The Sixth Commandment (9 page)

I sat on Thorndecker’s right. Next to me was Dr. Draper. Julie was at the foot of the table. On her right was Edward, and across from me was Mary, on Thorndecker’s left. Cozy.

The moment we were seated, two waitresses with starched white aprons over staid black dresses appeared and began serving. We had smoked salmon with chopped onion and capers; a lobster bisque; an enormous Beef Wellington carved at the table; a potato dish that seemed to be mixed tiny balls of white and sweet potatoes, boiled and then sautéed in seasoned butter; fresh green beans; buttered baby carrots; endive salad with hearts of palm; raspberry sherbet; espresso or regular coffee.

I’ve had better meals, but never in a private home. If the beans were overcooked and the crust of the Wellington a bit soggy, it could be forgiven or forgotten for the sake of the wines Thorndecker uncorked and the efficiency of the service. Every time my wine glass got down to the panic level, one of the waitresses or the gorilla-butler was at my elbow to refill it. Hot rolls and sweet butter were passed incessantly. It seemed to me that I had only to wish another spoonful of those succulent potatoes, when presto! they appeared on my plate.

“Do your patients eat as well?” I asked Thorndecker.

“Better,” he assured me, smiling. “We have one old lady who regularly imports truffles from the south of France. Two years ago we had an old gentleman who brought along his private chef. That man—the chef, I mean—was a genius. A genius! I tried to hire him, but he refused to cook for more than four at a time.”

“What happened to him?” I asked. “Not the chef, the old gentleman.”

“Deceased,” Thorndecker said easily. “Are you enjoying the dinner?”

“Very much so,” I said.

“Really?” he said, looking into my eyes. “I thought the beans overcooked and the Wellington crust a bit soggy. Delighted to hear I was wrong.”

The conversation was dominated by Dr. Thorndecker. Maybe “directed” is a better word, because he spoke very little himself. But he questioned his children and wife about their activities during the day, made several wry comments on their reports, asked them about their plans for the following day. I had a sense of custom being honored, a nightly interrogation. If Thorndecker had planned to present a portrait of domestic felicity, he succeeded admirably.

Between courses, and during Thorndecker’s quizzing, I had an opportunity to observe the ménage more closely. I picked up some interesting impressions to store away, for mulling later.

Edward Thorndecker had been reasonably alert and cheerful prior to his father’s appearance; after, he became subdued, somewhat sullen.

Julie wore her hair cut quite short. It was fine, silvered, brushed close to her skull. It appeared to be an extension of her satin pajamas, as if she was wearing a helmet of the same material.

Dr. Kenneth Draper drank too much wine too rapidly, looking up frequently to Mary Thorndecker to see if she was noticing.

Thorndecker himself had a remarkably tanned face. At that time of year, it was either pancake makeup or regular use of a suntan lamp. When I caught him in profile, it suddenly occurred to me he might have had a face-lifting.

The servants were efficient, but unsmiling. Conversations between servants and family were kept to a minimum. Instructions for serving were given by Mary Thorndecker. I had the oddest notion that she was mistress of the house. In fact, on appearance alone, she could have been Thorndecker’s wife, and Julie and Edward their children.

Thorndecker’s pleasantness had its limits; his elbow was joggled by one of the waitresses, and I caught the flash of anger in his eyes. I didn’t hear what he muttered to her.

After his fourth glass of wine, Dr. Draper stared at Mary Thorndecker with what I can only describe as hopeless passion. I was convinced the poor mutt was smitten by her charms. What they were escaped me.

I wondered if Julie and Edward Thorndecker were holding hands under the tablecloth, improbable as that seemed.

Dr. Thorndecker was wearing a cologne or after-shave lotion that I found fruity and slightly sickening.

Mary Thorndecker, with her thin, censorious lips, seemed disapproving of this flagrant display of rich food and strong drink. She ate sparingly, drank nothing but mineral water. Very admirable, even if it was imported water.

Julie was a gamine, with an inexhaustible supply of expressions: pouts, smiles, moues, frowns, grins, leers. In repose, her face was a beautifully tinted mask, triangular, with high cheekbones and stung lips. Occasionally she bit the full lower lip with her sharp upper teeth, a stimulating sight.

Never once during the meal did Mary address Julie directly, or vice versa. In fact, they both seemed to avoid looking at each other.

That was about all I was able to observe and remember. It was enough.

