The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Motive,” he said promptly. “Someone needs money—right? So they steal something of value.”

  I shook my head. “Not necessarily. Not when you’re talking about antique coins or paintings or rare documents. Sometimes they’re stolen not from greed, but because the thief wants to own them. It’s the collector’s instinct: to possess an object of great rarity and beauty. He doesn’t want to make a profit from it; he just wants to look at it, devour it with his eyes, and think, ‘Mine, mine, mine!’ ”

  “You think that’s what happened to the Demaretion?”

  “It’s possible. A private collector may have hired a thief, for a fee. Then the coin disappears into his safe. I mean, what else are you going to do with it? Jack, it’s so rare. No reputable dealer is going to handle a Demaretion without wanting to know where it came from and how the would-be seller came into possession.”

  He stared at me thoughtfully. “That’s an angle I hadn’t considered: a contract theft engineered by a private collector with a mad desire to own the coin. But that anonymous letter we got knocks that theory into a cocked hat, doesn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily. Suppose a rich collector pays a professional thief ten thousand to lift the Demaretion. The crook succeeds, but then he finds out what the coin is really worth. So he says to himself, Why should I take all the risk for this piddling fee when I can get five or ten times as much from the insurance company. So he double-crosses the guy who hired him and contacts you.”

  “Dunk,” he said admiringly, “you have a devious mind. I like that. I hope we can work closely together on this. I need the benefit of your expertise.”

  “What’s in it for me?” I said boldly.

  “The sooner we get it cleared up, the sooner you go back to work at Grandby’s, with maybe a fat raise in gratitude for the help you provided. Isn’t that enough for you?”

  I thought a moment. Then: “Yes, it’s enough.”

  “Then we can work together?”

  I nodded.

  “The first thing I’d like to get from you,” he said, “is a list of coin dealers all over the world. We want to get letters out to them to be on the lookout for someone trying to peddle a hot Demaretion. Can you provide a list like that?”

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem. I’ll just lend you the most recent directory of the Association.”

  “Fine,” he said, then hesitated a moment. “Something else I’d like you to do—if you’re willing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Have a private meeting—a talk, lunch, dinner, whatever—with Orson Vanwinkle, the secretary.”

  “Why him?”

  Jack Smack sat back, frowning. “I don’t really know, except that there’s something cheesy about the man.”

  “I agree. I don’t like him.”

  “I can’t see how it’s possible that he could have lifted the coin, but I get bad vibes from that guy. There’s something phony there; he doesn’t ring true.”

  “I can’t just call him and ask him to take me out to lunch.”

  “I know that,” Smack said, “but there must be some way you can work it; you’re a brainy lady. Think about it and see if there’s any way you can talk to him in private. Did he come on to you?”

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “But maybe that’s the way he treats all women.”

  He nodded. “Think about it,” he repeated. “If you decide to do it, give me a call, and we’ll talk about what we want to get out of him.” Then, out of the blue: “Would you like me to stay the night?”

  I glared at him. “No, I would not like you to stay the night.”

  “Okay,” he said equably. “If you don’t ask, you’ll never know—right? You got a guy, Dunk?”

  “Several,” I said, lying in my teeth.

  “I wish you’d add me to the list,” he said. “I’m single, own a Jaguar, and know how to make Beef Wellington.” Again that warm smile that melted my knees. Oh, God, he was so handsome! “This has nothing to do with our business, Dunk. This is between you and me.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said.

  He drained his drink and stood up—steadily. So much for my plot. Did I want him to leave? Did I want him to stay? If he planned to confuse me, he was doing one hell of a job.

  “I’ll get your bottle,” I told him.

  “Oh, no,” he said, “that’s for you. Maybe you’ll invite me in again for a drink.”

  “Anytime,” I said. Was that me talking?

  At the door, he turned and kissed me. On the lips. It was nice.

  “Out you go,” I said, gasping.

  “Sure,” he said, staring into my eyes. “Don’t forget about Vanwinkle. I’ve got a feeling there’s something there.”

  Then he was gone. I locked, bolted, and chained the door. I was still shaken by that kiss. The swine! The lovely swine!

