The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “As you wish, Mrs. Havistock. But you have employed me to discover the truth, and your refusal to cooperate, no matter how well-intentioned, just makes my job more difficult. All right, let’s skip family members and talk about employees. How long has Ruby Querita worked for you?”

  “Almost ten years now.”

  “You trust her?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I understand her brother is in prison.”

  “That has nothing to do with Ruby. I have complete confidence in her.”

  “She works six days a week?”

  “Five, plus a half-day on Saturday.”

  “She cooks and cleans.”

  “Cooks mostly, and does some light housework. Twice a week a man comes in from a commercial service to dust and vacuum. And once a month we have a crew from the same service to give the apartment a good going-over, including washing the windows and scrubbing down the bathrooms.”

  “Were any of these commercial cleaners here on the morning the Demaretion was taken?”

  “No, they were not.”

  “But they were aware of your husband’s coin collection?”

  “I’m sure they were. It was on open display in his library. I spoke to him several times about that, asking him to put the coins in a bank vault, but he would not.”

  “Numismatists are like that, ma’am,” I said softly. “They like to have their collections readily available where they can see them, examine them, enjoy them. Whose idea was it to sell your husband’s collection?”

  “His. And I agreed. We are presently engaged in revising our estate planning, and rather than attempt to break up the collection amongst our heirs, with so many coins to each beneficiary, it seemed simpler to sell the collection and add the proceeds to the assets of the estate.”

  “Then I gather your husband is no longer an active collector.”

  “That is correct. I think he made his last purchase about five years ago. And since then he has sold off a number of items. At one time I think he had more than six hundred coins.”

  “Oh?” I said, surprised. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “I fail to see what these questions about my husband’s collection have to do with the disappearance of the Demaretion.”

  “Probably nothing,” I admitted. “But I’m trying to learn as much as I can, in hopes that something small will lead to something bigger, then to something larger yet, and eventually we’ll get to the truth of the matter. Mrs. Havistock, I respect your decision not to single out a member of your family as a possible suspect, but I wish you would reconsider your decision. It might speed things up considerably if you’d be willing to give me a hint—no matter how tiny. I assure you I won’t treat it as proof of guilt, or even as an accusation. It will simply be a lead that will enable me to make a more thorough and efficient investigation. Won’t you name someone you think might have been involved?”

  I was watching her closely. As I made my plea, her heavy features began to sag. It was like putting a wax mask too close to a flame. But in this case it was flesh that was melting, all her features softening and flowing downward. It was a dreadful thing to see because it left her with nothing but sadness and tragedy, eyes dulled, resolve gone, strength fled.

  “No,” she said in a low voice, “I will name no one.”

  So that was that.

  I was in the outside hallway, waiting for the elevator. It arrived, and who should pop out but Natalie Havistock, frenetic as ever. She looked like she was dressed for a masquerade. The item I remember best was a mess jacket of soiled white canvas emblazoned with military shoulder patches.

  “Hey, Dunk!” she said. “Getting much these days?”

  Then she embraced me and lurched up to kiss me on the lips—which I could have done without.

  “What’cha been doing in the morgue?” she asked, and I had to laugh; she was so right.

  “Talking to your mother, Nettie.”

  “Mommy dearest? She’s been in the doldrums lately. Something’s been eating her, and I can guarantee it ain’t a man. Listen, hon, would you like to go to a party tonight?”

  “A party?” I said, startled. “What kind?”

  “A party-party. A bash. An orgy. Down in the East Village. Hundreds of people. Plenty of booze and grass. Maybe a line of coke if you know the right people. How about it?”

  “Will your boyfriend be there?”

  “Akbar El Raschid? That’s what he calls himself. His real name is Sam Jefferson. You’ve heard about him, have you? Hell, yes, he’ll be there. If you don’t like the scene, you can split. Okay?”

  I agreed. She opened her bulging shoulder bag and took out a gold ballpoint pen and pigskin notebook. I wondered what store she had honored with her light-fingered presence. She scribbled the address, tore the sheet away, and tucked it into the pocket of my suede jacket.

