Seventh Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “You sure threw me a curveball,” Trevalyan said aggrievedly. “That Stuttgart Precious Metals, the dump on West Fifty-fourth Street, I had it looked up by a computer guy in the property and casualty department.”

  “And?”

  “Like you said, Stuttgart leases. The lease was signed about two years ago and runs for five years with an option to renew on the same terms.”

  “Who owns the building and land?”

  “An outfit called Spondex Realty Corporation.”

  “Never heard of them,” Dora said. “Did you?”

  “Will you just shut up for a minute,” Trevalyan said wrathfully, “and let me finish. The computer whiz in property ran a trace on Spondex and found out it’s owned by R. L. Jessup Investments, another corporation. Now the computer guy got interested because it began to smell. You know when there’s a paper trail like that, someone’s trying to cover up. Anyway, the ownership of the property on West Fifty-fourth was traced back through four corporations and finally came to rest at a holding company that owns real estate in LA and New York, a shipping line, a boutique in Palm Beach, a big coffee plantation in Colombia, a ranch in Wyoming, and God knows what else.”

  “What’s the name of the holding company?”

  “It’s called Rabl Enterprises, Ltd. And this will kill you: It’s registered in Luxembourg. Isn’t that where Stuttgart’s parent company is registered?”

  “You got it, Mike,” Dora said. “And it is beginning to smell. Who’s the owner of Rabl Enterprises?”

  “It’s set up as a limited corporation. Maybe a dozen shareholders. It’s not listed on any exchange. The chairman of the board, president, and chief executive officer is a guy named Ramon Schnabl. I guess that’s where they got the name of the holding company: first two letters of his first name and last two letters of his last name. We’ve gone through all our data bases, but there’s nothing on Ramon Schnabl.”

  “All right, Mike. Thanks for your help. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Does that mean we’ll be able to deep-six the Starrett insurance claim?”

  “I don’t know what it means,” Dora said worriedly, “if anything.”

  “Well, watch your tail, kiddo. That chain of corporate ownership makes me suspect someone may be playing hardball. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Why, Mike,” Dora said, “you’re concerned about me. How sweet!”

  “Ahh, go to hell,” he said gruffly, and hung up.

  Dora rushed to her spiral notebook and jotted down all the names she could recall from that telephone conversation. Then she called Detective John Wenden, but he was in a meeting and not available. She left a message and went back to her notebook, scrawling a condensed version of everything she had learned from Gregor Pinchik that morning. She was still scribbling when the phone rang and she grabbed it up.

  “Hiya, Red,” Wenden said. “I only got a few minutes. What’s happening?”

  “I’ll make it fast,” Dora said, and told him about her visit to Stuttgart Precious Metals on West 54th Street, and how the Company had run a computer search to discover who owned the property and, after following a complex corporate trail, had come up with the name of a holding company registered in Luxembourg,

  “Does the name Ramon Schnabl mean anything to you?” Dora asked.

  There was no reply.

  “John?” Dora said. “Are you there?”

  “Listen,” Wenden said, his voice suddenly urgent, “do me a favor, will you? Don’t do another thing about Starrett’s gold trading. Not a thing, you understand? Don’t go back to that place on West Fifty-fourth. Don’t ask any more questions about it. Don’t even mention Starrett’s gold trading to anyone until I get back to you. Okay? Will you promise to lay off until I call?”

  “John, is this important?”

  “Is life important? Will you promise not to make a move until you hear from me?”

  “All right,” Dora said faintly. “If you say so.”

  “I love you, Red,” Wenden said.

  39

  DESPITE WHAT TURNER HAD said, Helene Pierce equated wealth with intelligence. Smart people made big money; that was a given. Now, seated in the colorless living room of Ramon Schnabl’s minimalist apartment, she stared at his dark glasses and wondered what secrets those cheaters concealed. This little man in his tight, shiny white suit could pass as a Palermo pimp, but he was, she knew, a Croesus who would never be listed in the Forbes 400.

  “What a pleasure to see you again, dear,” he said in his bloodless voice. “I was surprised—delighted but surprised to hear from you. Does Turner know you’re here?”

