The Eighth Commandment (27 page)

I had time to kill before my appointment at Grandby & Sons, so I sat for a while on a bench in Central Park. Then an ancient dodderer came along, dropped his newspaper in front of me, bent slowly to retrieve it, and tried to look up my skirt. Just an average day in the Big Apple. I rose hastily and strode over to Madison where the weirdos were younger and better dressed.

What a lunch that had been! But valuable, I thought. It gave me new insights into the stresses and pressures within the Havistock family. I didn’t know what it all meant, but I never doubted for a moment that it was significant. If I could understand those enmities, I might be a lot farther along in finding out who copped the Demaretion and who knocked off Orson Vanwinkle.

Madison Avenue, from 57th Street northward, is really something: my favorite window-shopping tour. All the riches of the world: art galleries, boutiques, antique shops, jewelers, wine stores, swank hotels, and crazy little holes-in-the-wall where you could buy things like polo mallets, porcelain picture frames, and furniture made of Lucite. Bring money.

I still had a lot of Des Moines in me, and a street like this was an invitation to a world I’d never known. I couldn’t help laughing, because I knew I’d never know it—but I could admire it. That didn’t depress me. I was happy just to be able to goggle at all those baubles, dream, and go home to my Lean Cuisine.
Things
are nice, but they’re not everything. Right?

I timed my stroll and got to Grandby & Sons a few minutes before three o’clock. If the meeting didn’t take too long, I planned to stop in and give Hobie Juliana a big hug, in thanks for all his help.

We all met in Grandby’s conference room, an austere chamber that needed only candles and a casket on a trestle to pass as a funeral parlor. We sat at wide intervals around a polished table, and lawyer Lemuel Whattsworth, Mr. Congeniality himself, opened the game.

“Miss Bateson,” he said, “you have been employed by Archibald Havistock to investigate the theft of the Demaretion. Is that correct?”

I nodded.

“You realize, of course, that technically you are still employed by Grandby and Sons, on temporary leave of absence.”

“Technically,” I said. “Meaning I’m not getting paid.”

“There is a conflict of interest involved here,” he said, sucking his teeth happily. “It is quite possible that Grandby’s and Archibald Havistock may, eventually, if this matter is not speedily and satisfactorily resolved, be in litigation re the loss of the Demaretion and recompense demanded for its reserve value as stated in the auction contract.”

“So?” I said.

“Surely you can see the awkward position into which you are placing your legitimate employer,” he droned on. “I refer, of course, to Grandby and Sons. You have, in effect, become a hireling of a party who may very well become our adversary in a court of law.”

“Hireling?” I said. “Watch your language, buster. All I’m trying to do is clear my name.”

Stanton Grandby, looking more like a plump penguin than ever, gave a little cough and tried to smile. He didn’t succeed.

“What we’d really like to know,” he said, “is whether or not you’ve made any progress in your investigation.”

“Not much,” I said casually, sitting back. Let them sweat.

“Dunk,” Felicia Dodat said, “you have no suspect?” She really was wearing green nail polish.

“Oh, there are a lot of suspects,” I said. “Too many. But if you’re asking me if I know who stole the Demaretion, the answer is no, I don’t.”

They looked at each other, then all three looked at me.

“But you feel you
are
making progress?” Stanton Grandby asked anxiously.

I considered that. “Yes,” I said finally, “I think I am. I’ve collected a lot of information. I agree with Detective Georgio and investigator Smack: the robbery was committed by a member of the Havistock family.”

“
Ah-ha
,” lawyer Whattsworth said with some satisfaction. “You’re sure of that?”

“No,” I said, “I’m not sure of anything.”

His confidence evaporated. “How long,” he asked in his papery voice, “do you anticipate your investigation will continue?”

“As long as it takes,” I told him.

Again they exchanged glances. If a signal passed between them, I didn’t see it.

“Under the circumstances,” the attorney said, “it seems somewhat unfair to you that your income should derive solely from a party with whom Grandby’s may very well find itself in an antagonistic position.”

After digging through that tortured syntax, I gathered he was saying that I wasn’t making enough money.

“I agree,” I said.

