The Eighth Commandment (7 page)

But then, resuming my brisk walk to the subway station, I reflected that if the crook had done that, the case he replaced would show signs of having been sealed: the residue of sealing wax and masking tape. Unless the thief had been clever enough to have the case refinished.

Groaning, I began to appreciate the complexity of the detective’s art. All those imponderables, what-ifs, and possibilities. I felt a grudging admiration for Al Georgio and Jack Smack. But then, if they could pick their way through a thicket of facts, fantasies, and suppositions, so could I, and I resolved to continue my new career as Girl Detective.

It turned out to be the most important dunk shot I ever tried to sink.

A
L GEORGIO PICKED ME
up in his grungy blue Plymouth. He waited until we were in traffic, heading for the Havistock apartment on East 79th Street, then he let me have it.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“What?” I said, startled.

“Why did you go down to see Nate Colescui yesterday?”

“Oh…” I said confusedly. “Oh, that. Well, I wanted to find out how many display cases Havistock had. Because that empty case was the real thing. So if it was substituted…” My voice trailed away.

“Leave the detecting to the professionals, will you?” he said angrily. “I go down to Carmine Street this morning and find you and Jack Smack have been there before me. Colescui doesn’t know what the hell is going on. He gets three people asking about Havistock’s cases.”

“I’m sorry,” I said humbly. “I just wanted to find out where the extra came from.”

“Ahh…” he said disgustedly, “I’m not sore at you. It’s my ego that’s suffering. Because you and Smack thought of it first and got there before me. No harm done. I called Havistock. Yes, he bought fifteen cases. He had two extras, kept in a closet in his bedroom. I asked him to check. He came back on the phone and said there’s only one extra case now. One is missing. That was the empty switched for the Demaretion case.”

I thought about it for a while.

“That clears me, doesn’t it?” I asked him. “I couldn’t have known about the extra cases. And even if I had, how would I know he kept them in his bedroom closet? He never mentioned them.”

“Oh, you’re clean,” he said. “As of now. And, for the same reasons, so are the guys on the armored truck.”

“Well, then…” I said, trying to puzzle it out, “who does that leave?”

“The family,” Al Georgio said. “As they say in dick shows on TV, it was an inside job.”

We drove through Central Park in silence for a while. Then:

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Dunk,” he said.

“That’s all right, Al,” I said. “I really didn’t mean to interfere with your job. I was just so anxious to clear myself.”

“Sure, I can understand that. But don’t do any more prying on your own. Someone committed a crime. I don’t want to scare you, but when you’re dealing with big bucks like this, anything can happen.”

“You mean I could be in danger?”

“People do wacky things when a lot of money is involved. And a lot of years in stir.”

I didn’t believe him. Was I ever wrong!

“When we talk to these people,” he went on, “let me carry the ball. You tell your story as honestly and completely as you can. Then I’ll see how they react and take it from there.”

“Whatever you say, Al,” I told him.

We all met in the living room of the Havistock apartment, a cavern I had never seen before. I mean the place was a mausoleum, swaddled in brown velvet, and I had to resist an impulse to take off my beret and look around for the open casket. If an organ had started to boom “Abide with Me,” I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.

Awaiting us were Archibald Havistock, wife Mabel, married daughter Roberta Minchen with husband Ross, Orson Vanwinkle, and a lady introduced as Lenore Wolfgang, Mr. Havistock’s attorney. She was almost as tall as I, but blockier: a real linebacker wearing a black gabardine suit that looked like it had been hacked out of a hickory stump.

We all shook hands, showed our teeth, and got seated on those horrendous velvet couches and obese club chairs. Not at all daunted by the crowd, Detective Georgio took charge immediately, and orchestrated the entire interview. I had to admire his stern, no-nonsense manner.

“I am going to ask Miss Bateson,” he said, “to relate in detail, to the best of her recollection, exactly what happened on the morning the coin collection was packed and shipped to Grandby’s. Please do not interrupt her. When she has finished, I will ask you, Mr. Havistock, and you, Mr. Vanwinkle, if your memories of that morning differ in any appreciable degree from her account. Miss Bateson?”

