"We're making money, aren't we? Lots of money."
Sol nodded. "I just don't understand it," he said fretfully. "I don't understand how you figure to unload so much gold. I think our inventory is much, much too heavy. And your father, God rest his soul, if he was alive today, believe me he'd be telling you the same thing."
Clayton took a cigar from a handsome mahogany humidor on his desk. It was a much better brand than his father had smoked. But he didn't light the cigar immediately. Just rolled it gently between his fingers.
"Sol," he said, "you're sixty-three-right?"
"Yes."
"Retirement in two years. I'll bet you're looking forward to it."
"I haven't thought about it."
"You should, Sol. It isn't too soon to start training someone to take your place."
"Who? These kids-what do they know. They come out of college and can't even balance a checkbook."
"How about the new man I hired-Dick Satterlee?"
"He's a noodle!" Sol cried.
"Teach him," Clayton urged. "Teach him, Sol. He comes very highly recommended."
"I don't like him," Sol said angrily. "Something creepy about that guy. Last week I caught him going through my ledgers."
"So?" Clayton said. "How else is he going to learn?"
"Listen, Mister Clayton," the older man said, "those ledgers are private business. Everyone in my ofiice knows-hands off. I don't want anyone touching them; they're my responsibility."
Starrett slowly pierced and lighted his cigar. "Sol," he said, "when was your last raise?"
Guthrie was startled. "Two years ago," he said. "I thought you knew."
"I should have remembered," Clayton said, "but I've had a lot on my mind. Father's death and all…"
"Of course."
"Suppose you take a raise of fifty thousand a year until you retire. With your pension, that should give you a nice nest egg."
The CFO was shocked. "Thank you, Mister Clayton," he said finally.
"You deserve it. And Sol, stop worrying about the gold business. Trust me."
After Guthrie left his office, Clayton put his cigar carefully aside and called Turner Pierce. The phone was lifted after the sixth ring.
"Hello?"
"Turner? Clayton Starrett."
"How are you, Clay? I was just thinking about you. I saw Ramon last night, and there have been some interesting developments."
"Turner, I've got to see you as soon as possible."
"Oh? A problem?"
"It could be," Clayton said.
Chapter 5
Dora Conti, listing to port under the weight of an overstuffed shoulder bag, was admitted to the Starrett apartment at 2:30 P.M. The door was opened by a tall, bowed man she assumed was the butler, identified in newspaper clippings as Charles Hawkins.
He didn't look like a Fifth Avenue butler to her, or valet, footman, or even scullion. He seemed all elbows and knees, his gaunt cheeks were pitted, and a lock of dank, black hair flopped across his forehead. He was wearing a shiny gray alpaca jacket, black serge trousers just as shiny, and Space Shoes.
"Dora Conti," she said, "to see Mrs. Olivia Starrett. I have an appointment."
"Madam is waiting," he said in a sepulchral whisper, and held out his arms to her.
For one awful instant she thought he meant to embrace her, then realized he merely wanted to take her coat. She whipped off her scarf and struggled out of her heavy loden parka. He took them with the tips of his fingers, and she followed his flat-footed shuffle down a long corridor to the living room.
This high-ceilinged chamber seemed crowded with a plethora of chintz- and cretonne-covered chairs and couches, all in floral patterns: roses, poppies, lilies, iris, camellias. It was like entering a hothouse; only the scent was missing.
A man and a woman were sharing a love seat when Dora came into the room. The man stood immediately. He was wearing a double-breasted suit of dove-gray flannel, with a black silk dickey and a white clerical collar.
"Good afternoon," Dora said briskly. "I am Dora Conti, and as I explained on the phone, I am your insurance claims adjuster. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
"Of course," the man said with a smile of what Dora considered excessive warmth. "I hope you won't be offended if I ask to see your credentials."
She made no reply, but dug her ID out of the shoulder bag, handed him card and letter of authorization.
He examined them carefully, then returned them, his smile still in place. "Thank you," he said. "You must understand my caution; so many newspaper reporters have attempted to interview family members under a variety of pretexts that we've become somewhat distrustful. My name is Brian Callaway."
"Father Brian Callaway," the woman on the settee said, "and I am Olivia Starrett."
"Ma'am," Dora said, "first of all I'd like to express my condolences on the death of your husband."
"Oh, he didn't die," the woman said. "He passed into the divine harmony. My, what beautiful hair you have!"
"Thank you."
"And do construction workers whistle at you and shout, 'Hey, red!?"
"No," Dora said. "They usually whistle and shout, 'Hey, fatso'!"
Olivia Starrett laughed, a warbling sound. "Men can be so cruel," she said. "You are certainly not fat. Plump perhaps-wouldn't you say, Father?"
"Pleasingly," he said.
"Now then," the widow said, patting the cushion beside her, "you come sit next to me, and we'll have a nice chat."
She was a heavy-bodied woman herself, with a motherly softness. Her complexion was a creamy velvet, and her eyes seemed widened in an expression of continual surprise. Silvery hair was drawn back in a chignon and tied with a girlish ribbon. Her hands were unexpectedly pudgy, and her diamond rings, Dora estimated, would have kept Mario supplied with prosciutto for two lifetimes.
"Mrs. Starrett," Dora began, "let me explain why I am here. If your husband had been ill and had, uh, passed away in a hospital, or even at home with a doctor in attendance, there probably would have been no need for our investigating the claim, despite its size. But because his, uh, passing was violent and unexpected, an investigation is necessary to establish the facts of the case."
Father Callaway seated himself in an armchair facing the two women. "Surely," he said, "an investigation of that horrible crime is a job for the police."
"Of course it is," Dora agreed. "But right now all they have is a theory as to how and why the homicide was committed. It may or may not be correct. But until the perpetrator is caught, there are unanswered questions we'd like to see cleared up. Mrs. Starrett, I hope I am not upsetting you by talking of your husband's, uh, death."
"Oh, not at all," she said, almost blithely. "I have made my peace."
"Olivia is a strong woman," Callaway said.
"As you said at the service, Father: Faith conquers all."
"Just a few questions," Dora said. "First of all, can you tell me the whereabouts of family members at the time your husband, uh, passed away?"
"Now let me see," Mrs. Starrett said, staring at the ceiling. "Earlier that evening the entire family was here, and we were having cocktails and little nibbles. Helene and Turner Pierce stopped by."
"I was also present, Olivia," Callaway interrupted.
"Of course you were! Well, we had a few drinks, and then Clayton and Eleanor left to attend a charity affair at the Waldorf. And Felicia had a dinner date, so she left. And then the Pierces."
"And I left at the same time they did," the Father reminded her. He looked directly at Dora. "I have a small tabernacle on East Twentieth Street-and I like to be present at the evening meal to offer what spiritual solace I can."