The seventh commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  She went downstairs for an early dinner in the hotel, and had a miserable meal of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and peas. At that moment, she mournfully imagined, Mario was dining on veal scaloppine sauteed with marsala and lemon juice. Life was unfair; everyone knew that.

  She returned to her suite and, fearing Wenden might have called during her absence, phoned him again. But he had not yet returned to his office or called in for messages. So she settled down with her notebook again, convinced those scribbled pages held the key to what actually happened to Lewis Starrett-and why.

  When her phone rang, she rushed to pick it up, crossing her fingers for luck.

  "Hiya," Wenden said hoarsely. "Quite a surprise hearing from you."

  "How so?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.

  "The way I came on to you the other night; I thought you'd be miffed."

  "Nah," she said. "It's good for a girl's ego. When the passes stop, it's time to start worrying. My God, John, you sound terrible."

  "Ah, shit," he said, "I think I got the flu. I have it all: sneezing, runny nose, headache, cough."

  "Are you dosing yourself?"

  "Yeah. Aspirin mostly. I get these things every year. Nothing to do but wait for them to go away."

  "Why didn't you call in sick, stay home, and doctor yourself?"

  "Because three other guys beat me to it, and the boss got down on his knees and cried. You feeling okay?"

  "Oh sure. I'm healthy as a horse. John, I was hoping to see you tonight, but I guess you want to get home."

  "Not especially. I feel so lousy I don't even want to think about driving to Queens."

  "That's where you live?"

  "If you can call it that. What's up?"

  "A couple of interesting things. Listen, if you can make it over here, I'll fix you a cup of hot tea with a slug of brandy. It won't cure the flu but might help you forget it."

  "On my way," he said. "Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes or so."

  She put a kettle on to boil, set out a cup and saucer for him, and then went into the bathroom to brush her hair and add a little lip gloss, wondering what the hell she was doing.

  When Wenden arrived, carrying an open box of Kleenex, he looked like death warmed over: bleary eyes, unshaven jaw, his nose red and swollen. And, as usual, his clothes could have been a scarecrow's castoffs.

  She got him seated on the couch, poured him a steaming cup of tea, and added a shot of brandy to it. He held the cup with both hands, took a noisy sip, closed his eyes and sighed.

  "Plasma," he said. "Thank you, Florence Nightingale."

  "You should be in bed," she said.

  "Best offer I've had today," he said, then sneezed and grabbed for a tissue.

  "Now I know you're not terminal," she said, smiling. "Anything new on the Starrett case?"

  "Nothing from our snitches. We've checked the whole neighborhood for three blocks around. No one saw anything or heard anything. We searched every sewer basin and trash can. No knife. We've got fliers out in every taxi garage in the city. The official line is still homicide by a stranger, maybe after an argument, maybe by some nut who objected to Starrett's cigar smoke-who the hell knows."

  "Uh-huh. John, did you see the medical examiner's report?"

  "Sure, I saw it. I love reading those things. They really make you want to resign from the human race. The things people do to people…"

  "Did the report describe the wound that killed Starrett?"

  "Of course."

  "How deep did it go-do you remember?"

  He thought a moment. "About seven and a half inches. Around there. They can never be precise. Tissue fills in. The outside puncture was a slit about two inches long."

  Dora nodded. "I think you need another brandy," she said.

  "I'll take it gladly," he said, sneezing again, "but why do I need it?"

  "I went up to see the Starretts' servants today. We talked in the kitchen. There's a knife rack on the wall. Nice cutlery. Imported carbon steel. One of the knives is missing. An eight-inch chefs knife. We have one at home. It's a triangular blade. Close to the handle it's about two inches wide."

  Wenden set his cup back on the saucer. It rattled. "How long has it been missing?" he asked, staring at her.

  "I didn't ask them," Dora said. "But when I noticed it, Clara and Charles glanced at each other. I think it probably disappeared at that cocktail party the night Starrett was killed, but the servants didn't want to come right out and say so."

  "Why didn't you lean on them?"

