The Eighth Commandment (17 page)

Inside, a single sheet of white paper. Typed in the middle in capital letters: LAY OFF—OR ELSE. No signature.

Very melodramatic, and very scary. My first reaction was an instant resolve to take the first plane back to Des Moines and spend the rest of my life practicing dunk shots in the driveway.

Second reaction: fury. What son of a bitch was trying to frighten me off the Demaretion case? How dare he! Third reaction: Call the police, which I did. It took me almost a half-hour to locate Detective Al Georgio. I told him about the anonymous threat.

“I’ll be damned,” he said slowly. “Plain white paper?”

“Yes.”

“The whole thing typed?”

“Yes.”

“You handled it?”

“Of course I handled it. How else could I read it? I tore open the envelope, took out the sheet of paper, unfolded it, and read it. How could I do that without handling it?”

“All right, all right,” he said soothingly, “don’t get your balls in an uproar. I’ll pick it up and have it dusted. And you know what we’ll get? Zip, zero, and zilch. Sounds to me like the kind of letters Finkus, Holding has been getting: plain paper, no prints, typed on an Olympia standard. Well, we’ll see…You know what this means, don’t you, Dunk? You’re getting close.”

“Close to
what
?” I wailed. “Al, I haven’t found out a damned thing.”

“What have you been doing? Who have you talked to?”

Then, because I had already told Jack Smack and was trying very hard not to favor either of them, I told Al about the signet ring and Vanwinkle’s and Archibald Havistock’s answers to my questions. His reaction was the same as Jack’s.

“Jesus Christ!” he said disgustedly. “I’m a dolt. I should have picked up on that. Nice work, Dunk. But they both said everyone in the family had access to the ring?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, it’s hard to believe the ring business was enough to trigger your black-spot letter. It must be something else.”

He paused and for a moment I was tempted to tell him how Roberta and Ross Minchen got their jollies. Then I decided that since it had nothing to do with the Demaretion heist, Al had no need to know.

“What are you doing today?” he asked me.

“Seeing Mrs. Havistock in about an hour. I want to talk to everyone who was in the apartment on that morning.”

“That sounds sensible. And safe enough.”

“After I talk to her, it’ll only leave Ruby Querita. I’ll get to her next.”

He was silent. Then:

“Dunk, watch your back. Don’t press too hard. I don’t like that letter you got. It scares me.”

“Well, it sure scares the hell out of
me
.”

“Want to move into a hotel? Change your phone number? I can’t provide ʼround-the-clock protection; you know that.”

“No, I’ll go along just the way I’ve been doing. Maybe I’ve heard something that threatens the crook—but what it could be, I have no idea. Al, how was your day with your daughter?”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Just perfect. I told her about you. She said she’d like to meet you.”

“That’s sweet. And I’d like to meet her. Next time you see her—okay?”

“You better believe it. And Dunk, do be careful.”

“I intend to be.”

“You’ve got my home phone number and where I can be reached during the day. Don’t be bashful; call me anytime.”

“Thanks, Al,” I said gratefully. “I’m hoping I won’t get myself in a crisis situation, but if I do, it’s nice to know you’re there.”

“I’m here,” he said.

What a splendid June day it was! Rare sky, beamy sun, kissing breeze. Manhattan isn’t all graffiti and dog droppings, you know. Sometimes the light and the shining towers can make you weep with pleasure. It was like that when I started out early and strode across Central Park to the East Side. I didn’t even look behind me. Nothing could frighten me on a day like that.

Except possibly the matriarch of the Havistock clan. If Mrs. Mabel didn’t have bones in her corset, she sat as if she had: stiffly erect, spine straight. I wondered how long it had been since she had allowed that spine to touch the back of a chair. All in all, a very stern, domineering matron, and to avoid being completely intimidated, I had to keep reminding myself that this ogress had been the one who suggested my employment as the Havistocks’ private investigator.

I had been admitted to the apartment by Ruby Querita, who gave me a small smile, signifying, I supposed, that she now recognized me as a friend of the family. But halfway down that gloomy corridor, Orson Vanwinkle brushed her aside and took over as usher.

