The Eighth Commandment (38 page)

“Of course not,” I said. “Why should they? Enoch, thank you again for your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Done what?” he said sharply. “Dunk, you sound like you know something.”

“Do I?” I said, wondering if Al’s marriage proposal had given me confidence. “I’m not sure I know anything definitely, but I’m making some guesses that I think are on target.”

“And you’ll get the coin back?”

“I hope so.”

“I hope so, too. However it comes out, you’ll let me know?”

“Of course, dear. Thank you for calling.”

He hadn’t told me what I wanted to hear, but there was more than one way to skin a cat.

It was Thursday morning, and I was filled with vim and vigor, planning how I would spend a day that would, inevitably, end up with the total triumph of Dunk Bateson. It didn’t turn out exactly that way.

I dug an old shopping bag out of my closet—a brown paper job with twine handles. I filled it with catalogues, books, a folding umbrella, a pouched plastic raincoat, a box of Alka-Seltzer, and my office coffee cup. Then I set out for Grandby & Sons, stopping off at a liquor store en route to pick up a gift for Hobart Juliana: a bottle of Irish Mist, which he dearly loved.

He was delighted to see me, and even more delighted when I began to stow my belongings back into my desk and onto my bookshelves.

“Ma and Pa Kettle are back together again!” he shouted.

We celebrated by having a cup of black coffee and opening Hobie’s gift to have a wee taste. A nice way to toast my homecoming.

“I’ve got to call Felicia,” I told him. “Listen to this, Hobie. I think it’s the first time I’m going to lie with malice aforethought.”

“Welcome to the real world,” he said, smiling.

I punched out Madam Dodat’s intraoffice extension and waited impatiently while her snooty secretary put her on the phone.

“Dunk, darling!” she caroled. “How
nice
to hear from you. Do you have good news for us?”

“I think so,” I said. “I’m downstairs in my office and I’d like to meet with you and Mr. Grandby if that’s possible.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, “I’m afraid not. Stanton isn’t in. It’s his day for squash and a sauna.”

The thought of god sitting naked in a sauna was more than I could bear. That glistening penguin!

“Is this a progress report, Dunk?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Then there’s no reason why you can’t tell me. I’ll repeat it to Stanton just as soon as I hear from him.”

“I don’t think so,” I said decisively. “I want him to be there. And it wouldn’t hurt to have the lawyer present. Lemuel what’s-his-name.”

“Whattsworth.”

“Yes. I’d like him to be there. Can you arrange it?”

“Well…” she said, obviously offended by my peremptory tone, “I’ll see what I can do. How long will you be here?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll try to get back to you before you leave,” she said. “If not, I’ll call you at home. Is it important?”

“Very,” I said, and hung up, glorying in my boldness.

“What was that all about?” Hobie asked curiously.

“I need some information from them,” I explained. “But if I told them what I wanted, they’d turn me down cold. So I implied that I have a progress report to deliver. That’ll bring them running, hoping to learn something that might forestall a lawsuit by Archibald Havistock.”

He laughed. “Dunk, you’re becoming a
very
devious lady.”

“I’m learning,” I said. “Hobie, let’s have another sip of that glorious elixir.”

“As many as you like,” he said, pouring into our coffee mugs. “It’s like old times again, Dunk.”

We parked our feet on our desks and raised our cups to each other.

“Hobie,” I said, “one more favor? Please? The last, I swear.”

“The
last
?” he said. “You mean this thing is finally unraveling?”

“I think it is. Keep your fingers crossed.”

“I shall. What’s the favor you want?”

“Just your opinion. When you were asking around about Orson Vanwinkle’s activities, did you get the idea that he might be a man who would engage in—ah, how can I put this delicately?—in group sex?”

“Orgies, you mean?” Hobie said, grinning. “Oh hell, yes. Dunk, from what I heard, the guy was an absolute
freak.
He probably got it off with Doberman pinschers, for all I know. He was a wild one.”

“Thank you, Hobie,” I said gratefully. “When I write a novel about all this, you’re going to get the biggest credit line in the book.”

“Could you refer to me as Rodney instead of Hobart?” he said wistfully. “I’ve always fancied the name Rodney. Hobart sounds like a collapsed soufflé.”

