Solomon arrived at the southwest corner of West End and 86th Street, stepped off the curb, looked uptown. There was a cab parked across 86th, but the off-duty light was on, and the driver appeared to be reading a newspaper. He moved farther into the street to see if any other cabs were approaching. He raised an arm when he saw one a block away, coming down West End.
But then the cab parked across 86th went into action. The off-duty light flicked off, the driver tossed his newspaper aside, and the cab came gunning across the street and pulled up in front of Solomon. He opened the back door and crawled in with some difficulty, first hoisting his briefcase and newspaper onto the seat, then twisting himself into the cramped space and turning to slam the door.
"Good morning," he said.
"Where to?" the driver said without turning around.
"The Starrett Building, please. Park Avenue between Fifty-sixth and Fifty-seventh."
He settled back and unbuttoned his overcoat. He put on his reading glasses and began to scan the front page of the Times. Then he became conscious of the cab slowing, and he looked up. Traffic lights were green as far as he could see, but his taxi was stopping between 78th and 77th streets, pulling alongside cars parked at the curb.
"Why are you stopping here?" he asked the driver.
"Another guy going south," the driver said. "You don't mind sharing, do you?"
"Yes, I mind," Guthrie said angrily. "I'm paying you full fare to take me where I want to go, and I have no desire to stop along the way to pick up-"
He was still talking when the cab stopped. A man wearing a black fur hat and short leather coat came quickly from between parked cars and jerked open the passenger door.
"Hey!" Guthrie cried. "What the hell do you think-"
But then the stranger was inside, crouching over him, the door was slammed, and the cab took off with a chirp of tires.
"What-" Guthrie started again, and then felt a sear in his abdomen, a flash of fire he couldn't understand until he looked down, saw the man stab him again. He tried to writhe away from that flaming blade, but he was pressed back into a corner, his homburg and glasses falling off as the man stabbed again and again, sliding the steel in smoothly, withdrawing, inserting it. Then he stopped.
"Make sure," the driver said, not turning.
"I'm sure," the assailant said, and pushed Guthrie's body onto the floor. Then he sat down, wiped his blade clean on Solomon's overcoat, and returned the knife to a handsome leather sheath strapped to his right shin.
The cab stopped for the light at 72nd Street. When it turned green, it went south to 71st, made a right into the dead-end street, drove slowly between parked cars to a turnaround at the western end.
The cab stopped on the curve and the two men looked about casually. There was a woman walking a Doberman farther east, but no one else was on the street.
"Let's go," the driver said.
Both men got out of the cab and closed the doors. They paused a moment to light cigarettes, then walked toward West End Avenue, not too fast, not too slow.
Chapter 14
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Still got the sniffles," John Wenden said, "but I'll live to play the violin again. Actually, I feel a helluva lot better. It was the tea and brandy that did it."
"It was a good night's sleep that did it," Dora insisted. "You were whacked-out. Want to take a hot shower?"
"You bet."
"Help yourself. There are plenty of towels. If you want to shave, you can borrow my razor. I'll even throw in a fresh blade."
"Thanks, but I'll skip. I keep an electric shaver in my office; the beard can wait till I get there. Sorry I crashed last night, Red."
"You're entitled. While you're showering I'll make us a cup of coffee. But it'll be instant and black. Okay?"
"My favorite brew," he said.
She was preparing coffee when she suddenly thought of what to buy her husband for Christmas. An espresso machine! One of those neat, shiny gadgets that make both espresso and cappuccino. Mario, a coffee maven, would be delighted.
They stood at the sink and sipped their black instant. Wenden looked at her reflectively.
"You think Father Callaway was the perp, don't you?" he said.
Dora shrugged. "I think he's the front-runner. You're going to check him out, aren't you? And the Pierces."
"Oh sure. I'll start the ball rolling as soon as I get back to my desk. What're you doing today?"
"I've got a ten o'clock appointment with Clayton at the Starrett Building. It was the only time he could fit me in."
"What do you expect to get from him?"
"I'm getting confusing signals on how the Pierces became such good friends with the Starrett family. Whether it was before or after Turner Pierce landed Starrett Fine Jewelry as a client and designed their new computer system. I'd also like to know if Father Callaway made the introduction."
He looked at her admiringly. "You're a real sherlock. You enjoy your job?"
"Oh hell, yes."
"What does your husband think of your being a gumshoe?"
She flipped a hand back and forth. "He doesn't mind what I do. What he doesn't like is my being away from home so much. It means he has to cook for only one- which isn't much fun. Mario is a super chef. Do you prepare your own meals?"
"Not exactly," Wenden said. "I have a cook-Mrs. Paul. Listen, Red, I've got to run. Thanks again for the brandy. And the shower. And the coffee. I owe you."
"Just remember you said that," Dora told him. "I may call in my chits."
"Anytime," the detective assured her.
She let him kiss her cheek before he left.
She spent a few minutes straightening up the suite, not accustomed to maid service. Then she went out into a raw morning. It was too cold to hike all the way, so she took a Fifth Avenue bus south and then walked east to Park Avenue, stopping frequently to look in the shop windows on 57th Street.
She was on time for her appointment but had to wait awhile in a cramped reception room. Most of the magazines on the cocktail table were jewelry trade journals, but there was one copy of Town h Country. Leafing through it, Dora spotted a full-page Starrett ad. It showed a magnificent necklace of alternating white and yellow diamonds draped across a woman's bare breasts (the nipples hidden). The only print on the page, in a small, discreet script, read: Starrett Fine Jewelry. Simply Superior.
A secretary with an English accent ushered her into Clayton Starrett's office at about 10:15. He bounced up from behind his desk, beaming and apparently chocka-block with early-morning energy.
"Good morning!" he caroled, shaking her hand enthusiastically. "Sorry to keep you waiting. The Christmas season, you know-our busiest time. Here, let me take your coat. Now you sit right here. Dreadful office, isn't it? So dark and gloomy. I'm having the whole place done over. Bright colors. Much livelier. Well, I hope you've brought me good news about the insurance."
"Not quite yet, Mr. Starrett," Dora said with a set smile, "but we're getting there. We'd like the mystery of your father's death cleared up before the claim is approved. As I'm sure you would."
"Of course, of course," he cried. "Anything I can do to help. Anything at all."
He seemed in an antic mood, and she decided to take advantage of it. "Just a few little questions. Really extraneous to my investigation, but I like to dot the»*s and cross the t's. Could you tell me how you and your family met Helene and Turner Pierce?"
He was startled by the question, then sat back, tapped fingertips together. "How did we meet the Pierces? Now let me see… I think it was a few years ago. Yes, at least two. Father Callaway was over for dinner and I happened to mention something about the inadequacy of our computers. The Father said he had just the man for me, a management consultant who specialized in designing and upgrading computer systems. So I said to send him around. He was Turner Pierce, and he's done a marvelous job for us. And through Turner I met his sister Helene. A charming couple. They came over for dinner several times, and we all became good friends."