The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Hey, listen,” he said, “you don’t have to tell me anything.”

  “It’s about the Demaretion. That case means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, hell yes. A big theft. Important people. Lots of publicity. It would look good in my jacket if I broke it. Maybe a promotion. Especially now that Vanwinkle’s murder is involved.”

  I sighed. “Then I think I better tell you…”

  I described my evening with Roberta and Ross Minchen, their party, guests, and the torrid video-cassettes. Then I told him about my lunch with Vanessa Havistock, and how she claimed an appointment with her dentist, but then had scurried to a brownstone on East 65th Street where there was an apartment in the name of L. Wolfgang.

  “Maybe Lenore Wolfgang,” I said. “Archibald Havistock’s attorney. You met her at their place. Al, I don’t know what all this means—if it means anything.”

  He had listened closely, never interrupting, and when I finished, he didn’t say something stupid, like, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Instead, he said, “You’re becoming one hell of a snoop, Dunk.”

  Then he said the porn party at the Minchens was interesting, but not something he really wanted to get involved with.

  “Pornography in the privacy of your own home is in a kind of gray area,” he said. “We’d never get a conviction unless they’re peddling the stuff, which I doubt. Still, it’s good to know. I might be able to use it as a club one of these days. About Vanessa and the brownstone—now that is interesting. You didn’t happen to get the number of the building, did you?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said, ashamed. “I’m not such a supersleuth after all.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “You’re super in other ways. More important ways. Maybe in the next day or so you’ll take a ride with me and point out the building. Okay? Then I’ll find out if L. Wolfgang really is Havistock’s attorney, and how long she’s lived there, and what her connection is with Vanessa, and so forth and so on. It’s a brand-new lead, and a good one. Thank you, Dunk.”

  “You’ll let me work with you on this?” I asked anxiously.

  “You better believe it,” he said, turning to take me into his arms. “I’m not going to let you go now.”

  He was capable and I was eager, so we had an encore. Later we slept like babies. Well…maybe not exactly like babies. I heartily approve of twosies in one bed. I just hope I didn’t snore.

  18

  THE NEXT MORNING—AL gone before I awoke—I looked in the mirror and decided that loving is good for the complexion. I don’t mean I was radiant or anything like that, but I really did think that some tiny lines and wrinkles that had been worrying me had disappeared. Do you think sex is a kind of vanishing cream?

  I had my usual skimpy breakfast and read every word in the Times about the murder of Orson Vanwinkle. It was a small front-page story with runover, and it didn’t tell me any more than I already knew. Still, seeing it all in cold print was a shocker, and I remembered that poor idiot asking, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

  Just as Al Georgio had warned, homicide detectives came knocking at my door. Two of them, one skinny, one fat—like Laurel and Hardy. I answered all their questions as honestly as I could, but to tell you the truth, they didn’t seem too interested. They were going through the routine, but I got the feeling I had already been eliminated as a possible suspect. For which I was thankful.

  While they were in my apartment (I gave them coffee), Jack Smack phoned, but I told him I was busy and would call him back. After the detectives left, I called Jack, but his line was busy. I finally got through to him a little after noon.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “About Vanwinkle getting chilled. It ties in with the Demaretion—right?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” I said, “but I guess it does. You think so?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “No doubt about it. Why else would anyone knock off a nothing like that?”

  I was determined to play no favorites, and whatever I had told Al Georgio I wanted Jack to know. I swear that at that point in time—where did I learn that phrase!—I had no preference.

  “Jack,” I said, “I have some things to tell you. Shall I give it to you now, over the phone, or…?”

  “No,” he said promptly, “not on the phone. Let me look at my pad … How’s about dinner late tonight?”

  “No,” I said, just as promptly. I wasn’t about to become a shuttlecock—you should excuse the expression. “I’m busy tonight.”

  “All right,” he said equably. “Then how’s about the Sacred Cow for cocktails? Around five o’clock. It’s on West Seventy-second, not too far from where you live.”

