The Eighth Commandment (13 page)

“Look, Mrs. Havistock,” I argued, “you and your husband have complete faith in the loyalty of your family. That’s very commendable, but you can’t expect me to become a partner in any cover-up, if one becomes necessary. That I won’t do, and the deal is off. But if you’re willing to give me carte blanche, tell me to try to find out who stole the Demaretion, and let the chips fall where they may, then yes, I would accept—but only under those conditions.”

“Archibald,” she said, troubled, “what do you think?”

“Let’s do it,” he said. “I think Miss Bateson’s conditions are reasonable.”

“Very well,” she said, lifting her heavy chin again, “we will employ you with the understanding that there will be no restrictions on your investigation. We will pay you four hundred dollars a week, plus expenses, for a period of one month. At the end of that time we will meet again to review your progress and determine whether your investigation should continue under the same terms, or whether your employment should be terminated. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes, it is,” I said promptly, “as long as you can promise me the cooperation of all the members of your family.”

“I can promise you that,” Archibald Havistock said grimly. “In return, I ask only that in the unlikely event you discover a member of the family is the thief, I will be told before you take your information to the authorities.”

I nodded, never imagining the horrendous results of my casual agreement.

So we settled things, and he went into his den-library and returned with a check for four hundred dollars, which I accepted gratefully. We then decided it would be best if they reported to Al Georgio and Jack Smack that I had been employed as their private snoop, and ask both men to cooperate with me fully.

“How do you intend to start?” Mr. Havistock asked curiously.

I didn’t have to ponder that. “I think I’ve met all your immediate family except for Mr. and Mrs. Luther Havistock. I would like to talk to your son and daughter-in-law this evening, but it would help if you’d call them first, explain who I am and what my job is. Then I’ll call for an appointment.”

“I’ll arrange it,” Mrs. Havistock said decisively. “You’ll have no problem there. They will see you.”

What a gorgon! But I hadn’t the slightest doubt that she would deliver. This was one grande dame, and when she said, “Jump!” the other Havistocks asked only, “How high?”

They both had the decency to rise when I departed. We shook hands formally, and I promised to deliver periodic verbal reports on my progress. We all agreed it would be best to put nothing in writing.

When I exited from the living room, Orson Vanwinkle was waiting for me in that muffled corridor. He might have been listening at the living room door or peering through the keyhole; I wouldn’t have put it past him.

He conducted me to the outside door, looked about warily, then clamped a hot hand on my shoulder, leaning forward to whisper:

“Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

“Unforgettable,” I told him.

He gave me a smarmy smile.

I hadn’t been home more than an hour when the phone calls started coming in. The first two were from Al Georgio and Jack Smack. I thought both men would be outraged at my accepting employment as a private detective to inquire into a crime they were investigating, but they seemed to accept my new job with equanimity.

“Look,” Al said, “you’ll be able to get closer to the family than I can with a badge. We’ll trade information, won’t we?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m counting on it.”

“We’re still partners, aren’t we?” Jack Smack asked. “I’ll keep you up to speed on what I’m doing, and you tip me on anything you dig out. Okay?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m counting on it.”

Their reasonableness surprised me. Until I decided that neither of them considered me a threat. What investigative experience did I have? I was just a long drink of water with a passion for pizza and more energy than brains. They might use me, but I don’t think either of them took me seriously. That was all right; if they wanted to believe me a lightweight, I’d go along with that. It had something to do with catching more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.

The third phone call was from Vanessa Havistock, and it wasn’t as pleasant. As a matter of fact, it was downright snarly.

“I have been informed,” she stated in icy tones, “that my husband and I are expected to meet with you this evening and answer your questions about the burglary.”

“Robbery,” I said. “I hope it won’t be too much of an inconvenience, Mrs. Havistock. I can make it at any time you suggest, and I promise you it shouldn’t take long.”

“We have already answered endless questions by the New York City detective and that man with the odd name from the insurance company. How much longer are we to be harassed in this manner?”

I could feel my temper beginning to simmer, but I was determined to play it cool. Making an enemy of this woman would get me nowhere.

