Seventh Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  Lying flat on his back, legs together, arms at his sides, staring at the ceiling for all the world like a stripped corpse being fitted for a shroud, Clayton declared:

  “I’ve decided to change my life. Change it completely.”

  It was said in a challenging tone, as if he expected opposition and was prepared to overcome it.

  “Change it how, Clay?” she asked.

  “I’m going to leave Eleanor. People are supposed to grow closer together in a marriage; we’ve grown farther apart. We’re strangers. I don’t know her anymore, and she doesn’t know me. It’s not the way I want to spend the rest of my life.”

  “Have you said anything to her?”

  “No, not yet. Before I do, I want to get mother’s reaction. And yours.”

  “Mine?” Helene said, fearing what was coming. “I have nothing to do with it.”

  He turned his head on the pillow to stare at her. “You do. Because if mother approves—or at least is neutral—and I leave Eleanor, I want to marry you.”

  She was nothing if not an accomplished actress, and her face and voice displayed all the proper reactions: shock, pleasure, dubiety. “Clay,” she started, “I’m not—”

  But he held up a palm to stop her. “Wait a minute; let me make my case. First of all, my marriage has become unendurable. That’s a given. And I see no possibility of the situation improving. Absolutely not. So no matter what you decide, my life with Eleanor is finished. You mustn’t think you’re responsible for the breakup. It would have happened even if I had never met you.”

  “Shall I get us a drink?” she asked.

  “No, not yet; I don’t need it. Helene, I know I’m twice your age, but surely there are other things more important. We think alike, laugh at the same things, get along beautifully, and we’re building up a lot of shared memories, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “I may not be the world’s greatest stud, but I’m not a complete dud, am I?”

  “It’s all I can do to keep up with you,” she assured him, and he smiled with pleasure.

  “The most important thing is your future,” he said earnestly. “Your financial future. And that I can guarantee. I know that if I wasn’t helping you out, you’d be depending on your brother’s generosity. But how long do you want to do that? And what if he suffers financial reverses—it’s always possible—then where are you? What I’m offering you is security, now and for the future. You must think about your future.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I must.”

  “Marry me, and we can draw up some kind of agreement so that even if I die suddenly or our marriage doesn’t work out, you’ll be well taken care of. I know how much you enjoy the good life. This is your chance to make certain you can keep enjoying it.”

  “You’re quite a salesman,” she said with a tinny laugh. “I think I better have a drink now. May I bring you one?”

  “Yes,” he said. “All right.”

  Naked in the kitchen, leaning stiff-armed on the countertop, she wondered how she might finesse this complication. She wished Turner was there to advise her, but then she knew what he’d say: stall, stall, stall. Until they could figure out the permutations and decide where their best interest lay.

  She poured vodka over ice, added lime wedges, and carried the two glasses back to the bedroom: a proud, erect young woman with a dancer’s body and appetites without end.

  She handed Clayton his drink, then sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed.

  “I won’t say anything about your leaving your wife,” she said. “I’ve never suggested it, have I? Never even hinted at it. It’s really your decision and none of my business. But I don’t understand why you feel you must marry me. Why can’t we continue just the way we have been? I’m perfectly content.”

  He shook his head. “First of all, I happen to be a very conventional man. Tradition and all that. If I’m to have a long-term relationship with a woman, it should be legal; that’s the way I was brought up. Second, for purely selfish reasons I want you for my wife. I want to be seen with you in public, take you to the theatre and parties, hear you introduced as Mrs. Clayton Starrett. I don’t want people smirking and whispering, ‘There’s Clay with his floozy.’ That wouldn’t reflect well on Starrett Fine Jewelry. Bad public relations.”

  “I can see you’ve given this a lot of serious thought.”

  “Yes, I have,” he said, missing the irony completely, “and I think you should, too. I don’t expect an answer this minute, but if you think it over carefully, I know you’ll see the advantages, especially security-wise.”

  “You don’t mind if I tell my brother about this, do you?”