  "How the hell could I?" she said angrily. "You're a cop; you can lean. I'm just a short, fat, housewife-type from the insurance company. I've got no clout."

  "All right, all right," he said. "So I'll lean on them. If the knife disappeared on the night of the murder, that opens up a whole new can of worms."

  "It also clears three in this cast of characters," she said. "Olivia and the two servants stayed in the apartment for dinner and presumably were still there when Lewis went for his walk. Did you check the whereabouts of the others at the time of the killing?"

  The detective looked at her indignantly. "You think we're mutts? Of course we checked. They all have alibis. None of them are rock solid, but alibis rarely are. Felicia was at a new restaurant down on Spring Street. Confirmed by her date-a twit who wears one earring. Helene and Turner Pierce were at a theatre on West Forty-sixth Street. They have their ticket stubs to prove it. Father Callaway was down at his church, passing out ham sandwiches to the homeless. He was seen there. Eleanor and Clayton Starrett were at a charity bash at the Hilton. Sounds good, but there's not one of them who couldn't have ducked out and cabbed back to East Eighty-third Street in time to chill Lewis. They all knew his nightly routine. Hey, what do I call you?"

  "Call me? My name is Dora."

  "I know that, but it's too domestic. Will you be sore if I call you Red?"

  She sighed. "Delighted," she said.

  "Could I have another brandy, Red?"

  "You're not going to pass out on me, are you?"

  "Hell, no. I'm just getting my head together."

  She brought the brandy bottle and set it on the cocktail table in front of the couch.

  "Help yourself," she said.

  "Some for you?"

  "No, thanks," she said. "I'm not driving to Queens."

  He laughed and poured more brandy into his teacup. "I could make that trip even if I was comatose, I've driven it so many times. Okay, let's assume someone at the cocktail party lifted the knife. Eliminate Olivia and the servants; that leaves us with six possibles."

  "Here's my second goody of the evening," Dora said. "Remember I told you I was going to ask my boss to run Father Brian Callaway through our computer."

  "Sure, I remember. Come up with anything?"

  "His real name is Sidney Loftus. He's a con man with a sheet as long as your arm."

  "Oh-oh. Anything violent?"

  "I don't know. I told you our data base includes only insurance fraud. You better run Callaway, or Loftus, through your records."

  "Yeah, I better."

  "And while you're at it, do a trace on Helene and Turner Pierce. I asked my boss, but we have nothing on them in our file."

  "Why should I check out the Pierces?"

  "Callaway's most recent scam was a stolen car game in Kansas City, Missouri. That's where Helene Pierce comes from."

  "How do you know?"

  "She told me."

  Wenden studied her a moment, then shook his head in wonderment. "You're something, you are. Red, how do you get people to talk?"

  "Sometimes you tell things to strangers you wouldn't tell your best friend. Also, I come across as a dumpy homebody. I don't represent much of a threat, they think, so they talk."

  "A dumpy homebody," he repeated. "I'm beginning to believe you're more barracuda." He sneezed again, wiped his swollen nose with a tissue. "All right, I'll ask for a rundown on Callaway and the Pierces. I warn you it's going to take time; Recor
ds is undermanned and overworked, like the rest of the Department."

  "I can wait," Dora said. "That insurance claim isn't going to get paid until I say so."

  He took a deep breath, put his head back, stared at the ceiling. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that a member of his family or a close friend might have iced the old man; it happens all the time. But I thought those people were class. What do you figure the motive was?"

  "Money," Dora said.

  "Yeah," Wenden said, "probably. When money comes in the door, class goes out the window. Every time."

  She laughed. "I didn't know you were a philosopher."

  "How can you be a cop and not be a philosopher?" He lowered his head, stared at her with bleary eyes. "I lied to you, Red."

  "How so?"

  "I told you I wasn't going to pass out. Now I'm not so sure."

  "Whatever," she said, "you're in no condition to drive. I have an extra bedroom; you can sack out in there."

  "Thanks," he said.

