The Sixth Commandment by Lawrence Sanders Page A

don’t have to do it,” I said. “All I have to do is pay taxes and die. I want to do it.”
    “That’s different,” he said, pocketing the bill. “I thank you kindly.”
    I took another look at him: an independent old cuss in his black alpaca jacket and skullcap. He had a scrubby head of grayish curls and a face as gnarled as a hardwood burl. All of him looked like dark hardwood: chiseled, carved, sanded, oiled, and then worked for so many years that the polish on face and hands had a deep glow that could only come from hard use.
    “Live in Coburn all your life?” I asked him.
    “Most of it,” he said.
    “Seventy-five years?” I guessed.
    “Eighty-three,” he said.
    “I’ll never make it,” I said.
    “Sure you will,” he said, “you lay off the sauce and the women.”
    “In that case,” I said, “I don’t want to make it. Sam, I want to come down to your place sometime, maybe have a little visit with you.”
    “Anytime,” he said. “I ain’t going anywhere. The French toast is nice this morning.”
    I can take a hint. I left him to his cleaning and went down for breakfast. But I skipped the French toast. Juice, unbuttered toast, black coffee. Very virtuous. On my way out, I looked in at the bar but Al Coburn wasn’t there. Just Jimmy the bartender reading the Sentinel. I waved at him and went out to the lobby. I stopped for cigarettes. I really did need cigarettes. Honest.
    “Good morning, Millie,” I said.
    “Oh, Mr. Todd,” she said excitedly, “I heard about your trouble. I’m so sorry.”
    I stared at her glassily, trying to figure which trouble she meant.
    She was wearing the same makeup, probably marketed under the trade name “Picasso’s Clown.” But the costume was different. This morning it was a voluminous shift, a kind of muumuu, in an orange foliage print. It had a high, drawstring neckline, long sleeves, tight cuffs. The yards and yards of sleazy synthetic fell to her ankles. Hamlet’s uncle could have hidden behind that arras.
    Strange, but it was sexier than the tight sweater and skirt she had worn the day before. The cloth, gathered at the neck, jutted out over her glorious appendages, then fell straight down in folds, billows, pleats. She was completely covered, concealed. It was inflammatory.
    “Your trouble,” she repeated. “You know—the robbery.”
    “Burglary,” I said automatically. “But the door didn’t seem to be jimmied.”
    “That’s what Ronnie said. He thinks whoever did it had a key.”
    So the Indian had caught it after all. That pesky redskin kept surprising me. I resolved never to underestimate him again.
    Millie Goodfellow crooked a long, slender forefinger, beckoning me closer. Since the glass cigar counter was between us, I had to bend forward in a ridiculous posture. I found myself focusing on the nail of that summoning finger. Dark brown polish.
    “A passkey,” she whispered. “I told Ronnie it was probably a passkey. There’s a million of them floating around. Everyone has one.” Suddenly she giggled. “I even have one myself. Isn’t that awful?”
    I was in cloud-cuckoo land.
    “You have a hotel passkey, Millie?” I asked. “Whatever for?”
    “It gets me in the little girls’ room,” she said primly. Then she was back in her Cleopatra role. “And a lot of other places, too!”
    I think I managed a half-ass grin before I stumbled away. My initial reaction had been correct: this lady was scary.
    Wednesday morning in Coburn, N.Y.…
    At least the sun was shining. Maybe not exactly shining, but it was there. You could see it, dull and tarnished, glowing dimly behind a cloud cover. It put a leaden light on everything: illumination but no shadows. People moved sluggishly, the air was cold without being invigorating, and I kept hoping I’d hear someone laugh aloud. No one did.
    Around to River Street and the First Farmers & Merchants Bank. It had the flashiest storefront in Coburn, with panels of gray marble between gleaming