“I know how distressing it must be for you, Mrs. Havistock,” I said meekly. “But really, no one wishes to harass you. All we’re seeking is information.”

“But I know nothing about it. Absolutely nothing.”

“You were there when the coin was taken,” I pointed out. “At the birthday party planned for your mother-in-law. It’s possible you noticed something that made no impression on you at the time, but which might provide a vital clue in solving the crime.”

A two-beat pause, then…

“You really think so?” she said thoughtfully. “That I might know something I don’t know I know?”

“It’s quite possible,” I said earnestly. “That’s why I’m so anxious to talk to you and your husband. To refresh your memories and see if we can uncover something that will help end this dreadful affair.”

“It’s been a nightmare. All those tabloid stories…Even my hairdresser wants to talk about it. Oh, very well,” she said, reverting to her petulant tone, “we’ll see you at six-thirty this evening. We’ll give you an hour. No more.”

She hung up abruptly. I was looking forward to meeting that vixen. I decided to dress in my dowdiest, like Eliza Doolittle, the guttersnipe, before Professor Higgins converts her to a grand lady. I wanted Vanessa Havistock to feel immediately superior to me, to underestimate me and believe she had nothing to fear.

I
made the fourth telephone call. Because the Havistocks were paying expenses, I called Enoch Wottle in Tucson, Arizona. Since he left New York, we had corresponded frequently, exchanging letters at least once a month. I often asked his advice on numismatic matters, not so much that I needed it, but because I wanted him to feel his perception and experience were still valued.

But this was the first time we had talked together in almost three years, and it was a touching experience for both of us. I know I cried a little, and I think he was similarly affected. We spent the first few minutes getting caught up on personal matters: his arthritis, my lack of suitors, his son’s home and the grandchildren.

“Enoch,” I said, “tell me the truth: how do you like Tucson?”

He sighed. “Manhattan it ain’t,” he said with heavy good humor. “You want a hot pastrami sandwich at two in the morning, where do you go?”

I laughed. “Enoch, you never in your life ate a hot pastrami sandwich at two in the morning.”

“I know,” he agreed, “but in New York you know it’s
there.
”

Then I got down to business. I had already written him about the loss of the Demaretion, and he had read about it in the newspapers and numismatic journals to which he still subscribed. Now I brought him up to date on recent happenings, including my employment by the Havistocks. He cautioned me about that.

“Dunk, darling,” he said, “you are dealing here with someone who took the risk of stealing something worth a great deal of money. That can only mean someone desperate. I beg you, be very, very careful. People stupid enough to commit such a crime may do even more reckless things. Do not endanger yourself.”

“Don’t worry about me, Enoch,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”

Ah, the optimism of the innocent!

Then I told him I had supplied Jack Smack with a list of coin dealers all over the world, and his insurance company was getting out letters of warning, asking for information on anyone trying to peddle the stolen Demaretion.

“Now you know that’s not going to do much good,” I said. “There are some dealers who’ll do anything to turn a buck, especially if they’re buying for a client. The Demaretion could disappear into a private collection and never be seen again.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” he said mournfully.

I told him that I knew he had many old friends in the trade, and asked if he could call or write the most knowledgeable of his contacts and see if he could pick up any information, or even gossip, about a Demaretion coming on the market.

“The Havistocks will pay all expenses,” I said, “but I admit it’ll be a lot of work for you.”

“Work?” he said. “Not work but a pleasure. Of course I’ll do it. I’ll get started today. You know, by now that dekadrachm could be in Sweden, Saudi Arabia, Iceland—anywhere. Smuggling a single coin across borders is the easiest thing imaginable. You put it in your pocket with your other coins. What customs inspector wants to look at small change? Of course, Dunk, I will be happy to see what I can find out. It will give me something to do. My son insists I play shuffleboard. I
hate
shuffleboard.”

Then I told him of the anonymous letter Finkus, Holding, Inc., had received, purportedly from the crook, asking if they’d be interested in a buy-back. They had signaled an affirmative but, as far as I knew, had not yet received a second letter.

