She jotted a page of notes and planned a course of action.
She phoned the car rental agency used by the Company, identified herself, and gave her credit card number. She arranged for a Ford Escort to be brought to the Hotel Bedlington the next morning at 7:00 A.M.
She left wake-up call instructions at the hotel desk.
She was waiting on the sidewalk the following morning when the Escort was delivered. It was dark blue, had recently been washed, and the interior smelled of wild cherry deodorant.
She drove to LaGuardia Airport, parked, and waited twenty minutes before boarding the next Pan Am shuttle. Destination: Logan Airport, Boston.
She had a window seat on the port side of the plane and midway in the flight, above the cloud cover, she waved at the ground. The man seated next to her, reading The Wall Street Journal, looked up and asked curiously, “What are you waving at?”
“My husband,” Dora said. “In Hartford.”
“Oh,” the man said.
She waited in line for a cab at Logan, then handed the driver the address she had written down. He read it and turned to look at her. “You sure you want to go there?”
“I’m sure,” Dora said. “You can wait for me, then drive me back here.”
“If we’re alive,” he said mournfully.
The address was in Roxbury, on a street that was mostly burned-out buildings and weed-choked lots. But there were three little stores huddled together, awaiting the wrecking ball. One was a bodega, one a candy store cum betting parlor. The third was Felix Brothers Classic Jewelry.
“This is it,” the cabdriver said nervously. “If you’re not back in five minutes, I’m taking off—if I still have wheels.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dora said.
She got out of the taxi and inspected the jewelry store. Ten feet wide at the most. A plate glass window half-patched with a sheet of tin. Glass so dusty and splattered she could hardly peer within. She saw a few empty display cases, a few chairs, one lying on its side. There was no use trying the door; it was behind a rusty iron grille and secured with an enormous padlock.
A man lounging nearby had watched Dora’s actions with lazy interest. He was wearing camouflaged dungarees and a fake fur hat with earflaps that hung loosely.
“I beg your pardon,” Dora said, “but could you tell me when the jewelry store is open.”
The idler was much amused. “Cost you,” he said.
Dora gave him a dollar.
“It ain’t never open,” the man said.
“Thank you very much,” Dora said, and hastily got back in the cab.
“Thank God,” the driver said, and gunned away.
She took the next shuttle back to New York. She reclaimed the Ford Escort and drove into Manhattan. She left her car for the Bedlington doorman to park and went up to her suite. She immediately called John Wenden.
“Got a minute?” she asked.
“All my life,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Listen to this …” she said, and related her day’s activities. Then: “John, that place isn’t even a hole-in-the-wall. It’s a falling-down dump. It’s never open. No stock and no customers. It’s a great big nothing.”
“So?”
“Two months ago the Starrett Fine Jewelry branch store in Boston sold Felix Brothers Classic Jewelry more than a million dollars’ worth of pure gold.”
“Son of a bitch,” the detective said.
35
HE SAT RIPPING THE baguette apart with jerking fingers, rolling the dough into hard little balls and tossing them aside.
“Turner,” Helene said, “what are you doing?”
He looked down at the mess he had made. “Jesus,” he said, “I’m losing it.”
He was about to say more, but then the waiter served their veal chops and angelhair pasta. The bartender brought over a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio and showed the label to Turner. He nodded, and the bottle was uncorked and poured.
“Now calm down and eat your dinner,” Helene said.
Turner tried a bite of veal, then pushed his plate away. “I can’t make it,” he said. “You go ahead. I’ll have the wine and maybe a little pasta.”
Helene ate steadily, not looking up. “What’s she on?” she asked.
“Ramon gave me some new stuff he’s distributing. Smokable methamphetamine. Galled ice. He said it would be a great high, and it is. Lasts for hours. But Ramon didn’t tell me about the crash. Disaster time.”
“Then cut her off,” Helene advised.
“I can’t. You’re hooked with the first puff. The stuff is dynamite. I had her move in so I can keep an eye on her. The woman is dangerous—to herself and to me.”