  Undressing slowly, I pondered all the happenings of that eventful day: the meeting at the Havistocks’, lunch with Al Georgio, dinner with Al in Little Italy, and finally the set-to with Jack Smack.

  I found myself grinning. Because I had been living such a placid existence and hadn’t realized how lonely and bored I had become. Now I was meeting new people, becoming involved with strong passions—and I loved it. Suddenly my life seemed cracked open, full of emotions I had never felt before. I suppose it was the normal process of learning, but at the time it seemed to me a delightful revelation—like tasting caviar for the first time.

  Before I went to bed, I had a little bit of Jack Smack’s vodka with grapefruit juice. Just what I needed, because later, warm and snug, waiting for sleep, I reflected, giggling, that with two tall, good-looking New York guys wanting to jump on her bones, little ol’ Mary Lou Bateson of Des Moines was doing okay.

  9

  THAT MORNING WITH NETTIE Havistock was one of the most discombobulating experiences of my life. When I finally got through (her private number at the Havistock apartment was busy for more than an hour), she said she’d be “charged” to see me, and suggested we do some shopping together and then have lunch. She told me to meet her at the toiletries counter of Saks 5th.

  She showed up in a costume that threw me for a loop. From bottom to top: scruffy Adidas running shoes, heavy knitted leg warmers over baggy jeans, a T-shirt with SLIPPERY WHEN WET printed on the front, and over that a denim vest festooned with ribboned military medals. A man’s fedora, sweat-stained, was crammed atop her fuzzy blond curls. And over her shoulder hung a leather, Indian-type bag with buckskin fringe, decorated with beads and shells.

  “Hi, hon,” she said blithely, ignoring my wide-eyed stare. “I’m not looking for anything in particular. Just thought we’d mooch around and see what’s new.”

  So I tagged after her, all over the main floor of Saks. It took me about five minutes to realize she was shoplifting. Small stuff: bars of imported soap, silk scarves, a man’s tie, a gold-plated chain. She was so casual and practiced that I knew she had been at it a long time. She slid the stuff inside the waistband of her baggy jeans or just scooped it into her capacious shoulder bag. Wandering, smiling, chatting over her shoulder at me…

  I was terrified. I wanted to turn and bolt. I just couldn’t believe it. I knew she could easily afford all those things she was boosting. Kleptomania? Was that a legal defense? I looked about nervously, certain that at any moment we would be apprehended by store detectives and marched off in shame.

  “That should do it,” Nettie said brightly. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

  We walked over to Madison, Nettie nattering on and on. But I wasn’t listening; I was debating with myself whether or not to mention her criminal behavior, what my reaction should be, how it might affect my relations with her and the investigation of the Demaretion theft.

  “That stuff I lifted,” she said with a roguish smile. “Want any of it?”

  “No, thanks,” I said hastily.

  She laughed. “I don’t need that crap,” she said. “It’s just a game. I give it all away.�
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  “What if you get caught?”

  “Daddy will pay off,” she said confidently. “He always has.” I felt sorrow for Archibald Havistock, that complete man. His solid manner concealed what must have been harrowing family problems.

  We had lunch in a crowded luncheonette on Madison Avenue, pushing our way to the rear past the cashier’s desk, a take-out counter, and a jumble of little tables. We finally found seats in the rear, close to the kitchen doors, waitresses rushing in and out.

  “This is a new place,” Natalie Havistock said, looking around. “It’s a setup.”

  That comment made me uneasy, but I didn’t dare ask what she meant. We finally ordered chicken salad plates with iced tea, and while we were waiting for our food, Nettie fished a crimped cigarette from her shoulder bag.

  “My first today,” she said, holding the cigarette up for my inspection. “Want one?”

  “I think I’ll pass,” I said.

  “Good stuff.”

  “Nettie, do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Nope,” she said cheerfully. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Not really,” I confessed.

  “Well, then…there you are.”

  She lighted her homemade cigarette, and when I got a whiff of that sweetish smoke, I hoped none of the nearby diners would start a ruckus. None did.

