The Eighth Commandment by Lawrence Sanders Page A

all of him—scalp, eyebrows, suit, apron, shoes, everything—was coated with sawdust, as if someone had gone over him with a shaker, sprinkling vigorously.
    He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. He looked up at me, smiled, and said, “Now if you and I had a son, he would be just right.”
    “Great idea,” I told the old man. “When do you want to start?”
    “Oh-ho,” he said. “A fresh lady. I like fresh ladies. Clara, did you hear that? When do you want to start, she asks me.”
    “I heard,” the typist said, then addressed me. “Don’t listen to him; he’s all talk and no do.”
    That made the little guy laugh. His method of laughing was to clamp his dentures, press his lips tightly together, close his eyes and shake. His whole body bounced up and down.
    When the seismic disturbance was over, I said, “Mr. Colescui?”
    “The same,” he said, “but a fresh lady like you can call me Nate.”
    “Nate,” I said, “I came to ask about having a display case made for my coin collection. Do you do things like that?”
    “Everything I do,” he said. “Display cases, tables, chairs, bookcases, picture frames—whatever. What size display case you thinking of?”
    “I was at a friend’s house the other night,” I said, faintly ashamed of myself for scamming such a nice man in this fashion, “and he kept his coin collection in beautiful cases he said you had made for him. I was wondering if I could get one case like those he had.”
    “Oh-ho,” Nate Colescui said, head tilted to one side. “And what was this customer’s name?”
    “Havistock. Archibald Havistock.”
    He went to a battered file, pulled open the top drawer, began rummaging through folders. “Habley, Hammond, Harrison…Yes, here it is: Havistock.” He withdrew the file, opened it, began reading, holding it close to his nose. “Oh my yes, I remember this now. Several years ago. A big order. The finest teak, tempered glass lids, velvet lining, recessed brass hardware. Everything the best.” He peered up at me in a kindly way. “And expensive.”
    “How expensive?” I asked him.
    “Mr. Havistock paid four hundred dollars a case. But as I say, that was several years ago. I’m afraid it would be considerably more today. Say six hundred a case.” He must have seen my shock, for he added, “Of course I could make the same size case in pine, maybe maple or cherrywood. Put the hardware on the outside. Skimp a little here and there. Make it affordable.”
    “But it wouldn’t look like Mr. Havistock’s cases.”
    “No,” he said, with an understanding smile, “it wouldn’t.”
    “Well, that’s that,” I said, sighing. “I had no idea they cost that much.”
    He shrugged. “A lot of work. Dovetail joints. Everything just so.”
    “How many cases did Mr. Havistock have made?” I asked casually.
    He consulted the file again. “Fifteen.”
    “Wow,” I said. “My poor little coin collection isn’t worth that much. Well, thank you for your time and cooperation, Nate. If I ever decide to have a case made, I’ll bother you again.”
    “No bother,” he protested. “It’s always a pleasure to talk to a fresh lady like you. Stop in anytime.”
    I left the shop and tramped north to Sheridan Square. The day had started out balmy, but now there was an edge to the wind, and the blue had disappeared behind a screen of muddy clouds. Pedestrians were beginning to hustle, and I noticed several were carrying furled umbrellas. That always amazed me about New York: It can be a perfectly clear day, then clouds come over, it begins to drizzle, and suddenly everyone has an umbrella—except me.
    But the possibility of getting caught in a shower, and having my suede jacket spotted, didn’t concern me half so much as those fifteen display cases Archibald Havistock had purchased. Thirteen of them housed his original collection. That left two empty extras, presumably stored in the Havistock apartment.
    If one of the extras was