The Eighth Commandment Read Online Free PDF Page B

in my arms, held it out to Hobie.
    “Just take a look at that,” I said.
    He glanced down, then raised his eyes slowly to my face. Something happened to his expression. It congealed.
    “At what?” he said in a low voice.
    I stared at him for a second or two, then looked down at the sealed display case.
    It was empty. The Demaretion was gone.
    You know the opening words of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities ? “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” That last part was written for me: it was the worst of times.
    Later, Hobie told me that he was afraid I was going to faint when I saw the Demaretion had disappeared. He moved closer so he could grab me if I began to crumple.
    “It wasn’t that you turned white,” he said. “You turned absolutely livid , as if someone had kicked you in the cruller.”
    Disbelief was my initial reaction. Then bewilderment. Then anger. Then cold guilt when I realized what I had done: signed a receipt for a $350,000 coin that was not in Grandby & Sons’ vault. Goodbye to job, career, reputation. I had visions of a lifetime in durance vile. Plenty of days, and nights, to try to solve the puzzle of how the Demaretion had been stolen from a sealed display case within a taped container.
    When we sounded the alarm, everyone came running. That was all right; I wanted plenty of witnesses to the fact that the teakwood display case still had all its seals intact, including that blob of wax bearing the imprint of Archibald Havistock’s signet ring. Then the question was asked: Was the Demaretion in the case when it was sealed?
    I swore it was. People looked at me. I would not weep.
    Stanton Grandby, god, was a plump, pouty man who dressed like a penguin. I could tell from his pursed lips and glittering eyes that he was computing what this catastrophe was going to cost the family business.
    Grandby & Sons carried heavy insurance, of course, to cover disasters of this nature. But the money loss didn’t bother god so much as the damage done to the reputation of the house. Who would be eager to consign coins, stamps, paintings, and sculpture to Grandby’s if it was bruited about that valuable antiques disappeared from the premises?
    I was set to work examining the other twelve display cases, peering through the glass lids without disturbing the seals. The collection was complete—except for the Demaretion. Then god, in whispered consultation with Felicia Dodat, decided to inform Archibald Havistock of the loss, and the New York Police Department, Grandby’s insurance company, Mr. Havistock’s insurers, and the armored truck service that had made the transfer.
    “And we better phone our attorneys,” Stanton Grandby added, glancing at me wrathfully. “This is a mess, and we need legal advice.”
    The remainder of that day was horrid, a monstrosity I find hard to recall, it was so painful. A detective team from the NYPD was first on the scene, followed by the burly man from the armored truck service, followed by representatives from the two insurance companies involved. Last to arrive was Lemuel Whattsworth, junior partner of the law firm of Phlegg, Sample, Haw, Jugson, and Pinchnik, attorneys for Grandby & Sons.
    I must have told my story at least a half-dozen times, relating the exact details of how the coins were inventoried, displayed in the compartments, and how I witnessed the sealing of the display cases, their packing in Styrofoam, and the taping of those boxes. Six times I vowed to high heaven that I had seen the Demaretion sealed in its own case and slid into container thirteen.
    Curiously, this repeated recital of what had happened did not anger me or bore me or offend me. In fact, I welcomed going over the facts again and again, hoping I or someone else would spot a fatal flaw in the preparations for the move of the Havistock Collection and cry, “Ah-ha! There’s where you went wrong. That’s how it was done.”
    But I didn’t see it, and neither did anyone else. It