  “Why there?”

  “I like the place,” he said. “Meet you there at five.”

  He hung up. I stared at the phone. He said and I did. I wasn’t certain I liked that.

  But other things happened that afternoon. I got a call from Enoch Wottle—dear old Enoch—and he didn’t even reverse the charges.

  “Dunk, love,” he said, “how are you?”

  “Oh, Enoch, I don’t know how I am.”

  “I can understand,” he said. “I read in the paper and heard on the TV. Orson Vanwinkle is murdered, who was personal secretary to Archibald Havistock, who owned the Demaretion that was stolen. I don’t like that.”

  “I don’t like it either, Enoch.”

  “Please, Dunk,” he said, “don’t get involved.”

  “Enoch, I am involved. I can’t get out of it now.”

  He blew out his breath. “What a mess,” he said. “Well, maybe what I have heard will help. This morning—it is still morning out here—no more than an hour ago—I got a phone call from an old friend in Rotterdam. We have done business together, and I trust him. He is one of the dealers I contacted when you asked me to see what I could find out about a Demaretion being offered for sale. This Rotterdam man said he had a call from a dealer in Beirut. I have heard of this Beirut goniff. Very, very shady. He buys from grave robbers. His coins have no provenance at all. But he does very well selling to private collectors. Anyway, according to my Rotterdam friend, this Beirut man asked if he’d be interested in a Demaretion in Extremely Fine condition.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Yes, that was my reaction. How often does a Demaretion come on the market? Of course it could always be a new discovery, a piece found in a hoard in that part of the world. But the coincidence is too much. A Demaretion disappears in New York, and a Demaretion shows up in Beirut. Fascinating—no?”

  “Fascinating, yes,” I said. “Enoch, I hate to ask you for more favors—you’ve been so kind to me—but could you follow up on this? Try to find out if the Beirut dealer actually has the coin.”

  “I will do my best,” he said. “Dunk, I must tell you I am enjoying this. It is very, uh, romantic. But please, I beg you, do not put yourself in danger. The people mixed up in this are not nice.”

  “I know that, Enoch,” I said, “and I promise not to do anything foolish.”

  “Good,” he said. “I love you, and I miss you.”

  Another man who missed me! It made my day. After I got off the line with Enoch, I did something I should have done before: I looked up L. Wolfgang on East 65th Street in the Manhattan telephone directory. No such animal. But there were two listings for Lenore Wolfgang, a residence on East 91st Street, and a business address on lower Fifth Avenue.

  Just to make sure, I called Information and asked for the number of L. Wolfgang on East 65th Street. The operator told me sorry, it was an unlisted number. So that was that. Maybe Al Georgio could find out.

  I entered what Enoch Wottle had told me about the Beirut dealer and the business about L. Wolfgang’s unlisted number in my notebook. Then I sat back and stared at what I had written. Nothing. None of it came together. I didn’t even have a crazy idea.

  I was only a few minutes late getting to the Sacred Cow on West 72nd Street, but Jack Smack wa
s already at the bar, working on a double vodka. Handsomest man in the place, without a doubt. He gave me a big abrazo, a kiss on the cheek, and held my hand. So maybe it wasn’t just a one-night stand after all.

  I ordered a white wine, despite Vanessa Havistock telling me it was unchic. Then I started babbling. I told Jack about Ruby Querita’s religious mania and about Vanessa’s visit to that East 65th Street brownstone with an apartment occupied by L. Wolfgang.

  When I finished, Jack looked at me and shook his head in wonder. “You’re a dynamite lady,” he said. “Did you tell Al Georgio all this?”

  I nodded.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I already knew about Ruby’s craziness, but what do you think the business about Vanessa means?”

  “I have no idea. Absolutely none.”

  “I guess Al is going to check into that Sixty-fifth Street building.”

  “I imagine he will.”

  “Oh, he will,” Smack assured me. “He’s very thorough. A real professional.”

