"John," she said, "I thought you were convinced Lewis and Solomon Guthrie were murdered by an ex-employee."
"Convinced? Hell no, I wasn't convinced. But when two guys from the same company get iced, it's S.O.P. to check out former employees who might be looking for revenge. It's something that has to be done, but there's no guarantee it's the right way to go."
"I'm glad to hear you say that. So you still think it might have been someone at that cocktail party?"
"It could have been Jack the Ripper for all I know," the detective said. "What's your next move?"
She thought a moment, remembering Trevalyan's warning not to reveal too much. "I don't know," she said. "Just poke around some more, I guess."
"Bullshit," Wenden said. "Unless I miss my guess, you're going to investigate where Callaway was at the time Solomon Guthrie took his final ride in a yellow cab."
"I might do that," she admitted.
"Don't hold out on me, Red," he said, "or I'll bring this beautiful friendship to a screeching halt. Forget about Callaway; I've already checked him out. He was in a hospital the morning Guthrie was offed."
"A hospital? What for?"
"Minor surgery. I'd tell you what it was, but I don't want to make you blush. Let's just say he's now sitting on a big rubber doughnut. Anyway, there's no possibility he could have aced Guthrie. Disappointed?"
"Yes," Dora said, "I am."
"Welcome to the club," John said. "How about lunch tomorrow?"
"Sure," Dora said. "Think you can stand hotel food again?"
"I can stand anything," he said, "as long as it's free. Can you make it early? Noon?"
"Fine."
"It'll be good seeing you again," he said. "I've missed you, Red."
"And I've missed you," she replied, shocked at what she was saying. Then: "John, what's the name of Starrett's attorney?"
"Oh-ho," he said, "the wheels keep turning, do they? His name is Arthur Rushkin. Baker and Rushkin, on Fifth Avenue. That's another one you owe me."
"I'll remember," she promised.
"See that you do," he said, and hung up.
She called Baker amp; Rushkin on Fifth Avenue, explained who she was and what she wanted. She was put on hold for almost five minutes while "Mack the Knife" played softly in the background. Finally Arthur Rushkin came on the phone. Again she identified herself and asked if he could spare her a few minutes of his time.
"I have to be in court tomorrow," he said, "but I should be back in the office by four o'clock. How does that sound?"
"I'll be there, Mr. Rushkin."
Then she dug out a copy of the progress report she had submitted to Trevalyan. She reread it for the umpteenth time, searching for what Mike had said was a logical motive for Callaway killing Lewis Starrett. She still hadn't found it, and thought maybe Trevalyan was putting her on; he was capable of a stupid trick like that.
But this time she saw it and smacked her forehead with her palm, wondering how she could have been so dense.
Chapter 17
Turner had warned Helene of Clayton's reaction to Solomon Guthrie's death and had suggested the spin she put on it.
"You'll have no trouble," he predicted. "Most people believe what they must believe, to shield themselves from reality."
"But not you," Helene said.
"Oh no," Turner said airily. "I take reality raw a la sauce diable. Delicious, but it might make you sweat a bit."
Still, it was no easy task to convince Clayton that Guthrie's murder had been a simple mugging gone awry. He admitted that such senseless killings occurred every day on the hard streets of New York, but Helene could see that guilt gnawed; he could not rid himself of the notion that somehow he had contributed to Sol's death, that he was in fact an accessory. That was the word he used: accessory.
Finally she ignored Turner's instructions on how to handle this crybaby and resorted to a more elemental and effective method: She took him to bed. Within minutes sorrow was banished, guilt forgotten, and he was exhibiting the frantic physical ardor of a man who had been brooding too much on mortality.
She understood his passion was death-driven, but no less enjoyable for that. Afterwards, though, she had to listen to his banal maunderings on how fleeting life was; how important it is to "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may"; how no man on his deathbed had ever said, "I should have paid more attention to business"-all hoary cliches Helene had heard dozens of times before, usually from older men.
But this time the peroration was different.
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 coun-tertop, 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.