  The question was so sudden and sharp that Helene was startled. “No,” she said, “he doesn’t. I thought it best not to tell him.”

  Schnabl nodded. “I certainly shan’t,” he said, no hint of humor in his tone. “You wish to discuss something concerning Turner?”

  “And you,” Helene said.

  He waited, patient and silent, sipping his chilled Evian water.

  “You know, of course,” she said, wishing desperately for a cigarette, “that Turner is involved with Felicia Starrett.”

  “I am aware of their relationship.”

  “I’m afraid it may be a problem,” Helene said.

  “A problem? Felicia or Turner?”

  “Both. She is totally hooked, and trying to control her is beginning to affect Turner’s judgment. And not only his judgment but his personality, even his physical appearance. To put it bluntly, Ramon, the man is falling apart.”

  “I am extremely sorry to hear that, dear. I wish only the best for Turner, just as I do for you. Are you suggesting that his behavior is becoming somewhat, ah, erratic?”

  “It’s come to that,” Helene said, lifting her chin but never taking her stare away from those tinted glasses. “But I think Felicia is the more immediate danger. She’s irrational. She trashed Turner’s apartment. And when she crashes, she’s completely psychotic.”

  “What a shame,” the little man said, sighing. “The price we pay for our pleasures. Well, this is disquieting news, dear. Have you any suggestions as to how this distressing situation may be remedied?”

  Helene took a deep breath. “Did you know Clayton Starrett is getting a divorce?”

  “I have heard something to that effect.”

  “He wants to marry me when his divorce is final.”

  Schnabl showed no surprise. “I see. And do you wish to marry him?”

  “Yes. I mention this personal matter only to convince you that if you should decide to eliminate Turner … from your plans,” she added quickly. “If you should decide to eliminate Turner from your plans, I wanted you to know that it need not affect the Starrett deal. I can control Clayton.”

  “And why should I want to, as you say, eliminate Turner?”

  “Because he is going through a very bad time with Felicia. It has changed him. He is not the man he was six months ago, or even six weeks ago. He is no longer dependable. And, of course, Felicia represents an even greater threat. There is simply no telling what that insane woman might do. Another factor you may wish to consider: If Turner was out of the picture, you would save his share of the Starrett take. I assure you I have no desire to inherit it. Clayton is making quite enough for the two of us.”

  “You are not only a lovely woman, dear, but you are wonderfully shrewd. I like that.”

  Helene started to speak, but Schnabl held up a hand to silence her. He turned his blank stare toward the bleached oryx skull hanging above the cold fireplace. They sat without speaking for a few moments.

  “I think not,” Ramon said finally, turning his head toward Helene again. “The timing is not right. As you may or may not know, Turner is presently engaged in setting up an operation in New Orleans similar to the Starrett arrangement. It is important to me that this project be completed and brought on-line. Then we have discussed a third organization headquartered in Tucson, Arizona, which is rapidly becoming an importa
nt distribution center. No, my dear, I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

  “It wasn’t a request,” Helene said stonily. “It was merely a suggestion I thought would be to your benefit.”

  “And yours, too, of course,” Schnabl said. “I do appreciate your concern, and I shall certainly keep a close watch on Turner’s behavior. If, as you say, he has become undependable, then I may be forced to revise my decision. But for the time being, I intend to take no action. Sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Helene said. She stood and gathered up hat, gloves, purse, coat. “I just thought you should be aware of the true situation so you might act in your own best interest.”

  Finally, finally, he smiled: a horrible grimace, a death’s-head grin. “We all act in our own best interest, dear. It’s the mark of a civilized man. And woman,” he added, staring at her.

  She cabbed home to her apartment, furious but controlling it because she had already prepared a fallback scenario in case Schnabl couldn’t be manipulated. He couldn’t, and now she would have to do it herself. She was not daunted by that prospect.

  Her spirits rose when the concierge handed her a package that had just been delivered by a messenger from Starrett Fine Jewelry. Helene hugged it to her breast in the elevator; she knew what it contained.

