The Eighth Commandment by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online Page B

you.”
    “Wise guy,” I said, laughing, and hung up.
    Jack Smack turned out to be a very elegant young man indeed. About thirty-five, I judged, and a few inches taller than me. His suit of raw black silk showed Italian tailoring, and he was wearing Aramis, which always turns me on.
    I offered him refreshments, and he opted for a vodka on the rocks with a splash of water. I didn’t have a drink, figuring I better keep a clear head.
    “No doubt about the coin being the genuine Demaretion when the case was sealed?” he asked me.
    “No doubt whatsoever.”
    “You saw the case sealed, and then you saw it put into the box, and that was taped?”
    “Correct.”
    “And the next time you saw container thirteen was when the armored truck delivered it to Grandby’s?”
    “Correct again.”
    He uncrossed his knees, crossed them in the other direction. He fussed with the hanging trouser leg to make certain the crease was unwrinkled. Then he sipped his vodka reflectively, tinking the rim of the glass gently against his white teeth.
    Really a beau ideal: slender, graceful, with all the right moves. A wry smile—but that may have been part of his act. There was a certain theatricality about him; I had the sense of his being always on. But that didn’t diminish his attractiveness. He was possibly, I thought, the handsomest man I had ever seen—except for my oldest brother, Tom, who could have been minted on the obverse of a Greek drachm with a laurel wreath around his head.
    “I understand Al Georgio is handling the case for the cops,” he said suddenly.
    I nodded. “You know Detective Georgio?”
    “We’ve worked on a few things together,” he acknowledged.
    “Do I detect a slight note of hostility in your voice?” I asked him.
    “Slight,” he admitted, coming down hard on the irony. “But it’s got nothing to do with Al personally. I really like the guy. It’s just that he’s police, and I’m insurance, and sometimes the two don’t see eye-to-eye.”
    “I can’t understand that,” I said. “Both of you want the same thing, don’t you? To catch the crook.”
    “Sometimes,” he said, “but not always.” He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, holding his drink with both hands. Very serious, very intent. “Look,” he said, “here’s how it works: Say a goniff steals something. Call it a painting we’ve insured for a hundred grand. The cops go to work trying to find out who did it. Now the guy who stole the painting will be lucky to get ten percent from a fence. That’s ten thousand dollars. So he contacts us and makes a deal. We pay him say, twenty thousand, and he returns the painting to us. He gets double what a fence would pay him, and we’re out twenty grand—which is a hell of a lot better than paying out a hundred grand in insurance.”
    I stared at him. “How long has this been going on?” I demanded.
    He laughed. “Since property insurance was invented. Actually, the thief isn’t stealing something of value; he’s kidnapping it and holding it for ransom. The cops hate it, because when we pay ransom, the crook strolls away whistling a merry tune.”
    “I can see why the police would dislike deals like that,” I said. “But doesn’t it cost insurance companies a bundle?”
    “So we raise premiums,” he said, shrugging.
    “You think that’s what might happen with the Demaretion?”
    “It could.”
    “Has anyone called you, offering to sell back the coin?”
    “Not yet,” he said. “Hey, I came here to ask you questions, and it seems to me you’re doing all the asking.”
    “Go ahead,” I said. “Ask away.”
    He grinned ruefully. “Can’t think of anything else. We seem to have covered all the bases. At Grandby’s, they told me you’re called Dunk.”
    “That’s right.”
    “May I call you Dunk?”
    “Sure.”
    “Only if you call me Jack. I admit Jack Smack sounds like caramel popcorn, but I’ve learned to live with it. I hope we can work together on this