The Eighth Commandment Read Online Free PDF

shoulder.
    So I walked down that depressing corridor by myself, wondering if I had announced, “Hi! I’m Ma Barker, and I’ve come to steal the Havistock Collection.” Would she have growled, “They’re in the back,” and shown me where to go? Probably. So much for tight security.
    They were awaiting me in that splendid library, both busy sealing the thirteen display cases. Orson Vanwinkle was neatly cutting strips of masking tape, and his uncle was just as neatly applying them to sides and lids. If Archibald Havistock felt any sadness or depression at seeing his collection go on the block, he gave no sign. As I said, he was a very contained man.
    I had brought along two inventories, the insurance company’s and my own, and I checked carefully to make certain every coin was in its correct compartment in its correct case. As I okayed each case, Vanwinkle applied a thick blob of warmed sealing wax to the front junction of lid and case, and Mr. Havistock pressed his signet ring firmly. Then Vanwinkle slid the sealed display case into its properly labeled Styrofoam box, closed that with masking tape, and the deed was done.
    I lingered over case thirteen, staring through the glass at the Demaretion. It twinkled back at me.
    “Aren’t you going to miss it?” I asked Mr. Havistock.
    He shrugged and tried to smile. “As someone said, you spend the first half of your life collecting things, and the second half getting rid of them.”
    Then the Demaretion was gone, its own display case slid into the Styrofoam container marked thirteen, and sealed. I prepared to depart.
    “I’ll send in the armored truck guards,” I said. “I want to get downstairs to make certain all the cases are brought down safely, and get my receipt.”
    “I think I’ll come along,” Orson Vanwinkle said, smiling thinly, “to get our receipt.”
    The two of us waited near the truck in the service alley. In about ten minutes the armed guards appeared, pushing the loaded dolly. The thirteen cases were put into the armored van. The driver ticked them off carefully on his loading list, then signed a receipt for the shipment. One copy to me, one copy to Orson Vanwinkle.
    “See you at the auction,” I said to him blithely.
    “Before that, I hope,” he said with a smarmy smile.
    Boy, was he ever right!
    I was lucky enough to grab a cab almost immediately, buzzed back to the office, and got things organized for the reception of the Havistock Collection. Grandby & Sons employed its own security force, and I recruited the Chief and two stalwarts to stand by for the arrival of the armored truck.
    When it pulled up in front of the townhouse, our guards did sentry duty as the Styrofoam containers were unloaded and carried down to the basement vault. I took up station at the opened vault door as they were brought in. Thirteen, tape unbroken. I counted them again. Thirteen, tape intact.
    I then signed a receipt for Grandby & Sons and handed it to the driver of the armored truck. He and his two minions disappeared. The Havistock coins were now safely tucked away in our vault, the door thick enough to stop a cruise missile, but so perfectly hinged and balanced that I could move it with one hand.
    Hobart Juliana came down, laughing, to bring me a mug of hot black coffee.
    “Got ʼem?” he said cheerfully.
    “Safe and sound,” I said. “Am I ever glad that’s over. Look at my hands; I’m shaking.”
    “Calm down, Dunk,” he advised. “Your part of the job is finished.”
    “I guess,” I said, just beginning to realize that my connection with the Havistock Collection had ended. Now it was all up to the sales staff and auctioneer.
    “Hobie,” I said, “I want to show you something that’ll knock your eyes out. The Demaretion. A work of art if ever there was one.”
    I set my coffee mug aside. Slid container thirteen from the stack and pulled back the masking tape. Opened the Styrofoam box and gently withdrew the sealed teakwood case. I cradled it