  That night she and Clayton were going to attend a charity dinner-dance at the Waldorf, the first time they would be out in public together. Helene had bought a new evening gown: a strapless sheath of lapis-hued sequins. And Clayton had promised to lend her a necklace from Starrett’s estate jewelry department.

  “Remember, it’s only a loan,” he had said, “for one night. It has to be returned to the store—unless some woman at the party will kill for it and can come up with the two million five it costs. In which case you get a commission.”

  “I understand,” Helene said.

  She tore open the package with trembling hands, lifted the lid of the velvet case, caught her breath. It was a magnificent strand of ten splendid sapphires, each gem set in a pyramid of diamonds, the pyramids linked with 18K gold. Helene guessed the total sapphire weight at about 75 cts. and the diamonds at 50 cts.

  She took off jacket and blouse and clasped the necklace about her throat. It was beautifully designed, and lay flat and balanced on her bare skin. She stood before the mirror, turned this way and that, admired the sparkle of the gems, the glow of the gold. This was the kind of adornment for which she was destined. She had always known it. All she had ever needed was a break—and Clayton Starrett was it.

  She spent a long time bathing, doing her hair, applying makeup, stepping carefully into the sequined sheath, donning the satin evening pumps. Then she locked that wondrous necklace about her throat and saw in the mirror the woman she had always wanted to be.

  She went downstairs carrying a silk trench coat. The stretch limousine was waiting. Clayton was standing alongside on the sidewalk, smoking a cigar. When he saw her, he tried to speak but something caught in his throat. She recognized the longing in his eyes.

  “I feel like Cinderella,” she said, laughing, “on her way to the ball.”

  “But midnight will never come,” he proclaimed. “Never!”

  At the Waldorf, they sat at a table for ten. All the other men seemed to be suppliers to Starrett Fine Jewelry, and they and their wives treated Clayton with the deference a good customer deserved. They were no less ingratiating toward Helene, admiring the necklace, her gown, even the shade of her fingernail polish. She basked.

  It was a black-tie affair and, looking about the big dining room, Helene saw nothing but wealth and finery. Flash of jewels. Scent of expensive perfumes. It seemed to be a room without worries, without grief or regrets. This was, she decided, what life should be.

  Later, during the dancing, she was introduced to many people: admiring men and sharp-eyed women. She conducted herself demurely, murmured her thanks for compliments, held Clayton’s hand and let him exhibit her proudly: his newest and most valuable possession.

  The band played “After the Ball” at 2:00 A.M., but it was almost another hour before they had a final glass of champagne, reclaimed their coats, and waited for their limo to be brought around. They returned to Helene’s apartment through a soft snowfall that haloed the streetlamps and added the final touch to a fairy-tale evening.

  “I’d love to come up,” Clayton said huskily, “but I can’t. Heavy schedule tomorrow, and besides, I had too much to drink. I better get some sleep.”

  “Oh Clayton,” she said sorrowfully, immensely relieved and gripping his hand tightly, “the first disappointment of a really fabulous night.”

  “It was super, wasn’t it? Darling, you were the belle of the ball. I’ve never heard such praise. All the guys wanted your phone number, of course, but I told them you were taken.”

  “I am—with you,” she said and kissed him fiercely.

  “Oh God,” he said, almost moaning, “what a life we’re going to have!”

  “Do you want the necklace now?” she asked.

  “No, you keep it till tomorrow. I’ll send a messenger around in the morning. Helene, I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  She kissed him again as an answer, then went up to her apartment alone, the collar of her trench coat raised to hide the necklace. She undressed swiftly, realizing she would have to shampoo before sleeping to rid her hair of the smell of Clayton’s cigars.

  She stroked the necklace softly as it lay on her suede skin. It was an enchantment, an amulet that would protect her from failure and bring her nothing but good fortune.

  So bewitched was she by this extraordinary treasure that never once did she remember that it would be taken away by a messenger in the morning.

