The Tenth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Cheese,” Lou said, flipping open the hasp. He gestured toward Percy. “Your treat,” he said.

  Stilton stepped forward and threw back the lid of the freezer.

  We all craned forward. He was in there, wrapped in what appeared to be drycleaner’s bags. I could make out the lettering: THIS BAG IS NOT A TOY.

  He had been jammed in, arms folded, knees drawn up. Plastic had frozen tightly around his head. I could see the face, dim and frosted. A long, sunken face, boned, gaunt, furious.

  “Professor Stonehouse, I presume,” Percy Stilton said, tipping his hat.

  “Shut the goddamn lid,” Lou said, “before he thaws.”

  I turned away, fighting nausea. Percy was on his walkie-talkie, trying to contact the team on Riverside Drive and the man on the dock. All he got in return was ear-ripping static.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “I told you,” Lou said. “They’re great until you need them.”

  We were standing there discussing who would go to the nearest telephone when we heard the thump of feet on the outside deck and the houseboat rocked gently. Before I knew what was happening, the two detectives were crouched by the galley door, guns drawn.

  “Josh,” Stilton hissed, “drop!”

  I went down on all fours, huddled near that dreadful freezer. Percy peered cautiously around the door frame. He smiled, rose, motioned us up.

  “In here,” Stilton shouted to someone outside.

  Glynis Stonehouse entered slowly. She was wearing her long fur coat, the hood thrown back to rest on her shoulders. Following her came the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, dressed like a dandy: fitted topcoat, wide-collared shirt with a brocaded cravat tied in a Windsor knot, a black bowler tilted atop his head.

  After them came Al Irving, grinning. He was holding his fox terrier on a leash. In his other hand was a snub-nosed revolver. The dog was growling: low, rumbling sounds.

  “Look what I got,” Detective Irving said. “They walked into my arms, pretty as you please. I tried to contact you. These new radios suck.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Godfrey Knurr thundered.

  It was such a banal, melodramatic statement that I was ashamed for him.

  Percy Stilton gave him a death’s-head grin and took two quick steps to the freezer. He threw back the lid.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  Then nobody had anything to say. We were all caught, congealed in a theatrical tableau. Staring at each other.

  Only the pallor of her face marked Glynis Stonehouse’s agitation. Her hands did not tremble; her glance was steady and cool. Did nothing dent her? She stood erect, aloof and withdrawn. Her father lay there, frozen in plastic, a supermarket package of meat, and she was still complete, looking at all of us with a curious disdain.

  Godfrey Knurr was feeling more—or at least displaying more. His eyes flickered about, his mouth worked. Nervous fingers plucked at the buttons of his coat. His body slumped slightly until he seemed to be standing in a half-crouch, almost simian, taut and quivering.

  His stare settled on me. So indignant, so furious. He looked me up and down, disbelieving that such a meek, puny creature could be responsible for his downfall. He made a sound. Like a groan. But not quite a groan. A protest. A sound that said, “It isn’t fair…”

  “Listen, Joshua,” he said hoarsely, “I want you to know something…”

  None of us moved, intent on what he was saying, waiting to hear what he wanted me to know.

  “I think you—” he said, then suddenly whirled into action.

  He was so fast, so fast!

  He pivoted on his left foot, turned, clubbed down with the edge of one hand on Detective Al Irving’s gun arm. We all heard the crack of bone. Knurr completed a full turn, a blur, and bulled his way past Glynis and Lou, all shoulders and elbows.

  Then he was into the main cabin, running.

  Stilton was the first to recover.

  “Watch the woman,” he yelled at Lou, and took up the chase.

  I went rushing along at his heels.

  Godfrey Knurr hurtled down the wharf, swerved left onto the pontooned walkway. It tilted and rocked under his pounding feet.

  A young couple was approaching, chatting and laughing. He simply ran into them, through them, over them. They were flung wailing into the fetid water.

  Stilton and I charged after him. I didn’t know what I was doing, except that I didn’t want Percy to be alone.

