The Eighth Commandment (12 page)

But I had waited too long. He stood suddenly, swaying, and drained his new drink, just chugalugged it straight down. I thought, next stop Intensive Care.

“Let’s go,” he said thickly.

“Go?” I said, Little Miss Innocence. “Where?”

“My place,” he said with a wolfish grin. “We’ll listen to some Sinatra tapes and let nature take its course.”

“Don’t you have to get back to work?”

“I work when I feel like it,” he said, boasting, “and I play when I feel like it.”

Dunk, I told myself, you’ve got problems.

I won’t tell you all the aggravations of the next hour. Well, yes, I will tell you: Getting him to pay the bill at Four Seasons’ bar—with a credit card, of course; I was a business expense. Then half-supporting him down the stairs to the street. His Juicy Fruit cologne overwhelmed me.

Then, outside, it took forever to get a cab, while Horsy leaned against the Seagram Building and sang “My Way” in a froggy tenor to the great amusement of passersby. And then in the taxi, he refused to tell the driver, or me, where he lived. I finally had to pluck his wallet from his inside jacket pocket as he giggled and tried to embrace me. I got his address from a card that testified he was a paid-up member of Club Exotica—whatever that was.

When I told the driver our destination, on East 85th Street, he said, “You sure you want to go there, lady? I think I should deliver this nut to Bellevue.”

There wasn’t enough cash in the wallet to pay the cab fare, so I had to make up the difference. I wasn’t in a happy mood when I dragged him out of the taxi and implored him to straighten up and fly right. As a matter of fact, I came close to leaving him in a collapsed heap on the sidewalk and letting him survive on his own. But I was determined to find out about Archibald Havistock’s signet ring.

He lived on the third floor of a six-story gray stone townhouse. Getting him to fish out his keys from his trouser pocket was a Keystone Kops comedy in itself, with grapplings, staggerings, and foiled embraces.

I finally got the keys, opened the front door, and wrestled us both inside. There was an elevator, thank God, and I propped him against one wall while we went up. More strugglings and fumblings outside his door, but at last we were inside and I had succeeded in getting this calamity safely home and still conscious.

“Got to see—” he said with a glassy grin, and went rushing for what I hoped was the John. Maybe, I prayed, the idiot would upchuck the business lunch and all that brandy and would return to me sober and chastened. No such luck.

Meanwhile I looked around at a trendy pad right out of
Playboy.
Stainless steel, glass, director’s chairs in blond leather, imitation Motherwells on white walls, zebra rugs, enough electronic equipment to blow a dozen fuses, a fully equipped bar with wet sink—well, you get the picture. I didn’t peek into the bedroom, but if it had mirrors on the ceiling I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.

It wasn’t the glitz that shook me so much as the cost of all that flash in a townhouse on East 85th Street. Either Vanwinkle was making a giant salary as secretary to Archibald Havistock, or he was independently wealthy, or he had a secondary source of income that paid very well indeed.

And yet, when I asked Natalie Havistock if there was anything doing between Vanessa and Orson Vanwinkle, she said she doubted it. “He’s got no money, so Vanessa wouldn’t be interested.” That’s what Nettie had said.

Jack Smack had been right: There was something cheesy about the man.

Mr. Roquefort himself came staggering out of the bedroom, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. He had put on a red velvet smoking jacket with black satin lapels and sash, a silk ascot clumsily knotted at his throat, a paisley square spilling out of his breast pocket. I suppose it was his seduction uniform, but with his loopy smile and shambling gait, he looked like a clown.

“Now then…” he said, “first things first…”

I thought he might fall over at any moment, but he navigated his way to the bar without bumping into any of the furniture. He poured himself a tumbler of brandy and a beer stein of warm white wine for me. If he had any ice available, he either forgot it or didn’t want any dilution.

He collapsed on a couch shaped like two enormous red lips and patted the cushion beside him. “You sit here, babe,” he said.

I took my schooner of wine and sat on the lips—at a wary distance. Sitting on that crazy couch was an unsettling experience. I expected the mouth to open up at any moment and swallow me down.

“Music,” he said, looking about vaguely. “Sinatra tapes.”

“Later,” I said. “Why don’t we just talk for a while.”

“About what?” he said, looking at me blearily.

