The Eighth Commandment (22 page)

“Shit,” he said disgustedly, “you’re right. Well, back to the old drawing board. Let’s have one more drink, Dunk, and then I’ve got to run.”

“Heavy date tonight?” I said casually, hating myself for asking it.

“Not so heavy,” he said. “Dolly LeBaron—Vanwinkle’s sleep-in girlfriend. She’s got herself an agent, and she’s trying to sell her story to the tabloids. Her life with the murdered socialite—complete with intimate photos. Hot stuff. Isn’t that beautiful?”

“Beautiful,” I said. “Al called her a boop-boop-a-doop girl.”

“Al’s right,” he said. “She looks like she’s ready to break into a Charleston at any minute.”

I got home, alone, about an hour later. Depressed. I told myself I was not, absolutely
not
jealous of Dolly LeBaron because Jack Smack was taking her to dinner. After all, hadn’t he asked me first? Still…

I wasn’t hungry—too many salted peanuts at the Sacred Cow—so I went back to my spiral notebook, rereading everything I had written and trying to make some sense out of it. Hopeless. Then I started thinking about Jack Smack’s theory: two thieves involved. One steals the Demaretion and starts dealing with the insurance company. Then someone else gets possession of the coin and calls a disreputable Lebanese coin dealer for quick cash.

It sounded right, except that I still didn’t think Orson Vanwinkle was the original crook. My mind was boggled. I was saved from complete mental collapse by a brief phone call from Al Georgio.

“Just got a minute,” he said, “but I wanted you to know that last night was the best thing that’s happened to me in God knows how long, and I thank you.”

“Al,” I said, “you don’t have to—”

“Got to run,” he said. “We’re all jammed up here. Now they say Vanwinkle’s apartment was tossed.”

“Tossed?”

“Searched. Very cleverly done. But someone was looking for something.”

“The Demaretion?”

“Could be.”

“Al, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. This morning I got a call from—”

“Phone you early tomorrow,” he said, and hung up.

So there I was, bereft again. I thought of people I might call and yell, “Help!” But I got over that mood soon enough—I’m really an up person—and spent the rest of the evening just schlumpfing around, which is what I call doing unnecessary chores to keep busy, like changing the bedding, wiping out the ashtrays, and taking up the hem on a denim shirt. Swell stuff like that.

But I was thinking!

Mostly about Al’s news that Vanwinkle’s apartment had been tossed. That tied in with Jack Smack’s theory that two thieves had been involved. Orson had been the first. Then someone had searched for and perhaps found the Demaretion.

Someone who was the second thief, and someone who was a murderer.

A
L GEORGIO WAS TRUE
to his word and called me early in the morning—so early that I was still asleep.

“Oh, God,” he said when he heard my grumpy voice, “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“That’s okay.”

“Sorry, Dunk. Want me to call you back?”

“No, no. I’m wide awake now.”

“How many hours did you sleep?”

“About seven.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “I got three. I’m running on black coffee and bennies. Listen, Dunk, I’m going to be tied up all day, but there’s a favor I’d like to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“Never say that to a cop. I’m not going to be able to drive you to East Sixty-fifth Street to get the number of that brownstone Vanessa Havistock went into—the one with the apartment rented by L. Wolfgang. Do you think you could get over there today, get the number, and give me a call? Leave a message if I’m not in. After I have the number of the building I’ll be able to start checking records: who owns it, who leases the apartments, and all that jazz. Will you do it?”

“Of course, Al. I should have gotten the number when I was there. It was stupid of me to forget.”

“Stupid you ain’t. Dunk, last night you said you had something to tell me.”

So once again I related the story of Enoch Wottle’s telephone call from Arizona, the friend in Rotterdam, and the Beirut coin dealer who was trying to hawk a Demaretion.

“I’ll be damned,” Al said when I had finished. “This thing is getting as fucked-up as a Chinese fire drill—please excuse the language.”

“I’ve heard worse,” I said.

“Did you tell Jack Smack about this Enoch Wottle’s call?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What was his reaction?”

I told him about Jack’s theory of there being two thieves—Orson Vanwinkle stealing the coin originally, then a second person getting possession of it and trying to peddle it in Beirut.

“The only trouble with it,” I said, “is that I can’t see how Orson could have switched display cases.”

“I agree,” Al said.