“I don’t know,” Enoch Wottle said dubiously. “It sounds like a con game to me. After a major theft like this by some big shark, the barracudas gather around, hoping to pull a smaller swindle. But you never know. Dunk, this is a fascinating chase. I will do what I can to help. Please call me as often as you like. And reverse the charges.”

“Nonsense,” I said airily. “I’m on an expense account. Goodbye, Enoch, dear, and stay well.”

“I survive,” he said philosophically. “At my age that’s an accomplishment.”

I spent the remainder of that afternoon mentally drafting the questions I wanted to ask Luther and Vanessa Havistock. Actually, I had little hope of learning anything startling from either of them, despite what I had told Vanessa of the possibility of her knowing something vital she didn’t realize she knew.

What I wanted, most of all, was to meet them personally and get a splanchnic reaction. I had done the same thing with Roberta and Ross Minchen, and temporarily decided they were the wimpiest of wimps. But from what I had heard about Vanessa Havistock, she was cut from a different bolt of cloth. Gold lamé.

Natalie had called her a bitch. Al Georgio said she exuded sex. Orson Vanwinkle had insisted she was a slut. With a tattoo. Location not specified. And, from all accounts, father Archibald Havistock had to intervene to forestall a family scandal when rapacious Vanessa came on to Ross Minchen.

(But could she sink nine out of ten foul shots with one hand? I could.)

So I dressed like a ragamuffin for my meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Luther Havistock, feeling in a merry mood and wondering if I should take along a pen and pad and take notes as they answered my questions. I decided against it, figuring they’d speak more freely if they knew their words weren’t being recorded for posterity.

Also, they’d think I was a complete incompetent. Let them.

A
L GEORGIO HAD GIVEN
me a hint of the richness of that Park Avenue apartment, but I wasn’t prepared for its
splendor.
It made my modest pad look like a subway locker, and completely outclassed the Havistock home on East 79th Street and Orson Vanwinkle’s
Playboy
spread on 85th. As Al had wondered, where
was
Luther’s wealth coming from?

A panic sale of the stolen Demaretion?

A little gink greeted me at the door, dressed in a kind of uniform, combination chauffeur-houseman. It was deep purple whipcord with a starched white shirtfront and lilac bow tie. Different. I think he was from India, Thailand, Korea, Cambodia, Vietnam, or possibly Detroit—someplace like that. I know he had a purple eyepatch and hissed.

He ushered me into a living room that wasn’t as large as Grand Central Station. Not quite. Very plushy, and so big I couldn’t take it all in at one glance. I just had an initial impression of money, money, money. Original paintings, leather, glass, chrome, ankle-deep rugs, concealed lighting, crystal, brass, porcelains—it was a stage set, designed to accommodate a dozen actors.

They were standing when I entered, each with a glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Hi, there, Noel Coward! But they were affable enough, not bothering to shake hands but offering me a martini (Stolichnaya in Baccarat crystal, I noted) which I declined, and got me seated in an enormous pouf of buttery suede about ten feet away from where they took their seats on a couch upholstered in zebra skin—or maybe it was giraffe. Anyway, it was exotic as hell.

“I’m sorry to intrude upon you like this,” I began humbly, “but I’m sure Mr. Havistock has informed you that—”

“Mabel,” Vanessa interrupted sharply.

“Mrs. Havistock has informed you that I have been employed to try to discover what happened to the Demaretion, and in the process, hopefully, to clear members of the family of any complicity in the theft.”

“It’s ridiculous!” Luther burst out. “No one has accused any of us. It’s an insult. Just because Father can’t collect on the insurance…”

His voice trailed away, and I had a moment to take a close look at him. Not very prepossessing. A tall, attenuated man who seemed to have lost weight since he had that pinstripe tailored for him; it hung as slackly as a wet tent. Thinking it might be his first preprandial drink, I looked for the tremor Al Georgio had mentioned, and saw it.

Al thought Luther Havistock was a man teetering on the edge of economic disaster. That wasn’t my take. I saw a man sliding into emotional collapse: vague stare, uncontrollable tic at the left corner of his mouth, endless crossing and recrossing of his knees, that high-pitched laugh Al had heard, and a broad, pale forehead slick with sweat that he kept swabbing with a trembling palm.