The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “You showed them where to go, and then the two of you went down to the street to supervise the packing of the armored van?”

  “Not exactly,” Orson Vanwinkle said. “Miss Bateson was outside when I conducted the two guards into the library.”

  “Oh?” Georgio said. “And when you brought the guards into the library, was Mr. Havistock still there?”

  The attorney, Lenore Wolfgang, spoke up: “What is the purpose of this line of questioning?” she demanded.

  Georgio looked at her stonily. “The purpose of this line of questioning is to find out who stole the Demaretion. Mr. Vanwinkle, when you accompanied the guards to the library, was your uncle there?”

  “Ahh…no,” the secretary said. “He was not.”

  The detective turned to Havistock. “Is that correct, sir?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, somewhat testily. “The whole family had gathered, so I came into the living room, here, to see how everyone was getting along.”

  “It was my birthday,” Mrs. Havistock said. “We were going to have a little party.”

  “In other words,” Georgio said, “no one was in the library with the coins until Mr. Vanwinkle returned with the guards to start them loading the boxes. Is that right?”

  He looked at them all. No one answered.

  “Mr. Havistock, how long were you gone from the library?”

  “A minute or two. No more than that.”

  “Mr. Vanwinkle, from the moment you left the library until you returned with the guards, how much time elapsed?”

  “Couldn’t have been more than two minutes. Then my uncle reentered the library. He supervised the loading of the dolly. I went back to the outside corridor, rejoined Miss Bateson, and we both went down to the street to oversee the loading of the armored van.”

  Georgio was jotting furiously in his notebook. Then he looked up. “In other words, the packed coins were unattended in the library for a period of approximately two minutes?”

  “I regret to say,” Archibald Havistock declaimed in his resonant voice, “you are correct. It was my fault. I should never have left them alone.”

  The detective ignored that. “When you came into the living room, sir, who was present?”

  Havistock frowned. “Hard to remember. People were milling about. Some going into the kitchen to sample things the caterer had brought.”

  “The caterer?” Georgio said sharply. “When did the caterer arrive?”

  “Oh, that was at least two hours previously,” Mrs. Havistock said. “All cold dishes. The delivery men were long gone before Miss Bateson arrived, and they started packing the coins.”

  “Okay,” the detective said. “Scratch the caterers. Let’s get back to who was here, in the living room, when Mr. Havistock came in from the library. Were you here, Mrs. Havistock?”

  “I was,” she said firmly. Then, hesitant, “I think I was. Part of the time. I may have stepped into the kitchen to see how Ruby was getting along.”

  “Mrs. Minchen, were you here?”

  “Right here,” she said in an unexpectedly girlish voice. “Exactly where I’m sitting now.”

  “Well, not exactly, darling,” her husband said. “We were both sitting on the chocolate couch—remember?”

  “And where was young Miss Havistock during the two minutes her father was in this room?”

  “She was here,” Mrs. Havistock said.

  “And where were your son and his wife—were they also in this room during that two-minute period?”

  They all looked at each other helplessly.

  “Look here,” Archibald Havistock said angrily. “I told you we were all milling about. People were sitting, standing, moving to the kitchen, mixing a drink for themselves. I deeply object to your line of questioning. You’re implying that a member of my family might have stolen the Demaretion.”

  Al Georgio slapped his notebook shut with a smack that startled us all. He glared at them. “The armored truck guards couldn’t have done it,” he said, addressing Havistock. “Miss Bateson couldn’t have done it. Who do you want me to suspect—the man in the moon?”

  “I resent that,” Lenore Wolfgang said.

  “Resent away,” the detective said, standing up. “This is only the beginning. I’ll be back.”

  He started out, then stopped suddenly and turned back to Havistock. “Who knew you kept the two extra display cases in your bedroom closet?” he demanded.

  For the first time Mr. Havistock appeared flustered. He could hardly get the words out. “Why…” he said, almost stammering, “I suppose everyone did. All the family.”