I was on my second cup of espresso, replete and wondering how I might cadge a brandy, when the butler-gorilla entered hurriedly. He went directly to Dr. Kenneth Draper, leaned down, whispered in his ear. I saw this happen. I saw Draper’s Bordeaux-flushed cheeks go suddenly white. He looked to Dr. Thorndecker. If a signal passed between them, I didn’t catch it. But Draper rose immediately, weaving slightly. He excused himself, thanking the Thorndeckers for the “’nificent dinner,” addressing himself to Mary. Then he was gone, and no one commented on it.

“A brandy, Mr. Todd?” Telford Thorndecker sang out. “Cognac? Armagnac? I have a calvados I think you’ll like. Let’s all move back to the living room and give them a chance to clean up in here and get home at a reasonable hour. All right, everyone … up and out!”

We straggled back into the living room: Julie, Edward, Thorndecker, me. Mary stayed behind, for housewifely chores I suppose. Maybe to make sure that no one swagged a slice of that soggy Beef Wellington.

The calvados was good. Not great, but good. Julie took a thimbleful of green Chartreuse. Edward got a stick in the eye.

“Don’t you have homework to do, young man?” Thorndecker demanded sternly.

“Yes, father,” the youth said. A crabbed voice, surly manner.

But he said his goodnights politely enough, kissing his stepmother and father, on their cheeks, offering me his limp hand again. We watched him leave.

“Good-looking boy,” I offered.

“Yes,” Thorndecker said shortly. “Now take a look at this, Mr. Todd. I think you’ll be interested.”

We left Julie curved felinely in a corner of the suede couch, running a tongue tip around the rim of her liqueur glass. Thorndecker showed me a small collection of eighteenth-century miniatures, portraits painted on thin slices of ivory. I admired those, and Sevres porcelains, a beautifully crafted antique microscope in gleaming brass, a set of silver-mounted flintlock duelling pistols, an ornate Italian mantel clock that showed the time of day, date, phases of the moon, constellations, tides and, for all I know, when to take the meatloaf out of the oven.

Thorndecker’s attitude toward these treasures was curious. He knew the provenance of everything he owned. He was proud of them. But I don’t think he really
liked
them. They were valuable possessions, and fulfilled some desire he had to surround himself with beautiful things of value. He could have collected Duesenbergs or rare Phoenician coins. It would be all the same to him.

“It’s a magnificent room,” I told him.

“Yes,” he said, nodding, looking about, “yes, it is. A few pieces I inherited. But Julie selected most of them. She decorated this room. She and Edward. It’s what I’ve wanted all my life. A room like this.”

I said nothing.

We strolled back to his wife. She rose as we approached, finishing her Chartreuse, set the empty glass on the serving cart. Then she did an incredible thing.

She lifted her slender arms high above her head and stretched wide, yawning. I looked at her with amazement. She was a small, perfectly formed woman: a cameo body. She stood there, weight on one leg, hip-sprung, her feet apart. Her head was back, throat taut, mouth yawned open, lips wet and glistening.

Thorndecker and I stood there, frozen, staring at that strained torso, hard nipples poking the shining stuff. Then she relaxed, smiling at me.

“Please forgive me,” she said in that throaty voice. “The wine … I think I’ll run along to bed.”

We exchanged pleasantries. I briefly held the sinewy hand she offered.

“Don’t be long, darling,” she said to her husband, drawing fingertips down his cheek.

“I—I—I won’t,” he stammered, completely undone.

We watched her sway from the room. The gleaming satin rippled.

“Another calvados?” Thorndecker said hoarsely.

“Another drink, thank you,” I said. “But I see you have cognac there. I’d prefer that, if I may, sir.”

“Of course, of course,” he muttered.

“Then I’ll be on my way,” I promised him. “I’m sure you have a full day tomorrow.”

“Not at all,” he said dully, and poured us drinks.

We sat on the suede couch, staring into dying embers.

“I suppose you’ll want to see the place?” he said.

“I would, yes,” I acknowledged. “The nursing home and the lab.”

“Tomorrow morning? And stay for lunch?”

“Oh no,” I said. “Not after that dinner! I’ll skip lunch tomorrow. Would—oh, say about one o’clock be convenient? I have things to do in the morning.”

“One o’clock would be fine,” he said. “I may not be able to show you around myself, but I’ll tell Draper to be available. He’ll show you everything. I’ll make that very clear. Anything and everything you want to see.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

We were turned half-sideways to converse. Now his heavy eyes rose to lock with mine.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’,” he said.

