“This Brian Callaway you asked about,” he said. “Is he a big, beefy guy, heavy through the shoulders and chest, reddish complexion, lots of charm and a hundred-watt smile?”
“That’s the man,” Dora said. “You found him?”
“Finally. In the alias file. His real name, as far as we know, is Sidney Loftus, but he’s used a half-dozen fake monikers.”
“Is he a preacher?”
“A preacher?” Trevalyan said, laughing. “Yeah, I guess he could be a preacher. He’s already been a used-car salesman, a psychotherapist, an investment advisor, and—get this—an insurance consultant.”
“Oh-oh,” Dora said. “A wrongo?”
“So twisted you could screw him into the ground. According to the computer, he’s never done hard time for any of his scams. He’s always worked a deal, made restitution, and got off with a suspended sentence or probation. Then he blows town, changes his name, and starts another swindle. About five years ago he put together a stolen car ring. If you couldn’t keep up the payments on your jalopy, or needed some ready cash, you’d go to him and he’d arrange to have your car swiped. He never did it himself; he had a crew of dopers working for him. The car would be taken to a chop shop, and by the time the insurers got around to looking for it, the parts were down in Uruguay. The cops infiltrated the ring and were twenty-four hours away from busting Sidney Loftus when he must have been tipped off because he skipped town and hasn’t been heard of since, until you asked about him. You know where he is, Dora?”
She ignored the question. “Mike,” she said, “this stolen car ring—where was it operating?”
“Kansas City.”
“Which one? Missouri or Kansas?”
“Missouri.”
“Thank you very much,” said Dora.
10
DESPITE WORKING FOR STARRETT Fine Jewelry for forty years, CFO Solomon Guthrie knew little about the techniques of jewelry making. All he knew were numbers. “Numbers don’t lie,” he was fond of remarking. This honest man never fully realized how numbers can be cooked, and how a Park Avenue corporation based on fiddled data might have no more financial stature than an Orchard Street pushcart.
But despite his naiveté, Guthrie could not rid himself of the suspicion that something was wrong with the way Mister Clayton was running the business. All those new branch managers. That new computer systems integration that Sol didn’t understand. And the tremendous purchases and sales of gold bullion. He couldn’t believe any jewelry store, or chain of stores, could use that much pure gold. And yet, at the end of each month, Starrett showed a nice profit on its bullion deals. Guthrie was bewildered.
Finally he phoned Arthur Rushkin, who had been Starrett’s attorney almost as long as Sol had slaved over Starrett’s ledgers.“Baker and Rushkin,” the receptionist said.
“This is Solomon Guthrie of Starrett Jewelry. Can I talk to Mr. Rushkin, please.”
“Sol!” Rushkin said heartily. “When are we going to tear a herring together?”
“Listen, Art,” Guthrie said, “I’ve got to see you right away. Can you give me an hour this afternoon?”
“A problem?”
“I think it is.”
“No problem is worth more than a half-hour. See you here at three o’clock. Okay?”
“I’ll be there.”
He stuffed a roll of computer printout into his battered briefcase and added a copy of Starrett’s most recent monthly statement. Then he told his secretary, Claire Heffernan, that he was going over to Arthur Rushkin’s office and would probably return by four o’clock.
He had no sooner departed than Claire strolled into the office of Dick Satterlee.
“He’s gone to see the lawyer,” she reported.
“Thanks, doll,” Satterlee said.
“Party tonight?” she asked.
“Why not,” he said, grinning.
The moment she was gone, he phoned Turner Pierce. Turner wasn’t in, but Satterlee left a message on his answering machine, asking him to call back as soon as possible; it was important.
Solomon Guthrie knew he’d never get a cab, so he walked over to the offices of Baker & Rushkin on Fifth Avenue near 45th Street. It was an overcast day, the sky heavy with dirty clouds, a nippy wind blowing from the northwest. Christmas shoppers were scurrying, and the Salvation Army Santas on the corners were stamping their feet to keep warm.