  “Of course not,” he said with a rapscallion grin. “I was counting on it. I know how close you two are, and I’m betting he’ll be all for it. He’ll tell you it’s the smart thing to do: look out for Numero Uno.”

  She didn’t reply.

  He finished his drink and climbed out of bed. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to the office. Things are in a mess since Sol passed. Dick Satterlee has taken over and is doing what he can. But Sol carried a lot in his head, and it’s going to take a while to get things straightened out.”

  After he was dressed, he tugged a small suede pouch from his side pocket and tossed it onto the bed. “Two carats. Pear-shaped. There’s a tiny inclusion in the base but you’ll never notice it.”

  “Thank you,” she said faintly.

  “I hope the next stone I give you will be in a solitaire,” he said. “And I promise it’ll be larger than two carats.”

  “Clay,” she said, “do you love me?”

  He waved a hand. “That goes without saying,” he said, and bent down to kiss her.

  After he was gone, the door locked, bolted, and chained behind him, she added the new diamond to her hoard and sat staring at the glittering heap. She didn’t want to call Turner immediately. She needed time to think, to plan, to figure the best way to look out for Numero Uno.

  18

  THE SNOW HAD MELTED, but the gutters were awash with garbage and some street corners were small lakes. But having gained almost five pounds during the holiday at home, Dora decided the walk downtown would do her good. This was after lunch with John Wenden during which she virtuously nibbled on a small tuna sandwich and drank nothing but tea.

  “Are you sick?” John asked.

  “Diet,” she explained. “My New Year’s resolution.”

  “I made one, too,” he said, swilling his beer. “To cut out the beer.”

  Strangely, they spoke little of the Starrett case at lunch. Mostly they exchanged memories of Christmases past when they were children and the world was bright with hope and their dreams without limit.

  “That didn’t last long,” Wenden said. “By the time I was ten I knew I would never be president, of anything.”

  “Even as a kid I was chubby,” Dora said. “All the beautiful, popular girls chose me for a friend because they didn’t want any competition.”

  “No one chose me for a friend,” he said. “I’ve always been a loner. Maybe that’s why my marriage flopped.”

  “Do you ever see your ex?”

  “No,” he said shortly. “I hear she’s been dating a barber from Yonkers. Serves her right.”

  Dora laughed. “I think you should get married again, John.”

  He brightened. “My first proposal this year!”

  “Not me, dummy,” she said. “I’m taken.”

  “Not even for a week?” he asked, looking at her.

  “Not even for a night. You just don’t give up, do you?”

  “You’ve never cheated on your husband?”

  “Never.”

  “He wouldn’t know. It would be an act of charity.”

  “It would be an act of stupidity,” she said.

  Plodding downtown, trying to leap over puddles and avoid a splashing from passing cabs, Dora thought of that luncheon conversation and smiled at John’s persistence. It was a compl
iment, she supposed, to have a man come on so strongly. But it was worrisome, too, and she wondered how the hell Mike Trevalyan had guessed immediately what Wenden’s motives were, without even meeting the guy. Maybe, she thought shrewdly, because Trevalyan had similar desires.

  Men, she decided, were born to perpetual hankering. Except Mario, of course. Right? Right?

  She was early for her appointment with Arthur Rushkin and walked over to the Starrett store on Park Avenue. There were few shoppers, and most seemed to be browsing, wandering about to examine the showcases of diamond rings, gold watches, brooches set with precious gems and, in particular, one fantastic three-strand choker of emeralds and rubies that, Dora guessed, probably cost more than the Contis’ bungalow in Hartford.

  On the way out she picked up a small, slick-paper leaflet: an application for a charge account. It also included a short history of Starrett Fine Jewelry and listed the addresses of all the branch stores. Dora slipped it into her shoulder bag, to be added to the Starrett file, and then headed for the attorney’s office on Fifth Avenue.