  “Try to make it,” she urged. “You’ll have a ball.”

  “What time does it start?”

  “It’ll open up around nine, but these things don’t get moving until midnight. Wear your chastity belt.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said. “You’re really making it sound attractive.”

  “Nah,” she said, laughing. “You won’t have to put out. Unless you want to. Listen, Dunk, you got a couple of extra bucks I could borrow?”

  I thought swiftly. “I’ve got a five you can have.”

  “Five is alive!” she cried. “But twenty is plenty! Pay you back one of these days. Remind me.”

  So I handed over a five-dollar bill, figuring I could always fiddle my expense account and get it back from her father. Then she dashed into the apartment, and I waited patiently for the next elevator.

  What do you wear to a party-party, a bash, an orgy in the East Village? Not basic black with pearls, that’s for sure. Besides, I didn’t own basic black and pearls. So I settled for jeans and a long-sleeved white “bullfighter’s shirt.” It had a ruffled front and was cut low enough to show cleavage—if I’d had any. And my suede jacket, of course.

  I had no idea how to get to that address by bus or subway, so I cabbed down. After all it was part of my investigation; I wanted to get a line on Nettie’s boyfriend. So it was a legitimate business expense—right?

  The cabby wasn’t happy about taking me to that neighborhood.

  “Your life insurance paid up?” he asked.

  Actually, when he dropped me and I looked around, the street didn’t seem menacing at all. Maybe not as clean as West 83rd, but there were no corpses in the gutter, and there were even two scraggly ginkgo trees struggling to survive.

  The party wasn’t hard to find. It was only a little after ten o’clock, but the decibel count was soaring. They were playing a Pink Floyd tape—I think it was “The Dark Side of the Moon”—and the volume was turned up high enough to loosen your fillings.

  There weren’t “hundreds of people” there, but maybe they’d arrive by midnight when “things got moving.” But the top-floor apartment—half-attic and half-loft—was crowded enough. Thirty or forty people, I reckoned, of three colors, five races, and four sexes. It was a sort of zonked-out United Nations.

  Nettie hadn’t exaggerated about the booze and grass available: plenty of both. Plus platters of brownies. But fearing those might be laced with hash, or something stronger, I passed. No one paid any attention to me, which was okay. I poured myself a little vodka in a plastic cup—no ice available—and surreptitiously turned down the volume on the cassette player. No one objected. As a matter of fact, I don’t think anyone noticed. Maybe they were all tone-deaf.

  I searched through the mob for Natalie but couldn’t spot her. I did see a tall, lanky black propped against a wall, regarding the scene with amused contempt. He was wearing a red beret and had a single gold earring. Had to be Akbar El Raschid, née Sam Jefferson. Handsome lad with a little spiky Vandyke. I went up to him.

  “I think we have a mutual acquaintance,” I said.

  “Allah?” he said,
looking at me lazily. Then he straightened away from the wall and inspected me. “Hey, Stretch, you’re a long one. Groupie for the Globe Trotters?”

  “Not quite,” I said. “The Celtics.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Got’cha,” he said. “You’re Dunk—right? Nat Baby told me about you. She says you’re a foxy lady. Pleased to meet you, sweet mama.”

  “Did you steal the Demaretion?” I asked him.

  If he was shocked or insulted, he didn’t reveal it. “Who, what, where?” he said. “Oh, you mean that coin Nat Baby’s papa lost. Nah, I didn’t lift it. It was a coin. If I was to decide on a life of crime, coins would have no interest for me whatsoever. I’d go for the green. Worth more and easier to carry. Coins too heavy. You know us coons—we’re lazy, sweet mama.”

  “This coin is worth a lot of loot.”

  “So?” he said. “You know how many bills you can pack in a little bitty suit satchel? Hey, how come you leaning on me? We just met, didn’t we? Who you—Missy Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I apologize. But I’m getting paid to investigate the robbery. I’m asking everyone.”