Rushkin came out of his inner office to greet him in the reception room. The two men embraced, shook hands, patted shoulders.
“Happy holidays, Sol,” Rushkin said.
“Yeah,” Guthrie said. “Same to you.”
The attorney was the CFO’s age, but a different breed of cat entirely. A lot of good beef and bourbon had gone into that florid face, and his impressive stomach was only partly concealed by Italian tailoring and, if the truth be told, an elastic, girdlelike undergarment that kept his abdomen compressed.
He settled Guthrie in an armchair alongside his antique partners’ desk, then sat back into his deep swivel chair and laced fingers across his tattersall waistcoat. “All right, Sol,” he said, “what’s bothering you?”
Guthrie poured it all out, speaking so rapidly he was almost spluttering. He told Rushkin about the new branch managers; Clayton’s plan to make every Starrett store autonomous; the new computer system that Sol couldn’t understand. And finally he described all the dealing in gold bullion. Long before he ended his recital, Rushkin was toying with a letter opener on his desktop and staring at the other man with something close to pity.
“Sol, Sol,” he said gently, “what you’re complaining about are business decisions. Clayton is president and CEO; he has every right to make those decisions. Is Starrett losing money?”
“No.”
“Making money?”
“Yes.”
“Then Clayton seems to be doing a good job.”
“Look,” Sol said desperately, “I know I’ve got no proof, but something’s going on that just isn’t kosher. Like those gold deals.”
“All right,” the attorney said patiently, “tell me exactly how those deals are made. Where does Starrett get the gold?”
“We buy it from overseas dealers in precious metals.”
“How do you pay?”
“Our bank transfers money from our account to the dealers’ banks overseas. It’s all done electronically. By computer,” he added disgustedly.
“Then the overseas dealer ships the gold to the U.S.?”
“No, the dealers have subsidiaries over here. The gold is warehoused by the subsidiaries. When we buy, the gold is delivered to our vault in Brooklyn.”
“How is it delivered?”
“Usually by armored truck.”
“Good security?”
“The best. Our Brooklyn warehouse is an armed camp. It costs us plenty, but it’s worth it.”
“All right,” Rushkin said. “Starrett signs a contract to buy X ounces of gold. You get copies of the contract?”
“Naturally.”
“The subsidiary of the overseas dealer then delivers the gold to Starrett’s vault. The amount delivered is checked carefully against the contract?”
“Of course.”
“Have you ever been short-weighed?”
“No.”
“So now Starrett has the bullion in its vault. Who do you sell it to?”
“To our branches around the country. Then they sell it to small jewelry stores in their area.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I presume because of its size, resources, and reputation, plus the volume of its purchases, Starrett buys gold at a good price from those overseas dealers.”
“That’s correct.”
“And tacks on a markup when it sells to its branches?”
“Yes.”
“Which, in turn, make a profit when they sell to independents in their area?”
“Yes.”
Arthur Rushkin tossed up his hands. “Sol,” he said, laughing, “what you�
�ve just described is a very normal, conventional way of doing business. Buy low, sell high. You get complete documentation of every step in the procedure, don’t you? Contracts, bills of lading, shipping invoices, and so forth?”
“Yes. On the computer.”
“And the final customers—the small, independent jewelry stores—have they ever stiffed you?”
“No,” Guthrie admitted, then burst out, “but I tell you something stinks! There’s too much gold coming in, going out, floating all over the place. And some of those small shops that buy our gold—why, they weren’t even in business a couple, of years ago. I know; I checked.”
“Small retail stores come and go, Sol; you know that. I really can’t understand why you’re so upset. You haven’t told me anything that even hints of illegal business practices—if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Something’s going on,” Guthrie insisted. “I know it is. We’re buying too much bullion, and too many independent stores are buying it from us. Listen, what do they need it for? Everyone knows pure gold is very rarely used in jewelry. It’s too soft; it bends or scratches. Maybe twenty-four-karat or twenty-two-karat will be used as a thin plating on some other metal, but gold jewelry is usually an eighteen-or fourteen-karat alloy. So why do these rinky-dink stores need so much pure stuff?”
