Seventh Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  He lunched at a Japanese restaurant, the guest of a Tokyo merchant who wanted Starrett to carry a choice selection of antique inro and netsuke. While they ate sashimi and drank hot sake, the exporter displayed a few samples of his exquisitely carved wares. Clayton was fascinated and agreed to accept a small shipment on consignment as a test of the sales potential.

  He returned to his office, wondering if Starrett might emulate Gump’s of San Francisco and offer imported curios, bibelots, and objets d’art. They could, he reckoned, be sold in the department now handling estate jewelry, and might very well find a market.

  He dictated several letters to his secretary and, after she left, called Helene’s apartment on his private line. But there was no answer, and he guessed she was out spending money. “Shopping,” she had once told him, “is my second favorite pastime.”

  It was then almost 4:30, and Clayton decided to call his limousine, return home, and take a nap before he dressed for dinner. But then Solomon Guthrie phoned and asked if he could come up immediately. Guthrie was Starrett’s chief financial officer, and Clayton knew what he wanted to talk about.

  Sol was sixty-three, had worked for Starrett forty years, and called his bosses Mister Lewis and Mister Clayton. He had a horseshoe of frazzled white hair around a bald pate, and was possibly the last office worker in New York to wear celluloid cuff protectors. He had learned, with difficulty, to use computers, but still insisted in keeping a duplicate set of records in his spidery script in giant ledgers that covered half his desk.

  He came stomping into Clayton’s office carrying a thick roll of computer printout under his arm.

  “Mister Clayton,” he said aggrievedly, “I don’t know what the hell’s going on around here.”

  “I suppose you mean the bullion trades,” Clayton said, sighing. “I explained it to you once, but I’ll go over it again if you want me to.”

  “It’s the paperwork,” the CFO said angrily. “We’re getting invoices, canceled checks, bills of lading, warehouse receipts, insurance premium notices—it’s a snowfall! Look at this printout—one day’s paper!”

  “Just temporary,” Clayton soothed him. “When our new systems integration goes on-line, the paperwork will be reduced to a minimum I assure you.”

  “But it never used to be like this,” Sol complained. “I used to be able to keep up. All right, so I had to work late some nights—that comes with the territory. But with these bullion trades, I’m lost. I’m falling farther and farther behind.”

  “What are you telling me, Sol—that you need more people?”

  “No, I don’t need more people. By the time I tell them what to do, I could do it myself. What I want to know is the reason for all this. For years we were a jewelry store. Now suddenly we’re gold dealers—a whole different business entirely.”

  “Not necessarily,” Clayton said. “There’s money to be made buying and selling bullion. Why should we let the dealers skim the cream? With our contacts we can buy in bulk and sell to independent jewelers at a price they can’t match anywhere else.”

  “But where are we buying the gold? I get the invoices, but I never heard of some of these suppliers.”

  “All legitimate,” Clayton told him. “You get the warehouse receipts, don’t you? That’s proof they’re delivering, and the gold is going in our vaults.”

  “And the customers—who are they?”

  “First of all, I plan to make all our stores autonomous. They’ll be more subsidiaries than branches. I want them to do more designing and manufacturing on their own. New York will sell them the raw materials: gold, silver, gemstones, and so forth. At a markup, of course. In turn, the subsidiaries can sell to small jewelers in their area.”

  Guthrie shook his head. “It sounds meshugenah to me. And right now we got too much invested in bullion. What if Russia or South Africa dumps, and the market price takes a nosedive. Then we’re dead.”

  Clayton smiled. “We’re hedged,” he said. “There’s no way we can be hurt. Sol, you see the bottom line. Are we losing money on our gold deals?”

  “No,” the CFO admitted.

  “We’re making money, aren’t we? Lots of money.”

  Sol nodded. “I just don’t understand it,” he said fretfully. “I don’t understand how you figure to unload so much gold. I think our inventory is much, much too heavy. And your father, God rest his soul, if he was alive today, believe me he’d be telling you the same thing.”