  Georgio nodded grimly and stalked out. I rose hastily and ran after him.

  When we were back in his car, he said, “How about some lunch, Dunk? A hamburger?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll pay for my own.”

  “Okay,” he said cheerfully. “I know a good place over on Lex. They make British burgers. With bacon.”

  So that’s what we had. Sitting at a minuscule table for two alongside a tiled wall, munching burgers, popping French fries, and sipping tea out of glasses.

  “I think it went good,” Al Georgio said. “I shook them up, got them looking at each other. They’re beginning to wonder: Which one did it?”

  “Orson Vanwinkle did it,” I said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  Al almost choked on a piece of bacon, he laughed so hard. “Beautiful. I take that to the DA, and he kicks my ass out the window. Why don’t you like Vanwinkle?”

  “He’s a snaky character.”

  “How could he have pulled it? He was never alone with the sealed cases.”

  “Somehow he did it. I’ll find out.”

  “Who the hell are you—Nancy Drew?” Then, suddenly, surprising me, “How about dinner tonight?”

  I stared at him. “Are you married, Al?”

  “Divorced,” he said. “Almost two years now.”

  “Children?”

  “A girl. Sally. Would you like to see her picture?”

  “Of course.”

  He dug out his wallet, showed me a photo in a plastic slipcase.

  “She’s a beauty,” I said. And that was the truth.

  “Isn’t she?” he said, staring at the photo. “She’s going to break a lot of hearts.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Going on twelve.”

  “Do you see her often?”

  “Not as often as I’d like,” he said miserably. “I have the right to two weekends a month. But this lousy job…That’s why my wife divorced me. It’s not easy being married to a cop. The job comes first.”

  “All right, Al,” I said, “I’ll have dinner with you tonight. Do I have to dress up?”

  He laughed. “You kidding? Look at me. Do I look like a dress-up kind of guy? The place I’m taking you to isn’t fancy, but they’ve got the best linguine and clams in New York.”

  So I wore my usual uniform: pipestem jeans, black turtleneck sweater, suede jacket and beret. Al said I looked like a Central American terrorist; all I needed was a bandolier. He was wearing one of his rumpled suits with all the pizzazz of a bathrobe. I had never met a man so completely without vanity. I found it rather endearing.

  It was a scruffy trattoria he took me to, in Little Italy, but after I got a whiff of those marvelous cooking odors, I knew I had found a home. The moment we entered, the owner came rushing over to embrace Al, and the two men roared at each other in rapid Italian. Then the owner, a man with a white mustache big enough to stuff a pillow, turned his attention to me.

  He kissed his fingertips and started chattering away again. All I caught were two “bella’s” and one “bellissima!”

  “He says,” Al translated, “that if you are willing to run away with him, he will desert his wife, six children, and eleven grandchildren.”

  “Tell him not before I eat,” I said.

  Al relayed the message, and the old guy sla
pped his thigh, twisted the curved horns of his mustache upward, and rolled his eyes. Forty years ago he must have been a holy terror with the ladies.

  We finally got seated, and even before we ordered, the owner brought us glasses of red wine.

  “Homemade,” Al told me. “In the basement. It’s got a kick.”

  It did, but was so smooth and mellow, I felt I could drink it all night. “How did you ever find this place?” I asked.

  “I was born two blocks away. It was here then. Same wine, same menu. Even some of the same waiters. It hasn’t changed a bit, and I hope it never does.”

  We had a memorable meal: a huge platter of seafood linguine, with clams, baby shrimp, slivers of crabmeat, and chunks of lobster. I could have filled a bathtub with that sauce and rolled around in it. The fresh, crunchy salad was special, too, and afterward we had cappuccino with tortoni, and Al taught me how to float a spoonful of the ice cream atop the coffee. Heaven!

  The owner brought us two little glasses of Strega, and after a taste I was ready to move into that restaurant and never leave. I told Al how much I enjoyed the dinner, and he nodded absently.