Arthur sighed. “I don’t know, but if their checks don’t bounce, what the hell do you care what they do with it? Sol, what is it exactly you want me to do? Talk to Clayton? About what? That he’s making money for Starrett by dealing in gold bullion?”
Guthrie opened his briefcase, piled the statement and computer printout on the attorney’s desk. “Just take a look at this stuff, will you, Art?” he asked. “Study it. Maybe you’ll spot something I can’t see.” He paused a moment, then almost shouted, “You know what Clayton did the other day?”
“What?”
“Gave me a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year raise.”
“Mazeltov!” Rushkin cried.
Sol shook his head. “Too much,” he said. “It doesn’t make business sense to give me so much. And he gave it to me right after I complained about what’s going on at Starrett Fine Jewelry. You don’t suppose he did it so I’ll keep my mouth shut, do you?”
The attorney stared at him. “Sol,” he said, “I’ve got to tell you that sounds paranoid to me. In all honesty, I think you’re making something out of nothing.”
“Just look over this printout, Art—will you do that for me?”
“Of course.”
“And please don’t tell Clayton I came to see you. Well, you can tell him if he asks; my secretary knows I came here. But don’t tell Clayton what we talked about.”
“Whatever you say, Sol.”
The CFO stood up, tucked the empty briefcase under his arm. “I’m going to keep digging,” he vowed. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”
Rushkin nodded, walked out to the reception room with Guthrie, helped him on with his coat. “Keep in touch, Sol,” he said lightly.
When the outside door closed, the lawyer turned to the receptionist and stared at her a moment.
“Too bad,” he said.
“What’s too bad, Mr. Rushkin?”
“Growing old is too bad, for some people. They can’t keep up with new developments, like computers. They resent younger people coming into then-business and doing a good job. They want things to remain the way they were. Change confuses them. They get the feeling the world is passing them by, and they start thinking there’s a conspiracy against them. Don’t ever grow old, Sally.”
“Do I have a choice?” she asked.
He laughed. “I have to meet Mr. Yamoto at the Four Seasons bar,” he said. “That means I won’t be back this afternoon. There’s a pile of computer printout on my desk. Will you put it away in a filing cabinet, please.”
“Which filing cabinet?”
“I couldn’t care less,” Arthur Rushkin said.
11
MRS. ELEANOR STARRETT SAT at a white enameled table in Georgio’s Salon on East 56th Street, having a set of false fingernails attached. Next to her, Dora Conti was perched uncomfortably on a small stool on rollers. Across the table from Mrs. Starrett, the attendant, a buxom lady from Martinique, bent intently over her gluing job, saying nothing but not missing a word of the conversation.
“So sorry I couldn’t meet you at home,” Eleanor said, “but I’m due at Tiffany’s in a half-hour to select door prizes for a benefit. With the holidays coming on, it’s just rush, rush, rush.”
“That’s all right,” Dora said, wondering how this woman could pull on gloves with rocks like that on her fingers. “I just have a few questions to ask.”
“I really don’t understand why the insurance company is investigating my father-in-law’s death. I should think that would be a job for the police.”
“Of course it is,” Dora said. “But the policy is so large and the circumstances of Mr. Starrett’s death so puzzling, we want to be absolutely certain the claim is, ah, unencumbered before it is paid.”
“Well, the poor man could hardly have stabbed himself in the back, could he?” Eleanor said tartly. “Which means, I suppose, that you think one of the beneficiaries may have done him in.”
“Mrs. Starrett,” Dora said, sighing, “no one is accusing anyone of anything. We would just like to see the murder solved and the case closed, that’s all. Now, do you know of any enemies Lewis Starrett had? Any person or persons who might wish to harm him?”
“No.”
“How did you get along with him?”