  "What time do you want to get up?"

  "Never," he said. "Give me a hand, will you."

  She helped him to his feet and half-supported him into the bedroom. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

  "Can you undress?" she asked him.

  "I can get my shoes off," he said in a mumble. "That's enough. I've slept in my clothes before."

  "I never would have guessed," she said. "Want more aspirin?"

  "Nope. I've had enough."

  "I'd say so. I'm not going to wake you up in the morning. Sleep as long as you can. It'll do you the world of good."

  "Thanks again, Red. And listen…" He tried a grin. "You don't have to lock your bedroom door."

  "I know that," she said.

  But she did.

  Chapter 13

  Solomon Guthrie lived alone in a six-room apartment on Riverside Drive near 86th Street. The prewar building had gone co-op in 1974, and Guthrie had bought his apartment for $59,500. His wife had told him it was a lot of money- and it was, at the time. And why, she had asked, did they need so much space since their two grown sons had moved away: Jacob, an ophthalmologist, to Minneapolis, and Alan, an aerospace designer, to Los Angeles.

  But Solomon didn't want to give up an apartment he loved and in which he and his wife had lived most of their married life. Besides, he said, it would be a good investment, and it turned out to be exactly that, with similar apartments in the building now selling for $750,000 to a million.

  Then Hilda died in 1978, of cancer, and Solomon was alone in the six rooms. His sons, their wives and children visited at least once a year, and that was a treat. But generally he lived a solitary life. After all these years it was still a wrench to come home to an empty house, especially on dark winter nights.

  Every weekday morning Guthrie left his apartment at 7:30, picked up his Times from a marble table in the lobby, and walked over to West End Avenue to get a taxi heading south. An hour later and it would be almost impossible to find an empty cab, but Solomon usually had good luck before eight o'clock.

  This particular morning was cold, bleak, with a damp wind blowing off the river. He was glad he had worn his heavy overcoat. He was also wearing fur-lined gloves and lugging his old briefcase stuffed with work he had taken home the night before. One of the things he had labored over was a schedule of Christmas bonuses for Starrett employees.

  Solomon arrived at the southwest corner of West End and 86th Street, stepped off the curb, looked uptown. There was a cab parked across 86th, but the off-duty light was on, and the driver appeared to be reading a newspaper. He moved farther into the street to see if any other cabs were approaching. He raised an arm when he saw one a block away, coming down West End.

  But then the cab parked across 86th went into action. The off-duty light flicked off, the driver tossed his newspaper aside, and the cab came gunning across the street and pulled up in front of Solomon. He opened the back door and crawled in with some difficulty, first hoisting his briefcase and newspaper onto the seat, then twisting himself into the cramped space and turning to slam the door.

  "Good morning," he said.

  "Where to?" the driver said without turning around.

  "The Starrett Building, please. Park Avenue between Fifty-sixth and Fifty-seventh."

  He settled back and unbuttoned his overcoat. He put on his reading glasses and began to scan the front page of the Times. Then he became conscious of the cab slowing, and he looked up. Traffic lights were green as far as he could see, but his taxi was stopping between 78th and 77th streets, pulling alongside cars parked at the curb.

  "Why are you stopping here?" he asked the driver.

  "Another guy going south," the driver said. "You don't mind sharing, do you?"

  "Yes, I mind," Guthrie said angrily. "I'm paying you full fare to take me where I want to go, and I have no desire to stop along the way to pick up-"

  He was still talking when the cab stopped. A man wearing a black fur hat and short leather coat came quickly from between parked cars and jerked open the passenger door.

  "Hey!" Guthrie cried. "What the hell do you think-"

  But then the stranger was inside, crouching over him, the door was slammed, and the cab took off with a chirp of tires.

  "What-" Guthrie started again, and then felt a sear in his abdomen, a flash of fire he couldn't understand until he looked down, saw the man stab him again. He tried to writhe away from that flaming blade, but he was pressed back into a corner, his homburg and glasses falling off as the man stabbed again and again, sliding the steel in smoothly, withdrawing, inserting it. Then he stopped.