  She waited only five minutes in the reception room before Arthur Rushkin came out, introduced himself, shook her hand, and asked if she’d care for coffee. She declined, but was pleased with his hearty friendliness. If he was putting on an act, it was a good one.

  He got her seated alongside the antique desk in his private office, then relaxed into his big swivel chair. He laced fingers across his bulging paisley waistcoat and regarded her with a benign smile.

  “It’s Mrs. Conti, isn’t it?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I hope you won’t be offended, Mrs. Conti, but after you called I made inquiries about you. I like to know something about the people I meet with. Perhaps you’ll be happy to learn that you are very highly regarded. The people I spoke to praised you as a very intelligent, professional, and dedicated investigator.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I am happy to hear it.”

  “I suppose,” he said, still smiling, “your job is to make certain, before the claim is approved, that none of the beneficiaries was involved in the death of Lewis Starrett.”

  “That’s part of it,” she said cautiously.

  “And what have you discovered?”

  “Nothing definite,” she said. “There are still many unanswered questions. Mr. Rushkin, do you know of any enemies Lewis Starrett had who might have wished him harm?”

  He shook his head. “Lew could be a very difficult man at times, but I know of no one who disliked him enough to plunge a knife in his back.”

  Dora sighed. “That’s what everyone says. And the whole situation has been further complicated by the murder of Solomon Guthrie.”

  Rushkin stopped smiling. “Yes,” he said in a low voice, “I can understand that.” Then he was silent for such a long time that she wondered if he was waiting for her to speak. Finally he rose, walked over to the windows facing Fifth Avenue. He stood there, staring out, his back turned to her, hands thrust into his trouser pockets.

  “A hypothetical question, Mrs. Conti,” he said, his deep voice a rumble. “If I was to reveal to you material that might possibly—and I repeat the word possibly—aid in your investigation, and should that material result in your uncovering possible evidence of wrongdoing and illegality, would you feel impelled to present that evidence to the authorities?”

  “Of course,” she said instantly.

  He whirled to face her. “I would never, of course,” he said sternly, “ask you not to. After all, I am, in a manner of speaking, an officer of the court. But what would your reaction be if I were to ask that if you did indeed uncover what you considered incriminating evidence, you would be willing to reveal that evidence to me before you took it to the police?”

  She pondered that a moment. Then, lifting her chin, she said decisively, “I think not, Mr. Rushkin. This is no reflection on your trustworthiness or on your ethics, but I must consider the possibility that the evidence I find might implicate someone close to you, someone to whom you feel great personal attachment. In which case, revealing the evidence to you before it’s turned over to the police might possibly—and I repeat the word possibly—result in the quick disappearance of the suspect.”

  Rushkin smiled wryly. “The praise of your intelligence was justified,” he said, and came back to sit down again in his swivel chair. He fiddled with a pen on his desk, and she noted the sag of the heavy folds in his face and neck. He was a man she would ordinarily label “fat-faced,” but sorrow gave his fleshy features a kind of nobility.

  “I have had a problem these past few weeks,” he confessed, not looking at her. “A problem you may feel is ridiculous, but which has cost me more than one night’s sleep. The question is this: To whom do I owe my loyalty? In this whole sad affair, who is my client? Was it Lewis Starrett? Is it the Starrett family or any member thereof? And what of the Starrett employees, including Sol Guthrie? Whom do I represent? I have come to a conclusion you may find odd, but I have decided that my client is the one that pays my bills. In this case, it’s Starrett Fine Jewelry, Incorporated. My client is a corporation, not the several owners or employees of that corporation, but the corporation itself, and it is to that legal entity that my responsibility is due.”

  “I don’t think that’s odd at all,” Dora said. “He who pays the piper calls the tune.”

  “Yes,” Rushkin said, “something like that. My wrestling with the problem was made more difficult because of my personal relationship with Lewis Starrett and Solomon Guthrie. They were both old and dear friends, and I don’t have many of those anymore. I would not care, by my actions, to impugn their reputation or distress their families. I believe they were both men of integrity. I would like to keep on believing it.”