  “Nettie,” I said, “I feel terrible about your father losing that coin.”

  “He can afford it,” she said casually. “Besides, he’ll collect from the insurance company, won’t he?”

  “I suppose so. But the insurance value is outdated. Today the coin would be insured for much, much more.”

  “Then it’s no big deal. The cops think someone in the family lifted it, don’t they?”

  I nodded.

  “Not me,” she said. “What would I do with that stupid coin?”

  I just couldn’t understand her. One minute she’s showing no remorse for her shoplifting pranks, and the next minute she’s shrugging off her father’s loss of the Demaretion. I didn’t know what she was revolting against. Family? Society? Or maybe herself.

  But then our food arrived. Nettie handed the stub of her cigarette to the waitress.

  “A little tip for you, luv,” she said, smiling.

  The waitress took the roach, sniffed it, and said, “Thank you, dear. Just what I need.”

  That could never happen in Des Moines. Or could it?

  I looked at her as we ate our salads. A thin, nervy young girl (twenty-two? twenty-four?) with brittle energy: sharp movements, quick gestures. I got the impression of unhappiness there, some deep despair cloaked by a bright smile and brisk manner. But sadness in her eyes that all the blue eyeliner couldn’t conceal.

  “Ruby Querita?” I asked. “Could she have done it?”

  “Ruby? Not a chance. Her brother’s a doper, but she’s a straight arrow. Works her ass off to keep her boy in private school. The kid’s a mathematical whiz.”

  “Who then?”

  Nettie shrugged. “Ross Minchen, my brother-in-law, is a wimp. I can’t see him lifting anything more valuable than an ashtray from McDonald’s. Roberta is just as dreary.”

  “Certainly not your mother.”

  Nettie laughed. “Don’t be so sure. Don’t let the blue hair fool you; there is one tough lady. But why should she steal the coin? The way I hear it, most of what Daddy owns is in her name already.”

  I realized how little I knew about the source of the Havistocks’ wealth.

  “Your father is retired?”

  “Semi. He owned a textile company. Knitting mills and things like that. Then he sold out to a bigger outfit. But he’s still on salary as a consultant. And Luther works for them. That was part of the deal.”

  “What about Luther. Could he have done it?”

  She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Possibly,” she said thoughtfully.

  “I’ve never met your brother.”

  “He’s got problems. Mainly his wife, Vanessa. She’s a barracuda. Lives up to and beyond his income. Runs him ragged.”

  “I gather you don’t like her.”

  “You gather correctly, Dunk. She’s a real bitch.”

  “Could she have stolen the coin?”

  “Wouldn’t put it past her. She loves money. But she wouldn’t do it herself; she’d get a man to do it for her. She’s got eyes for anything in pants, with a fat wallet in the hip pocket. She was coming on to Ross Minchen, and it got so bad that finally Daddy had to tell Vanessa to lay off. It’s a fun thing with her. She likes to stir guys up. Gives her a feeling of power, I guess.”

  “Is she attractive?”

  “Like a snake. Yes, I suppose you could call her attractive. I can’t see it—I think she’s chromium-plated—but men take one look at her and unzip their flies.”

  I laughed. “What about Orson Vanwinkle? Did he unzip his fly?”

  She drained her iced tea before she answered. “Orson is a schmuck. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but he’s a schmuck. He came on strong with me once—I mean really physical. But I gave him a knee in the balls, and that was the end of that. You know, in a lot of ways he’s the male equivalent of Vanessa. I think they’re both a couple of hustlers.”

  “You think there’s something between them?”

  “Vanessa and Orson? I doubt that. He’s got no money, so Vanessa wouldn’t be interested. I’ve seen them together many times, and never noticed anything going on. Mutual suspicion, maybe. They both know what they are; it takes one to know one. A couple of cruds. Well…” she said, pushing her plate away and sitting back, “how do you like that rundown on the Havistocks? Just your average, normal, well-adjusted American family—right?”

  “Nettie,” I said, feeling guilty, “I really didn’t mean to pry. But I’d like to get this whole thing cleared up so I can get my job back.”

  “Sure, sweetie, I can understand that.”