“Hi, doll,” he said with his lupine grin. He also stroked my cheek, and I knew blossoms would never bloom there again. “Madame Defarge is waiting for you,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the living room. “Going to have a nice chin-chin?”

I nodded.

“About what?”

“About who stole the Demaretion,” I said, looking at him directly.

“Oh, that old thing,” he said, not at all disconcerted. “Just a hunk of metal as far as I’m concerned. The insurance company will pay off; you’ll see.” Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “When are you and I going to have another scene?”

“Scene?”

“You know—fun and games.”

I swear the man was certifiable. But that didn’t make him any less dangerous. I walked away from him and entered the living room where I found her majesty sitting bolt upright on one of those loathsome brown velvet couches. She graciously beckoned me to sit beside her. She was wearing a lavender scent—what else? I would have bet her dresser drawers were packed with sachets.

“I don’t like your hair,” she said, staring. “You really must do something with it.”

“I know,” I said miserably. “I intend to have it styled one of these days.”

“Do,” she said. “I can give you the name of a good man. Now then, what did you wish to speak to me about?”

Not exactly a propitious beginning, but I plunged right in, explaining that I was interviewing everyone who was present in the apartment on the morning the Demaretion was taken.

“I have already related my activities on that morning to Detective Georgio. You were present. I answered all his questions.”

“
His
questions, ma’am. Mine are of a more personal nature.”

She looked at me coldly. “Such as?”

“Detective Georgio and insurance investigator John Smack are convinced that a member of your family took part in the theft. Both are experienced men and would not make such an accusation lightly. Would you care to name one or more family members you think might possibly be involved?”

She made a sudden, distraught movement of one hand: a wild, jerky wave. “I will not point the finger of suspicion at anyone. Certainly none of my kin.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Havistock. But you have employed me to discover the truth, and your refusal to cooperate, no matter how well-intentioned, just makes my job more difficult. All right, let’s skip family members and talk about employees. How long has Ruby Querita worked for you?”

“Almost ten years now.”

“You trust her?”

“Absolutely.”

“I understand her brother is in prison.”

“That has nothing to do with Ruby. I have complete confidence in her.”

“She works six days a week?”

“Five, plus a half-day on Saturday.”

“She cooks and cleans.”

“Cooks mostly, and does some light housework. Twice a week a man comes in from a commercial service to dust and vacuum. And once a month we have a crew from the same service to give the apartment a good going-over, including washing the windows and scrubbing down the bathrooms.”

“Were any of these commercial cleaners here on the morning the Demaretion was taken?”

“No, they were not.”

“But they were aware of your husband’s coin collection?”

“I’m sure they were. It was on open display in his library. I spoke to him several times about that, asking him to put the coins in a bank vault, but he would not.”

“Numismatists are like that, ma’am,” I said softly. “They like to have their collections readily available where they can see them, examine them, enjoy them. Whose idea was it to sell your husband’s collection?”

“His. And I agreed. We are presently engaged in revising our estate planning, and rather than attempt to break up the collection amongst our heirs, with so many coins to each beneficiary, it seemed simpler to sell the collection and add the proceeds to the assets of the estate.”

“Then I gather your husband is no longer an active collector.”

“That is correct. I think he made his last purchase about five years ago. And since then he has sold off a number of items. At one time I think he had more than six hundred coins.”

“Oh?” I said, surprised. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“I fail to see what these questions about my husband’s collection have to do with the disappearance of the Demaretion.”

“Probably nothing,” I admitted. “But I’m trying to learn as much as I can, in hopes that something small will lead to something bigger, then to something larger yet, and eventually we’ll get to the truth of the matter. Mrs. Havistock, I respect your decision not to single out a member of your family as a possible suspect, but I wish you would reconsider your decision. It might speed things up considerably if you’d be willing to give me a hint—no matter how tiny. I assure you I won’t treat it as proof of guilt, or even as an accusation. It will simply be a lead that will enable me to make a more thorough and efficient investigation. Won’t you name
someone
you think might have been involved?”

I was watching her closely. As I made my plea, her heavy features began to sag. It was like putting a wax mask too close to a flame. But in this case it was flesh that was melting, all her features softening and flowing downward. It was a dreadful thing to see because it left her with nothing but sadness and tragedy, eyes dulled, resolve gone, strength fled.

