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 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