  “Listen, Dunk,” he said, “you met that Natalie Havistock, didn’t you?”

  “Nettie? Sure, I met her.”

  “What was your take?”

  “A wild one. The hippie of the family. She just doesn’t fit in with the others. But I like her.”

  “You get along with her okay?”

  “Of course. She came up to the office one day to learn how the auction would be organized. Then we went out for pizza together.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, looking over my head. “I should tell you she runs with a rough crowd. Some of them are into drugs and some into guns. We’ve got a special unit that keeps an eye on gangs like that, hoping to grab them before they do something stupid—like blowing up the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Nettie?” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Oh, yes. She and her pals are a bunch of fruitcakes.”

  “You think they could have stolen the Demaretion?”

  “Possible, but I doubt it. It’s not their style. They’d go for a bank or armored van—something where they could wear ski masks and wave submachine guns around. How about you giving Nettie a call. Maybe having lunch with her.”

  “What for?”

  “Pump her. I got nowhere with her. She’s a throwback to the nineteen sixties; I’m a cop so therefore I’m a pig. But you say the two of you hit it off. So maybe she’ll talk to you. About her family. The conflicts and so forth. In a family that big there’s got to be jealousies. Grudges. Undercurrents. I’d like to know about them.”

  I stared at him, trying to smile. “And all the time I thought you invited me out to dinner to enjoy the pleasures of my company.”

  He leaned toward me. “That’s the truth, Dunk. That’s exactly why I asked you out. If you don’t want to brace Nettie, just tell me, and we’ll forget about the whole thing.”

  “You’re something, you are,” I said. “Well, you warned me—with you the job comes first. All right, I’ll try to see Nettie. Only because I’m as anxious and curious about this thing as you are.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Try to meet her tomorrow if you can.”

  “What will you be doing?”

  “I’ve got an appointment to talk to Luther and Vanessa Havistock.”

  “If I tell you how I make out with Natalie, will you tell me what you learned from Luther and Vanessa?”

  He held out a big, meaty hand. “It’s a deal,” he said, and we shook on it. “I’ve got some reports to do tonight,” he continued. “I better get you home. Look, Dunk, I was being honest when I said I invited you out just to enjoy your company. I like being with you. You believe that, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “Can we have dinner again, or lunch, or whatever?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m a forgiving soul. Just keep feeding me like tonight and I’m all yours.”

  That charming smile again. “And I’ll bet you didn’t gain an ounce. I envy people like you. Look at my gut. Isn’t that disgusting?”

  He double-parked in front of my brownstone and we sat a few minutes, talking about the Havistocks.

  “Right now it’s a can of worms,” Georgio said. “But within a few days I hope we’ll be able to eliminate a few possibles, and things will look simpler.”

  I stared at him in the gloom. “Why are you doing this, Al?”

  He was astonished. “It’s my job.”

  “I know that, but I think there’s more to it. It’s almost like a crusade with you.”

  He shrugged. “I just don’t like wise-asses who think they can get away with murder—or even get away with copping an antique Greek coin. I hate people like that—the ones who go elbowing their way through life, thinking the laws are for other people but not for them.”

  “You get pleasure from putting them behind bars?”

  “Not pleasure so much as satisfaction. It just seems right to me.”

  “You’re a deep, deep man,” I told him.

  “Me? Nah. I’m just a cop running to suet. You’ll see Nettie tomorrow?”

  I sighed. “Yes, I’ll see Nettie tomorrow. Thanks for the marvy dinner.”

  I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. I think it shocked him. But he recovered fast enough.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You’re a sweet lady, Dunk.”

  I stood on the sidewalk until he pulled away. We both waved. I turned to the doorway of my brownstone. A man came out of the shadows. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, prepared to scream.

  “Hi!” Jack Smack said. “Have a pleasant evening?”

  “You bastard,” I said wrathfully. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Did I?” he said, grinning. He held up a brown paper bag. “Look what I’ve got—a glorious bottle of Finlandia vodka. For you. How’s about inviting me in for a nightcap?”

