The Eighth Commandment (28 page)

“No,” he said. “Is she having a party?”

“Probably not,” I said hastily. “After this business with Natalie. It was a very vague thing. She’ll probably call it off.”

“We don’t see much of them,” he said, looking down at his big, spatulate hands. “Vanessa and Roberta don’t get along.”

“That’s a shame,” I said. “Families should stick together.”

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s what I think. We tried to get Vanessa and Luther to join our, ah, little circle, but they weren’t interested. How about you?” he said, brightening. “Have you thought about it?”

“Frequently,” I said.

“And?”

“Still thinking,” I told him.

“Nothing to it,” he said. “It’s fun—you’ll see. We’re having another do next Friday. Can you make it?”

“I’m not sure,” I said then, swiftly, “Wasn’t it awful about Orson Vanwinkle?”

He looked at me, unblinking. “The man was a crud,” he said. “I don’t mean I wanted him dead, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t be a hypocrite either and pretend I’m all broken up at his passing. I figure he got what he deserved.”

“No one seems to have liked him,” I said. “Except Dolly LeBaron.”

“Oh,
her
,” he said scornfully. “As greedy as he was. They were two of a kind. Listen, about next Friday, why don’t you—”

But I was saved from more excuses when Mabel and Archibald Havistock came out of room 412. I rose and went to them.

“How is she?” I said anxiously.

“Much better,” Mrs. Havistock said. “We’re taking her home in an hour. Thank you for your concern and for coming by.”

“How did you hear about it?” Archibald asked.

I reckoned he might as well know. “It’s on the front page of today’s
Post
,” I told him.

“Oh, yes,” he said bitterly, “it would be.”

Ross Minchen was still seated on his wooden bench, playing a merry tune on his knuckles. I gently urged the Havistocks down the corridor, away from him. I moved them to the end of the hallway, to a window where we could look out at a shadowy airshaft.

They were two somber people, faces creased with sorrow. But they retained their dignity, both of them erect and steady. I admired their stalwartness. Both seemed capable of absorbing blows without flinching and without complaint. Well, I thought, they have each other, and that’s how they survive.

“I promised you a progress report,” I said. “If you feel this is a bad time for it, please tell me and we’ll leave it for later.”

“No, no,” Archibald said. “Let’s have it now. What have you found out?”

“First,” I said, “I must tell you that Grandby and Sons have put me back on the payroll, with the understanding that I can spend all my time investigating the robbery. If you object to that, if you feel there’s a conflict of interest involved, I want you to know that I’ll reject their offer and work only for you.”

He looked at me a long moment. “Thank you,” he said finally. “You are a very straightforward young woman. I like that. No, I see no reason why you should not be employed by Grandby’s at the same time you’re working for us. Actually, we all want the same thing, don’t we? Have you discovered who stole the Demaretion?”

“No, I have not. But I do feel I am making progress. Orson Vanwinkle promised his girlfriend that they’d soon be leaving the country permanently to live on the French Riviera. That certainly sounds like he expected to come into a great deal of money shortly, and makes him the Number One suspect.”

Husband and wife exchanged glances, just the briefest of eye-flickers.

“But I don’t believe it,” I went on. “Mostly because I cannot possibly conceive how Orson could have switched display cases. It was a physical impossibility.”

“Perhaps he had accomplices,” Mabel Havistock said faintly.

“Who?” I demanded. “The guards from the armored van? Ruby Querita? I don’t think so. Mr. Havistock, you were out of your library for perhaps two minutes. The switch had to be made then: a prepared empty display case, sealed with your signet ring, substituted for the case containing the Demaretion. It had to be done by someone in the family, someone present in the apartment for the birthday party.”

“Not Nettie?” Mr. Havistock said, his magisterial features expressionless, ice-blue eyes revealing nothing. “Don’t tell me it was Nettie?”

I didn’t answer his question, but asked one of my own: “The
Post
story said Nettie didn’t leave any note. Is that correct?”

Mabel nodded, eyes skimmed with grief. “We can’t understand it,” she said. “She was always such a bright, cheerful child. Laughing and joking. Perhaps it was something we did. Or failed to do.”

I had been debating with myself whether or not to tell them. But now, seeing that imposing woman suffering from a guilt trip, I thought I would.