“No,” she said in a low voice, “I will name no one.”

So that was that.

I was in the outside hallway, waiting for the elevator. It arrived, and who should pop out but Natalie Havistock, frenetic as ever. She looked like she was dressed for a masquerade. The item I remember best was a mess jacket of soiled white canvas emblazoned with military shoulder patches.

“Hey, Dunk!” she said. “Getting much these days?”

Then she embraced me and lurched up to kiss me on the lips—which I could have done without.

“What’cha been doing in the morgue?” she asked, and I had to laugh; she was so right.

“Talking to your mother, Nettie.”

“Mommy dearest? She’s been in the doldrums lately. Something’s been eating her, and I can guarantee it ain’t a man. Listen, hon, would you like to go to a party tonight?”

“A party?” I said, startled. “What kind?”

“A party-party. A bash. An orgy. Down in the East Village. Hundreds of people. Plenty of booze and grass. Maybe a line of coke if you know the right people. How about it?”

“Will your boyfriend be there?”

“Akbar El Raschid? That’s what he calls himself. His real name is Sam Jefferson. You’ve heard about him, have you? Hell, yes, he’ll be there. If you don’t like the scene, you can split. Okay?”

I agreed. She opened her bulging shoulder bag and took out a gold ballpoint pen and pigskin notebook. I wondered what store she had honored with her light-fingered presence. She scribbled the address, tore the sheet away, and tucked it into the pocket of my suede jacket.

“Try to make it,” she urged. “You’ll have a ball.”

“What time does it start?”

“It’ll open up around nine, but these things don’t get moving until midnight. Wear your chastity belt.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “You’re really making it sound attractive.”

“Nah,” she said, laughing. “You won’t have to put out. Unless you want to. Listen, Dunk, you got a couple of extra bucks I could borrow?”

I thought swiftly. “I’ve got a five you can have.”

“Five is alive!” she cried. “But twenty is plenty! Pay you back one of these days. Remind me.”

So I handed over a five-dollar bill, figuring I could always fiddle my expense account and get it back from her father. Then she dashed into the apartment, and I waited patiently for the next elevator.

What do you wear to a party-party, a bash, an orgy in the East Village? Not basic black with pearls, that’s for sure. Besides, I didn’t own basic black and pearls. So I settled for jeans and a long-sleeved white “bullfighter’s shirt.” It had a ruffled front and was cut low enough to show cleavage—if I’d had any. And my suede jacket, of course.

I had no idea how to get to that address by bus or subway, so I cabbed down. After all it
was
part of my investigation; I wanted to get a line on Nettie’s boyfriend. So it was a legitimate business expense—right?

The cabby wasn’t happy about taking me to that neighborhood.

“Your life insurance paid up?” he asked.

Actually, when he dropped me and I looked around, the street didn’t seem menacing at all. Maybe not as clean as West 83rd, but there were no corpses in the gutter, and there were even two scraggly ginkgo trees struggling to survive.

The party wasn’t hard to find. It was only a little after ten o’clock, but the decibel count was soaring. They were playing a Pink Floyd tape—I think it was “The Dark Side of the Moon”—and the volume was turned up high enough to loosen your fillings.

There weren’t “hundreds of people” there, but maybe they’d arrive by midnight when “things got moving.” But the top-floor apartment—half-attic and half-loft—was crowded enough. Thirty or forty people, I reckoned, of three colors, five races, and four sexes. It was a sort of zonked-out United Nations.

Nettie hadn’t exaggerated about the booze and grass available: plenty of both. Plus platters of brownies. But fearing those might be laced with hash, or something stronger, I passed. No one paid any attention to me, which was okay. I poured myself a little vodka in a plastic cup—no ice available—and surreptitiously turned down the volume on the cassette player. No one objected. As a matter of fact, I don’t think anyone noticed. Maybe they were all tone-deaf.

I searched through the mob for Natalie but couldn’t spot her. I did see a tall, lanky black propped against a wall, regarding the scene with amused contempt. He was wearing a red beret and had a single gold earring. Had to be Akbar El Raschid, née Sam Jefferson. Handsome lad with a little spiky Vandyke. I went up to him.