She shook hands with both: identical handclasps, cool and limp. She walked down the marble-tiled corridor to the elevator, thinking those two were taking her lightly; scorn was in their voices. And why not? They were elegant animals, handsome and aloof. And she? She was a plump-mobile, not quite frumpy but no Elle cover girl either.

It was in the elevator that she decided to start a new diet immediately.

She spent the afternoon Christmas shopping. She selected a nice pipe for her father who, since her mother's death, was living alone in Kennebunkport and refused to leave town, even for a visit. And she bought scarves, mittens, brass trivets, soup tureens, books of cartoons, music boxes, hairbrushes, and lots of other keen stuff. She paid with credit cards, had everything gift-wrapped and mailed out to her and her husband's aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends. She still didn't find anything exactly right for Mario.

She had dinner in a restaurant in the plaza of Rockefeller Center: the best broiled trout she had ever eaten. She had one glass of Chablis, but when the dessert cart was rolled up, her new resolve vanished and she pigged out on a big chocolate-banana mousse. And then punished herself by walking back to her hotel, convinced the calories were melting away during her hike.

The desk clerk at the Bedlington had a message for her: Call Mike Trevalyan. She went up to her suite, kicked off her shoes, and phoned. Mike sounded much friskier than he was that morning, and Dora figured he had had one of his three-martini lunches.

"This Brian Callaway you asked about," he said. "Is he a big, beefy guy, heavy through the shoulders and chest, reddish complexion, lots of charm and a hundred-watt smile?"

"That's the man," Dora said. "You found him?"

"Finally. In the alias file. His real name, as far as we know, is Sidney Loftus, but he's used a half-dozen fake monikers."

"Is he a preacher?"

"A preacher?" Trevalyan said, laughing. "Yeah, I guess he could be a preacher. He's already been a used-car salesman, a psychotherapist, an investment advisor, and-get this-an insurance consultant."

"Oh-oh," Dora said. "A wrongo?"

"So twisted you could screw him into the ground. According to the computer, he's never done hard time for any of his scams. He's always worked a deal, made restitution, and got off with a suspended sentence or probation.

Then he blows town, changes his name, and starts another swindle. About five years ago he put together a stolen car ring. If you couldn't keep up the payments on your jalopy, or needed some ready cash, you'd go to him and he'd arrange to have your car swiped. He never did it himself; he had a crew of dopers working for him. The car would be taken to a chop shop, and by the time the insurers got around to looking for it, the parts were down in Uruguay. The cops infiltrated the ring and were twenty-four hours away from busting Sidney Loftus when he must have been tipped off because he skipped town and hasn't been heard of since, until you asked about him. You know where he is, Dora?"

She ignored the question. "Mike," she said, "this stolen car ring-where was it operating?"

"Kansas City."

"Which one? Missouri or Kansas?"

"Missouri."

"Thank you very much," said Dora.

Despite working for Starrett Fine Jewelry for forty years, CFO Solomon Guthrie knew little about the techniques of jewelry making. All he knew were numbers. "Numbers don't lie," he was fond of remarking. This honest man never fully realized how numbers can be cooked, and how a Park Avenue corporation based on fiddled data might have no more financial stature than an Orchard Street pushcart.

But despite his naivete, Guthrie could not rid himself of the suspicion that something was wrong with the way Mister Clayton was running the business. All those new branch managers. That new computer systems integration that Sol didn't understand. And the tremendous purchases and sales of gold bullion. He couldn't believe any jewelry store, or chain of stores, could use that much pure gold. And yet, at the end of each month, Starrett showed a nice profit on its bullion deals. Guthrie was bewildered.

Finally he phoned Arthur Rushkin, who had been Starrett's attorney almost as long as Sol had slaved over Star-rett's ledgers.

"Baker and Rushkin," the receptionist said.

"This is Solomon Guthrie of Starrett Jewelry. Can I talk to Mr. Rushkin, please."

"Sol!" Rushkin said heartily. "When are we going to tear a herring together?"

"Listen, Art," Guthrie said, "I've got to see you right away. Can you give me an hour this afternoon?"

"A problem?"

"I think it is."

"No problem is worth more than a half-hour. See you here at three o'clock. Okay?"

"I'll be there."

He stuffed a roll of computer printout into his battered briefcase and added a copy of Starrett's most recent monthly statement. Then he told his secretary, Claire Heffernan, that he was going over to Arthur Rushkin's office and would probably return by four o'clock.

He had no sooner departed than Claire strolled into the office of Dick Satterlee.

"He's gone to see the lawyer," she reported.

"Thanks, doll," Satterlee said.

"Party tonight?" she asked.

"Why not," he said, grinning.

The moment she was gone, he phoned Turner Pierce. Turner wasn't in, but Satterlee left a message on his answering machine, asking him to call back as soon as possible; it was important.

Solomon Guthrie knew he'd never get a cab, so he walked over to the offices of Baker amp; Rushkin on Fifth Avenue near 45th Street. It was an overcast day, the sky heavy with dirty clouds, a nippy wind blowing from the northwest. Christmas shoppers were scurrying, and the Salvation Army Santas on the corners were stamping their feet to keep warm.

Rushkin came out of his inner office to greet him in the reception room. The two men embraced, shook hands, patted shoulders.

"Happy holidays, Sol," Rushkin said.

"Yeah," Guthrie said. "Same to you."

The attorney was the CFO's age, but a different breed of cat entirely. A lot of good beef and bourbon had gone into that florid face, and his impressive stomach was only partly concealed by Italian tailoring and, if the truth be told, an elastic, girdlelike undergarment that kept his abdomen compressed.

He settled Guthrie in an armchair alongside his antique partners' desk, then sat back into his deep swivel chair and laced fingers across his tattersall waistcoat. "All right, Sol," he said, "what's bothering you?"

Guthrie poured it all out, speaking so rapidly he was almost spluttering. He told Rushkin about the new branch managers; Clayton's plan to make every Starrett store autonomous; the new computer system that Sol couldn't understand. And finally he described all the dealing in gold bullion. Long before he ended his recital, Rushkin was toying with a letter opener on his desktop and staring at the other man with something close to pity.

"Sol, Sol," he said gently, "what you're complaining about are business decisions. Clayton is president and CEO; he has every right to make those decisions. Is Starrett losing money?"

"No."

"Making money?"

"Yes."

"Then Clayton seems to be doing a good job."

"Look," Sol said desperately, "I know I've got no proof, but something's going on that just isn't kosher. Like those gold deals."

"All right," the attorney said patiently, "tell me exactly how those deals are made. Where does Starrett get the gold?"

"We buy it from overseas dealers in precious metals."

"How do you pay?"

"Our bank transfers money from our account to the dealers' banks overseas. It's all done electronically. By computer," he added disgustedly.