I told you he wore a lot of gold glitter, and he did. Chunky little ingot links on his cuffs, a Piaget Polo with gold strap, a gleaming identification bracelet on the other wrist—the chain heavy enough to anchor the
QE2.
And on the third finger of his right hand, a square gold ring set with a sparkling diamond.

That was my cue.

“What a beautiful ring you have,” I said.

He looked down at it. “Two carats,” he said, nodding. “Flawless.”

“You do all right,” I said, laughing lightly. “And all Mr. Havistock has is that sad little signet ring.”

“Oh, hell, he doesn’t
wear
that. It’s a clunker. A piece of junk. I think Mama gave it to him when they got married. He just keeps it around.”

“Keeps it around?” I said. “Where? If it has such sentimental value for him, you’d think he’d wear it or keep it locked up.”

“Nah,” Orson Vanwinkle said. “It’s either on his desk in the library or maybe in his jewelry box in the bedroom. He’s not
that
sentimental.”

Which told me what I hadn’t wanted to hear: Anyone in that freaky family would have easy access to the signet ring.

“Listen,” Horsy said, “you’re not drinking. You still have your drinkee-poo. Come on, let the good times roll. Let’s have a party.”

“Sure,” I said, “why not? But let me take a look at your marvelous apartment.”

I rose, wandered behind him, and succeeded in dumping half my wine in the planter of an inoffensive ficus tree.

I figured that within a day or two the poor thing would be dead—or maybe it would be twice as tall.

“Beautiful apartment,” I said. “Just splendid.”

“You like it?” he said, beginning to mumble. “Wanna move in—temporarily?”

“Oh, Horsy,” I said, “you sweep a girl off her feet.”

I glanced at him to see how he was taking this bit of mild whimsy and to my horror I saw he was listing badly. He was slowly, slowly slumping sideways, his whole body leaning limply. I hastily came around in front of him and lifted the glass of brandy from his fingers.

I watched, fascinated, as he became hors de combat—you should excuse the expression. Within a moment he was completely out, eyes closed, breathing stertorously. His upper torso had fallen sideways onto the crimson lips. I lifted up his legs, made him as comfortable as I could, and looked down at him.

“Oh,” I intoned aloud, “how have the mighty fallen.” But he didn’t stir.

I cabbed home, and had just enough money to pay the driver, though I had to undertip him.

“Sorry about that,” I said, “but it’s all I have.”

“That’s okay, lady,” he said cheerily. “Give us a kiss and all is forgiven.”

“Catch you next time,” I said hastily, and scurried into my sanctuary, locking, bolting, and chaining the door behind me.

I slumped into my favorite chair, brooding about the last few hours. I was surprised to find I felt a little more kindly toward Orson Vanwinkle. Sympathy, I guess. The poor poop. Trying so hard to be something he could never be. But pity didn’t stop me from wondering about his flashy wealth. Where
was
his money coming from?

That was exactly the same question Jack Smack asked when he called a few hours later. I gave him a rundown of my afternoon with Orson Vanwinkle, leaving out only the business about Havistock’s signet ring. That was
my
baby. But I told Jack everything else, including Horsy’s fervid pantings and grapplings.

Smack totally disregarded that. “Where is the guy getting his loot?” he said. “Not from his secretarial job. I can’t believe dear old Uncle Archibald pays that much. I’ll have to look into it.”

“Will you tell me what you find out?” I asked him.

“Sure, Dunk,” he said. “We’re partners, aren’t we? And there’s nothing between Vanessa and Orson?”

“No romance, if that’s what you’re thinking. He kept calling her a slut, and I think he was sincere.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Jack said. “By the way, we closed all the Venetian blinds on our floor like the anonymous letter writer wanted, signaling our willingness to make a deal, but we haven’t heard anything more from him. Not yet. Hey, Dunk, how about some dinner tonight?”

“No,” I said promptly, “thank you, but I can’t make it.”

“Sure,” he said, not at all put out. “We’ll make it another time. Have a good evening. I’ll be in touch.”

A minute later I was wondering why I had rejected him. I was all dressed up with no place to go, and he was a handsome, dashing guy. Considering the state of my checking account, I could have used a free dinner.