  “Jack,” I said, “did your company get another letter from the crook?”

  “No,” he said, “and that’s what worries us. We should have had a reply by now to the notice we put in the paper. Maybe the guy who’s writing us really does have the coin, but isn’t satisfied with our offer and doesn’t want to haggle. Maybe he’s trying to peddle it somewhere else.”

  “Beirut,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Beirut,” I repeated, and then told him about Enoch Wottle and his call to me that afternoon. Jack listened carefully, frowning.

  “It just doesn’t sound right,” he said. “It’s like two different guys are trying to sell the same merchandise. I mean, we were dealing with a man in New York—right? We could have come to terms; he had to know that. But no, he suddenly offers the Demaretion to a back-alley dealer in Lebanon. It doesn’t make sense, Dunk.”

  “I agree; it doesn’t.”

  He looked at me with a queer expression, then suddenly snapped his fingers. “Unless,” he said, “unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “When did your friend in Arizona hear from his pal in Rotterdam?”

  “This morning. An hour before he phoned me.”

  “And when did the Rotterdam man get the call from the Beirut dealer?”

  “Enoch didn’t say; but I had the feeling it was very recently, and he called Enoch immediately.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, looking at me with a twisted grin, “I’ll bet it was recently. I’ll bet it was after Orson Vanwinkle got dusted.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “How does this scenario sound: Orson Vanwinkle cops the coin. He’s been the guy dealing with us, and he’s the guy who sent you the drop-dead letter. But then Orson gets killed. Now someone else has the coin. And he’s dealing with Beirut. Does that listen?”

  “Button, button,” I recited, “who’s got the button?”

  “Something like that. What do you think?”

  “It could have happened like that,” I said, “except there’s no way Orson could have switched display case thirteen.”

  “Sure there is,” Jack argued. “Archibald was out of the library for a few minutes when Vanwinkle brought in the armored car guards. Orson could have made the switch right then.”

  “Maybe,” I acknowledged, “but how could Orson have known that Mr. Havistock would be absent? That’s where it falls apart, Jack.”

  “Shit,” he said disgustedly, “you’re right. Well, back to the old drawing board. Let’s have one more drink, Dunk, and then I’ve got to run.”

  “Heavy date tonight?” I said casually, hating myself for asking it.

  “Not so heavy,” he said. “Dolly LeBaron—Vanwinkle’s sleep-in girlfriend. She’s got herself an agent, and she’s trying to sell her story to the tabloids. Her life with the murdered socialite—complete with intimate photos. Hot stuff. Isn’t that beautiful?”

  “Beautiful,” I said. “Al called her a boop-boop-a-doop girl.”

  “Al’s right,” he said. “She looks like she’s ready to break into a Charleston at any minute.”

  I got home, alone, about an hour later. Depressed. I told myself I was not, absolutely not jealous of Dolly LeBaron because Jack Smack was taking her to dinner. After all, hadn’t he asked me first? Still…

  I wasn’t hungry—too many salted peanuts at the Sacred Cow—so I went back to my spiral notebook, rereading everything I had written and trying to make some sense out of it. Hopeless. Then I started thinking about Jack Smack’s theory: two thieves involved. One steals the Demaretion and starts dealing with the insurance company. Then someone else gets possession of the coin and calls a disreputable Lebanese coin dealer for quick cash.

  It sounded right, except that I still didn’t think Orson Vanwinkle was the original crook. My mind was boggled. I was saved from complete mental collapse by a brief phone call from Al Georgio.

  “Just got a minute,” he said, “but I wanted you to know that last night was the best thing that’s happened to me in God knows how long, and I thank you.”

  “Al,” I said, “you don’t have to—”

  “Got to run,” he said. “We’re all jammed up here. Now they say Vanwinkle’s apartment was tossed.”

  “Tossed?”

  “Searched. Very cleverly done. But someone was looking for something.”

  “The Demaretion?”