“But you did tell me his apartment had been searched.”

“Looks like it, but there’s no guarantee someone was hunting for the Demaretion. But they were looking for
something.
I told you there was about two thousand in cash in his bedside table, and that apparently wasn’t touched.”

“How did you find out the apartment had been searched?”

“Vanwinkle’s little blond flapper told us. She slept over, usually on weekends, and knew where everything was kept. She swears the place was tossed.”

“Al, I’d like to talk to her. Do you think I could?”

“Why not? She’s not under arrest or being held as a material witness. Hell yes, talk to her; maybe you can get something that we missed. Give her a call. Her name’s Dolly LeBaron, and she’s in the book. Lives on East Sixty-sixth Street.”

“East
Sixty-sixth
?”

“That’s right. Just around the block from L. Wolfgang’s brownstone. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Yes,” I said slowly, “interesting. Coincidence?”

“In my business,” he said, “you learn not to believe in coincidences. See what you can find out, Dunk. Talk to you later.”

He had a habit of hanging up abruptly without saying goodbye. But that was all right. At least he didn’t say, “Have a nice day.”

I showered, shaved my legs, dressed, and went out to buy the
Times
and a croissant. It was about 10:30 when I called Dolly LeBaron. Her “Hello?” was high-pitched and breathy, a little girl’s voice.

I stated my name and explained that I was a friend of the Havistock family, had met Orson Vanwinkle several times, and wanted to express my condolences to her on his untimely demise.

“Wasn’t it awful?” she said. “Absolutely the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

And to Orson, I thought.

“Miss LeBaron,” I said, “I’ve been hired by the Havistock family to investigate the theft of a valuable coin that disappeared from their apartment. I thought it just possible that Orson might have mentioned it to you, and I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?” she said.

Not too swift, this one.

“About the disappearance of the coin,” I said patiently. “Could you give me a few minutes today? I promise it won’t take long.”

“Gee, I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “My agent told me not to talk to anyone.”

“This isn’t a newspaper interview or anything like that, Miss LeBaron. Completely confidential.”

“I’m going to have my picture taken at noon,” she said, then giggled. “In a bikini. It’s going to be on the front page of something.”

“Isn’t that nice,” I said.

“The red, I think,” she said thoughtfully. “The knitted one.”

I wasn’t certain she had both oars in the water.

“How about three o’clock?” I urged. “I can come over to your place. It won’t take long.”

“Well … I suppose it’ll be all right. What did you say your name was?” She had a slight lisp.

I repeated it.

“My name is Dolly LeBaron,” she said primly.

“I know,” I said. “See you at three o’clock.”

Whew!

That gave me some hours to kill and, on the spur of the moment, I decided to call Hobart Juliana at Grandby & Sons and see if I could take him to lunch. He was delighted, and we made plans to meet at 12:30 at the health food place around the corner from Grandby’s.

“My treat,” I insisted. “I’ll talk to you about the Demaretion theft and bill Archibald Havistock for the lunch.”

“Okay,” he said cheerfully.

We had mushburgers, alfalfa salad, and carrot juice. It was all so awful, it
had
to be good for you. Hobie got me caught up on office gossip. He reported that god had hemorrhoids, and Felicia Dodat was wearing green polish on her fingernails. Also, Hobie had brought in a fine collection of Mark Twain letters to Grandby’s for auction.

“Hobie, that’s wonderful!” I told him. “Congratulations. Have they replaced me yet?”

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m still all alone in our little cubbyhole. From what I hear, that asshole lawyer, Lemuel Whattsworth, told them not to reinstate you until the crook is caught and the fair name of Grandby and Sons is cleared. He said to hold your job in ‘abeyance’—you know the way he talks.”

“What are they doing about appraisals of coin collections?”

“Using independent dealers on a consulting basis. It’s costing god a lot of money—which makes me happy. You know, Dunk, you and I should have been making another fifty a week.”

“At least,” I agreed. “Hobie, when is the auction of the Havistock Collection scheduled?”

“It isn’t. The sale has been put on indefinite ‘Hold.’ With all the litigation going on—everyone suing everyone else or threatening to—all the attorneys got together and decided to postpone the auction until things get straightened out. The coins will remain in Grandby’s vault.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “I’ll bet Archibald Havistock wasn’t happy about it.”