“There are some things you should know,” I said. “What I’m going to tell you is rumor and supposition. Nothing is proven. Orson Vanwinkle was bisexual. He had many homosexual encounters. This comes from a reliable source. Nettie’s boyfriend is a black. Are you aware of that?”

“We are,” Mr. Havistock said stonily.

“Her boyfriend was also one of Orson’s homosexual contacts,” I said. “I wish I could have spared you this, but I don’t want you to blame yourselves for a situation over which you had no control.”

They didn’t crumple. If anything, they straightened, drew deep breaths. They seemed to have a source of stamina I wished I could have tapped.

“You’re certain of this?” Archibald asked.

“Mr. Havistock, I’m not certain of
anything.
I’m just reporting what I’ve heard. That’s what you’re paying me for. But I think what I’ve heard is true. And it might possibly explain Natalie’s suicide attempt. She discovered her boyfriend’s, uh, sexual proclivities, argued with him about it, and he refused to change the way he lives.”

“I don’t understand,” Mabel said, completely flummoxed. “Why would those two men have anything to do with each other? They belonged to different worlds.”

“Money,” I said promptly. “I think Orson was paying Akbar El Raschid and, through him, financing that gang of kooks Akbar commands. Maybe it was just the excitement Orson liked. The threat of violence. Radical chic.”

Archibald Havistock thought about it a long time while we all stared out at that haunted airshaft. Then he turned to me.

“Possible,” he said. “It’s possible. Orson was what I’d call a flighty man. Not quite as steady as I would have liked. Are the police aware of what you’ve told us, Miss Bateson?”

“They’re aware of Vanwinkle’s sexual activities,” I said. “Whether or not they know about his liaison with Nettie’s boyfriend—that I don’t know. They’ll probably find out.”

He nodded. “Do you have anything else to tell us?”

“No, sir, not at the moment. A lot of wild guesses, crazy ideas, rumors I’ve got to track down. But nothing that even resembles fact or evidence. Do you want me to continue my investigation?”

“Absolutely,” Mrs. Havistock said. “We want to know the truth. Don’t we, Archibald?”

“Yes,” he said.

“All right,” I told them, “I’ll keep at it. Now I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

They waited.

“May I go in to see Natalie? Just for a few minutes?”

They looked at each other.

“You won’t disturb her?” Mrs. Havistock said. “Ask questions?”

“Of course not. I do like her and I want her to know I care.”

“All right,” Archibald said. “Just for a few minutes.”

I started away from them, then turned back. I addressed Mrs. Havistock.

“Ma’am,” I said, “the last time we spoke you mentioned that you and your husband are involved in estate planning.”

“Yes,” she said, “that’s correct.”

“Does that include the drawing up of new wills for both of you?”

“It does,” Mr. Havistock said. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know exactly,” I said fretfully. “Except money seems to be the thread that runs through everything: the stealing of the Demaretion and the murder of Orson Vanwinkle. Have the wills been completed?”

“No,” he said, “they have not.”

I thought he was a little short with me, and I assumed he resented my intrusion into his private financial affairs. But I would not stop.

“Were members of your family aware that you were preparing new wills?”

“I assume they were,” he said. “Don’t you think so, Mabel?”

“I’m sure they were,” she said. “We made no secret of it.”

“Thank you very much,” I said. “I’ll get back to you the moment I have anything important to report.”

P
OOR NATALIE LOOKED SO
weak and drawn, white as the sheets she was lying on. She held out a thin hand to me.

“I can’t do anything right, can I?” she said.

“You’re alive,” I said, kissing her cold fingertips. “That’s right. How are you, love?”

“Oh…” she said, “I don’t know. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You’ll clear up,” I assured her. “I just stopped in for a few minutes to say hello.”

“It was sweet of you,” she said. “Did you find out who boosted the coin?”

“Not yet.”

“You will,” she said. “You’re a determined lady. The cops haven’t found out who snuffed Orson, have they?”

I shook my head.

“Well, who cares,” she said. “That little Barbie Doll of his—what’s her name?”

“Dolly LeBaron.”

“Yeah, a real dolly. She’ll find another bankroll, and in a year—a year? Hell, within a month—the world will be rolling along without him. That’s what’s going to happen to all of us, isn’t it?”