I think my quick decision had something to do with that afternoon with Orson Vanwinkle. I had enough of men for one day. I was tired of the hassle. I suppose that sounds stupid, that a brief encounter with a drunken idiot could sour me on the entire male sex, even for one evening, but that’s the way it was.

So I got out of my silk sheath, Mexican beads, and black lace pantyhose, and pulled on my ratty flannel bathrobe with the frayed cord. I had a can of Campbell’s chicken soup and a salami sandwich.
Bas cuisine.

And spent a lonely and forlorn evening. Sometimes I don’t understand myself.

T
HEY SAT AS SOLIDLY
as Easter Island statues—Mr. Archibald Havistock and Mrs. Mabel Havistock—grim-visaged monoliths glowering at me. I won’t say I was frightened, but I was awed.

Both were stiffly erect, and I wondered if, in private, they ever allowed themselves the pleasure of slumping. Probably not. In their world it simply wasn’t
done.
She so hard, square, and chunky; he so impeccably groomed and complete. They could have posed for “Urban American Gothic”; both had steel in them, and not a little arrogance.

I had received a phone call from Orson Vanwinkle about ten o’clock that morning. No indication of hangover, no apologies. And he spoke in such circumspect tones I was certain someone was standing at his elbow.

“Miss Bateson,” he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Havistock would like to meet with you here at their apartment at eleven-thirty this morning. Will that be satisfactory?”

“Meet with me?” I said, startled. “What for?”

“Ah…to discuss a matter to your advantage. Will you be able to make it?”

“Okay,” I said breezily, “I’ll be there.”

I was greeted at the door by housekeeper Ruby Querita, dour as ever, and ushered into that Frank Campbell living room. And there sat Archy and Mabel, planted, as if they had grown to their velvet club chairs, unable or unwilling to rise and greet me.

They wasted no time getting down to business. Mrs. Havistock carried the ball. I admired the way she lifted her chin as she spoke. It almost smoothed out the wattles. Almost.

“Miss Bateson,” she said crisply, “you impress me—you impress
us
, my husband and me—as an intelligent and alert young lady.”

She paused, and I didn’t know whether to simper or dig a toe into their Aubusson and mutter an “Aw, shucks.”

“I am sure,” she continued, “you are aware of the activities of Detective Georgio of the New York Police Department and Mr. John Smack, who represents the insurance company covering the loss of the Demaretion by Grandby and Sons.”

“I know both men,” I said cautiously.

“Then I am sure you are aware that both feel the theft was committed by a member of my—by a member of our family.”

“Ridiculous!” Archibald Havistock said angrily.

I said nothing.

“There are two factors to be considered…” Mrs. Havistock went on. “First, while any member of this family is under suspicion, recompense for the loss of the Demaretion will be delayed. Second, we deem it a personal insult that a family member should be suspected. All that dreadful publicity! I was brought up, Miss Bateson, to believe that a lady’s name appeared in the public print only three times: when she was born, married, and died. I absolutely deny that any Havistock could be capable of such a crime. Archibald, do you agree with me?”

“Absolutely,” he boomed out in his resonant voice.

“What I—what we would like to propose,” Mrs. Havistock said, “is that we employ you in a private capacity. To investigate the robbery of this valuable piece of property.”

It took me a couple of ticks to realize she was talking about the Demaretion. It was like calling the Mona Lisa “a valuable piece of property.”

Then as my resentment faded, astonishment set in. They wanted to hire
me
to find out whodunit! I was as shocked as if I had been floored under the basket while going up for a dunk shot. Apparently she took my shaken silence for doubt or rejection because she started the hard sell:

“We know that you are on leave of absence from Grandby’s, so your time is your own. We can promise you complete cooperation—not only from my husband and myself, but from all the members of our family. Naturally, we expect to pay for your services. We feel that neither of the two official investigators has your knowledge of the inside world of numismatics.”

By that time my wits had settled back into place. “Mrs. Havistock,” I said, “if you wish to hire me to investigate the theft of the Demaretion, I’d be happy to take the assignment, and be very appreciative of your trust in me. But if you’re hiring me to give your entire family a clean bill of health, that I cannot do. I would like the job—but with no guarantees that I won’t find a family member guilty.”

They turned slowly to stare at each other. If a signal passed between them, I didn’t see it.