The Sixth Commandment by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online Page A

value they cherish. It’s a piece of the world.
    “Then what happened?” I asked him.
    “The developer drained the swamp and cleared out most of the trees. Built houses. Sold the hill to a fellow named Crittenden who built the sick place.”
    “Crittenden Hall,” I said.
    “This was in the Twenties,” he said. “Before the Great Depression. Before your time, sonny. Land was selling good then. My sister did all right. Then she and her foreigner upped and moved away.”
    “Where are they now?”
    “Who the hell knows?” he rasped. “Or cares?”
    “And what happened to your farm?”
    “Ahh, hell,” he said heavily. “My sons didn’t take to farming. They moved away. Florida, California. Then I busted up my leg and couldn’t get around so good. The old woman died of the cancer. I got tenants on the land now. I get by. But that Thorndecker, he’s living on Coburn land. I ain’t saying it’s not perfectly legal and aboveboard. I’m just saying it’s Coburn land.”
    I nodded, and signaled Jimmy for another round. But a waitress brought our drinks. There were three customers at the bar now, and from outside, in the restaurant, I could hear the sounds of the crank-up for the luncheon rush.
    “You know Dr. Thorndecker, Mr. Coburn?” I asked him. “Personally?”
    “I’ve met him,” he said shortly.
    “What do you think of him?”
    His flaky eyelids rose slowly. He stared at me. But he didn’t answer.
    “Constable Goodfellow tells me all the best people in town are behind him one hundred percent,” I said, pressing him. “That’s Goodfellow’s phrase: ‘the best people’.”
    “Well, I ain’t one of the best people,” he said, “and I wouldn’t trust that quack to cut my toenails.”
    He was silent a moment, then said sharply, “Goodfellow? How did you meet the Indian? My great-grandpa shot Indians hereabouts.”
    “He says Thorndecker sent him around. To see if I was settled in, if there was anything I needed, if I wanted to meet anyone in town.”
    Al Coburn stared down at what was left in his glass of beer. He was quiet a long time. Then he drained his glass, climbed laboriously to his feet, picked up his gun case. I stayed where I was. He stood alongside the table, looking down at me.
    “You watch your step, Sam Todd,” he said in that hard, creaking, old man’s voice.
    “Always do,” I said.
    He nodded and limped away a few steps. Then he stopped, turned, came back.
    “Besides,” he said, “I’m guessing it wasn’t Thorndecker who sent Constable Goodfellow to see you. Thorndecker may be a fraud, but he ain’t stupid.”
    “If not Thorndecker,” I asked him, “then who?”
    He stared at me.
    “I reckon it was that hot-pants wife of his,” he said grimly.
    He was silent then, just standing there staring at me. It seemed to me he was trying to decide whether or not to say more. I waited. Finally he made up his mind …
    “You know what they’re doing out there?” he demanded. “In that laboratory of theirs?”
    He pronounced it almost in the British manner: la bor atory.
    I shrugged. “Biological research,” I said. “Something to do with human cells.”
    “Devil’s work!” he burst out, so forcibly I felt the spittle on my face. “It’s devil’s work!”
    I sat up straight.
    “What are you talking about?” I said harshly. “What does that mean—devil’s work?”
    “That’s for me to know,” he said, “and you to find out. Thank you kindly for the drinks.”
    He actually tipped that checked hunting cap to me. I watched him drag away.
    I finished my drink, paid my tab, stalked out of the bar. That country breakfast had been enough; I didn’t feel up to lunch. Went into the hotel lobby. Thumbed through magazines in a rack near the cigar counter. Waited until there were no customers. I wanted to talk to her alone.
    “Hello, Millie,” I said.
    “Hi there!” she said, flapping her lashes like feather dusters. “Enjoying your visit to Coburn, Mr.