“All right,” I said equably.

“If you have any questions, Draper will answer them. If he can’t, I will.”

“Fine.”

Pause, while we both sipped our drinks daintily.

“Of course,” he said, “you may have some personal questions for me.”

I considered a moment.

“No,” I said, “I don’t think so.”

He seemed surprised at that. And maybe a little disappointed.

“I mean about my personal life,” he explained. “I know how these grant investigations work. You want to know all about me.”

“We know a great deal about you now, Dr. Thorndecker,” I said, as gently as I could.

He sighed, and seemed to shrivel, hunching down on the couch. He looked every one of his 54 years. Suddenly I realized what it was: this man was physically tired. He was bone-weary. All the youthful vigor had leaked out of him. He had put in a strenuous, stressful day, and he wanted nothing more at this point than to crawl into bed next to his warm, young wife, melt down beneath the covers, and sleep. To tell you the truth, I felt much the same myself.

“I suppose,” he said, ruminating in a low voice, “I suppose you find it odd that a man my age would have a wife young enough to be my daughter. Younger than my daughter.”

“Not odd,” I said. “Understandable. Maybe fifty, or even thirty or twenty years ago, it would have been considered odd. But not today. New forms of relationships. The old prejudices out the window. It’s a whole new ballgame.”

But he wasn’t listening to my cracker-barrel philosophy.

“She means so much to me,” he said wonderingly. “So much. You have no idea how she has made—”

His confessions disturbed me and embarrassed me. I drained my drink and stood up.

“Dr. Thorndecker,” I said formally, “I want to thank you and your wife and your family for your gracious hospitality. A very pleasant evening, and I hope we—”

But at that precise instant the hall door was flung open. Dr. Kenneth Draper stood rooted. He was wearing a stained white lab coat. He had jerked his tie loose and opened his collar. His eyes were blinking furiously, and I wondered if he was about to cry.

“Dr. Thorndecker,” he said desperately, “please, can you come? At once? It’s Petersen.”

Thorndecker finished his drink slowly, set the glass slowly aside. Now he looked older than his 54 years. He looked defeated.

“Do you mind?” he asked me. “A patient with problems. I’m afraid he won’t last the night. We’ll do what we can.”

“Of course,” I said. “You go ahead. I can find my way out. Thank you again, doctor.”

We shook hands. He smiled stiffly, moved brokenly to the door. He and Draper disappeared. I was alone. So, what the hell, I poured myself another small brandy and slugged it down. I took a final look around that splendid room and then wandered out onto the second floor landing. In truth, I was feeling no pain.

I had taken one step down the stairway when I heard the sound of running feet behind me. I turned. Mary Thorndecker came dashing up.

“Take this,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t look at it now. Read it later.”

She thrust a folded paper into my hand, whirled, darted away, the long calico gown snapping about her ankles. I wondered if she was heading for a brisk run through the heather, shouting, “Heathcliff! Heathcliff!”

I stuffed the folded paper into my side pocket. I walked down that long, long stairway as erect and dignified as I could make it. The butler-gorilla was waiting below with my coat and hat.

“Nighty-night,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

I drove slowly, very, very slowly, around the graveled road to the gates. They opened magically for me. I turned onto the paved road, went a few hundred yards, then pulled off onto the verge. I switched off engine and lights. It was raw as hell, and I huddled down inside my leather trenchcoat and wished I had a small jug of brandy to keep me alive. But all I could do was wait. So I waited. Don’t ask me what I was waiting for; I didn’t know. Maybe I figured it was best not to drive on unfamiliar roads in my condition. Maybe I was just sleepy. I don’t know what my motives were; I’m just telling you what happened.

The cold woke me up. I snapped out of my daze, shivering. I glanced at the luminous dial of my watch; it was almost 2:00
A.M.
I had left Crittenden Hall before midnight. Now I was sober, with a headache that threatened to break down the battlements of my skull. I lighted a cigarette and tried to remember if I had misbehaved during the evening, insulted anyone, done anything to besmirch the Bingham Foundation escutcheon. I couldn’t think of a thing. Other than developing an enormous lech for Julie Thorndecker—which no one could possibly be aware of, except, perhaps, Julie Thorndecker—I had conducted myself in exemplary fashion as far as I could recall.