Helene looked up frowning. “Dangerous? You mean suicidal?”
“Suicidal, homicidal, depression, hallucinations, delusions—you name it. She can’t even talk clearly.”
“You’ve got a problem, son.”
“Thanks for telling me,” he said bitterly. “I thought I could keep her quietly stoned. That’s a laugh. She smokes the stuff and starts climbing walls. That stupid Ramon!”
Helene ate steadily. “If he’s stupid,” she said, “how come he’s so rich?”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Turner told her. “The richest men I’ve known have been the dumbest. It has nothing to do with intelligence. The ability to make money is a knack, like juggling or baking a soufflé.”
“Uh-huh,” Helene said. “Aren’t you going to eat your chop?”
“I have no appetite. You want it?”
“About half. Cut it for me.”
Obediently, he trimmed the chop on his plate, cut slices of the white meat, and transferred them to her plate.
“Thank you,” she said. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said fretfully, and went back to rolling balls of bread dough. “I tried to cut her off, and she went wild. Absolutely wild. She threatened me. Can you imagine that? She actually threatened me.”
“Threatened you how?”
“Said she’d kill me if I didn’t bring her more ice. And believe me, she wasn’t kidding.”
“You’re scared?”
“Damned right I’m scared,” he said, gulping his wine. “She’s totally off the wall.”
“Turner, maybe you better go to Clayton or Olivia and suggest she be put away for treatment.”
“And have her tell them where she’s been getting the stuff? No way! That would queer everything.”
Helene finished her wine, took the bottle from the ice bucket, and refilled Turner’s glass and her own. “You want to close up shop and take off?” she said quietly.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”
His head was down as he pushed the bread pills around the tablecloth. Helene sat back and regarded him closely. He was right; he was losing it. Skin sallow, puffy circles under his eyes, twitchy fingers. And he, who had always been such a dandy, now wore a soiled shirt, tie awkwardly knotted, unpressed jacket. She could almost smell his fear.
“How long can you keep her going?” she asked.
“God knows,” he said. “I’ve got to be there when she crashes. If I let her out of the apartment, she might go home, and then we’re dead. Helene, you have no idea what that stuff has done to her. She’s lost weight, she can’t sleep, I’ve got to bathe her like an invalid. When she’s smoking, her body gets so hot I’m afraid to touch her. But when she’s high, she just wants to keep going. It lasts for hours, sometimes a whole day. Then she falls apart and wants to kill herself. Or me—if I don’t get her out of her funk. Which means more ice.”
“Where is she now?”
“At my apartment. Locked in. I fed her some downers, hoping she’d sleep it off. I better get back. If she’s set fire to the whole place, I won’t be a bit surprised. Maybe you’re right; maybe we better split. I can’t see any way out of this mess.”
“Let’s think about it,” Helene said
. “You go on home now. I’ll finish my wine, maybe have an espresso, and take a cab home.”
“Will you pick up the tab?”
She looked at him. “Sure,” she said.
He stood up and tried a smile. “Thanks, sweetie,” he said. “I can always depend on you. We’ll come out of this okay; you’ll see.”
“Of course we will,” she said.
She sipped her wine slowly, then had an espresso and a small apple tart. She paid the bill and over-tipped, asking the waiter to go out onto Lexington Avenue and get her a cab. She was back in her apartment within a half-hour.
She looked up the unlisted number of Ramon Schnabl in her address book. But when she phoned, all she got was an answering machine. When it beeped, she gave her name, phone number, and asked Mr. Schnabl to call her at his convenience.
Then she phoned the Starrett apartment. Charles answered, and she asked if Clayton was there. The houseman said that Mr. Starrett was attending a business dinner that evening but was expected home shortly. Helene asked that he call her whatever time he arrived.
She made herself a cup of instant black coffee and took it to the living room desk. She went over her accounts, adding up her cash on hand and what she might expect from an emergency sale of those unset diamonds. She estimated the total, roughly, at about fifty thousand. That was hardly poverty, but it was very small peanuts indeed compared to her dreams.