“Therefore,” he continued, “we suggest that you terminate your employment by Archibald Havistock. Your leave of absence will be ended, and you will be returned to a salaried position with Grandby and Sons. It will be understood that you shall be relieved of all your regular duties, allowing you to continue your investigation into the theft of the coin.”

“No,” I said promptly.

“No?” Stanton Grandby cried.

“No?” Felicia Dodat cried.

“No,” I repeated firmly. “The Havistocks put me on salary after you people took me off. I promised them I’d do everything I could to solve the crime. I intend to keep that promise.”

“But didn’t they demand certain conditions?” the attorney said slyly. “That you weren’t to investigate too closely members of the immediate family?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “I asked for a free hand, and I got it. The only condition to which I agreed was that, if a member of the family turned out to be the criminal, I would inform Mr. Havistock before I told the authorities. I assumed the reason for that was so he could arrange legal representation for the accused family member before he or she was arrested and charged.”

“Yes,” Whattsworth said dryly, “I would say that is a logical assumption. However, it is extraneous to the basic interests of Grandby and Sons. What I now propose is that you continue your employment by Archibald Havistock, if you insist, but at the same time you return to a salaried position with Grandby’s. With the absolute understanding, of course, that we shall become privy to the results of your investigation at the same time you reveal those results to Mr. Havistock, and that you shall provide us with weekly written reports on your progress.”

“Verbal reports,” I said. “Not written. And not weekly reports, but periodically—whenever I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Oh, Dunk,” Felicia Dodat said sorrowfully, “you’re being so difficult.”

“Am I?” I said. “I thought I was being cooperative.”

The lawyer looked at god. “Mr. Grandby,” he said, “are you willing to accept those terms?”

The penguin squirmed. Then he nodded. “All right,” he said.

“Oh, Dunk,” Felicia caroled, “it’s so nice having you back with us again.”

I had two words for her, and they weren’t Happy Birthday.

I stopped down to see Hobie Juliana and tell him the good news, but he was out of the office on an appraisal. So I left Grandby’s and walked back home through Central Park, proud of the way I had handled that confrontation. I was now making
two
salaries with complete freedom to conduct the investigation any way I chose. A slam dunk!

I knew what Grandby’s was after, of course, and why they had put me back on salary. If a member of Archibald Havistock’s family was involved in the theft, they wanted to know about it as soon as possible. It would give them leverage in the anticipated lawsuit. Also, by paying me, they thought they were insuring against any possible cover-up on my part.

Not very complimentary to me, but understandable.

That night, mercifully free of phone calls—I had gibbered enough—I lay awake in bed a long time, thinking over the events and conversations of that day. But then I found I was not pondering the investigation so much as I was reflecting on myself, and what was happening to me.

I was changing, no doubt about it; I was aware of it. I won’t say I was naive prior to my involvement with the Havistock Collection, but I was inclined to accept people at their face value, believing what they told me. I suppose I had lived a sheltered existence; crime and homicidal violence were things I read about in newspapers and novels, or saw in movies and on television.

But during the past weeks I had become intimately acquainted with what I guess you could call the underbelly of life. People
did
lie. They were
not
what they seemed. And they were capable of acting irrationally, driven by passions they could not control.

And my experiences with Al Georgio and Jack Smack were added evidence of how often the heart and glands overruled the mind and good sense. I suppose I should have learned all that at an earlier age, but I hadn’t. Finally, finally I was suffering a loss of ingenuousness, if not innocence.

I was becoming, I thought, wiser, more cynical, street-smart. So something had been lost and something had been gained. But if you asked me what the bottom line was, I couldn’t have told you.

A
FTER BREAKFAST THE NEXT
morning, I devoted myself to “choring,” which is what, in my Iowa home, we called those endless boring tasks that had to be done: putting out the garbage, dusting, changing the linen, washing the sinks, etc. When I was satisfied with the way my apartment looked (it could have been more sparkling, but I lacked the willpower to tackle the windows), I left the house to pick up some dry cleaning.

