The Sixth Commandment (7 page)

“Yeah,” I said, “I noticed the cemetery. Nice place.”

“Oh?” she said. “You’ve visited Crittenden Hall?”

“Just a quick look,” I said vaguely. “What about the research lab?”

“What about it?”

“Know anything about what they’re doing up there?”

She kept masticating a meatball, but her expression changed. I mean the focus of her eyes changed, to what I call a “thousand-yard stare.” Meaning she was looking at me, through me, and beyond. The same look I had seen in the eyes of the night clerk at the Coburn Inn when I had checked in and mentioned Thorndecker’s name.

I had interrogated enough suspects in criminal cases in the army to know what that stare meant. It didn’t necessarily mean they were lying or guilty. It usually meant they were making a decision on what and how much to reveal, and what and how much to hide. It was a signal of deep thought, calculating their own interests and culpability.

“No,” she said finally, “I don’t know what they’re doing in the lab. Something to do with human cells and longevity. But all that scientific bullshit is beyond me.”

She selected that moment to lean over and pick up her coffee cup. So I couldn’t see her face, and maybe guess that she was lying?

“You know Thorndecker’s family?” I asked her. “Wife? Daughter? The son? Can you tell me anything about them?”

“The wife’s less than half his age,” she said. “A real beauty. She’s his second wife, you know. Julie comes into town occasionally. She dresses fancy. Buys her clothes on Fifth Avenue. Not your typical Coburn housewife.”

“Thinks she’s superior?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said swiftly. “She’s just not a mixer, that’s all.”

“She and the doctor happy?”

Again she leaned away from me. This time to set the coffee container back on the floor.

“As far as I know,” she said in that deep, rumbling voice. “You really dig, don’t you?”

I ignored the question.

“What about the daughter?” I asked. “Does she mix in Coburn’s social life?”

“What social life?” she jeered. “Two beers at the Coburn Inn? No, I don’t see much of Mary either. It’s not that the Thorndeckers are standoffish, you understand, but they keep pretty much to themselves. Why the hell shouldn’t they? What the fuck is there to do in this shit-hole?”

She peered at me, hoping I had been shocked by her language. But I had heard those words before.

“And the son?” I asked. “Edward?”

“No secret about him,” she said. “He’s been bounced from a couple of prep schools. Lousy grades, I understand. Now he’s living at home with a private tutor to get him ready for Yale or Harvard or wherever. I met him a few times. Nice kid. Very handsome. Like his pa. But shy, I thought. Doesn’t say much.”

“But generally, you’d say the Thorndeckers are a close, loving American family?”

She looked at me suspiciously, wondering if I was putting her on. I was, of course, but she’d never see it in my expression.

“Well … sure,” she said. “I suppose they’ve got their problems like everyone else, but there’s never been any gossip or scandal, if that’s what you mean.”

“Julie Thorndecker,” I said, “the wife … she’s a good friend of Constable Ronnie Goodfellow?”

The combat boots came off the desk onto the floor with a crash. Agatha Binder jerked toward me. Her mouth was open wide enough so I could see a chunk of half-chewed meatball.

“Where the hell did you hear that?” she demanded.

“Around,” I shrugged.

“Shit,” she said, “that’s just vicious gossip.”

“You just said there’s never been any gossip about the Thorndeckers.”

She sat back, finished chewing and swallowing.

“You’re a smartass, aren’t you, Todd?”

I didn’t answer.

She pushed the remnants of her sandwich aside. She leaned across the desk to me, ham-hands clasped. Her manner was very earnest, very sincere. Apparently she was staring directly into my eyes. But it’s difficult to look steadily into someone else’s eyes, even when you’re telling the truth. The trick is to stare at the bridge of the nose, between the eyes. The effect is the same. I figured that’s what she was doing.

“Look, buster,” she said in a basso profundo rumble, “you’re going to hear a lot of nasty remarks about the Thorndeckers. They’re not the richest people hereabouts, but they ain’t hurting. Anytime there’s money, you’ll hear mean, jealous gossip. Take it for what it’s worth.”

“All right,” I said agreeably, “I will. Now how about Thorndecker’s staff? I mean the top people. Know any of them?”

“I know Stella Beecham. She’s an RN, supervisor of nurses and aides in Crittenden Hall. She practically runs the place. A good friend of mine. And I’ve met Dr. Draper. He’s Thorndecker’s Chief of Staff or Executive Assistant or whatever, in the research lab. I’ve met some of the others, but their names didn’t register.”

“Competent people?”