  “Could be.”

  “Al, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. This morning I got a call from—”

  “Phone you early tomorrow,” he said, and hung up.

  So there I was, bereft again. I thought of people I might call and yell, “Help!” But I got over that mood soon enough—I’m really an up person—and spent the rest of the evening just schlumpfing around, which is what I call doing unnecessary chores to keep busy, like changing the bedding, wiping out the ashtrays, and taking up the hem on a denim shirt. Swell stuff like that.

  But I was thinking!

  Mostly about Al’s news that Vanwinkle’s apartment had been tossed. That tied in with Jack Smack’s theory that two thieves had been involved. Orson had been the first. Then someone had searched for and perhaps found the Demaretion.

  Someone who was the second thief, and someone who was a murderer.

  19

  AL GEORGIO WAS TRUE to his word and called me early in the morning—so early that I was still asleep.

  “Oh, God,” he said when he heard my grumpy voice, “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Sorry, Dunk. Want me to call you back?”

  “No, no. I’m wide awake now.”

  “How many hours did you sleep?”

  “About seven.”

  “You’re lucky,” he said. “I got three. I’m running on black coffee and bennies. Listen, Dunk, I’m going to be tied up all day, but there’s a favor I’d like to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Never say that to a cop. I’m not going to be able to drive you to East Sixty-fifth Street to get the number of that brownstone Vanessa Havistock went into—the one with the apartment rented by L. Wolfgang. Do you think you could get over there today, get the number, and give me a call? Leave a message if I’m not in. After I have the number of the building I’ll be able to start checking records: who owns it, who leases the apartments, and all that jazz. Will you do it?”

  “Of course, Al. I should have gotten the number when I was there. It was stupid of me to forget.”

  “Stupid you ain’t. Dunk, last night you said you had something to tell me.”

  So once again I related the story of Enoch Wottle’s telephone call from Arizona, the friend in Rotterdam, and the Beirut coin dealer who was trying to hawk a Demaretion.

  “I’ll be damned,” Al said when I had finished. “This thing is getting as fucked-up as a Chinese fire drill—please excuse the language.”

  “I’ve heard worse,” I said.

  “Did
you tell Jack Smack about this Enoch Wottle’s call?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  I told him about Jack’s theory of there being two thieves—Orson Vanwinkle stealing the coin originally, then a second person getting possession of it and trying to peddle it in Beirut.

  “The only trouble with it,” I said, “is that I can’t see how Orson could have switched display cases.”

  “I agree,” Al said.

  “But you did tell me his apartment had been searched.”

  “Looks like it, but there’s no guarantee someone was hunting for the Demaretion. But they were looking for something. I told you there was about two thousand in cash in his bedside table, and that apparently wasn’t touched.”

  “How did you find out the apartment had been searched?”

  “Vanwinkle’s little blond flapper told us. She slept over, usually on weekends, and knew where everything was kept. She swears the place was tossed.”

  “Al, I’d like to talk to her. Do you think I could?”

  “Why not? She’s not under arrest or being held as a material witness. Hell yes, talk to her; maybe you can get something that we missed. Give her a call. Her name’s Dolly LeBaron, and she’s in the book. Lives on East Sixty-sixth Street.”

  “East Sixty-sixth?”

  “That’s right. Just around the block from L. Wolfgang’s brownstone. Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, “interesting. Coincidence?”

  “In my business,” he said, “you learn not to believe in coincidences. See what you can find out, Dunk. Talk to you later.”

  He had a habit of hanging up abruptly without saying goodbye. But that was all right. At least he didn’t say, “Have a nice day.”

  I showered, shaved my legs, dressed, and went out to buy the Times and a croissant. It was about 10:30 when I called Dolly LeBaron. Her “Hello?” was high-pitched and breathy, a little girl’s voice.

  I stated my name and explained that I was a friend of the Havistock family, had met Orson Vanwinkle several times, and wanted to express my condolences to her on his untimely demise.