This time I was careful to inspect the vestibule and areaway before I ventured out. On my way to the dry cleaners, I passed a newsstand and thought I might buy a copy of
Vogue
to see what I should be wearing, wasn’t, and never would. But all thoughts of fashion fled when I glimpsed the screaming headline of the
Post.

HIPPY SOCIALITE TRIES SUICIDE
. And there was a photograph of Natalie Havistock with a dopey grin, wearing a beaded headband and earrings that looked like they had been snipped from the lid of a sardine tin.

I bought a
Post
and read the story on the sidewalk, oblivious to the people brushing by. It said that Natalie Havistock, younger daughter of wealthy tycoon Archibald Havistock (has there ever been a
poor
tycoon, I wondered), had been found unconscious in her bedroom at her parents’ home on East 79th Street, apparently after ingesting alcohol and drugs that had not yet been identified.

She had been rushed to Wilson Memorial Hospital, only three blocks away, where, after treatment, doctors had pronounced her condition “stable.” Her parents stated that no note had been found, and could give no reason for their daughter’s attempted suicide.

I trotted home, errands forgotten, and called the Havistock apartment. Busy signal. Waited a few minutes and called again. Still busy. Waited. Called. Busy. Finally, on the fourth try, I got through. Ruby Querita answered. I identified myself.

“How is Nettie?” I asked. “Have you heard anything?”

“
Nada,
” she said dolefully. “They all at the hospital. I don’t know how things are.”

“All right,” I said. “Thank you, Ruby. Maybe I’ll go to the hospital myself and see what’s happening.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I told you, didn’t I? Sin and you must suffer. This family is marked. Didn’t I tell you?”

“You told me. Ruby,” I said, and hung up.

My idea of a hospital is a big shiny place with wide corridors, white walls, and tiled floors. Everything spotless and gleaming. Forget it. Wilson Memorial looked like a crumbling castle right out of
Young Frankenstein.
Gloomy, gloomy, gloomy. With narrow hallways, walls painted a sick brown, and worn linoleumed floors. I learned later it was a sort of temporary refuge for the terminally ill. I could believe it. If they weren’t terminal when they were admitted, that place would push them over the edge.

The nurse at the lobby desk gave me a sad smile. I told her I’d like to see Natalie Havistock.

“Are you a member of the immediate family?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “I am not. Actually, I don’t want to see Natalie, but I have an important message for her father. Mr. Archibald Havistock. I understand he’s here. As soon as I see him, I’ll be on my way.”

The scam worked.

“Room four-twelve,” she said, handing me a pass. “Please make your visit as brief as possible.”

“You better believe it,” I said. “Hospitals depress me.

“Me, too,” she said mournfully, which I thought was an odd thing for a nurse to say.

I found the dismal corridor outside room 412. I also found Ross Minchen sitting on a scarred wooden bench, cracking his knuckles like a maniac.

“Hello, Ross,” I said.

He looked up, and it took him a couple of beats to recognize me. “Oh, hi,” he said, not rising. “Dunk—right? How’re you doing?”

“How is Nettie doing?”

“Okay, I guess. They pumped her out. They’re releasing her at noon. Mabel and Archibald are in with her now. The cops took off.”

“I thought Roberta and Vanessa would be here.”

“They were,” he said, “but they left. I think they had some shopping to do.”

“And Luther?” I said. “Wasn’t her brother here?”

“Luther? No, he didn’t show up. I guess he’s busy. I’m just waiting to drive them all back home. Then I’ve got to get to the office.”

“Sure you do,” I said, sitting down beside him. “I’ll bet your work is piling up.”

“It really is,” he said, nodding. “Unless I’m there every day, you wouldn’t believe how things pile up.”

Mr. Wimp himself, with those scrawny locks of hair combed sideways across his balding skull. Hard to believe this guy was the producer of X-rated videocassettes. You’d have thought that knitting antimacassars was more in his line.

“Ross,” I said, “have you any idea why Nettie would do such a thing?”

“Gee,” he said, “I really don’t. Of course, she runs with a wild gang. I mean, they’re probably dropping dope and all that. I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

I didn’t either.

Then stupid me, I had to ask: “Are you and Roberta going to Vanessa’s party?” I heard myself saying it and could have chomped off my tongue.