The Eighth Commandment by Lawrence Sanders Page B
Authors: Lawrence Sanders
Tags: Suspense
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missing, it would be proof positive that it had been substituted for the case containing the Demaretion. I was gloating over my newly discovered talents as a detective when I stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, stunned by the realization that the thief might have removed the Demaretion and left its case with the other extra. Result: two empty cases, just as there should be.
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.
7
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
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.
7
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
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