The Eighth Commandment (37 page)

Of course it was missing.

I
CALLED AL GEORGIO
, and this time I was in luck; I got him on the first try.

“Al,” I said, “I’ve got to see you right away.”

He must have caught something in my voice because he immediately said, “Dunk, you okay?”

“I’m all right, but I’ve got to see you.”

He didn’t say any bullshit things like “Is it important?” or “Can’t it wait?” He just said, “I’ll be right there,” and hung up. The man was a tower of strength.

I still wasn’t thinking clearly. If I had been, I’d have peeled off my fancy party duds—poet’s blouse and long, brocaded skirt—and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. But it never occurred to me. So when Al arrived and looked me up and down, I was sure he guessed I had been out all night; he didn’t carry a detective’s gold shield for nothing. But he never mentioned my costume.

“You all right, Dunk?” he asked anxiously.

“I think so,” I said. “I’m not sure. I made some coffee. Have a cup?”

“Love it,” he said. “What happened? You look spooked.”

We hunched over the cocktail table, sipping our hot coffee, and I told him all about it. He got up, went to my front door, and inspected it. Then he came back.

“Dunk,” he said, “those locks are cheese. I could crash this place with a hairpin, a nail file, and a plastic credit card.”

“What should I do?” I said desperately.

“Get Medeco locks with big pry-plates around the face. Get a long jimmy shield for the jamb of the door. No guarantee, but it’s better than what you’ve got. You say nothing was taken but your notebook?”

“That’s right.”

“What was in the notebook?”

“Everything,” I said despairingly. “Everything I learned about the Demaretion robbery. Everything about the Havistock family. About the murders of Vanwinkle and LeBaron. Everything you and Jack Smack told me. Al, that notebook had everything I’ve been doing since this whole thing started. I’ll be lost without it.”

“Can you remember what was in it?”

“I’ll try. I think I can, but there was so
much.
I needed those notes.”

“I know,” he said sympathetically. “I go back over my reports again and again, trying to find something I’ve missed.”

“Can you do anything?” I asked hopefully.

“Like what? Have the place dusted for prints? A waste of time. Whoever grabbed your notebook was probably wearing gloves, and in and out of here in fifteen minutes. Where did you keep it?”

“In the upper drawer of the sideboard.”

“Locked?”

“No.”

He sighed. “It’s gone, Dunk. And I doubt if you’ll ever get it back. I can ask neighbors if they saw or heard anything, but that’s the best I can do.”

“Forget it,” I said. “You’re right; it’s just gone.”

“You think it happened last night?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was out.”

“Lucky you,” he said casually. “Better than being home asleep when the guy broke in. Dunk, who knew you were keeping a notebook?”

I held my head in my hands, trying to think. “I told Enoch. That’s Enoch Wottle, my friend in Arizona. You can scratch him as a suspect. I mentioned it to Archibald Havistock, and he could have repeated it to his wife.”

“Yeah,” Al said, “at the dinner table where Natalie and Ruby Querita might have heard.”

I nodded miserably. “And I told a friend of Vanessa’s last night. So she could have known about the notebook. And that means Luther, too. Also, the Minchens.”

“Jesus Christ, Dunk, why didn’t you take out a full-page newspaper ad to let everyone in New York know you were keeping notes on the Demaretion robbery.”

“I talked too much,” I agreed mournfully. “But who could have figured anyone would be interested enough in the stupid thing to steal it.”

“Obviously someone who felt threatened by your investigation and wanted to find out exactly what you knew. Who’s this friend of Vanessa’s?”

“Carlo. He’s the manager of a Madison Avenue boutique where Vanessa spends a bundle.” Then I decided to come clean. “Al, I went to a party at Vanessa’s last night. That’s where I got a mite smashed and shot off my mouth about the notebook. I didn’t get home until early this morning, so anyone at the party could have popped over here and grabbed it.”

Thankfully, he didn’t ask me where I had been “until early this morning.” Maybe he knew—or guessed.

He finished his coffee and sat back on the couch. “No use brooding about it, Dunk. You’d do better trying to remember your notes and figuring out what you might have had that drove someone to breaking-and-entering. Learn anything at the party?”

