"Then the overseas dealer ships the gold to the U.S.?"

"No, the dealers have subsidiaries over here. The gold is warehoused by the subsidiaries. When we buy, the gold is delivered to our vault in Brooklyn."

"How is it delivered?"

"Usually by armored truck."

"Good security?"

"The best. Our Brooklyn warehouse is an armed camp. It costs us plenty, but it's worth it."

"All right," Rushkin said. "Starrett signs a contract to buy X ounces of gold. You get copies of the contract?"

"Naturally."

"The subsidiary of the overseas dealer then delivers the gold to Starrett's vault. The amount delivered is checked carefully against the contract?"

"Of course."

"Have you ever been short-weighed?"

"No."

"So now Starrett has the bullion in its vault. Who do you sell it to?"

"To our branches around the country. Then they sell it to small jewelry stores in their area."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I presume because of its size, resources, and reputation, plus the volume of its purchases, Starrett buys gold at a good price from those overseas dealers."

"That's correct."

"And tacks on a markup when it sells to its branches?"

"Yes."

"Which, in turn, make a profit when they sell to independents in their area?" ' "Yes."

Arthur Rushkin tossed up his hands. "Sol," he said, laughing, "what you've just described is a very normal, conventional way of doing business. Buy low, sell high. You get complete documentation of every step in the procedure, don't you? Contracts, bills of lading, shipping invoices, and so forth?"

"Yes. On the computer."

"And the final customers-the small, independent jewelry stores-have they ever stiffed you?"

"No," Guthrie admitted, then burst out, "but I tell you something stinks! There's too much gold coming in, going out, floating all over the place. And some of those small shops that buy our gold-why, they weren't even in business a couple of years ago. I know; I checked."

"Small retail stores come and go, Sol; you know that. I really can't understand why you're so upset. You haven't told me anything that even hints of illegal business practices-if that's what you're implying."

"Something's going on," Guthrie insisted. "I know it is. We're buying too much bullion, and too many independent stores are buying it from us. Listen, what do they need it for? Everyone knows pure gold is very rarely used in jewelry. It's too soft; it bends or scratches. Maybe twenty-four-karat or twenty-two-karat will be used as a thin plating on some other metal, but gold jewelry is usually an eighteen- or fourteen-karat alloy. So why do these rinky-dink stores need so much pure stuff?"

Arthur sighed. "I don't know, but if their checks don't bounce, what the hell do you care what they do with it? Sol, what is it exactly you want me to do? Talk to Clayton? About what? That he's making money for Starrett by dealing in gold bullion?"

Guthrie opened his briefcase, piled the statement and computer printout on the attorney's desk. "Just take a look at this stuff, will you, Art?" he asked. "Study it. Maybe you'll spot something I can't see." He paused a moment, then almost shouted, "You know what Clayton did the other day?"

"What?"

"Gave me a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year raise."

"Mazeltov!" Rushkin cried.

Sol shook his head. "Too much," he said. "It doesn't make business sense to give me so much. And he gave it to me right after I complained about what's going on at Starrett Fine Jewelry. You don't suppose he did it so I'll keep my mouth shut, do you?"

The attorney stared at him. "Sol," he said, "I've got to tell you that sounds paranoid to me. In all honesty, I think you're making something out of nothing."

"Just look over this printout, Art-will you do that for me?"

"Of course."

"And please don't tell Clayton I came to see you. Well, you can tell him if he asks; my secretary knows I came here. But don't tell Clayton what we talked about."

"Whatever you say, Sol."

The CFO stood up, tucked the empty briefcase under his arm. "I'm going to keep digging," he vowed. "I'll find out what's going on."

Rushkin nodded, walked out to the reception room with Guthrie, helped him on with his coat. "Keep in touch, Sol," he said lightly.

When the outside door closed, the lawyer turned to the receptionist and stared at her a moment.

"Too bad," he said.

"What's too bad, Mr. Rushkin?"

"Growing old is too bad, for some people. They can't keep up with new developments, like computers. They resent younger people coming into their business and doing a good job. They want things to remain the way they were. Change confuses them. They get the feeling the world is passing them by, and they start thinking there's a conspiracy against them. Don't ever grow old, Sally."

"Do I have a choice?" she asked.

He laughed. "I have to meet Mr. Yamoto at the Four Seasons bar," he said. "That means I won't be back this afternoon. There's a pile of computer printout on my desk. Will you put it away in a filing cabinet, please."

"Which filing cabinet?"

"I couldn't care less," Arthur Rushkin said.

Mrs. Eleanor Starrett sat at a white enameled table in Georgio's Salon on East 56th Street, having a set of false fingernails attached. Next to her, Dora Conti was perched uncomfortably on a small stool on rollers. Across the table from Mrs. Starrett, the attendant, a buxom lady from Martinique, bent intently over her gluing job, saying nothing but not missing a word of the conversation.

"So sorry I couldn't meet you at home," Eleanor said, "but I'm due at Tiffany's in a half-hour to select door prizes for a benefit. With the holidays coming on, it's just rush, rush, rush."

"That's all right," Dora said, wondering how this woman could pull on gloves with rocks like that on her fingers. "I just have a few questions to ask."

"I really don't understand why the insurance company is investigating my father-in-law's death. I should think that would be a job for the police."

"Of course it is," Dora said. "But the policy is so large and the circumstances of Mr. Starrett's death so puzzling, we want to be absolutely certain the claim is, ah, unemcumbered before it is paid."

"Well, the poor man could hardly have stabbed himself in the back, could he?" Eleanor said tartly. "Which means, I suppose, that you think one of the beneficiaries may have done him in."

"Mrs. Starrett," Dora said, sighing, "no one is accusing anyone of anything. We would just like to see the murder solved and the case closed, that's all. Now, do you know of any enemies Lewis Starrett had? Any person or persons who might wish to harm him?"

"No."

"How did you get along with him?"

Eleanor turned her head to look directly at her questioner. "Dad-that's what I always called him: Dad-could be a dreadful man at times. I'm sure you've heard that from others as well. But for some reason he took a liking to me, and I got along with him very well. Olivia and Clayton and Felicia suffered more from his temper tantrums than I did. And the servants were targets, too, of course. But he never raised his voice to me. Perhaps he knew that if he had, I'd have marched out of that house and never returned."

"I understand Father Brian Callaway was sometimes the cause of his anger."

"My, my," Mrs. Starrett said mockingly, "you have been busy, haven't you? Well, you're right; Dad couldn't stand the man. The fact that Olivia was giving the preacher money infuriated him. He finally forbade her to give Father Callaway's so-called church another red cent."

"And what was his argument with the servants?"

"Oh, that was a long-running civil war. Stupid things like Charles' fingernails were too long, the Sunday Times had a section missing, Clara was using the good wine to cook with-picky things like that."