The Eighth Commandment by Lawrence Sanders Page A

over the main floor of Saks. It took me about five minutes to realize she was shoplifting. Small stuff: bars of imported soap, silk scarves, a man’s tie, a gold-plated chain. She was so casual and practiced that I knew she had been at it a long time. She slid the stuff inside the waistband of her baggy jeans or just scooped it into her capacious shoulder bag. Wandering, smiling, chatting over her shoulder at me…
    I was terrified. I wanted to turn and bolt. I just couldn’t believe it. I knew she could easily afford all those things she was boosting. Kleptomania? Was that a legal defense? I looked about nervously, certain that at any moment we would be apprehended by store detectives and marched off in shame.
    “That should do it,” Nettie said brightly. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
    We walked over to Madison, Nettie nattering on and on. But I wasn’t listening; I was debating with myself whether or not to mention her criminal behavior, what my reaction should be, how it might affect my relations with her and the investigation of the Demaretion theft.
    “That stuff I lifted,” she said with a roguish smile. “Want any of it?”
    “No, thanks,” I said hastily.
    She laughed. “I don’t need that crap,” she said. “It’s just a game. I give it all away.”
    “What if you get caught?”
    “Daddy will pay off,” she said confidently. “He always has.” I felt sorrow for Archibald Havistock, that complete man. His solid manner concealed what must have been harrowing family problems.
    We had lunch in a crowded luncheonette on Madison Avenue, pushing our way to the rear past the cashier’s desk, a take-out counter, and a jumble of little tables. We finally found seats in the rear, close to the kitchen doors, waitresses rushing in and out.
    “This is a new place,” Natalie Havistock said, looking around. “It’s a setup.”
    That comment made me uneasy, but I didn’t dare ask what she meant. We finally ordered chicken salad plates with iced tea, and while we were waiting for our food, Nettie fished a crimped cigarette from her shoulder bag.
    “My first today,” she said, holding the cigarette up for my inspection. “Want one?”
    “I think I’ll pass,” I said.
    “Good stuff.”
    “Nettie, do you know what you’re doing?”
    “Nope,” she said cheerfully. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
    “Not really,” I confessed.
    “Well, then…there you are.”
    She lighted her homemade cigarette, and when I got a whiff of that sweetish smoke, I hoped none of the nearby diners would start a ruckus. None did.
    “Nettie,” I said, “I feel terrible about your father losing that coin.”
    “He can afford it,” she said casually. “Besides, he’ll collect from the insurance company, won’t he?”
    “I suppose so. But the insurance value is outdated. Today the coin would be insured for much, much more.”
    “Then it’s no big deal. The cops think someone in the family lifted it, don’t they?”
    I nodded.
    “Not me,” she said. “What would I do with that stupid coin?”
    I just couldn’t understand her. One minute she’s showing no remorse for her shoplifting pranks, and the next minute she’s shrugging off her father’s loss of the Demaretion. I didn’t know what she was revolting against. Family? Society? Or maybe herself.
    But then our food arrived. Nettie handed the stub of her cigarette to the waitress.
    “A little tip for you, luv,” she said, smiling.
    The waitress took the roach, sniffed it, and said, “Thank you, dear. Just what I need.”
    That could never happen in Des Moines. Or could it?
    I looked at her as we ate our salads. A thin, nervy young girl (twenty-two? twenty-four?) with brittle energy: sharp movements, quick gestures. I got the impression of unhappiness there, some deep despair cloaked by a bright smile and brisk manner. But sadness in her eyes that all the blue eyeliner couldn’t conceal.
    “Ruby Querita?” I asked. “Could she have done