“Nettie, don’t talk like that. Your mother and father are outside. They’re really shook. They love you and want you to have a happy life. You’re important to them.”

“I guess,” she said, sighing. “I’ve been a pain in the ass to them. Two different worlds—you know?”

“You made the front page of the
Post
today,” I told her.

“I did?” she said, brightening. “Hot shit! Have you got it with you?”

“I have it at home,” I said. “I’ll save it for you if you can’t get a copy. You’re wearing a beaded headband and tin earrings.”

“Oh, that old shot,” she said. “It was taken years ago at the Slipped Disco. I was stoned out of my skull.”

“You look like it,” I said, and we both laughed.

She reached for my hand again. “Listen, Dunk, when I get back to the land of the living, can we see each other again?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Promise?”

“Of course. I’m counting on it. If you promise me something first.”

“What?”

“If you ever get in the mood to try something like that again, will you call me first?”

“Okay,” she said, “I will.”

We linked our little fingers, shook, and both of us said, “Pinkie square!”

I didn’t know what it was—maybe the sultry July day or maybe that childish business of “Pinkie square!”—but on the way home I had a sudden, irresistible urge to chaw on a frozen Milky Way. And I wasn’t even pregnant! Anyway, I stopped off to buy three of the candy bars. I put them in the freezer and waited patiently. I remembered they’ve got to be so hard you think you’ll break your teeth—but you never do. The joys of my youth!

I was entering all the happenings of the morning into my notebook when I received my first phone call of the day. I thought it might be Al or Jack, alerting me to Natalie’s attempted suicide. But it was Enoch Wottle, calling from Arizona. I was delighted.

“Enoch, dear,” I said, “I love to hear from you, but you’ve
got
to call collect. I don’t want you spending your money on my business.”

“It’s nothing,” he said blithely. “I’m never going to outlive my bonds. Dunk, darling, how are you and what’s happening?”

I gave him a précis of what had been going on, including my reinstatement at Grandby & Sons.

“Good,” he said firmly. “They should be ashamed of themselves for putting you on leave of absence in the first place. Are you any closer to finding out who stole the Demaretion?”

“Closer,” I said, “I think. But close doesn’t help. I’m still not sure who did it, Enoch.”

“But you suspect?”

“I suspect, but it’s so crazy I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“All right,” he said equably, “then I’ll talk. I have something that might help. I checked with my friend in Rotterdam who, in turn, contacted that Beirut dealer. Dunk, from what everyone says—if they’re telling the truth—that Demaretion being offered for sale is absolutely authentic. Provenance will be supplied during serious negotiations. It sounds legitimate to me, Dunk. Not the source of the coin,” he added hastily. “Not how the seller got hold of it. But the dekadrachm itself—that’s not a fake. Does that help you?”

“I think so,” I said slowly. “I’m not sure how it fits in, but everything helps. Thank you so much, Enoch. You’ve been a treasure.”

“Now then,” he said briskly, “what’s next?”

“What’s next? Enoch, you’ve done enough for me. Spending your own money on phone calls and cables. I can’t ask you to do anything more.”

“Ask!” he urged. “Ask! Dunk, sweetheart, let me tell you something. My life is drawing to a close; I know it. But what am I supposed to do, just sit and
wait
? So what I do for you, I do for myself also. To keep busy, to be needed, wanted—that is something at my age.”

My eyes teared. “All right, Enoch,” I said, “you certainly can help. Who else has your knowledge and experience? Tell me: Why would a collector—not a speculator but a true collector—sell off part of his coin collection?”

He thought a moment. “Financial need,” he suggested. “That would probably be the first motive. Some investments go wrong, the stock market takes a nose dive, he needs ready cash. So he sells off some coins. That would be the first motive. Another would be that he wants to upgrade his collection. He sells off the lesser mintages, maybe some duplicates, so he can buy higher quality.”

“But the true collector who sells and doesn’t buy, doesn’t add, that’s unusual, isn’t it, Enoch?”

“I’d say so, unless he’s in a real money bind.”

“Archibald Havistock has been selling for the past five years,” I told him. “About a hundred items, maybe more. I’d like to find out how much he got for them. Not for individual coins, but the total. How do I do that? Go to the Society?”