He shook his head. "First of all, I happen to be a very conventional man. Tradition and all that. If I'm to have a long-term relationship with a woman, it should be legal; that's the way I was brought up. Second, for purely selfish reasons I want you for my wife. I want to be seen with you in public, take you to the theatre and parties, hear you introduced as Mrs. Clayton Starrett. I don't want people smirking and whispering, 'There's Clay with his floozy.' That wouldn't reflect well on Starrett Fine Jewelry. Bad public relations."
"I can see you've given this a lot of serious thought."
"Yes, I have," he said, missing the irony completely, "and I think you should, too. I don't expect an answer this minute, but if you think it over carefully, I know you'll see the advantages, especially security-wise."
"You don't mind if I tell my brother about this, do you?"
"Of course not," he said with a rapscallion grin. "I was counting on it. I know how close you two are, and I'm betting he'll be all for it. He'll tell you it's the smart thing to do: look out for Numero Uno."
She didn't reply.
He finished his drink and climbed out of bed. "Listen, I've got to get back to the office. Things are in a mess since Sol passed. Dick Satterlee has taken over and is doing what he can. But Sol carried a lot in his head, and it's going to take a while to get things straightened out."
After he was dressed, he tugged a small suede pouch from his side pocket and tossed it onto the bed. "Two carats. Pear-shaped. There's a tiny inclusion in the base but you'll never notice it."
"Thank you," she said faintly.
"I hope the next stone I give you will be in a solitaire," he said. "And I promise it'll be larger than two carats."
"Clay," she said, "do you love me?"
He waved a hand. "That goes without saying," he said, and bent down to kiss her.
After he was gone, the door locked, bolted, and chained behind him, she added the new diamond to her hoard and sat staring at the glittering heap. She didn't want to call Turner immediately. She needed time to think, to plan, to figure the best way to look out for Numero Uno.
Chapter 18
The snow had melted, but the gutters were awash with garbage and some street corners were small lakes. But having gained almost five pounds during the holiday at home, Dora decided the walk downtown would do her good. This was after lunch with John Wenden during which she virtuously nibbled on a small tuna sandwich and 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?"