I said, he was a very contained man.

  I had brought along two inventories, the insurance company’s and my own, and I checked carefully to m
ake certain every coin was in its correct compartment in its correct case. As I okayed each case, Vanwinkle applied a thick blob of warmed sealing wax to the front junction of lid and case, and Mr. Havistock pressed his signet ring firmly. Then Vanwinkle slid the sealed display case into its properly labeled Styrofoam box, closed that with masking tape, and the deed was done.

  I lingered over case thirteen, staring through the glass at the Demaretion. It twinkled back at me.

  “Aren’t you going to miss it?” I asked Mr. Havistock.

  He shrugged and tried to smile. “As someone said, you spend the first half of your life collecting things, and the second half getting rid of them.”

  Then the Demaretion was gone, its own display case slid into the Styrofoam container marked thirteen, and sealed. I prepared to depart.

  “I’ll send in the armored truck guards,” I said. “I want to get downstairs to make certain all the cases are brought down safely, and get my receipt.”

  “I think I’ll come along,” Orson Vanwinkle said, smiling thinly, “to get our receipt.”

  The two of us waited near the truck in the service alley. In about ten minutes the armed guards appeared, pushing the loaded dolly. The thirteen cases were put into the armored van. The driver ticked them off carefully on his loading list, then signed a receipt for the shipment. One copy to me, one copy to Orson Vanwinkle.

  “See you at the auction,” I said to him blithely.

  “Before that, I hope,” he said with a smarmy smile.

  Boy, was he ever right!

  I was lucky enough to grab a cab almost immediately, buzzed back to the office, and got things organized for the reception of the Havistock Collection. Grandby & Sons employed its own security force, and I recruited the Chief and two stalwarts to stand by for the arrival of the armored truck.

  When it pulled up in front of the townhouse, our guards did sentry duty as the Styrofoam containers were unloaded and carried down to the basement vault. I took up station at the opened vault door as they were brought in. Thirteen, tape unbroken. I counted them again. Thirteen, tape intact.

  I then signed a receipt for Grandby & Sons and handed it to the driver of the armored truck. He and his two minions disappeared. The Havistock coins were now safely tucked away in our vault, the door thick enough to stop a cruise missile, but so perfectly hinged and balanced that I could move it with one hand.

  Hobart Juliana came down, laughing, to bring me a mug of hot black coffee.

  “Got ʼem?” he said cheerfully.

  “Safe and sound,” I said. “Am I ever glad that’s over. Look at my hands; I’m shaking.”

  “Calm down, Dunk,” he advised. “Your part of the job is finished.”

  “I guess,” I said, just beginning to realize that my connection with the Havistock Collection had ended. Now it was all up to the sales staff and auctioneer.

  “Hobie,” I said, “I want to show you something that’ll knock your eyes out. The Demaretion. A work of art if ever there was one.”

  I set my coffee mug aside. Slid container thirteen from the stack and pulled back the masking tape. Opened the Styrofoam box and gently withdrew the sealed teakwood case. I cradled it in my arms, held it out to Hobie.

  “Just take a look at that,” I said.

  He glanced down, then raised his eyes slowly to my face. Something happened to his expression. It congealed.

  “At what?” he said in a low voice.

  I stared at him for a second or two, then looked down at the sealed display case.

  It was empty. The Demaretion was gone.

  You know the opening words of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities? “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” That last part was written for me: it was the worst of times.

  Later, Hobie told me that he was afraid I was going to faint when I saw the Demaretion had disappeared. He moved closer so he could grab me if I began to crumple.

  “It wasn’t that you turned white,” he said. “You turned absolutely livid, as if someone had kicked you in the cruller.”

  Disbelief was my initial reaction. Then bewilderment. Then anger. Then cold guilt when I realized what I had done: signed a receipt for a $350,000 coin that was not in Grandby & Sons’ vault. Goodbye to job, career, reputation. I had visions of a lifetime in durance vile. Plenty of days, and nights, to try to solve the puzzle of how the Demaretion had been stolen from a sealed display case within a taped container.

  When we sounded the alarm, everyone came running. That was all right; I wanted plenty of witnesses to the fact that the teakwood display case still had all its seals intact, including that blob of wax bearing the imprint of Archibald Havistock’s signet ring. Then the question was asked: Was the Demaretion in the case when it was sealed?

  I swore it was. People looked at me. I would not weep.