We laughed, and chatted of this and that. I was standing, ready to leave, when Felicia Dodat called back. She said she had arranged a conference with Stanton Grandby and Lemuel Whattsworth—and herself, of course—for 1:00
P.M.
on the following day, Friday. Would that be satisfactory?

“It’ll have to be,” I said shortly, in my new assertive role. I was really beginning to enjoy throwing my weight around.

“So long, dear,” I said, embracing Hobie. “I shall return carrying my shield or on it.”

He gave me a look spangled with love. “Lots of luck, Dunk,” he said.

“And I think Hobart is a perfectly marvelous name,” I told him. “Live with ‘Dunk’ for a while, and you’ll be thankful for what you’ve got.”

I cabbed home, practically feverish with anticipation because I knew what I had to do next. I rushed into my apartment, closed the Venetian blinds and drew the drapes—like an idiot!—and hauled Dolly LeBaron’s package down from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet.

I turned it over and over in my hands, inspecting it, hefting it. Then I fetched a pair of manicure scissors and started cutting all those windings of Scotch tape. I finally got the brown paper bag sliced open. Within was a shoe-box, as I had suspected. The stamping on the end read:

4-
B, RED
.

I opened it as cautiously as if I had been defusing a bomb. Please, God, I prayed silently, let me be right. Inside were wrappings and paddings of purple tissue paper. I peeled everything away slowly and carefully. Then I held the contents. The secret. I didn’t know whether to shout with joy or weep with sadness.

But I
had
been right.

I didn’t even want to think about it. I didn’t want to ponder or question or analyze. Action was the name of the game. Full court press. Up and in. Dunk shot. Crowd roaring. The satisfaction of completing a class act. Nothing like it.

I started making phone calls. It took me almost a half-hour to get it set up, but I pushed it through, insisting.

When I got hold of Jack Smack, he said:

“Is this about Ross Minchen’s bank withdrawals, Dunk? Forget it. He took out cash. There’s no way to trace what he did with it. Blew it on slow horses or fast women—who knows?”

“That’s not important now,” I said impatiently. Then I told him what I wanted.

“Why does it have to be my place?” he complained. “I’ve got a million things to do here at the office.”

“It
has
to be,” I said. “At three o’clock. Trust me.”

“All right,” he said resignedly, “I’ll be there.”

Al Georgio was easier. “What’s up, Dunk?” he said.

“Something interesting,” I said. “It’s going to help make you a lieutenant.”

“Oh?” he said. “That I’ve got to hear. Okay, I’ll be there. Give me the address.”

So, a little after 3:00
P.M.
, we all met at Jack Smack’s loft in SoHo, me carrying Dolly LeBaron’s package, hugging it tightly as if it contained the plans for an atomic bomb, which, in a way, it did.

Both of the men looked at me like I was some kind of a nut.

“Dunk, what is this?” Al said gruffly.

I didn’t answer him. I said, “Jack, you mentioned once that you own a videocassette recorder. Is that right?”

He looked at me, puzzled. At least he was smart enough not to say, “You know I do, Dunk. I wanted to play
King Kong
for you the other night when we made nice-nice.”
That
would have raised Al Georgio’s bushy eyebrows!

Instead, Jack said, “Yeah, I’ve got a VCR.”

“Play this for us, will you?” I asked him, unwrapped the package, and handed him Dolly LeBaron’s videocassette.

He inspected it. “What is it?” he said. “A travelogue of the Children’s Zoo in Central Park?”

“If it is,” I said, trying to laugh and not show my nervousness, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life wiping egg off my face. Just show it, will you?”

He warmed up the set, slid in the cassette, and we settled back. The videotape started. The colors were sharp, everything in focus, sound clear. It had played for about five seconds when Al Georgio shouted, “Holy Christ!” After that, we watched in silence.

It was what I had guessed: a sexual
pas de quatre
starring Roberta and Ross Minchen, Orson Vanwinkle, and Dolly LeBaron. It wasn’t pretty, but it was explicit. The knowledge that two of the performers had been brutally murdered gave all those grunts and groans a surrealistic quality. But it was still an X-rated film. More foolish than exciting.

When it ended, Jack rewound the tape, slid the cassette out, and handed it to Georgio. “I think you’ll want this, Al,” he said. Then we sat there, saddened and depressed I think, staring at each other. Finally…

“Where did you get it, Dunk?” Al asked quietly.