  “Mr. Rushkin,” Dora said softly, “there is obviously something you know about this case that is bothering you mightily. I suggest you tell me now what it is. I cannot promise complete and everlasting confidentiality because I may, someday, be called to testify about it in a court of law. All I can tell you is that I’ll make every effort I can to treat whatever you tell me as a private communication, not to be repeated to anyone without your permission.”

  He nodded. “Very well,” he said, “I accept that.”

  He then told her that a few days before his murder, Solomon Guthrie came to that very office, “sat in that very chair where you’re now seated, Mrs. Conti,” and voiced his suspicions that something illegal was going on at Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc. He had no hard evidence to back up his accusation, but he was convinced skulduggery was going on, and he felt it probably involved Starrett’s trading in gold bullion.

  “He described to me exactly how the trading is done,” Arthur Rushkin told Dora, “and I could see nothing wrong with it. It seemed like a conventional business practice: buying low and selling high.”

  “Did Mr. Guthrie name any person or persons he suspected of being involved in the illegalities?”

  “He didn’t actually accuse anyone,” the attorney said, “but he certainly implied that Clayton Starrett was aware of what was going on.”

  Rushkin then related how Solomon Guthrie had left a large bundle of computer printout and pleaded with the lawyer to review it and perhaps discover evidence of thievery, fraud, embezzlement—whatever crime was being perpetrated.

  “I filed it away and forgot about it,” Rushkin confessed. “Then Sol was killed, and you can imagine the guilt I felt. I dragged it out and spent hours going over it, item by item. I found nothing but ordinary business transactions: the purchase and sale of gold bullion by Starrett Fine Jewelry during the last three months. I was somewhat surprised by the weight of gold being traded, but there is ample documentation to back up every deal.”

  Rushkin said he had then called in a computer expert, a man he trusted completely, and asked him to go over the printout to see if he could spot any gross discrepancies or anything even slightly suspicious. The expert could find nothing amiss.

  B
ut, the attorney went on, he could not rid himself of the notion that the printout was, in effect, Solomon Guthrie’s last will and testament and he, Rushkin, would be failing his client, Starrett Fine Jewelry, by not investigating the matter further.

  “Yes,” Dora said, “I think it should be done. Tell me something, Mr. Rushkin: Did anyone at Starrett know that Solomon Guthrie had come to your office?”

  The lawyer thought a moment. “He asked me not to tell Clayton Starrett of his visit, but then he said his secretary—Sol’s secretary—knew he was coming over here.”

  “And other than what he thought might be on the computer printout, he had no additional evidence to prove his suspicions?”

  “Well, he did say that Clayton had raised his salary by fifty thousand a year. I congratulated him on his good fortune, but Sol was convinced it was a bribe to keep his mouth shut and not rock the boat. He was in a very excitable state, and I more or less laughed off what I considered wild and unfounded mistrust of his employer. I think now I was wrong and should have treated the matter more seriously.”

  “You couldn’t have known he’d be killed. And there’s always the possibility that his suspicions had nothing to do with his murder.”

  “Do you believe that?” Rushkin demanded.

  “No,” Dora said. “Do you?”

  The lawyer shook his head. “I told you I feel guilt for ignoring what Guthrie told me. I also feel a deep and abiding anger at those who killed that sweet man.”

  “Clayton Starrett?” she suggested.

  Rushkin glared at her. “Absolutely not! I’m that boy’s godfather, and I assure you he’s totally incapable of violence of any kind.”

  “If you say so,” Dora said.

  The attorney took a deep breath, leaned toward her across his desk. “Mrs. Conti, I want to hand over the printout to you. Perhaps you can find something in it that both the computer expert and I missed. Will you take a look?”

  “Of course,” Dora said. “A long, careful look. I was hoping you’d let me see it, Mr. Rushkin. But tell me: How do you think possible illegality in the gold trades relates to the death of Lewis Starrett?”