She was finishing her coffee when the phone rang, and she let it shrill six times before she picked it up.
“H’lo?” she said in a sleepy voice.
“It’s Clay, honey. Did I wake you up?”
“That’s all right, Clay. I’ve only been sleeping a few minutes. It was nothing important. I just wanted to tell you how much I love you and how much I miss you.”
“Hey,” he said, his voice eager, “that’s important! Did you really go to sleep so early?”
“There’s nothing special on TV, so I thought I’d go to my lonely bed.”
“Listen” he said, almost choking, “we can’t have you going to a lonely bed. How’s about if I pop over for a while? You can always sleep later.”
“Well …” she said hesitantly, “if you really want to. I’d love to see you, Clay, but you must be tired.”
“I’m never that tired,” he said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
She undressed quickly, brushed her teeth, took a quick shower. By the time he arrived, she was scented and wearing a peach-colored silk negligee.
“Oh sweetheart,” she said, embracing him tightly, “I’m so happy to see you. I know how busy you are, but I was hoping you’d come over tonight. I felt so alone. I really need you.”
He stayed for almost two hours. As he was dressing, he took out his wallet and gave her five hundred dollars.
“That’s just walking-around money,” he told her. “After the divorce comes through and we’re married, I’ll put you on the store payroll at a thousand a week. We’ll call you a styling consultant or something like that. It’ll be a no-show job, but if anyone asks we can say you check out competitors’ displays and new designs.”
“A thousand a week,” she repeated. “Thank you, darling. You’re so good to me.”
After he left, she showered again, poured herself a brandy, and changed the sheets and pillowcases on her bed.
She went back to her accounts, and finished the evening by making a meticulous list of her diamonds and their carat weight. Then she went to bed. She lay awake a few minutes, thinking that Turner should have left money for their dinner. That young man was developing short arms and low pockets. Clayton Starrett was different.
36
MRS. ELEANOR STARRETT WAS unexpectedly gracious on the phone.
“I’m so glad you called, chérie,” she said. “I’ve never been busier in my life, but I can always find time for you.”
Dora thought that a bit much, but asked when and where they might meet. Well, Eleanor had an appointment for a massage at Georgio’s Salon on East 56th Street at 11:30, and if Dora could meet her there, they’d have time for a nice chitchat.
Dora found her in a curtained back room, lying naked on a padded table and being worked on by a gigantic flaxen-haired masseuse.
“Pull up a chair, darling,” Eleanor caroled. “We can talk while Hilda reduces me to a mass of quivering jelly. You really should do something with your hair.”
“I know,” Dora said.
“Such a gorgeous shade, but it is a mess. I’ll ask Georgio to handle you personally. The man is trés chic and does absolutely marvelous things with his magic scissors.”
“Maybe some other time,” Dora said. “Mrs. Starrett, I want to—”
“Oh, do call me Eleanor. I don’t know why, but I feel I’ve known you for years and years. Dora—isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Dora, when—Oh my God, Hilda, you’re breaking my leg! Well, Dora, I’m sure you’ve heard I’m getting a divorce from Clayton, and that rat has to turn over a list of all his assets, so of course it’s very important for me to know when he’s getting that million from his father’s insurance.”
Now Dora could understand her gushy friendliness. “I really can’t give you a definite date, Eleanor, but I’m sure it won’t be much longer.”
“I hope not. I want to hit that schmuck where he lives—and that means his bank account.”
“I was sorry to hear about the divorce,” Dora said.
“Don’t be sorry, sweetie; be glad, because I certainly am. I should have dumped that moron years ago. He is so dumb. A dumb rat. Of course Helene Pierce isn’t his first playmate. He’s been cheating on me since the day we were married. And the idiot thought I didn’t know!”
“Why did you put up with it?” Dora asked curiously.
