The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  But I’m a stubborn dame, and as fear faded, my indignation grew. The bastards! Did they really think I’d cave in that easily? And what was the reason for the whole megillah? Whoever sent them must have felt threatened by my investigation. But why, for God’s sake? I hadn’t learned anything that threatened anyone.

  Unless I had heard something important that I wasn’t aware of.

  I reviewed the melodramatic dialogue with the two amateur Scarfaces. “Just walk away from it,” gold tooth had said. “The coin and everything and everyone connected with it.” No clue there. His warning included all I had done and every person I had met since going to work for Grandby & Sons.

  But then, just before they had scuttled out, gold tooth had said, “So-long, sweet mama.”

  And who had first called me that? Sam Jefferson, aka Akbar El Raschid, Natalie Havistock’s misanthropic boyfriend. But what did I know about him?

  I went into the kitchen to make a call. I was reaching for the phone when suddenly it rang. I jerked my hand away as if I had touched something hot. Has that ever happened to you? Then I took the phone off the hook. Slowly.

  “Hello?” I said cautiously, remembering Dolly LeBaron’s problems.

  “Ms. Bateson?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Lenore Wolfgang’s secretary. Ms. Wolfgang would like to meet you this afternoon for a short time. Would that be convenient?”

  “All right,” I said. “When and where?”

  “Here at our office. Three o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  “Please try to be prompt. Ms. Wolfgang has a very tight schedule today.”

  Screw you, Ms., I thought, slamming down the phone.

  So now I was being hassled by a lawyer’s secretary, in addition to being muscled by goons in the vestibule of my home, getting a drop-dead letter in the mail, and being saddled with a mysterious package by the pea-brained mistress of a murdered bisexual lecher.

  I think it was at that precise moment that, wrathful and tired of being pushed around, I decided no more Ms. Nice. I wasn’t going to pass along any information to Al Georgio or Jack Smack. Fine, upstanding lads, but they weren’t the ones being leaned on, and I had enough chutzpah to think I could take care of myself, solve my own problems, and to hell with all men, friends and enemies alike.

  So, of course, the next thing I did was to make a call to a man: Hobart Juliana at Grandby’s, asking for a favor.

  “Hobie,” I said, “remember your telling me that Orson Vanwinkle had this, ah, certain predilection?”

  “Predilection?” he said, giggling. “What a sensitive way of putting it! Yes, I’d say he had a predilection.”

  “Is there any way you can find out if he had someone special? A regular?”

  Short pause, then: “Is it important, Dunk?”

  “It is to me.”

  “Then I’ll try, dear. No guarantees. I’ll make some phone calls. Will you be in today?”

  “I have to go out this afternoon, but if you learn anything—or nothing—will you call me tonight?”

  “Of course. Either way.”

  “You’re a darling.”

  “I agree,” he said. “And let’s never eat mushburgers again.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” I said.

  Then I went back to my spiral notebook, bringing it up-to-date with all the happenings of that crazy day. By the time I finished jotting my notes, it was too late for my planned trip to the American Numismatic Society. So I had an endive salad with watercress and cherry tomatoes, and then sallied forth to keep my appointment with attorney Lenore Wolfgang. God forbid I should be late; her secretary would have the fantods.

  What a bummer of a day it was: a drizzle that was half steam and a breeze that smelled like it was coming from some giant exhaust pipe. I wore a plastic raincoat, which was like being swaddled in cotton batting. I finally got a cab going downtown on Broadway, and the driver was playing a Willie Nelson tape on his portable. That lifted my spirits a little—but not enough.

  Lenore Wolfgang had her office in one of those hunks of masonry on Fifth Avenue just north of 42nd Street: a big, brutal building. When you looked up, you had the feeling it might topple onto you at any moment. I searched the lobby directory and eventually found her listing: Getzer, Stubbs & Wolfgang. I rode up to the 36th floor in a bronze elevator that had been sprayed with a piny deodorant that was supposed to make you think you were in the north woods. Fat chance.