  “Say no more. But look at me; I’m pure as the driven snow—right?”

  His smile was hard to resist. He brought me another vodka, offered me a drag on the cigarette he was smoking—which I declined—and began a fascinating commentary on the people roiling about us.

  “Look at them,” he said. “They got to be first of the first. New fads, new fashions, new restaurants, new music. The Trendies, I call them. They can’t stand to be second. Pick it up, try it out, drop it down, go on to something newer. Like pickled kiwi fruit maybe, or steaks grilled over dried cow flops. You dig? They run and run and run. What’s new? What’s the latest? Well, patricide is in. Oh, yeah? Well, then I got to kill my daddy. Next year it’s matricide. There goes Mommy. No verities—that’s their problem.”

  “Where did you graduate from?” I demanded.

  He stared at me a long moment. “I got an MBA from Wharton,” he said. “You going to hold that against me?”

  “No, but why don’t you use it?”

  “I’d rather steal, sweet mama,” he said, flashing the whitest choppers I’ve ever seen.

  He was slender, loose, with a disjointed way of moving—like a marionette with slack strings. He seemed to be two men: flashy Harlem stud and sharp intellectual observer. I didn’t know how seriously to take him. His talk could have been all taunts. Or maybe a mask for his despair. A complex character.

  Then Natalie Havistock came rushing up and grabbed his arm—a proprietress.

  “Hi, Dunk,” she said. “Glad you could make it. This guy giving you his nigger jive? The Wharton MBA and all that? Bullshit! He’s nothing but a field hand. Load that barge. Tote that bale.”

  He showed his teeth again, and cupped one of her heavy breasts. “Nah, honey mine,” he said. “No jive. Dunk here asked me if I pinched your daddy’s coin, and I admitted, yeah I did it. You and me, working together.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Nettie advised. “He’s flying tonight.”

  He was flying? I was flying! You could get a rush just by breathing that choky air. My brain was dancing a gavotte—and not just from the pot fumes. I couldn’t decide how much Akbar El Raschid was putting me on. I thought, despite his indolent manner, he had a razor brain. What Nettie called his nigger jive could have been an act, a devious way of concealing his guilt. I just didn’t know.

  As Nettie had predicted, by midnight the party was whirling, with new recruits arriving every minute. Someone turned up the volume on the cassette player, and my eardrums began to throb. A few people tried to dance, but most of the guests just stood swaying like zombies, smoking or drinking or both, looking about and grinning vacuously.

  I circulated and talked to a few people. One was “into” primal scream, one was “into” Icelandic poetry, and one was “into” high colonics. With luck, I’d never see any of them again.

  It really wasn’t my kind of a do. Some of those guests were so young. When I was their age, I went to parties where we played Post Office and Spin the Bottle. So I decided to take off. I still hadn’t met the host or hostess, and knew that trying to make a polite farewell in that mob was useless.

  I looked around for Natalie and finally spotted her in a corner, pressed up against Akbar El Raschid, gripping him by the lapels of his camouflaged field jacket. It was obvious she was angry about something. I could see she was yelling at him, leaning up to put her face close to his. She appeared furious, but he just looked down at her with his loopy smile.

  It took me forever to find a taxi, and I wasn’t overjoyed at roaming those mostly deserted streets at that hour. But I finally took a chance on a rusted gypsy cab and arrived home safely, so thankful that I overtipped the driver and said, “Have a nice day.” At two in the morning!

  When I unlocked the door, my phone was ringing, and I dashed for it.

  “Hello?” I said breathlessly.

  “Dunk?” Al Georgio said. “Jesus, where the hell have you been? I was ready to call out the Marines. After that letter you got…”

  “It was sweet of you to be concerned,” I said. “I’m all right, Al. I went down to a party in the East Village to meet Natalie Havistock’s boyfriend.”

  “The stud? Have a good time?”

  “Not really.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “First he said he had nothing to do with stealing the Demaretion. Then he said that he and Nettie did it together. I don’t know what to believe.”