I told him what I had told Jack Smack, that Luther Havistock had been in a pitiable condition and, in my opinion, was close to violence. Also, that the Minchens had been present, to my surprise, and seemed to be palsy-walsy with Vanessa.

“I have no idea what that means,” Al said. “Do you?”

“Haven’t the slightest,” I said, not yet ready to tell him about my crazy theory. And unwilling, at the moment, to confess I had a mysterious package that belonged to Dolly LeBaron in my kitchen cabinet.

We sat in silence awhile. He seemed in no hurry to leave—which was fine with me. After what had happened, it was nice to have a big, husky cop on the premises.

“Anything new on the homicides?” I asked.

“What?” he said, coming out of his reverie. “No, nothing new. We’re up against a stone wall. Unless we get a lucky break, I’m afraid the whole thing will have to be put on the back burner.”

“You can’t do that,” I said hotly.

“No?” he said with a sour grin. “You know how many killings there have been in this town since Vanwinkle got snuffed? It’s a problem of time and manpower, Dunk. We can’t work one case for months or years. Besides, Vanwinkle and LeBaron are the homicide guys’ headache. It’s not mine. I’ve got enough to worry about, wondering if I screwed up on the Demaretion thing. My bosses aren’t exactly enthusiastic about the way I’ve handled it—or mishandled it.”

“Jack Smack hasn’t done any better,” I pointed out. “And neither have I. It’s not your fault, Al.”

He gave me his slow, charming smile. “Thanks for your loyalty; I appreciate it. Dunk, I talked to Sally on the phone last night. She said to say hello.”

“And hello to her. How is she?”

“Doing great in school. Getting good marks. And she’s in a play where she gets to sing a song. She’s all excited.”

“I can imagine.”

“You like her, Dunk?”

“Like her? What a question! I love her. She’s a marvelous kid.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I think so, too. I just wanted to find out how you felt.”

Then he was silent again, sitting there like a slack giant, rumpled as ever. What he needed, I decided, was a loving wife who would wind him up every morning and send him off to work with a pressed suit, shined shoes, and a straight part in his hair. He needed sprucing and the knowledge that someone cared. He was beginning to show a hermit’s disrepair. I didn’t think he was a man who enjoyed solitude.

“Something on your mind, Al?” I asked him. “You seem awfully quiet.”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’ve got something on my mind. Dunk, will you marry me?”

I used to believe it was a literary figure of speech to say someone’s jaw dropped in amazement, but I could feel mine go
kerplunk
! I had just been thinking he needed a wife to straighten him out and give his life meaning. What a shock to learn I had been nominated.

“My God, Al,” I said, “you can’t be serious.”

“Never more serious in my life. Hear me out, Dunk, before you laugh at me.”

“I’d never do that, and you know it.”

“Well, I’ll give it to you straight. I’ve been thinking about it a long time. Since I met you and drove you home—remember? Let me give you the minuses first. I told you why my wife dumped me. She couldn’t stand the pressures of my job. That’s all right; I can understand that. But if you married me, the pressures would still be there. The job would come first. Lousy hours. Meals where I don’t show up. Maybe gone for a day or two and all you get are phone calls. Not exactly what you’d term a storybook romance. Plus the possibility that some weirdo might blow my head off. A remote possibility—but still it’s there. Also, I admit, I can be stubborn. You know—the Italian macho syndrome. I try to control it, but sometimes it gets away from me.”

“You do okay,” I told him.

“Do I?” he said. “Well, I try. And then there are a lot of little things that might drive a wife bananas. Like I think I’m such a hotshot cook and could be supercritical of what I’m given to eat. And I guess I’m not the neatest guy in the world. I’m trying to give you all the drawbacks, Dunk.”

I smiled and took his hand.

“Now for the pluses,” he said. “Such as they are. I make a good buck. Not great, but good. Maybe someday I can make lieutenant. Chancy, but it’s a possible. The pension is better. If my ex gets married, which I’m praying for, then I’ll be saving the alimony. I’ve got a few CDs—nothing to brag about. I’m in good health. Overweight, but healthy. I really can cook, and don’t mind helping with housework if I’ve got the time. But the most important plus, Dunk, is that I love you. I really do. If we got married, I would never cheat on you. I wouldn’t even
dream
about it. I would be with you always.”