  Clayton took a cigar from a handsome mahogany humidor on his desk. It was a much better brand than his father had smoked. But he didn’t light the cigar immediately. Just rolled it gently between his fingers.

  “Sol,” he said, “you’re sixty-three—right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Retirement in two years. I’ll bet you’re looking forward to it.”

  “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “You should, Sol. It isn’t too soon to start training someone to take your place.”

  “Who? These kids—what do they know. They come out of college and can’t even balance a checkbook.”

  “How about the new man I hired—Dick Satterlee?”

  “He’s a noodle!” Sol cried.

  “Teach him,” Clayton urged. “Teach him, Sol. He comes very highly recommended.”

  “I don’t like him,” Sol said angrily. “Something creepy about that guy. Last week I caught him going through my ledgers.”

  “So?” Clayton said. “How else is he going to learn?”

  “Listen, Mister Clayton,” the older man said, “those ledgers are private business. Everyone in my office knows—hands off! I don’t want anyone touching them; they’re my responsibility.”

  Starrett slowly pierced and lighted his cigar. “Sol,” he said, “when was your last raise?”

  Guthrie was startled. “Two years ago,” he said. “I thought you knew.”

  “I should have remembered,” Clayton said, “but I’ve had a lot on my mind. Father’s death and all …”

  “Of course.”

  “Suppose you take a raise of fifty thousand a year until you retire. With your pension, that should give you a nice nest egg.”

  The CFO was shocked. “Thank you, Mister Clayton,” he said finally.

  “You deserve it. And Sol, stop worrying about the gold business. Trust me.”

  After Guthrie left his office, Clayton put his cigar carefully aside and called Turner Pierce. The phone was lifted after the sixth ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Turner? Clayton Starrett.”

  “How are you, Clay? I was just thinking about you. I saw Ramon last night, and there have been some interesting developments.”

  “Turner, I’ve got to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Oh? A problem?”

  “It could be,” Clayton said.

  5

  DORA CONTI, LISTING TO port under the weight of an overstuffed shoulder bag, was admitted to the Starrett apartment at 2:30 P.M. The door was opened by a tall, bowed man she assumed was the butler, identified in newspaper clippings as Charles Hawkins.

  He didn’t look like a Fifth Avenue butler to her, or valet, footman, or even scullion. He seemed all elbows and knees, his gaunt cheeks were pitted, and a lock of dank, black hair flopped across his forehead. He was wearing a shiny gray alpaca jacket, black serge trousers just as shiny, and Space Shoes.

  “Dora Conti,” she said, “to see Mrs. Olivia Starrett. I have an appointment.”

  “Madam is waiting,” he said in a sepulchral whisper, and held out his arms to her.

  For one awful instant she thought he meant to embrace her, then realized he merely wanted to take her coat. She whipped off her scarf and struggled out of her heavy loden parka. He took them with the tips of his fingers, and she followed his flat-footed shuffle down a long corridor to the living room.

  This high-ceilinged chamber seemed crowded with a plethora of chintz-and cretonne-covered chairs and couches, all in floral patterns: roses,
poppies, lilies, iris, camellias. It was like entering a hothouse; only the scent was missing.

  A man and a woman were sharing a love seat when Dora came into the room. The man stood immediately. He was wearing a double-breasted suit of dove-gray flannel, with a black silk dickey and a white clerical collar.

  “Good afternoon,” Dora said briskly. “I am Dora Conti, and as I explained on the phone, I am your insurance claims adjuster. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Of course,” the man said with a smile of what Dora considered excessive warmth. “I hope you won’t be offended if I ask to see your credentials.”

  She made no reply, but dug her ID out of the shoulder bag, handed him card and letter of authorization.

  He examined them carefully, then returned them, his smile still in place. “Thank you,” he said. “You must understand my caution; so many newspaper reporters have attempted to interview family members under a variety of pretexts that we’ve become somewhat distrustful. My name is Brian Callaway.”