Eleanor raised her head to look at her. “Everyone cheats, luv. It’s hardly a capital crime, is it? If it were, there wouldn’t be enough electric chairs in the world. There’s nothing so terrible about cheating—I’ve had a few flings myself—but one should try to be discreet, don’t you think? And ending a marriage just for the sake of a roll in the hay is definitely de trop. I mean, it just isn’t done. Except by rat finks like Clayton Starrett. Well, I wish him happiness with his Barbie Doll. She’ll take him for whatever he has left after I get through with him. Poor Clay will end up washing windshields at stoplights.” She cackled with glee.
“Eleanor, one of the things I wanted to talk to you about was Felicia. I met her yesterday, and she seemed—uh, she seemed ill.”
“Ill?” the other woman said with a harsh laugh. “Stoned out of her gourd, you mean. Felicia is a basket case. She really should be under professional care somewhere, but Olivia doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“What is going on?”
“Oh, she’s doing coke, no doubt about it. I think Turner Pierce turned her on, but if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. Felicia is lost. She’s going to get into serious trouble one of these days.”
“Why would Turner Pierce want to supply her with drugs?”
“What a child you are! Felicia is hardly poverty-stricken, is she, and Turner has expensive tastes. As I well know. One of those flings I mentioned, I had with Turner. But I soon gave him the broom. A very, very grabby young man. Just like his sister.”
“I thought you liked the Pierces. At our first meeting you were very complimentary.”
“That was when I was a member of the family,” Eleanor said bitterly. “Now I can tell the truth, and they can all rot in hell!”
When she left the salon, Dora stood on the sidewalk a few moments, gulping deep breaths. She needed that sense of a world washed clean, everything spotless and shining.
It wasn’t Eleanor’s vindictiveness toward Clayton that dismayed her; the scorned wife was entitled to that. Nor were the revelations of Felicia’s addiction a shock; Dora had guessed that doomed woman was beyond her help—and probably any other Samaritan’s.
But what really d
epressed Dora were Eleanor’s blithe comments about cheating. Was she right? Did everyone do it? Was adultery no more serious than a mild flirtation at a cocktail party, and no more reason for marital discord than the toothpaste tube squeezed in the wrong place?
She walked west on 56th Street wondering if she was hopelessly naive, an innocent with no real perception of how the world turned and how people behaved. “What a child you are!” Eleanor had said, and perhaps, Dora acknowledged, she was a child, with all her notions of right and wrong the result of her teaching, and not wisdom distilled from experience.
She cut over to 54th Street and continued to plod westward, still brooding. Could she be right and everyone else wrong? It hardly seemed likely. John Wenden had said, “Life is too short to be faithful,” and perhaps that was a universal truth that had somehow eluded Dora Conti, happily married and now questioning if her world was ridiculously limited.
She shook off these melancholic musings and looked about her. She stood on the corner of 54th Street and Eighth Avenue. This neighborhood was vastly different from the one she had just left. There was a police station, hemmed in by parked squad cars. Then there was a crowded stretch of tenements, garages, and low-rise commercial buildings.
She dodged traffic, crossed Eighth, and walked west on 54th, watching the numbers and realizing she still had a block or two to go.
When she told John about that empty jewelry shop in Roxbury, the detective had said, “Look, this gold-trading caper is yours. I have my hands full with the three homicides; I can’t suddenly start chasing gold bars. Why don’t you stick with it and see what you can come up with. I’m here and ready to help. Okay?”
Sure, Dora had told him, that was okay, and she went back to the plan of action she had outlined prior to her Boston trip.
She had the address of the vault of Starrett Fine Jewelry in Brooklyn, but it didn’t seem worthwhile to investigate because she had no idea when a shipment of gold might be delivered. It made more sense to check out Starrett’s main supplier of gold bullion, an outfit called Stuttgart Precious Metals, Inc., located on West Fifty-fourth Street in Manhattan. According to the computer printout, Stuttgart was the USA subsidiary of Croesus Refineries, Ltd., headquartered in Luxembourg.
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