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.