  “If you had to name someone in the family as a prime suspect, who would it be?”

  She thought a moment, digging with a fingernail at a fragment of chicken caught in her teeth. “Orson Vanwinkle,” she said finally. “Or my brother, Luther.”

  “Why them?”

  “They’re both hurting for money,” she said.

  Then the waitress brought our bill. “Thanks for the roach, honey,” she said to Nettie. “It hit the spot.”

  Natalie Havistock grabbed the check. “You leave,” she told me. “Go out to the street; I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  “I want to pay my share,” I said, fumbling with my purse.

  “Forget it,” she said. “Just go!”

  So I went, past the tables, the take-out counter, the cashier’s desk. I waited on Madison Avenue. It was almost five minutes before Nettie came out. She was carrying a white paper bag. We walked a half-block, and she dumped the bag in a refuse basket.

  “Coffee and bagel,” she said. “Who needs it?”

  “Nettie,” I said, “what are you doing?”

  “Our lunch bill came to almost fifteen bucks,” she said. “So I stopped at the take-out counter, bought coffee and a bagel for two bucks. I palmed the lunch bill and gave the cashier the take-out check for two bucks and paid that. No strain, no pain. Lousy organization in that place.”

  “What about a tip for the waitress?”

  “She got the roach, didn’t she?”

  “Nettie,” I said, “you’re awful.”

  “That’s right,” she said, grinning. “And I love it.”

  We kissed cheeks, promised we’d stay in touch, and she popped into a cab on Madison. I wondered how she was going to con the driver. I shouldn’t have laughed, but I did. I decided to walk all the way home. I had a lot to think about.

  It was a dynamite day in Manhattan: a velvety June afternoon with a muskmelon sun in a washed sky and a breeze just cool enough to tingle. It was a long hike back to West 83rd Street, but I still had calf and thigh muscles from my dun
k shot days, and it felt good to stretch them.

  I had now lived in New York for several years, but never ceased to marvel at how thronged the city was. Mobs of people! I saw Manhattan as one big, overcrowded basketball court. The only way for a pedestrian to make progress on those jammed sidewalks was by bobbing, ducking, weaving. I was good at that, and went dancing home, darting and spinning, imagining I was dribbling an inflated spheroid all the way.

  But that was physical and mechanical. While I played games on the ganged sidewalks, my mind was wrestling with the Havistock family and what Natalie had told me. Her frankness was amazing; I could never be that open about my family to an acquaintance. And I certainly had less dramatic revelations to divulge.

  I couldn’t decide whether Nettie’s casual disclosures were motivated by rancor toward parents, siblings, and inlaws, or whether she had a more devious reason. Perhaps she was trying to direct guilt elsewhere—her own guilt. I found that hard to believe, but it was possible.

  I finally decided that her lack of discretion might be (probably was) due to an abiding hatred and disgust of hypocrisy. So open and forthright herself, she could not endure dissembling in others. She really was an idealist—or at least a romantic.

  Al Georgio had accused me of acting like Nancy Drew. Now I was making like Sigmund Freud!

  I stopped at a neighborhood grocery and picked up a blueberry yogurt and a plastic container of fresh salad. Also, on impulse, two cans of Schaefer beer. I toted my purchases home, kicked off my shoes, and popped one of the beers.

  Slumped on the couch, I went over again what Nettie had told me about the Havistocks. A rogues’ gallery! But in all honesty, I could not see any one of them as the Demaretion thief.

  I was debating whether or not I had the energy to wash my hair when the phone rang. It was Al Georgio. He sounded harried and tense.

  “Listen,” he said, “you see Natalie Havistock today?”

  “Yes, we had lunch together.”

  “Good. I’m seeing Luther and Vanessa at six o’clock. He gets home from work then, and I want to catch the two of them together. I figure it’ll take about an hour; no more than that. You said you’re a pizza maven—right? How’s about I pick up a pepperoni and maybe a jug of red ink, and I’ll show up at your place around seven-thirty or eight—like that. You tell me about Nettie, and I’ll tell you about Luther and Vanessa. Okay?”