“Beecham certainly is. She’s a jewel. Draper is the studious, scientific type. I’ve got nothing in common with him, but he’s supposed to be a whiz. I guess the others in the lab are just as smart. Listen, I told you Thorndecker is a genius. He’s a good administrator, too. He wouldn’t hire dingbats. And the staff in the nursing home, mostly locals, do their jobs. They work hard.”

“So Thorndecker’s got no labor problems?”

“No way! Jobs are scarce around here, and he pays top dollar. Sick leave, pensions, paid vacation … the works. I’d like to work there myself.”

“The hell you would,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, grinning weakly. “The hell I would.”

“You know Al Coburn?”

“That old fart?” she burst out. “He’s been crazy as a loon since his wife died. Don’t listen to anything
he
says.”

“Well, I’ve got to listen to
someone,”
I said. “Preferably someone who knows Thorndecker. Where does he bank?”

“Locally?” she said. “That would have to be the First Farmers & Merchants. The only bank in town. Around the corner on River Street. Next to the post office. The man to see is Arthur Merchant. He’s president. That really is his name—Merchant. But the ‘Merchants’ in the bank’s name has nothing to do with his. That means the bank was—”

“I get it, I get it,” I assured her. “Just a fiendish coincidence. Life is full of them. Church? Is Thorndecker a church-goer?”

“He and his wife are registered Episcopalians, but they don’t work at it.”

“You’re a walking encyclopedia of Coburn lore,” I said admiringly. “You said, ‘He and his wife.’ What about the daughter? And the son?”

“I don’t know what the hell Eddie is. A Boy Scout, I suspect.”

“And the daughter? Mary?”

“Well …” she said cautiously. “Uh …”

“Uh?” I said. “What does ‘Uh’ mean?”

She punched gently at the tip of her nose with a knuckle.

“What the hell has that got to do with whether or not Dr. Thorndecker gets a grant from the Bingham Foundation?”

“Probably not a thing,” I admitted. “But I’m a nosy bastard.”

“You sure as hell are,” she grumbled. “Well, if you must know, I heard Mary Thorndecker goes to a little church about five miles south of here. It’s fundamentalist. Evangelical. You know—being born again, and all that crap. They wave their arms and shout, ‘Yes, Lord!’”

“And speak in tongues,” I said.

She looked at me curiously.

“You’re not so dumb, are you?” she said.

“Dumb,” I said, “but not so.” I paused a moment, pondering. “Well, I can’t think of anything else to ask. I want to thank you for your kind cooperation. You’ve been a big help.”

“I have?” she said, surprised. “That’s nice. I hope I’ve helped Thorndecker get his bread. He deserves it, and it would be a great help to this town.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said. “Listen, if I come up with any more questions, can I come around again?”

“Often as you like,” she said, rising. I stood up too, and saw she was almost as tall as I am. A
big
woman. “Go see Art Merchant at the bank. He’ll tell you anything you want to know. By the way, he’s also mayor of Coburn.”

“Fantastic,” I said.

We were standing there, shaking hands and smiling idiotically at each other, when there was a timid knock on the door.

“Come in,” Agatha Binder roared, dropping my hand.

The door opened hesitantly. There was my very own Miss Dimples. She looked even better standing up. Miniskirt. Yummy knees. Black plastic boots. A buttery angora sweater. I remembered an old army expression: “All you need with a dame like that is a spoon and a straw.” She was holding a sheaf of yellow copy paper.

“Yes, Sue Ann?” the
Sentinel
editor said.

“I’ve finished the Kenner funeral story, Miss Binder,” the girl faltered.

“Very good, Sue Ann. Just leave it. I’ll get to it this afternoon.”

The cheerleader dropped the copy on the desk and exited hastily, closing the door behind her. She hadn’t glanced at me, but Agatha Binder was staring at me shrewdly.

“Like that?” she asked softly.

“It’s okay,” I said, flipping a palm back and forth. “Not sensational, but okay.”

“Hands off, kiddo,” she said in a harder voice, eyes glittering. “It’s mine.”

I was glad to hear it. I felt better immediately. The sensation of Coburn being in a time warp disappeared. I was back in the 1970s, and I walked out of there with my spirit leaping like a demented hart.

When I strolled into the lobby of the Coburn Inn, the baldy behind the desk signaled frantically.

“Where have you been?” he said in an aggrieved tone.

“Sorry I didn’t check in,” I said. “Next time I’ll bring a note from home.”

But he wasn’t listening.