So I began my recital again, as familiar to me now as “Barbara Frietchie,” which I memorized in the 5th Grade: “Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn…” As I spoke, almost mechanically, I looked from face to face, zeroing in on daughter Roberta Minchen and hubby Ross.

She was a dumpling, swathed in a high-collared, flowery chiffon, loose enough to hide the bulges. A florid face with popping eyes and pouty lips. Her hair was cut short, which was a mistake. I thought she had a kind of blinking, rabbity look. Maybe that was due to her incisors: big and glistening.

Husband Ross was one of those solemn young men, prematurely bald, who comb their thinning locks from one side to the other. Awfully pale, with the grave look of a professional mourner. I remember that he cracked his knuckles until his wife reached out to stop him. While I was delivering my spiel, I had a sudden, awful vision of those two in bed together, and almost lost the thread of my discourse.

I finished and looked brightly at Al Georgio.

“Thank you, Miss Bateson,” he said. “Very complete.” He turned to Archibald Havistock. “Now, sir, does your recollection of the events differ from what you’ve just heard?”

Havistock stared at me, expressionless, heavy jaw lifted. “No,” he said decisively. “Miss Bateson has given an accurate account.”

“Mr. Vanwinkle?” the detective asked. “Any corrections or additions?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” the secretary said, with a languid wave. “It happened just as she says.”

Al Georgio took out his pocket notebook, a ballpoint pen, and made a few jottings. It seemed to impress everyone—except me. Then he sat back, crossed his knees, took a deep breath.

“All right,” he said. “Now we’re at the point when Miss Bateson and Mr. Vanwinkle leave the library and the taped cases and go out into the corridor to send in the armored truck guards. Correct?”

“Yes,” I said, “that’s how it happened.”

“You showed them where to go, and then the two of you went down to the street to supervise the packing of the armored van?”

“Not exactly,” Orson Vanwinkle said. “Miss Bateson was outside when I conducted the two guards into the library.”

“Oh?” Georgio said. “And when you brought the guards into the library, was Mr. Havistock still there?”

The attorney, Lenore Wolfgang, spoke up: “What is the purpose of this line of questioning?” she demanded.

Georgio looked at her stonily. “The purpose of this line of questioning is to find out who stole the Demaretion. Mr. Vanwinkle, when you accompanied the guards to the library, was your uncle there?”

“Ahh…no,” the secretary said. “He was not.”

The detective turned to Havistock. “Is that correct, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, somewhat testily. “The whole family had gathered, so I came into the living room, here, to see how everyone was getting along.”

“It was my birthday,” Mrs. Havistock said. “We were going to have a little party.”

“In other words,” Georgio said, “no one was in the library with the coins until Mr. Vanwinkle returned with the guards to start them loading the boxes. Is that right?”

He looked at them all. No one answered.

“Mr. Havistock, how long were you gone from the library?”

“A minute or two. No more than that.”

“Mr. Vanwinkle, from the moment you left the library until you returned with the guards, how much time elapsed?”

“Couldn’t have been more than two minutes. Then my uncle reentered the library. He supervised the loading of the dolly. I went back to the outside corridor, rejoined Miss Bateson, and we both went down to the street to oversee the loading of the armored van.”

Georgio was jotting furiously in his notebook. Then he looked up. “In other words, the packed coins were unattended in the library for a period of approximately two minutes?”

“I regret to say,” Archibald Havistock declaimed in his resonant voice, “you are correct. It was my fault. I should never have left them alone.”

The detective ignored that. “When you came into the living room, sir, who was present?”

Havistock frowned. “Hard to remember. People were milling about. Some going into the kitchen to sample things the caterer had brought.”

“The caterer?” Georgio said sharply. “When did the caterer arrive?”

“Oh, that was at least two hours previously,” Mrs. Havistock said. “All cold dishes. The delivery men were long gone before Miss Bateson arrived, and they started packing the coins.”

“Okay,” the detective said. “Scratch the caterers. Let’s get back to who was here, in the living room, when Mr. Havistock came in from the library. Were you here, Mrs. Havistock?”

“I was,” she said firmly. Then, hesitant, “I think I was. Part of the time. I may have stepped into the kitchen to see how Ruby was getting along.”

“Mrs. Minchen, were you here?”

“Right here,” she said in an unexpectedly girlish voice. “Exactly where I’m sitting now.”