  "Make sure," the driver said, not turning.

  "I'm sure," the assailant said, and pushed Guthrie's body onto the floor. Then he sat down, wiped his blade clean on Solomon's overcoat, and returned the knife to a handsome leather sheath strapped to his right shin.

  The cab stopped for the light at 72nd Street. When it turned green, it went south to 71st, made a right into the dead-end street, drove slowly between parked cars to a turnaround at the western end.

  The cab stopped on the curve and the two men looked about casually. There was a woman walking a Doberman farther east, but no one else was on the street.

  "Let's go," the driver said.

  Both men got out of the cab and closed the doors. They paused a moment to light cigarettes, then walked toward West End Avenue, not too fast, not too slow.

  Chapter 14

  "How do you feel?" she asked.

  "Still got the sniffles," John Wenden said, "but I'll live to play the violin again. Actually, I feel a helluva lot better. It was the tea and brandy that did it."

  "It was a good night's sleep that did it," Dora insisted. "You were whacked-out. Want to take a hot shower?"

  "You bet."

  "Help yourself. There are plenty of towels. If you want to shave, you can borrow my razor. I'll even throw in a fresh blade."

  "Thanks, but I'll skip. I keep an electric shaver in my office; the beard can wait till I get there. Sorry I crashed last night, Red."

  "You're entitled. While you're showering I'll make us a cup of coffee. But it'll be instant and black. Okay?"

  "My favorite brew," he said.

  She was preparing coffee when she suddenly thought of what to buy her husband for Christmas. An espresso machine! One of those neat, shiny gadgets that make both espresso and cappuccino. Mario, a coffee maven, would be delighted.

  They stood at the sink and sipped their black instant. Wenden looked at her reflectively.

  "You think Father Callaway was the perp, don't you?" he said.

  Dora shrugged. "I think he's the front-runner. You're going to check him out, aren't you? And the Pierces."

  "Oh sure. I'll start the ball rolling as soon as I get back to my desk. What're you doing today?"

  "I've got a ten o'clock appointment with Clayton at the Starrett Building. It was the only time he could fit me in."

  "What do you expect to get fro
m him?"

  "I'm getting confusing signals on how the Pierces became such good friends with the Starrett family. Whether it was before or after Turner Pierce landed Starrett Fine Jewelry as a client and designed their new computer system. I'd also like to know if Father Callaway made the introduction."

  He looked at her admiringly. "You're a real sherlock. You enjoy your job?"

  "Oh hell, yes."

  "What does your husband think of your being a gumshoe?"

  She flipped a hand back and forth. "He doesn't mind what I do. What he doesn't like is my being away from home so much. It means he has to cook for only one- which isn't much fun. Mario is a super chef. Do you prepare your own meals?"

  "Not exactly," Wenden said. "I have a cook-Mrs. Paul. Listen, Red, I've got to run. Thanks again for the brandy. And the shower. And the coffee. I owe you."

  "Just remember you said that," Dora told him. "I may call in my chits."

  "Anytime," the detective assured her.

  She let him kiss her cheek before he left.

  She spent a few minutes straightening up the suite, not accustomed to maid service. Then she went out into a raw morning. It was too cold to hike all the way, so she took a Fifth Avenue bus south and then walked east to Park Avenue, stopping frequently to look in the shop windows on 57th Street.

  She was on time for her appointment but had to wait awhile in a cramped reception room. Most of the magazines on the cocktail table were jewelry trade journals, but there was one copy of Town h Country. Leafing through it, Dora spotted a full-page Starrett ad. It showed a magnificent necklace of alternating white and yellow diamonds draped across a woman's bare breasts (the nipples hidden). The only print on the page, in a small, discreet script, read: Starrett Fine Jewelry. Simply Superior.

  A secretary with an English accent ushered her into Clayton Starrett's office at about 10:15. He bounced up from behind his desk, beaming and apparently chocka-block with early-morning energy.