“Dr. Thorndecker has called you
three
times,” he said. “He wants you to call him back as soon as possible. Here’s the number.”

Upstairs in my room, I peeled off the trenchcoat, kicked off the boots. I lay back on the hard bed. The telephone was on the rickety bedside table. Calls went through the hotel switchboard. I gave the number and waited.

“Crittenden Hall.”

“Dr. Thorndecker, please. Samuel Todd calling.”

“Just a moment, please.”

Click, click, click.

“Crittenden Research Laboratory.”

“Dr. Thorndecker, please. Samuel Todd calling.”

“Just a moment, please.”

Click, click, click.

“Lab.”

“Dr. Thorndecker, please. Samuel Todd calling.”

No clicks this time; just, “Hang on.”

“Mr. Todd?”

“Yes, Dr. Thorndecker?”

“No. I’m sorry, Mr. Todd, but Dr. Thorndecker can’t come to the phone at the moment. I’m Dr. Kenneth Draper, Dr. Thorndecker’s assistant. How are you, sir?”

It was a postnasal-drip kind of voice: stuffed, whiny, without resonance.

“If I felt any better I’d be unconscious, thank you. I have a message to call Dr. Thorndecker.”

“I know, sir. He’s been trying to reach you all afternoon, but at the moment he’s involved in a critical experiment.”

I was trying to take my socks off with my toes.

“So am I,” I said.

“Pardon, sir?”

“Childish humor. Forget it.”

“Dr. Thorndecker asks if you can join the family for dinner tonight. Here at Crittenden Hall. Cocktails at six, dinner at seven.”

“Be delighted,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Do you know how to get here, Mr. Todd? You drive east on Main Street, then—”

“I’ll find it,” I said hastily. “See you tonight. Thank you, Dr. Draper.”

I hung up, and took off my socks the conventional way. I lay back on the bed, figuring to grab a nap for an hour or so, then get up and shower, shave, dress. But sleep wouldn’t come. My mind was churning.

You’ve probably heard the following exchange on a TV detective drama, or read it in a detective novel:

Police Sergeant: “That guy is guilty as hell.”

Police Officer: “Why do you say that?”

Police Sergeant: “Gut instinct.”

Sometimes the sergeant says, “Gut feeling” or “A hunch.” But the implication is that he’s had an intuitive feeling, almost a subconscious inspiration, that has revealed the truth.

I asked an old precinct dick about this, and he said: “Bullshit.”

Then he said: “Look, I don’t deny that you get a gut feeling or a hunch about some cases, but it doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. You get a hunch, and if you sit down and analyze it, you discover that what it is, is a logical deduction based on things you know, things you’ve heard, things you’ve seen. I mean that ‘gut feeling’ they’re always talking about is really based on hard evidence. Instinct has got nothing to do with it.”

I didn’t have a gut feeling or a hunch about this Thorndecker investigation. What I had was more like a vague unease. So I started to analyze it, trying to discover what hard evidence had triggered it, and why it was spoiling my nap. My list went like this:

1. When a poor wife is killed accidentally, people cluck twice and say, “What a shame.” When a rich wife is killed accidentally, people cluck once, say, “What a shame,” and raise an eyebrow. Thorndecker’s first wife left him a mil and turned his life around.

2. Thorndecker had released the story of his application for a Bingham Foundation grant to the local press. It wasn’t unethical, but it was certainly unusual. I didn’t buy Constable Goodfellow’s story that it was impossible to keep a secret like that in a small town. Thorndecker could have prepared the application himself, or with the help of a single discreet aide, and no one in Coburn would have known a thing about it. So he had a motive for giving the story to the Coburn
Sentinel.
To rally the town on his side, knowing there’d be a field investigation?

3. Someone dispatched an armed cop to welcome me to Coburn. That was a dumb thing to do. Why not greet me in person or send an assistant? I didn’t understand Goodfellow’s role at all.

4. Al Coburn might have been an “old fart” to Agatha Binder, but I thought he was a crusty old geezer with all his marbles. So why had he said, “You watch your step, Sam Todd?” Watch my step for
what?
And what the hell was that “devil’s work” he claimed they were doing in the research lab?

5. Agatha Binder had called Thorndecker a “pompous ass” and put on a great show of being a tough, cynical newspaper editor. But she had been careful not to say a thing that might endanger the Bingham grant. Her answers to my questions were a beautiful example of manipulation, except when she blew her cool at my mention of the Julie Thorndecker-Ronnie Goodfellow connection. What the hell was going on
there?