  Stanton Grandby, god, was a plump, pouty man who dressed like a penguin. I could tell from his pursed lips and glittering eyes that he was computing what this catastrophe was going to cost the family business.

  Grandby & Sons carried heavy insurance, of course, to cover disasters of this nature. But the money loss didn’t bother god so much as the damage done to the reputation of the house. Who would be eager to consign coins, stamps, paintings, and sculpture to Grandby’s if it was bruited about that valuable antiques disappeared from the premises?

  I was set to work examining the other twelve display cases, peering through the glass lids without disturbing the seals. The collection was complete—except for the Demaretion. Then god, in whispered consultation with Felicia Dodat, decided to inform Archibald Havistock of the loss, and the New York Police Department, Grandby’s insurance company, Mr. Havistock’s insurers, and the armored truck service that had made the transfer.

  “And we better phone our attorneys,” Stanton Grandby added, glancing at me wrathfully. “This is a mess, and we need legal advice.”

  The remainder of that day was horrid, a monstrosity I find hard to recall, it was so painful. A detective team from the NYPD was first on the scene, followed by the burly man from the armored truck service, followed by representatives from the two insurance companies involved. Last to arrive was Lemuel Whattsworth, junior partner of the law firm of Phlegg, Sample, Haw, Jugson, and Pinchnik, attorneys for Grandby & Sons.

  I must have told my story at least a half-dozen times, relating the exact details of how the coins were inventoried, displayed in the compartments, and how I witnessed the sealing of the display cases, their packing in Styrofoam, and the taping of those boxes. Six times I vowed to high heaven that I had seen the Demaretion sealed in its own case and slid into container thirteen.

  Curiously, this repeated recital of what had happened did not anger me or bore me or offend me. In fact, I welcomed going over the facts again and again, hoping I or someone else would spot a fatal flaw in the preparations for the move of the Havistock Collection and cry, “Ah-ha! There’s where you went wrong. That’s how it was done.”

  But I didn’t see it, and neither did anyone else. It was impossible for the Demaretion to disappear. But it had.

  Finally, dusk outside and streetlights on, all my interrogators departed, and I was left to ponder the enormity of what had befallen me. I wanted, more than anything, to call Archibald Havistock, apologize, and commiserate with him on the theft of that prize I knew he cherished. But Lemuel Whattsworth had told me, in no uncertain terms, to have no communication whatsoever with Mr. Havistock or anyone else in his household.

  Hobart Juliana—bless him!—refused to desert me during that dreadful day, and comforted me between my question-and-answer sessions with all those investigators. Then the office lights being switched off by departing staffers and night security guards, he said:

  “Dunk, have you got a couch in your place?”

  “A couch?” I said dispiritedly. “Of course I’ve got a couch. Why?”

  “I don’t think you should be alone tonight. Let me come home with you. I’ll sleep on the co
uch.”

  “Oh, Hobie,” I said, “you don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t have to do it, but I want to do it. Please let me.”

  “All right,” I said helplessly.

  “Do you have anything to eat in the house?”

  “Some frozen dinners.”

  “That’ll do splendidly. Anything to drink?”

  “Some wine. Vodka. Raspberry brandy.”

  “Loverly. Let me make one phone call, and then we’ll take off.”

  It was a long phone call in a low voice I couldn’t overhear, but I knew he was explaining to his roommate why he wasn’t going to be home that night.

  Hobie was so good to me; I don’t know how I could have endured that night without him. He prepared the Lean Cuisine, poured the wine, served me, and did the dishes. Later we sat quietly, sipped a little brandy, and without prompting I told my story once again, and we went over it all, step by step.

  Hobie shook his head. “I can’t see anything you should have done that you did not do. It sounds absolutely foolproof to me.”

  “But someone copped the Demaretion.”

  “Yes,” he said sorrowfully, “someone did.”

  “What do you think will happen to me, Hobie? Am I the number one suspect?”

  “Maybe not number one,” he said cautiously. “But you better be prepared for some nasty digging into your private life. The insurance companies are not going to pay out without a very, very close investigation. And the New York cops will be just as thorough. You’re in for a tough time, Dunk.”

  “I didn’t steal it, Hobie. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I know it. And you couldn’t even if you had wanted to. You never touched that damned coin today, did you?”

  “Never. Not once. Just looked at it.”

  “Well, there you are. But someone touched it.”

  Then I began to weep. Hobie came over to the couch, sat close, put an arm about my shoulders.