  Knurr smashed through the gate and headed for the south staircase leading up to the rotunda. Stilton had his gun in his hand, but there were people on the promenade, strollers and cyclists. They scattered when they saw us coming, but Percy didn’t want to risk a shot.

  Godfrey Knurr went leaping up the steps, two at a time. I remember that his derby flew off and came bouncing down. By then we were straining up the stairs. I thought I was fast, but Percy was stronger; he was closing on Knurr and I was falling behind.

  We all, the three of us, went thundering through the arched corridor, a crypt. Two pedestrians, hearing and seeing us coming, flattened themselves in terror against the stained wall.

  We came into the rotunda. Knurr circled to his left, running frantically, hoping to gain the exit. His unbuttoned coat flapped out behind him.

  Now Percy Stilton had a clear field of fire. He stopped, flexed his knees, grasped his massive revolver with both hands, arms extended, elbows slightly bent.

  “Hold it right there!” he yelled.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, Knurr rounded the fountain basin and came racing back toward us. His hair was flying, the bearded face twisted, bright with rage.

  “Hah!” he shouted, raising one hand high in a classic karate position, fingers together, the palm edge a cleaver.

  “Oh for God’s sake!” Percy Stilton said disgustedly, sighted carefully, and shot the Reverend Godfrey Knurr in the right leg. I saw the heavy slug pucker the trouser a few inches above the knee.

  The blow spun Knurr around. He pirouetted as gracefully as a ballet dancer. His momentum and the force of the bullet kept him turning. His arms flung wide. A look of astonishment came to his contorted features.

  He whirled, tilting, and fell backward over the rim of the ruined fountain. He went down heavily. I heard the sound of his head smacking cracked cement. His legs and feet remained propped up on the basin rim. His head, shoulders, and torso were flat within.

  We walked up to him cautiously, Stilton with his gun extended. Knurr was beginning to bleed, from the wound in his leg and from a head injury. He looked up at us dazedly.

  “Idiot!” Stilton screamed at him. “You fucking idiot!”

  Godfrey Knurr’s vision cleared.

  He glared at me:

  I turned away, walked away, went over to one of the scarred pillars and pressed my forehead against the cold concrete.

  After a moment Percy came over to me, put an arm across my shoulders.

  “Josh,” he said gently, “he wasn’t a nice man.”

  “I know,” I said dully. “Still…”

  8

  THERE WAS A PARTY at the house in Chelsea. The last had been such a success they all wanted another.

  It was a marvelous party. All the tenants were there, of course, and a boisterous bunch from the music world, Madame Zora Kadinsky’s friends. Captain Bramwell Shank had invited a few cronies from his seafaring days aboard the Staten Island ferry. They were cantankerous old coots who spent most of their time at the two card tables set with food and drink.

  The party was well begun, noisy with talk and laughter, when I arrived. At the last minute I had run out and bought a two-pound box of chocolate-covered cherries at the local drugstore. I presented it to Mrs. Hufnagel and got a warm kiss on my cheek in return. Madame Kadinsky insisted on introducing me to all her friends. I didn’t remember any of their names, which seemed to be composed solely of consonants.

  As we moved about the apartment, my eyes were searching for Cleo. After
the introductions were finished, I finally saw her in the kitchen, talking to Adolph Finkel. Or rather, he was talking and she was listening, a bemused expression on her face. They both held paper cups of wine.

  I observed her a few moments before I approached. She looked so clean to me. Physically clean, of course, but more than that. There was an innocent purity about her. She seemed untouched by violence, or even by evil. I could not conceive of her acting through malice or hate, greed or envy.

  She was wearing a loose chemise of challis wool in a sort of forested print. She was without makeup; her face was clear and serene. How could I ever have thought her plain? She was beautiful! That high, noble brow; the lovely hazel eyes; a dream of a nose; lips delicately sculpted. Her teeth were not large and prominent at all; they were jewels, sparkling. The chestnut hair fell free, gleaming. And when I remembered that elegantly slender body, now hidden within the billowing chemise, I felt a surge of blood to my face, my breath caught, my knees turned to water.