Eleanor turned her head to look directly at her questioner. “Dad—that’s what I always called him: Dad—could be a dreadful man at times. I’m sure you’ve heard that from others as well. But for some reason he took a liking to me, and I got along with him very well. Olivia and Clayton and Felicia suffered more from his temper tantrums than I did. And the servants were targets, too, of course. But he never raised his voice to me. Perhaps he knew that if he had, I’d have marched out of that house and never returned.”
“I understand Father Brian Callaway was sometimes the cause of his anger.”
“My, my,” Mrs. Starrett said mockingly, “you have been busy, haven’t you? Well, you’re right; Dad couldn’t stand the man. The fact that Olivia was giving the preacher money infuriated him. He finally forbade her to give Father Callaway’s so-called church another red cent.”
“And what was his argument with the servants?”
“Oh, that was a long-running civil war. Stupid things like Charles’ fingernails were too long, the Sunday Times had a section missing, Clara was using the good wine to cook with—picky things like that.”
“Did they ever threaten to quit?”
“Of course not. They’re being very well paid indeed, and though I wouldn’t call them incompetent, they’re far from being super. Just adequate, I’d say. If they quit, who’d pay them what dad was giving them—plus their own little suite of rooms as well.”
“I understand you’re very active in charity benefits, Mrs. Starrett.”
“I do what I can,” she said in a tone of such humility that Dora wanted to kick her shins.
“Does your sister-in-law ever join in these activities?”
“I’m afraid Felicia’s favorite charity is Felicia. We get along. Period.”
“But not close?”
“No,” Eleanor said with a short bark of laughter. “Not close at all.”
“Could you tell me something about Helene and Turner Pierce. How long have you known them?”
“Oh, perhaps a couple of years.”
“How did they become friends of the Starrett family?”
“Let me think …” Eleanor considered a moment. “I do believe Father Callaway brought them around. He knew them from somewhere, or maybe they were members of his church—I really don’t recall.”
“And how do you get along with them?”
“Excellently. I admire them. They are two attr
active young people, very chic, very with it. And it’s a pleasure to see a brother and sister so affectionate toward each other.”
“More affectionate than Clayton and Felicia?”
Eleanor stared at her. “No comment,” she said.
Dora rose from the low stool with some difficulty. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Starrett,” she said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“I have?” the other woman said. “I don’t know how.”
Dora left the beauty salon, went next door to a small hotel, and used the public phone in the lobby.
“The Starrett residence,” Charles answered.
“This is Dora Conti. Is any member of the family home? I’d like to speak to them.”
“Just a moment, please.”
It took longer than a moment, but finally Felicia came on the line, breathless.
“Hiya, kiddo,” she said. “Listen, I can’t talk right now. Gotta run. Heavy lunch date.”
“Wait, wait,” Dora said hastily. “I just want to know if it’s okay if I come over and talk to Charles and Clara for a few minutes.”
“Of course,” Felicia said. “I’ll tell them to let you in and answer your questions. ’Bye!”
Dora walked over to Madison Avenue and boarded an uptown bus. It had turned cold, almost freezing, and everyone was bundled up; the bus smelled of mothballs. Traffic was clogged, and it took almost forty-five minutes before she arrived at the Starrett apartment. Charles opened the door and led the way into the kitchen where a short, stout woman was standing at the sink, scraping carrots.
Clara Hawkins looked as dour as her husband. Her iron-gray hair was pulled up in a bun, and her lips seemed eternally pursed in a grimace of disapproval. She was wearing a soiled apron over a dress of rusty bombazine, and her fat feet were shoved into heelless slippers. What was most remarkable, Dora decided, was that Clara had a discernible mustache.
No one offered her a chair so she remained standing, leaning against the enormous refrigerator. She looked around at the well-appointed kitchen: copper-bottomed pots and pans hanging from an overhead frame; a Cuisinart on the counter; a hardwood rack holding knives and a butchers’ round; a double-sink of stainless steel; gleaming white appliances; and glass-doored cupboards holding enough tableware to feed a regiment.
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