  I got in to see her right away, which was a surprise; I was certain she’d keep me waiting. She shook my hand with the grip of a wrestler, then got me seated in a leather club chair in front of her clumpy oak desk. She sat in a swivel chair and parked her heavy cordovan brogues atop the desk. She had a wad of chewing gum stuck to the sole of her left shoe, but I didn’t mention it.

  She was wearing a dark flannel suit, man-styled shirt with a wide ribbon tied in a bow at the neck. No jewelry. Minimal makeup. The face was big, fleshy, and a little overpowering. A very strong, hard woman. As tall as I, but blockier. If I was a basketball player, she was a linebacker for the Steelers. And if she smoked cigars, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.

  “I understand the Havistocks have hired you to investigate the theft of the Demaretion,” she started.

  I didn’t know if that was a statement or a question, so I said nothing.

  “I advised against it,” she said sternly, staring at me. “I think criminal investigations are best left to the professionals, don’t you?”

  “In most cases,” I agreed. “But in this one, the professionals seem to agree that a member of the family is involved. The Havistocks are aware of it, and I’m sure it’s upset them. They wanted a personal representative looking into it.”

  She stirred restlessly, recrossing her ankles and leaning forward to tug her flannel skirt over her lumpy knees.

  “Well…” she said finally, “I don’t suppose it can do any great harm. Have you discovered anything?”

  “No,” I said. “Nothing important. And the murder of Orson Vanwinkle complicates matters.”

  “How so?” she said sharply. “You think he stole the coin?”

  “It’s possible.”

  She shook her head. “Can’t see it,” she said. “He was a vain, weak man with no self-discipline whatsoever. But I can’t see him as a common thief. Defrauding old widows would be more his style.”

  A rather harsh opinion, I thought, of a homicide victim. But then he couldn’t sue for slander, could he?

  “I would appreciate it,” she continued, “if you would keep me informed on the progress of your investigation. Weekly reports, say.”

  She was backed by a wall of thick law books. All the furniture in her office was massive. Colors were muted, brass shined, surfaces dusted. Everything bespoke the solidity and majesty of the law. But I was not about to let her muscle me. I had enough of that in the vestibule a few hours ago.

  “I don’t think that would be wise,” I said evenly. “I was employed by the Havistocks. I promised them periodic progress reports. Whatever they wish to tell you is up to them.”

  She took it well, merely nodding with no change of expression. “My only reason for asking,” she said mildly, “is that Archibald Havistock is my client, and naturally I want to protect his interests.”

  “Naturally,” I said. “How long has Mr. Havistock been with you, Miss Wolfgang?”

  “Oh,” she said, “about five years now.” Then she looked at me strangely. “Why do you ask that?”

  I shrugged. “No particular reason. Just an idle question.”

  She frowned, took her feet off the desk, and stood up. I rose also, figuring this incomprehensible interview was at an end. But then she said something that gave me a clue to the reason she had called me in.

  “By the way,” she said casually, “in addition to my office here and my private apartment, a co-op, I also rent a small place on East Sixty-fifth Street for the convenience of out-
of-town clients and visiting friends. This morning I received a call from the owner of the building saying he had been contacted by a detective from the New York Police Department who asked questions about the apartment, who leased it, who occupied it, and so forth. Do you know anything about that?”

  When I played high school basketball, I had always been better on defense than offense.

  “Not a thing,” I said. “It’s all news to me. But I suppose that since the murder of Vanwinkle they’re investigating everyone who knew him.”

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I suppose they are. Thank you for coming in, Miss Bateson. I hope to see you again soon.”

  I got that bone-crusher grip again. When I went down to the street, the drizzle was thickening, and there was no way I was going to get a cab on Fifth Avenue. So I plodded over to Eighth on 42nd Street—not exactly a scenic wonderland.

  Traffic was murder, but on that slow ride home in a taxi that seemed to have been stripped of springs and shock absorbers, I had time to think about the interview with Lenore Wolfgang.