“Well, not exactly, darling,” her husband said. “We were both sitting on the chocolate couch—remember?”

“And where was young Miss Havistock during the two minutes her father was in this room?”

“She was here,” Mrs. Havistock said.

“And where were your son and his wife—were they also in this room during that two-minute period?”

They all looked at each other helplessly.

“Look here,” Archibald Havistock said angrily. “I told you we were all milling about. People were sitting, standing, moving to the kitchen, mixing a drink for themselves. I deeply object to your line of questioning. You’re implying that a member of my family might have stolen the Demaretion.”

Al Georgio slapped his notebook shut with a smack that startled us all. He glared at them. “The armored truck guards couldn’t have done it,” he said, addressing Havistock. “Miss Bateson couldn’t have done it. Who do you want me to suspect—the man in the moon?”

“I resent that,” Lenore Wolfgang said.

“Resent away,” the detective said, standing up. “This is only the beginning. I’ll be back.”

He started out, then stopped suddenly and turned back to Havistock. “Who knew you kept the two extra display cases in your bedroom closet?” he demanded.

For the first time Mr. Havistock appeared flustered. He could hardly get the words out. “Why…” he said, almost stammering, “I suppose everyone did. All the family.”

Georgio nodded grimly and stalked out. I rose hastily and ran after him.

When we were back in his car, he said, “How about some lunch, Dunk? A hamburger?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll pay for my own.”

“Okay,” he said cheerfully. “I know a good place over on Lex. They make British burgers. With bacon.”

So that’s what we had. Sitting at a minuscule table for two alongside a tiled wall, munching burgers, popping French fries, and sipping tea out of glasses.

“I think it went good,” Al Georgio said. “I shook them up, got them looking at each other. They’re beginning to wonder: Which one did it?”

“Orson Vanwinkle did it,” I said.

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t like him.”

Al almost choked on a piece of bacon, he laughed so hard. “Beautiful. I take that to the DA, and he kicks my ass out the window. Why don’t you like Vanwinkle?”

“He’s a snaky character.”

“How could he have pulled it? He was never alone with the sealed cases.”

“Somehow he did it. I’ll find out.”

“Who the hell are you—Nancy Drew?” Then, suddenly, surprising me, “How about dinner tonight?”

I stared at him. “Are you married, Al?”

“Divorced,” he said. “Almost two years now.”

“Children?”

“A girl. Sally. Would you like to see her picture?”

“Of course.”

He dug out his wallet, showed me a photo in a plastic slipcase.

“She’s a beauty,” I said. And that was the truth.

“Isn’t she?” he said, staring at the photo. “She’s going to break a lot of hearts.”

“How old is she?”

“Going on twelve.”

“Do you see her often?”

“Not as often as I’d like,” he said miserably. “I have the right to two weekends a month. But this lousy job…That’s why my wife divorced me. It’s not easy being married to a cop. The job comes first.”

“All right, Al,” I said, “I’ll have dinner with you tonight. Do I have to dress up?”

He laughed. “You kidding? Look at me. Do I look like a dress-up kind of guy? The place I’m taking you to isn’t fancy, but they’ve got the best linguine and clams in New York.”

So I wore my usual uniform: pipestem jeans, black turtleneck sweater, suede jacket and beret. Al said I looked like a Central American terrorist; all I needed was a bandolier. He was wearing one of his rumpled suits with all the pizzazz of a bathrobe. I had never met a man so completely without vanity. I found it rather endearing.

It was a scruffy trattoria he took me to, in Little Italy, but after I got a whiff of those marvelous cooking odors, I knew I had found a home. The moment we entered, the owner came rushing over to embrace Al, and the two men roared at each other in rapid Italian. Then the owner, a man with a white mustache big enough to stuff a pillow, turned his attention to me.

He kissed his fingertips and started chattering away again. All I caught were two “bella’s” and one “bellissima!”

“He says,” Al translated, “that if you are willing to run away with him, he will desert his wife, six children, and eleven grandchildren.”

“Tell him not before I eat,” I said.

Al relayed the message, and the old guy slapped his thigh, twisted the curved horns of his mustache upward, and rolled his eyes. Forty years ago he must have been a holy terror with the ladies.