The Eighth Commandment Read Online Free PDF Page A

coins. After sealing, each case would be slid into a protective Styrofoam outer container in which, I was told, Nate Colescui, the casemaker, had delivered his handicraft. Each container would be plainly marked with large pasted labels: Mr. Havistock’s name and address, ditto for Grandby & Sons, and heavy numerals, 1 to 13.
    After I had witnessed the loading of the Styrofoam containers and their sealing with masking tape, the men from the armored van service would take over. With armed guards in attendance, they would take the thirteen containers down to ground level via the freight elevator. Once they were loaded into the truck, the driver would sign a receipt. A copy to Mr. Havistock, a copy to the insurance company, a copy to Grandby & Sons.
    I would then scurry back to my office—by cab, if I could find one; I was not allowed to ride in the armored truck. I would oversee the unloading of the thirteen containers and their safe storage in our vault. When all thirteen cases were accounted for, I would sign a receipt—copies to everyone—and the Havistock Collection became the responsibility of Grandby & Sons.
    It all sounded so simple and logical.
    I should mention at this time that during the planning sessions I met two more members of the Havistock family: wife, Mabel, and unmarried daughter, Natalie (called Nettie). In addition, I was told, the Havistocks had a married son and daughter-in-law, Luther and Vanessa Havistock, and a married daughter and son-in-law, Roberta and Ross Minchen.
    But when the collection was moved, I was personally acquainted only with Archibald Havistock, nephew Orson Vanwinkle, wife Mabel, and daughter Nettie.
    Mabel Havistock was a square, chunky matron with bluish hair and the jaw of a longshoreman. She was the sort of woman, I thought, who probably wore a brown corset with all kinds of straps, laces, buckles, and snaps. She looked somewhat ogreish, but I must admit she was civil enough when we were introduced, though her cold glance immediately pegged me as the costume jewelry type. Her pearls were real.
    I liked Natalie, the unmarried daughter, much more. She was the “baby” of the Havistock family, and a wild one. The T-shirt and stone-washed jeans type, with a mop of uncombed dirty-blond curls and an unbra-ed bosom that made me reflect once again that life is unfair.
    Nettie and I spoke briefly, but really hit it off, discovering we were both pizza mavens. She asked to stop by Grandby & Sons to learn how the auction of her daddy’s coins would be organized. I told her to come along anytime. I wanted to witness Felicia Dodat’s reaction when this fast-talking, sandal-clad wildebeest descended on her.
    Anyway, the date of the Great Move finally arrived: a rare Tuesday in June that only needed birdcalls on Manhattan streets to make the morning perfect. I took it as a good omen, that the day would end as splendidly as it began.
    I alerted our vault manager and was happy to see he had already made space for the Havistock Collection. Then I sauntered over to East 79th Street and was delighted to find the armored truck had already arrived, right on schedule, and was parked in the service alley alongside the apartment house. A bored driver sat slumped behind the wheel.
    The antique concierge knew me by now, and gave me a limp wave of a plump palm as I went directly to the elevator bank. I rode up to the 9th floor. In the corridor was parked a four-wheeled dolly from the armored truck. Two uniformed and armed guards were sitting on it, smoking, and looked up as I arrived.
    “All set?” I asked brightly.
    “We’ll never be setter,” one of them said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
    I was admitted to the Havistock apartment by an employee I had never seen before: a stringy, dour-faced lady swaddled in black bombazine with white apron. Maid? Housekeeper? Cook?
    “I am Mary Bateson from—” I started.
    “They’re in the back,” she growled, jerking a thumb over her