  40

  DORA CONTI WAS BEGINNING to get a glimmer, just a faint perception of what was going on. She cast Sidney Loftus and the Pierces as the sharks and the Starretts as their wriggling prey. But who was doing what to whom remained murky. Dora even drew a diagram: boxed names linked by straight or squiggly lines. It didn’t help.

  Then Detective John Wenden called.

  “Hey, Red,” he said with no preliminary sweet talk, “there’s a guy I want you to meet: Terence Ortiz, a detective sergeant. We call him Terrible Terry.”

  “All right,” Dora said, “I’ll play straight man: Why do you call him Terrible Terry?”

  “He’s in Narcotics,” Wenden said, “and he shoots people. Listen, can we stop by tonight? Late?”

  “How late?”

  “Around eight o’clock.”

  “That’s not late,” Dora said. “I rarely go to bed before nine.”

  “Liar!” he said, laughing. “See you tonight.”

  Terry Ortiz turned out to be a short, wiry man with a droopy black mustache that gave him a melancholic mien. But he was full of ginger and had a habit of snapping his fingers. When he was introduced, he kissed Dora’s hand, and the mustache tickled.

  “Hey,” she said, “would you guys like a beer?”

  “The sweetest words of tongue or pen,” Ortiz said.

  “Except for ‘The check is in the mail,’” Wenden said.

  “Yeah, except it usually ain’t,” Ortiz said. “I’ll settle for a beer.”

  He was wearing a black leather biker’s jacket and black jeans. When he took off the jacket, Dora saw he was carrying a snub-nosed revolver in a shoulder holster. She brought out cans of beer, a bag of pretzels, and a saucer of hot mustard. They sat around the cocktail table, and Terrible Terry slumped and put his boots up.

  “I got maybe an hour,” he announced, “and then I gotta split. If I don’t get home tonight my old lady is going to split me.”

  “Where do you live, Sergeant Ortiz?” Dora asked politely.

  “Terry,” he said. “The East Side barrio—where else? Let’s talk business.”

  “Yeah,” John said, “good idea. Red, tell Terry how you came up with the name of Ramon Schnabl.”

  She expla
ined again how she asked her boss to run a computer check on the ownership of the premises occupied by Stuttgart Precious Metals on West 54th, and eventually the paper trail led to a Luxembourg holding company headed by Schnabl.

  “Uh-huh,” John said, “and who was the first owner you turned up—the outfit that leased the place to Stuttgart?”

  “Spondex Realty Corporation.”

  The two detectives looked at each other and laughed.

  “What are you guys giggling about?” Dora demanded.

  “After you mentioned the name of Ramon Schnabl,” Wenden said, “I remembered your telling me about that trip to Boston you made and how the store in Roxbury looked like a deserted dump. So just for the hell of it, I called the Boston PD and asked them to find out who owns the building occupied by Felix Brothers Classic Jewelry. Guess what: It’s owned by Spondex Realty Corporation.”

  Dora smacked her forehead with a palm. “Now why didn’t I think to check that out?”

  “Because you’re, an amateur,” Wenden said. “Talented and beautiful, but still an amateur.”

  Dora let that slide by—temporarily. “And who is this Ramon Schnabl,” she asked, “and what’s his racket?”

  “Terry,” John said, “that’s your department. You tell her.”

  “Ramon Schnabl is very big in the drug biz,” the narc said. “Very, very big. The guy runs a supermarket: boo, horse, snow, opium, crack, hash, designer drugs from his own labs—you name it, he’s got it. He’s also got a vertical organization; he’s a grower, shipper, exporter and importer, distributor, wholesaler, and now we think he’s setting up his own retail network in New York, New Orleans, and some of his field reps have been spotted in Tucson, Arizona. The guy’s a dope tycoon.”

  “If you know all this,” Dora said, “why haven’t you destroyed him?”

  Terry snapped his fingers. “Don’t think we haven’t tried. So has the Treasury, the FBI, and the DEA. Every time we think we have him cornered, he weasels out. Witnesses clam up. He doesn’t kill rats, he kills their families: wives, children, parents, relatives. Drug dealers are willing to do hard time rather than double-cross Ramon Schnabl. He is not a nice man.”