This was my first proposal of marriage, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I was so confused that my best reaction, I figured, would be to delay, temporize, put off a decision until I could determine how I felt. But Al, bless him, made it easy for me.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t expect an immediate yes or no. You’re a brainy lady and I know you’ll want to think about it and weigh the pros and cons. I just wanted to make my pitch and let you know how I feel. Take your time. If you say no, I’m not going to stamp my foot and pout. It’s your decision. If you say yes, I’ll be the happiest son of a bitch in New York. But don’t let the way I’m going to feel affect what you decide. You do what you think is best for you.”

I had to kiss him. He was so honest, forthright, and solid. I never doubted his integrity for a moment. He was exactly the man he appeared to be. No sham. No playacting. What you see is what you get.

“Al,” I said, “first of all, I thank you for even thinking about me that way. First time it ever happened to me, and it’s great for a girl’s ego.”

“Listen,” he said, “if you’ve got any questions, don’t be afraid to ask them. You know, like my finances, bank balance, debts, and all that. Religion. I’ll answer everything. Also, what about children? Do you want your own kids or don’t you? These are things we’d have to work out if you decide to say yes. But let’s put all our cards on the table first. I think that’s the best way, don’t you?”

“You bet,” I said. “Al, just as you figured, I’m not going to give you an answer right now. I’ve got some heavy thinking to do.”

“But you’re not giving me a fast no?”

“You’re right; I’m not.”

“That’s good enough for me,” he said, rising. “And remember what I told you: Do what you think is best for you.”

We embraced and I hugged him tightly. I tried to keep from weeping. I don’t know why I felt like crying; a woman’s first marriage proposal is hardly a reason for melancholy. I think it was just that, at the moment, I felt so tender and loving toward him.

When he was gone, and I had imprisoned myself with those cheesy locks, I finally got out of my party clothes and pulled on something more informal and comfortable. While I was doing this, moving as dreamily as a somnambulist, I thought of Al’s offer and tried to imagine what my life would be like as Mrs. Al Georgio. Mrs. Mary Lou Georgio. Mrs. Dunk Georgio.

I couldn’t see myself clearly in the role of a wife. I could easily see Al as a husband. Other than his rackety job, he seemed to have all the attributes of a good, solid, faithful mate. I knew he’d take the marriage vows seriously, especially that part about “till death do us part.”

But what kind of a spouse would I make? I decided, sighing, that I’d never know until I gave it a go. I might have the best intentions in the world, but chance and circumstance have a way of fouling up the most sincere resolves. I guess, when you got right down to it, marriage frightened me. The big unknown. Who could predict if it would be a benediction or a curse? Not me.

So I tucked
that
decision into the back of my mind, letting it percolate awhile, and turned my attention to more immediate demands. How was I going to replace my missing notebook? I could do something about that, and started by running out to buy a yellow legal pad at our neighborhood stationery store. I also stopped at the deli to pick up a cold six-pack of Bud. I still had a thirst that wouldn’t quit.

Back home, sipping from an opened can, I made brief jottings on the pad of everything I could recall that had been included in the stolen journal. You know, I think the attempted duplication of my original notes was a blessing in disguise. Because I’m sure I forgot a lot of meaningless details. Red herrings flopped at the wayside. There apparently was a kind of mental selection involved here: The things I remembered and scribbled down seemed to be significant and to have a logic and pattern I hadn’t seen before.

My crazy theory didn’t appear so demented after all. It was now a rational and verifiable explanation of everything that had happened. It took all the events into account and supplied motives and reasons for the puzzles that had been bedeviling me.

It even gave me a very good idea of what was in the late Dolly LeBaron’s mysterious package, now nestling amongst pancake mix and instant rice in my kitchen cabinet.

“I
’M SORRY, DUNK DARLING
,” Enoch Wottle said apologetically, calling from Arizona. “What I found out about Archibald Havistock’s finances you could put in your eye and it wouldn’t hurt a bit.”

“That’s all right, Enoch,” I said. “I know you tried, and I appreciate it.”

“The dealers I talked to made credit checks maybe four or five years ago. At that time his reputation was A-OK. They had no trouble with him whatsoever. So they saw no reason to investigate again.”