  “Father Brian Callaway,” the woman on the settee said, “and I am Olivia Starrett.”

  “Ma’am,” Dora said, “first of all I’d like to express my condolences on the death of your husband.”

  “Oh, he didn’t die,” the woman said. “He passed into the divine harmony. My, what beautiful hair you have!”

  “Thank you.”

  “And do construction workers whistle at you and shout, ‘Hey, red!’?”

  “No,” Dora said. “They usually whistle and shout, ‘Hey, fatso’!”

  Olivia Starrett laughed, a warbling sound. “Men can be so cruel,” she said. “You are certainly not fat. Plump perhaps—wouldn’t you say, Father?”

  “Pleasingly,” he said.

  “Now then,” the widow said, patting the cushion beside her, “you come sit next to me, and we’ll have a nice chat.”

  She was a heavy-bodied woman herself, with a motherly softness. Her complexion was a creamy velvet, and her eyes seemed widened in an expression of continual surprise. Silvery hair was drawn back in a chignon and tied with a girlish ribbon. Her hands were unexpectedly pudgy, and her diamond rings, Dora estimated, would have kept Mario supplied with prosciutto for two lifetimes.

  “Mrs. Starrett,” Dora began, “let me explain why I am here. If your husband had been ill and had, uh, passed away in a hospital, or even at home with a doctor in attendance, there probably would have been no need for our investigating the claim, despite its size. But because his, uh, passing was violent and unexpected, an investigation is necessary to establish the facts of the case.”

  Father Callaway seated himself in an armchair facing the two women. “Surely,” he said, “an investigation of that horrible crime is a job for the police.”

  “Of course it is,” Dora agreed. “But right now all they have is a theory as to how and why the homicide was committed. It may or may not be correct. But until the perpetrator is caught, there are unanswered questions we’d like to see cleared up. Mrs. Starrett, I hope I am not upsetting you by talking of your husband’s, uh, death.”

  “Oh, not at all,” she said, almost blithely. “I have made my peace.”

  “Olivia is a strong woman,” Callaway said.

  “As you said at the service, Father: Faith conquers all.”

  “Just a few questions,” Dora said. “First of all, can you tell me the whereabouts of family members at the time your husband, uh, passed away?”

  “Now let me see,” Mrs. Starrett said, staring at the ceiling. “Earlier that evening the entire family was here, and we were having cocktails and little nibbles. Helene and Turner Pierce stopped by.”

  “I was also present, Olivia,” Callaway interrupted.

  “Of course you were! Well, we had a few drinks, and then Clayton and Eleanor left to attend a charity affair at the Waldorf. And Felicia had a dinner date, so she left. And then the Pierces.”

  “And I left at the same time they did,” the Father reminded her. He looked directly at Dora. “I have a small tabernacle on East Twentieth Street—and I like to be present at the evening meal to offer what spiritual solace I can.”

  “Tabernacle?” Dora said. “Then you are not Roman Catholic?”

  “No,” he said shortly. “I am the founder and pastor of the Church of the Holy Oneness.”

  “I see,” Dora said, and turned to the widow. “So only you and your husband were in the apartment at dinnertime?”

  “And Charles, our houseman, and Clara, our cook.”

  “Charles’ wife.”

  Olivia’s eyes widened even more. “Now how did you know that?”

  “It was in the newspapers,” Dora lied smoothly. “You had dinner, and then Mr. Starrett left to take his usual walk—is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Olivia said, nodding, “that’s what happened. I remember it was threatening rain, and I wanted Lewis to take an umbrella and wear his rubbers, but he wouldn’t.” She sighed. “He was a very obstinate man.”

  Callaway corrected her gently. “Strong-minded, Olivia,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” she said, “he was a very strong-minded man.”

  “Mrs. Starrett,” Dora said, “do you know anyone who might wish to harm your husband? Did he have any enemies?”