  She was obviously worried about the brownstone apartment on East 65th. But her concern could be completely innocent. Who wants the cops coming around and asking questions? On the other hand, she had gone into unnecessary detail to explain why she leased living quarters in addition to her primary residence.

  It was not until I was inside my own primary (and only) residence, the door locked, bolted, and chained, that I recalled another little goody from the conversation. I dug out my notebook to verify what I was thinking.

  Wolfgang said that Archibald Havistock had been her client for about five years. And Orson Vanwinkle had been Archibald’s private secretary for about five years, during which he started throwing simoleons around like the money cow would never go dry. And Archibald had been selling off coins in his collection for about five years. Al Georgio had told me detectives don’t believe in coincidences. So what cataclysmic event five years ago triggered all the activity?

  I’ve mentioned that I had a wild idea of what had been and was going on, an outrageous notion I could hardly believe myself and which I certainly couldn’t prove or even describe. But this latest intelligence from Lenore Wolfgang made the cheese more binding. Things were beginning to fit.

  I have no clear recollection of what I did for the remainder of that miserable day. I know Hobie Juliana called and said he hadn’t been able to discover anything specific about Orson Vanwinkle’s gay contacts, but would keep trying. And both Al Georgio and Jack Smack called, just to say hello. They didn’t tell me anything, and I didn’t tell them anything. Still, it was nice of them to check to see if I was still alive.

  By evening it was pouring outside, so I ate in. I forget what it was—nothing memorable. Probably scrambled eggs or Cup-a-Soup: something like that. I tried watching television, but before I knew it, I was flipping pages of my notebook again, the TV set still flickering while I tried to make sense of all those random scribbles.

  I went to bed early, thanking God I was inside a locked, bolted, and chained cage. The animals were all outside, prowling. I fell asleep listening to the gush of rain. It was a dreamless sleep. Granted only to the innocent and pure of heart. That’s me. Damn it.

  21

  THE NEXT MORNING MY phone kept ringing off the hook. Four calls before ten o’clock: a new world’s record—for me at least. I was dazzled by this unexpected popularity, remembering when I had gone a week or two without a single call, and then, when I did get one, it was some guy trying to sell me an encyclopedia of the mammals of North America.

  The first came from Roberta Minchen, all gush and giggles. She thought it would be fun if we had lunch at the Russian Tea Room at 12:30, and could I possibly make it?

  If this was going to be another attempt to recruit me into her cast of bare-ass TV stars, I wanted no part of it. But then I reflected a free lunch was not to be scorned, and what could happen over vodka and blintzes? Besides, maybe I could get something new out of her. So I accepted.

  The second call was from Hobie Juliana.

  “Got something for you, Dunk,” he said. “I don’t know how accurate it is, but I thought I’d pass it along anyway. The late, unlamented Orson Vanwinkle, while alive, was having a thing with a black stud, a guy who went by one of those crazy Arabian names.”

  “Oh-oh,” I said.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Hobie, it couldn’t have been Akbar El Raschid, could it?”

  “That sounds like it. Wears a single gold earring.”

  “And a red beret,” I said.

  “My God, Dunk, do you know him?”

  “I think I’ve met the gentleman. Hobie, I just can’t believe it. Orson and Akbar have got to be the oddest of all odd couples.”

  “Well, you never know,” he said judiciously. “I told you Vanwinkle was throwing money around. That might have had something to do with it.”

  “Probably,” I agreed. “Thank you so much for your help, dear.”

  “One of these days will you tell me what this is all about?”

  “When I find out,” I promised, “you’ll be the first to know.”

  After we hung up, I pondered the implications of what I had just heard. Could Vanwinkle have been financing Akbar’s merry little band of would-be revolutionaries? And if so, was Natalie Havistock aware of her boyfriend’s liaison with her cousin?