  I waited a moment longer, until my respiration had returned to normal, then I went toward the kitchen. Cleo looked up, saw me approaching. Her eyes widened, her face became animated, she glowed.

  “Josh!” she cried happily, “Where have you been!”

  “Out of town,” I said. “How are you, Cleo? Finkel, good to see you again.”

  “Bigg,” he said.

  Cleo, speaking in her soft, shy whisper, began telling me how concerned she had been—all the tenants had been concerned—because no one had seen me or heard me moving about since Thursday morning, and they feared I had met with some misadventure.

  I assured her I was in good health, all was well, and I had a great deal to tell her about matters we had previously discussed.

  Adolph Finkel had listened to this intimate dialogue with some discomfiture, his pallid features becoming more and more woebegone. I thought tears might flow from those weak eyes. He looked mousier than ever, the dull hair a tangle, a doomed smile revealing the discolored tombstone teeth.

  “Well, Bigg,” he broke in suddenly, “I guess the best man won.”

  He drained off his paper cup of wine, gave us a look of such martyrdom that I wanted to kick his shins, and shambled away, shoulders slumping. We looked after him with astonishment. I turned back to Cleo.

  “The best man?” I said, remembering Hamish Hooter and Yetta Apatoff.

  Then Cleo and I were giggling, leaning toward each other, our heads touching.

  “Listen,” I said, “can we leave as soon as possible? There’s so much I want to tell you.”

  She looked at me steadily.

  “Where do you want to go?” she asked.

  I took a deep breath.

  “There’s a nice restaurant on 23rd Street,” I said casually. “Woody’s. It’s open on Sundays. Good food. I know the woman who runs the place. We can have dinner and drinks in real glasses.”

  “You’re sure you want to go out with me?” she said, still looking into my eyes. She knew I had been afraid of being seen with her. Mutt and Jeff.

  “Positive,” I said stoutly.

  “I’d love to go to Woody’s with you,” she said smiling.

  I eased out the door, took my hat and coat, and waited for Cleo in the entrance hall. She came flying down a few moments later in a coat and tam and we set out.

  It was a hard, brilliant day, flooded with sunshine. But the wind was gusting strongly, whipping our coats, tingling our cheeks. Cleo took my arm, and I looked nervously at passersby, watching for signs of amusement when they saw this tall, willowy woman with her runty escort.

  But no one gave us a glance, and after a while I stopped caring what people might think.

  “I brought the kite home,” I told Cleo. “And the string and winder.”

  “Too windy today,” she said. “But we’ll fly it another day.”

  “Sure we will,” I said.

  We hung coats and hats on the rack just inside the door of Woody’s. We waited a moment, and then Nitchy came toward us from the back dining room.

  “Cleo,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Nitchy, a good friend. Nitchy, meet Cleo.”

  The two women shook hands. Nitchy looked up searchingly at Cleo’s face. Then she turned to me, smiling. She put a soft hand on my arm.

  “At last!” she said.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Commandment Series

  1

  MEN TREAT ME WITH amusement, women with sympathy. My name is Mary Lou Bateson, but the nickname “Dunk” followed me from Des Moines to New York City. I am almost six-two—in my bare feet. When I wear heels, I loom—or so a man once told me.

  “Don’t worry about it, Dunk,” Daddy advised. “People look up to you.”

  That will give you an idea of his quirky sense of humor. That, and the fact that he named my three brothers Tom, Dick, and Harry. I suppose that if I’d had two sisters, we’d be Faith, Hope, and Charity.

  About that “Dunk”…Both my parents were tall, and all my brothers were over six-six before they were fifteen years old. If you think that means basketball, you’re right. We had a barrel hoop nailed to the garage as long as I can remember. Having no sisters, and, being too tall to have close girlfriends, I joined my brothers in their daily practice.

  We divided into teams of two, Tom and Dick flipping a coin to decide partners. The loser got me. But I worked as hard as they. And after months of striving to master the dunk shot, I succeeded well enough to earn my nickname. Everyone called me Dunk.

