The seventh commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  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 compliment, 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.

  But, 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?"

  He shrugged. "I have no idea. Unless Lew found out something and had to be silenced."

  "And then Solomon Guthrie found out that same something and also had to be silenced?"

  He stared at her. "It's possible, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Dora said. "Very possible."

  Sighing, Rushkin opened the deep bottom drawer of his desk and dragged out the thick bundle of computer printout. He weighed it in his hands a moment. "You know," he said, "I don't know whether I hope you find something or hope you don't. If you find nothing, then my guilt at treating Sol so shabbily will be less. If you find something, then I fear that people I know and love may be badly hurt."

  "It comes with the territory," Dora said grimly, took the bundle from his hands, and jammed it into her shoulder bag. "Thank you much for your help, Mr. Rushkin. I'll keep in touch. If you want to reach me, I'm at the Hotel Bedling-ton on Madison Avenue."

  He made a note of it on his desk pad and she started toward the door. Then she stopped and turned back.

  "You knew Lewis Starrett a long time?" she asked.

  Rushkin's smile returned. "Since before you were born. He was one of my first clients."

  "My boss told me to ask you this: Did he have a mistress?"

  The smile faded; the attorney stared at her stonily. "Not to my knowledge," he said.

  Dora nodded and had the door open when Rushkin called, "Mrs. Conti." She turned back again. "Many years ago," the lawyer said.

  She waited a long time for the down elevator and then descended alone to the street, aware of how a lonely elevator inspired introspection. In this case, her thoughts dwelt on how fortunate she was to give the impression of a dumpy hausfrau. If she had the physique and manner of a femme fatale-private eye, she doubted if Arthur Rushkin, attorney-at-law, would have revealed that his beamy smiles masked an inner grief.

  She hustled back to the Bedlington, clutching her shoulder bag as if it contained the Holy Grail. Double-locked into her corporate suite, she kicked off her shoes, put on reading glasses, and started poring over the computer printout, convinced she would crack its code where two others before her (men!) had failed.

  She scanned it quickly at first, trying to get an overview of what it included. It appeared to be a straightforward record of gold purchases abroad; shipments of gold by the sellers' subsidiaries in the U.S. to Starrett's Brooklyn vault; sales of bullion by Starrett to its branch stores; sales by the branches to small, independent jewelers in their areas.

  Then she went over it slowly, studying it carefully. The documentation was all there in meticulous detail: numbers and dates of sales contracts, shipping invoices, warehouse receipts, checks, and records of electronic transmission of Starrett's funds overseas. Dora reviewed every trade, even double-checking addition, subtraction, and percentages with her pocket calculator. Everything was correct to the penny.

  Suddenly, at about 9:30 P.M., she realized she was famished; nothing to eat all day but that measly tuna sandwich at lunch. She called downstairs hastily and caught the kitchen just as it was about to close for the night. She persuaded an annoyed chef to make her two chicken sandwiches on wheat toast-hold the mayo. While she awaited the arrival of room service, she brewed a pot of tea, using three bags.

  And that was her dinner: sandwiches that tasted like wet cardboard and tea strong enough to strip varnish from a tabletop. As she ate, she started again on the computer printout, going slowly and methodically over every trade, looking for any evidence, however slight, of something awry. She found nothing.

  By midnight her eyesight was bleary and she gave up. She took a hot shower, thinking that perhaps Solomon Guthrie had been imagining wrongdoing. And if there was something amiss, as Mike Trevalyan had suggested, she couldn't find it in Starrett's gold trades.

  But she could not sleep; her brain was churning. She tried to approach the problem from a new angle. If Arthur Rushkin, his computer expert, and she had been unable to find anything wrong in the details of the printout, perhaps the corruption was implicit in the whole concept of bullion trading. Maybe there was a gross flaw, so obvious that they were all missing it, just as Mario sometimes said, "Where's the dried oregano?" when the jar was in plain view on the countertop. Then Dora would say, "If it had teeth, it'd bite you."

  At 2:00 A.M. she got out of bed, turned on the lights, donned her reading glasses again. This time she flipped through the printout swiftly, trying to absorb the "big picture." She saw something. Not earthshaking. And perhaps it was innocent and could easily be explained. But it was an anomaly, and frail though it might be, it was her only hope.

  She searched frantically through her shoulder bag for that folder she had picked up at Starrett Fine Jewelry the previou
s morning: the charge account application that also listed the addresses of Starrett's branch stores. She checked the location of the stores against the computer printout.

  Then, smiling, she went back to bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

  Chapter 19

  "This kir is too sweet," Helene Pierce complained.

  "You were born a woman," Turner said, "and so you're doomed to eternal dissatisfaction. Also, it's a kir royale. Now eat a grape."

  He had frozen a bunch of white seedless grapes. They were hard as marbles, but softened on the tongue and crunched delightfully when bitten.

  The Pierces were slumped languidly in overstuffed armchairs in Turner's frowsy apartment, having returned from lunch at Vito's where they had pasta primavera, a watercress salad, and shared a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Now they were sodden with food and wine, toying with the kirs and frozen grapes, both smiling at the memory of their rice-and-beans days.

  "I have something to tell you," Helene said.

  "And I have something to tell you," he said. "But go ahead; ladies first."

  "Since when?" she said. "Anyway, Clayton asked me to marry him."

  Turner's aplomb shattered. He drained his glass.

  "When did this happen?" he asked hoarsely.

  "A few days ago."

  "Why didn't you tell me immediately?"

  "No rush," she said. "He has to ask mommy's permission first."

  "Sure," Turner said, "she owns the company now. He's really going to divorce Eleanor?"

  "That's what he says."

  "Shit!"

  "My sentiments exactly," Helene said. "How are we going to handle it?"

  "Before we compute that, I better tell you my news; it'll give you a hoot. Felicia wants to marry me."

  They stared at each other. They wanted to laugh but couldn't.

  "This family's doing splendidly," Turner said with a twisted smile. "What did Clayton offer?"

  "Financial security. A prenuptial agreement on my terms."

  "Pretty much what Felicia offered me. There's a lot of loot there, kiddo."