  The widow lifted her chin. “My husband could be difficult at times. At home and, I’m sure, at the office. I was aware that many people thought him offensive. He did have a temper, you know, and I’m sure he sometimes said things in anger that he later regretted. But no, I know of no one who wished to harm him.”

  “Was he ever threatened? In person or by letter?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “The police,” Callaway observed, “believe he was killed by a stranger.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dora said. “That’s their theory. Mrs. Starrett, I don’t want to take any more of your time. If I think of more questions, may I come back?”

  Olivia put a warm hand on her arm. “Of course you may, my dear. As often as you like. Are you married?”

  “Yes. We live in Hartford. My husband is a dispatcher for a trucking company.”

  “How nice! Does he love you?”

  Dora was startled. “I believe he does. He says he does.”

  “And do you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  Olivia nodded approvingly. “Love is the most important thing. Isn’t it, Father?”

  “The only thing,” said Callaway, a broad-chested man who liked to show his teeth.

  Dora stood up. The pastor rose at the same time and took a wallet from his inner jacket pocket. He extracted a card and handed it to her.

  “The address of the Church of the Holy Oneness,” he said. “Service every Friday evening at eight. But you’ll be welcome anytime you wish to stop by.”

  “Thank you,” she said, tucking the card in her shoulder bag. “I may just do that. Mrs. Starrett, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, and I hope to see you again.”

  “And the insurance?” Callaway asked. “When may the beneficiaries expect to have the claim approved?”

  Dora smiled sweetly. “As soon as possible,” she said, and shook his hand.

  Charles was waiting in the foyer, and she wondered how much of the conversation he had overheard. He helped her on with her parka.

  “Thank you, Charles.”

  She thought he might have winked at her, but it was such an unbutlerlike act that she decided he had merely blinked. With one eye.

  6

  CLAYTON STARRETT COULD SEE no physical resemblance between Helene and Turner Pierce, yet they both showed the same face to the world: cool, somewhat aloof, with tight smiles and brief laughs. And both dressed with careless elegance, held their liquor well, and had a frequently expressed distaste for the commonplace. “Vulgar!” was their strongest term of opprobrium.

  Sitting with them in the living room of Helene’s apartment, sharing a pitcher of gin martinis, Clayton noted for the first time how pale both were, how s
lender, how languid their gestures. In their presence he felt uncomfortably lumpish, as if his energy and robust good health were somehow vulgar.

  “And what was Guthrie’s reaction when you gave him the raise?” Turner asked.

  “He was surprised,” Clayton said. “Perhaps shocked is a better word. I know he never expected anything like that. I did it, of course, to give him a bigger stake in the company. You might call it a bribe—to keep his mouth shut about the gold deals.”

  “You think it’ll work?”

  “I don’t know,” Clayton said worriedly. “Sol is an honest man—maybe too honest. In spite of the raise he may keep digging. I got the feeling he wasn’t completely satisfied with my explanation.”

  “Helene?” Turner said.

  “Don’t do anything at the moment,” she advised. “The money may convince him it would be stupid to make waves. But you better tell Dick Satterlee to keep an eye on him, just in case.”

  “Yes, that would be wise,” Turner said. “Since his New Orleans contact was eliminated, Ramon wants to increase his investments elsewhere. We’ll be getting the lion’s share, so the last thing we want right now is a snoopy accountant nosing around. I’ll phone Satterlee at home and alert him.” He glanced at his Piaget Polo, finished his martini, stood up. “I’ve got to run. Thanks for the drink, sis.”

  “I’ll give you a call later,” she said.

  He swooped to kiss her cheek. “Much later,” he said. “I won’t be home until midnight.”

  “I hope you’re behaving yourself,” she said.

  “Don’t I always?” he said. “Clay, sometimes this sister of mine acts like she’s my mother.”

  They all laughed. Turner gathered up his leather trench coat and trilby. “Clay,” he said, “don’t worry about Sol Guthrie. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Good,” Clayton said. “He’s been with Starrett a long time and only has two years to go before he starts drawing a hefty pension. He’d be a fool to endanger that.”