  “Yeah, the guy’s a flake.”

  “When I left, they were having a big fat argument. I don’t know about what. Probably doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Al, did you know the Havistocks have commercial cleaners? A man comes in twice a week to vacuum, and once a month a whole crew gives the place a complete going-over.”

  “Yes, I knew that.”

  “Did you check them out?”

  “Of course I checked them out. The second day I was on the case. What do you think—I walk around with my thumb up my—sure, I checked them out. Their alibis stand up.”

  “Just asking,” I said humbly.

  “That’s okay, Dunk; ask anything you like. Now let me get some sleep.”

  “Al, thank you again for checking on me.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly.

  I showered and shampooed to get the smoke fumes out of my hair. After I used my dryer, conditioner, and comb, I took a good look in the mirror. Mrs. Havistock had been right; I had to do something with it.

  I fell into bed, thinking I’d be asleep instantly. But I wasn’t. I kept flopping from side to side. Somehow I was convinced that I had heard something important that day, something significant. But what it was I could not recall. Finally I drifted into troubled slumber. I may have snored—I’ve been told I do that occasionally—but no man was there to give me an elbow in the ribs.

  16

  “NOW YOU MUST CALL me Vanessa,” she said in the kindliest way imaginable, touching the back of my hand with her bloody talons, “and I shall call you Dunk. Isn’t that your nickname?”

  I nodded, doing my best to smile.

  She turned slightly and raised one finger. Immediately a waiter was at her shoulder, bending over deferentially—and also copping a peek down her bodice. She had that effect on every man within a fifty-foot radius: heads turned, chairs scraped and, I suppose, testosterone flowed.

  “I shall have,” she said precisely, “a very, very dry martini, straight up with a single olive. Dunk?”

  “A glass of white wine, please.”

  “Nonsense,” she said firmly. “No one drinks white wine anymore. And a kir royale,” she said to the waiter. He nodded, grinning like an idiot, and scurried away. “You’ll love it,” she assured me. “Champagne and cassis.” She looked around. “Isn’t this a fun place?” she said.

  I agreed
it was, indeed, a fun place.

  What it was, actually, was a fake Tudor pub on Third Avenue near 62nd Street. Beamed ceiling, plastered walls, pseudo-Tiffany lamps, everything burnished wood, gleaming brass, and red velvet. A stage set, with the menu written with chalk on a posted blackboard. Mostly steaks, chops, and things like broiled kidneys and sweetbreads. The prices were horrendous.

  We were two of five women in the crowded joint. All the other customers were male, three-piece-suited money types who kept looking up from their mixed grills to take another long stare at Vanessa Havistock. When two men were lunching together, I figured one of them had to say, “We’ll flip for them, Charlie. Loser gets the beanpole.”

  That morning phone call had been a surprise. I thought Vanessa was just being polite when she had asked, “Can we have lunch?” But no, there she was with an invitation to join her at the “fun place” on Third Avenue. I accepted promptly. I wore an old droopy shirtwaist, knowing there was no way I was ever going to outdress her.

  It took me awhile to understand why she had selected that pub. Then I realized it was practically a men’s locker room, with hearty guffaws, slapped backs, and vile cigars. Our Vanessa wanted to be where the boys were. That was okay; every grown woman should have a hobby, and she just reveled in the attention she attracted.

  She ordered for both of us—naturally; she wouldn’t trust me to know what I wanted. So we had cold sliced beefsteak, very rare, with a salad of arugula and watercress.

  “Lots of protein,” she said, patting my hand. What a physical woman she was. “Very good in the sex department. By the way,” she added, “how is your sex department?”

  “Fabulous,” I said boldly.

  “Glad to hear it,” she said, knowing I was lying in my teeth.

  The kir royale was super, and so were those slices of cold beef, so rare that I wondered if they had even warmed the cow. But Vanessa soon made it clear that this wasn’t to be a purely social occasion.

  “Tell me,” she said casually, drizzling some olive oil over her salad, “how is your investigation coming along?”