  Every time I learned something new, instead of diminishing the puzzle, it added to it. The whole thing grew and grew, like a blob that might eventually take over the world. Sighing, I added this latest intelligence to my notebook, reflecting that if things continued the way they were going, I might have to start Volume II.

  The third call was one I never expected to get—from Felicia Dodat at Grandby’s. She was all chirpy charm, couldn’t have been sweeter, and carried on like a maniac about how they all missed me and couldn’t wait until I returned. Uh-huh.

  In fact, she went on, she and Mr. Grandby and attorney Lemuel Whattsworth thought it might be “productive” if I stopped by that afternoon, just for an “informal chat” to review my “situation.”

  And what situation is that? I wanted to ask—but didn’t. I told her I had a lunch date and couldn’t possibly meet her before three o’clock. She said that would be just fine, and she was looking forward to seeing me.

  “Have you found a man yet, Dunk?” she asked, her snideness surfacing.

  “Two of them,” I told her, and hung up.

  I knew exactly why the powers that be at Grandby & Sons wanted to have an “informal chat.” They knew I was working for the Havistocks and wanted to pump me, find out what I had discovered. After all, Grandby’s was still on the hook for the Demaretion, and the insurance company was in no hurry to pay off. I didn’t imagine that state of affairs was doing god’s hemorrhoids any good.

  The final call of the morning was from Vanessa Havistock with another luncheon invitation. If this kept up I’d need a social secretary.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, “but I already have a date for lunch.”

  “With a man, I hope,” she said lightly.

  Then, like an idiot, I told her: “No, as a matter of fact, it’s with your sister-in-law, Roberta Minchen.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful,” she said immediately. “I’ll give Bobbi a call and ask if I can join you. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Won’t it be hilarious,” she said. “We’ll have a real hen party.”

  I didn’t know if she was being ironic or not. With her, it was hard to tell.

  “Now then,” she continued, “another thing … Luther and I are having a very informal buffet dinner next Tuesday night, and we’d like so much to have you. Do you think you can make it?”

  I was tempted to say, “Let me take a look at my appointment calendar.” But I didn’t have the gall. “Yes,” I said, “I’d like that. Thank you very much.”

  “Lots of yummy food
,” she said. “Plenty to drink, and the handsomest men in Manhattan. I think you’ll have a ball.” She paused a moment, then: “Listen, Dunk, I have a wonderful idea. I’m on my way to Vecchio’s on Madison Avenue to buy some new rags for the party; Could you meet me there at, say, eleven o’clock, and we’ll pick out something wicked and scrumptious for me. We’ll leave in plenty of time for lunch. How does that sound?”

  Why did I have the feeling I was being manipulated?

  “Sounds fine,” I said faintly. “I’m supposed to meet Roberta at the Russian Tea Room at twelve-thirty.”

  “No problem,” she said. “It won’t take me that long to pick out something. And I’d really like to get your opinion. I trust your taste.”

  Bullshit!

  Vecchio’s was the kind of place where they took a good look at you through the plate glass door before they unlocked and allowed you to enter and blow a wad. It was an Italian boutique, Milanese, and if you could find a blouse under $600 or a dress under $2,000, it had to be last year’s styles.

  The doorman probably would have taken one look at my denim sack and turned away in horror, but I had walked over through Central Park, and arrived just as Vanessa was climbing out of a cab with a flash of bare thigh. The guard took one look at her and practically tore the door off its hinges.

  Inside, an Adonis in a black silk suit came running forward to smother her hands with kisses. “Signora!” he kept crying. “Signora!”

  “Down, Carlo, down,” Vanessa said, laughing. Then she introduced me.

  “Signorina,” he said, bowing. I didn’t even get an exclamation point.

  That was some lush joint. Polished marble floors, Corinthian columns, subdued lighting, and sinfully luxurious chairs and couches covered with lemony cowhide. Not a garment in sight. I gathered you told them what you were interested in, and they whisked things out of an inner stockroom to display for the signora’s pleasure.