  8

  JACK SMACK LOUNGED ON my couch, one arm extended along the back, his legs crossed. That night he was wearing a Norfolk suit of yummy gray flannel, soft broadcloth shirt with a silk ascot at the open neck. Tasseled loafers buffed to a high gloss. What a nonchalantly elegant man!

  “Where do you buy your clothes?” I asked him.

  “Thrift shops,” he said, with a snort of laughter.

  He was working on a double vodka on the rocks. After all I’d had to drink at dinner, I settled for a cup of black coffee. He didn’t scare me, but I recognized a kind of wariness in my feelings toward him. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, and decided not to listen to his pitch with a muzzy mind.

  “I don’t suppose,” he said with a lazy smile, “you’ll tell me what Al Georgio said about the Havistock case tonight.”

  “You’re right. I won’t tell you.”

  He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, suddenly serious and intent.

  “I’m glad to hear that, Dunk,” he said solemnly. “Glad to hear that you’re discreet. Can I depend on you not to repeat to Al what I tell you?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But I think it’s silly. The two of you should be working together. Exchanging information and all that.”

  “Mmmm,” he said. “Sometimes it doesn’t work out that way. Sometimes it’s best that we do our own thing. My company got an anonymous letter this morning. Typewritten on cheap bond. Postmarked Manhattan. The writer wants to know if we’d be interested in buying back the Demaretion.”

  I sat up straight, excited. “My God, Jack, do you think it’s legitimate?”

  He shrugged. “Seems to be. The forensic lab we use went over it. The typewriter was an Olympia standard. No usable prints on the letter. They think it was written by a man.”

  “How do they know that?”

  “Wording. Phrasing.”

  “How much does he want for the Demaretion?”

  “Didn’t say. Just asked if we’d be interested in buying.”

&nbs
p; “Well, if you are, how do you get in touch with him?”

  “Cloak-and-dagger stuff. We occupy the ninth floor of a building on Third Avenue and Eighty-third Street. If we’re interested in buying, we’re to close the Venetian blinds on the entire floor. If the writer of the letter sees them closed any working day within the next week, he’ll send us another letter stating his price.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  He shrugged again. “Maybe, maybe not. Right now it’s being debated by the top brass. It could be a fake, you know. A colossal con. So meanwhile I’m to continue my investigation.”

  “And how are you coming along with that?”

  He flipped a palm back and forth. “Bits and pieces. A little here, a little there. The brother of the housekeeper, Ruby Querita, is in the pokey on a drug charge. That could be something. And the youngest daughter, Natalie, runs with a bunch of wild-assed loonies. That could be something.” He turned on the charming smile. “And I know you found out about those two extra display cases Archibald Havistock had made.”

  I nodded, figuring he heard about my visit to Nate Colescui.

  Suddenly he was serious and sincere again. “That was good thinking on your part, Dunk. You were ahead of me and Al Georgio.”

  His quick switches of mood, levity to solemnity, were confusing. I wondered if he was doing it deliberately, to keep me rattled and unsure. I wanted to prove to him that he wasn’t succeeding.

  “Is there a typewriter in the Havistock apartment?” I asked him.

  He smiled coldly. “That’s a sharp brain you’ve got there, kiddo. Your mama didn’t raise you to be an idiot. Yes, there’s a typewriter in the Havistock apartment. But it’s an IBM Selectric, not an Olympia. Vanwinkle uses it for correspondence. So the letter we got must have been typed somewhere else. That would be easy; there are hotels in the city where you can rent a desk and typewriter by the hour.”

  I saw his glass was almost empty and took it from his hand. I brought it into the kitchen, refilled it with ice cubes and a really stiff jolt of Finlandia. If he was trying to unsettle me with his mercurial changes of mood, I could play my own game—get him befuddled enough to tell me more than he intended.

  “Jack,” I said, handing him the bomb, “when you’re assigned to an investigation like this, where do you start? What’s the first thing you look for?”