I explained how Dolly LeBaron had come to my apartment shortly before she was killed and left the sealed package in my care.

“She made me promise to destroy it if she didn’t come back for it,” I said. “After she was murdered, I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t do anything. But then I put a lot of things together and decided I better see what she had left with me.”

I had thought that Al Georgio would scream at me for withholding evidence, but he didn’t. “What things did you put together, Dunk?” he said.

“Vanwinkle was living high off the hog, spending much more than the eight hundred a week he was making as Mr. Havistock’s secretary. So where was he getting it? He had the reputation of being a wild freak, a drunken sensualist. Even poor Dolly admitted they did crazy things.”

“Okay,” Al said, “I can take it from there. Orson and Dolly go to one of the Minchens’ skin extravaganzas, and a tape is made of their gymnastics together.”

“Blackmail,” Jack Smack said. “Orson swipes the tape, the night it was made or maybe at a later session, and he begins to lean on the Minchens. That would account for Ross’s bank withdrawals.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Havistock were involved in estate planning,” I added. “Rewriting their wills. Can you imagine what would have happened if Vanwinkle took the tape to Mabel and Archibald? As far as inheriting goes, Roberta and Ross would have been down the drain. So they paid Orson to keep his mouth shut. What else could they do? He had the tape.”

Al Georgio rose and began to pace back and forth, hands in the pockets of his polyester slacks. “It listens,” he said. “I like it. I like it very much. A scumbag like Vanwinkle isn’t going to let up. Blackmailers never do. He increases the pressure. Finally, Ross Minchen decides he can’t take any more of this; he’s got to end it, once and for all.”

“How’s this for a scenario?” Jack chimed in. “Vanwinkle ups the ante and Minchen agrees. He goes to Orson’s apartment. Vanwinkle lets him in, expecting payment. Instead, he gets two slugs in the head. Exit Orson. Then Minchen searches the apartment for the tape.”

“But he can’t find it,” I said, putting in my two cents’ worth, “because Vanwinkle had given the cassette to his girlfriend for safekeeping.”

“You think Minchen finally figured that out?” Al asked me.

“Probably,” I said. “Dolly told me she was getting threatening phone calls. Or maybe she decided to go into the blackmailing business on her own. With Orson dead, how was she going to pay for that apartment, the bikinis, and all her other swell stuff? However it happened, Ross Minchen, frantic now, went up to her place, killed her, and tore everything apart, looking for the tape. Again he didn’t find it. Because it was in my kitchen cabinet.”

Al nodded with satisfaction. “Better and better,” he said. “This is something I can take to the brass. Thank you, Dunk. You’ll have to make a sworn statement of how you came into possession of the tape and what Dolly said to you. Okay?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Fine. Then I’ll be on my way to get the wheels rolling.”

“Arrest warrant?” Jack asked.

Al thought a moment. “It may not be necessary. With Minchen’s bank withdrawals and this”—he held up the videocassette—“I think we can prove probable cause, considering the gravity of the crimes. But that’s for the Department’s legal eagles to decide. I’ll let you both know how it turns out.” He paused at the door. “Jack, do me a favor, will you?”

“What’s that?”

“The next time you show a film, try to have some buttered popcorn.”

After he was gone, Jack brought an opened bottle of chilled soave from the refrigerator and poured us each a glass. We sat there, sipping, regarding each other without expression.

“You’re really something,” he said finally. “You saved Al’s ass today—you know that? He was getting nowhere on the Demaretion case, but breaking the homicides will take the pressure off. How the hell did you do it?”

“I had the videocassette.”

“Sure you did, but you didn’t know what was on it. As for the rest of the stuff, Al and I both knew as much as you did, but we didn’t have the brains to put it together. You’re really a wonder.”

“Thank you.”

“Now how about saving my ass?” he said. “What have the killings got to do with the disappearance of the Demaretion?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Not directly. They were two different crimes.”

“Vanwinkle didn’t steal the Demaretion?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

I thought a moment. “Tell you tomorrow,” I said.

He stared at me. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. I’ve got one more piece to fit into place, and then I’ll know.”

“What time tomorrow?”

“Ohh…how about three o’clock? At the Havistocks’ apartment.”