  My brothers were stars in high school, and I played center on the girls’ team. We won all kinds of tournaments, and our home was filled with trophies. Mother kept an album of newspaper clippings about our exploits. The Register referred to me as “the lofty, spindly Dunk Bateson.” I know they meant it kindly, but it hurt.

  The same year that story appeared, I wore a bikini to a pool party and overheard a girl say, “It looks like two Band-Aids on a broomstick.” And I endured the usual chaff: “How’s the weather up there?” and “Do you get many nosebleeds?” Sometimes people can be cruel without really meaning to be.

  I tried to grin my way through all this. Wore my flats and kept telling myself not to slump. But it is difficult being a very tall girl. And the fevered attentions of very short boys are no help either. I didn’t have a date for our high school prom. I went with my brother Harry and his date, a cute, cuddly blonde who came to his belt buckle. Everyone thought they made an adorable couple. If I had shown up with a male midget, we’d have been laughed off the dance floor. It’s not fair.

  My brothers got athletic scholarships to prestigious universities. I ended up at Chase, a small liberal arts college that had no organized women’s athletic activities except field hockey. I had already decided that my competitive dunk shot days were over.

  Chase was a four-year vacation from the realities of life. I breezed through the required courses, and in my last two years took a heavy dose of art history and appreciation. I hadn’t the slightest idea what I wanted to do with my life. But just to be on the safe side, I learned how to type and operate a personal computer. You never know.

  The high point of my career at Chase was losing my virginity. I must have been the only nineteen-year-old virgin in the state of Iowa. It happened in the grass under an old billboard that advertised: “Coca-Cola: The Pause That Refreshes.” Daddy would have liked that.

  Clutching my sheepskin, printed in Latin that I couldn’t understand, I went home to Des Moines and played some lazy driveway basketball with my brothers. Late in August, with a cash graduation gift from my parents, I headed for New York City, determined to seek fame and fortune. Or at least find a man who might sweep me off my big feet. A tall man.

  This was several years ago, but even then it was hard to find reasonable rental apartments. Now it’s impossible. Anyway, I ended up in a closet on West 76th Street. It was before the West Side became Madison Avenue-ized, and there was a small-town flavor about Columbus and Amsterdam that
I liked. Also, my apartment was so small that I could furnish it in Salvation Army Traditional for less than $500.

  So there I was, living in glittery Manhattan, and too poor to do much else than sightsee, eat tunafish sandwiches, and agonize over the Times want ad pages as if they were reprints from Remembrance of Things Past.

  I had a number of discouraging interviews, none of which led to anything much. For a while I sold men’s gloves at Macy’s, worked behind the counter at Chock Full o’ Nuts, and addressed envelopes for a mail order company that sold a baldness remedy and a wrinkle remover.

  My personal life during this period was something less than ecstatic. I met a few men, who seemed to be hungry and lecherous, in that order. We usually settled for tunafish sandwiches. I had no close women friends. I suppose I was lonely, but there was so much in Manhattan, so many things I wanted to see and do, I can’t honestly say I was unhappy. I resolutely avoid self-pity.

  I had a brief affair (about six weeks) with a man a few years older and a few inches shorter than I. He told me he wasn’t married, but he had been out in the sun a lot the previous summer, and his hands were still tan. Except for a pale strip around his ring finger. He always took off his wedding band before he met me. I never told him I knew.

  But he was handsome and amusing. I knew it couldn’t last—but that was all right. I often wondered why he started up with me in the first place, and then decided it was for the same reason some men climb mountains: because I was there.

  Also, there are certain men who seek the outré in their personal relationships: very tall women, very short, the very obese, those exceedingly ugly or, for all I know, the crippled and the blind. The whole subject is too depressing to think about.

  Anyway, we broke up after six weeks (no tears), he went back to his wife, and I went back to the want ads. I answered a very short one requesting résumés be sent to a box number by anyone interested in becoming a secretary-assistant-salesperson for a numismatist.