“He wasn’t. I understand he screamed bloody murder—and who can blame him? Now he hasn’t got the coins and he hasn’t got the money. But he really doesn’t have a leg to stand on. You know the standard contract that Havistock signed. Grandby’s can schedule the auction at their discretion provided it’s held within twelve months after the delivery of the merchandise. Hey, Dunk, what do you think about Orson Vanwinkle’s murder?”

“I don’t know what to think about it.”

Hobie loves to gossip. He leaned across the table eagerly. “Did you hear anything that wasn’t printed in the papers?”

“A few little things,” I said cautiously. “Nothing important.”

He inched closer. “I can give you a charming tidbit,” he said, lowering his voice. “Vanwinkle was a member of what we call Manhattan’s gay community. Not an active member, just occasionally.”

“That’s impossible!” I burst out.

Hobie sat back. “Believe me, Dunk, I
know
.”

“But he had a sleep-in girlfriend!”

“So? A lot of guys swing both ways. From what I hear, Vanwinkle was a nasty piece of goods. But he spent money like there was no tomorrow, so he was tolerated.”

After I left Hobie, promising to keep in touch, I still had about an hour to spare before my appointment with Dolly LeBaron. So I decided to walk over to her place, having a lot to think about. Also, I wanted to detour to get the number of that East 65th Street brownstone for Al Georgio.

I walked slowly because it was a steamy day. July was right around the corner and New York’s joyous summer humidity was building up. The sky was smoky, pressing down, and the sun was all haze. I was happy I had left my suede jacket at home; it would have been too much.

I thought about my conversation with Hobart Juliana during that dreadful lunch. (No more carrot juice for me!) Curiously, I found that I wasn’t disappointed or depressed to hear that I wasn’t to be immediately reinstated, despite the pleas by Al Georgio and Jack Smack. Maybe I was having too much fun playing girl detective. And the fact that Grandby’s hadn’t hired a replacement was a faint reason to hope they were keeping my job open for me.

I was sorry that the Havistock Collection wasn’t going to auction. I knew how disappointing that must be to Archibald, but I didn’t attach any great significance to the postponement. Boy, was I ever wrong!

Much more interesting, I thought, was Hobie’s revelation that Vanwinkle had been AC-DC. I had no idea what that meant to the twin investigations of his murder and the Demaretion robbery, but at least it was another clue to Orson’s personality. I wondered if Al and Jack knew about it. And if they did—why hadn’t they told me? Maybe they were trying to protect my tender sensibilities. It is to laugh!

I ambled along, trying not to raise a sweat, and noticed how the rhythm of the entire city had slowed. Not so many pedestrians rushing and shoving. Mostly they were sauntering, men carrying jackets over their arms. Even traffic seemed to be moving slower, and it might have been my imagination, but I thought taxi horns were muted and a dog day somnolence had descended on Manhattan.

I stopped first on East 65th Street and got the address of the L. Wolfgang brownstone. To make certain I wouldn’t foul up my report to Al, I jotted the number in a little notebook I carried in my shoulder bag. Then I walked around the block to East 66th and found Dolly LeBaron’s address. I stood on the sidewalk, staring up. This was no row house.

It was one of those high-rise glass and steel condominiums that were sprouting up all over Manhattan. This one soared forever, with a hard glitter, sharp edges, and the look of a Star Wars rocket ship about to blast off. The lobby was a clean subway station with palm trees, and the elevator was a sterile white cubicle that reminded me of a false molar. Sometimes I have weird reactions to my surroundings.

Dolly LeBaron lived on the 42nd floor—which would have been enough to give me a terminal attack of the jimjams. The hallway had all the charm of a hospital corridor, and even the apartment doors—plain, white, flat panels—looked like part of some gigantic maze. It really was a creepy place.

She opened the door herself.

“My name is Dolly LeBaron,” she said, smiling brightly. “What’s yours?”

“Mary Lou Bateson,” I said for the third time, reflecting that she wasn’t so great in the attention span department—or any other department demanding mental effort.

My first impression was one of shock—at how short she was. Couldn’t have been more than five-two, and she was wearing heels. Otherwise, she was much as Al and Jack had described her: a young, petite blonde with frizzy curls, plumpish figure, and skin seemingly so soft and yielding that you’d think a touch would cause a bruise.