Callaway corrected her gently. "Strong-minded, Olivia," he murmured.

"Yes," she said, "he was a very strong-minded man."

"Mrs. Starrett," Dora said, "do you know anyone who might wish to harm your husband? Did he have any enemies?"

The widow lifted her chin. "My husband could be difficult at times. At home and, I'm sure, at the office. I was aware that many people thought him offensive. He did have a temper, you know, and I'm sure he sometimes said things in anger that he later regretted. But no, I know of no one who wished to harm him."

"Was he ever threatened? In person or by letter?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"The police," Callaway observed, "believe he was killed by a stranger."

"Uh-huh," Dora said. "That's their theory. Mrs. Starrett, I don't want to take any more of your time. If I think of more questions, may I come back?"

Olivia put a warm hand on her arm. "Of course you may, my dear. As often as you like. Are you married?"

"Yes. We live in Hartford. My husband is a dispatcher for a trucking company."

"How nice! Does he love you?"

Dora was startled. "I believe he does. He says he does."

"And do you love him?"

"Yes."

Olivia nodded approvingly. "Love is the most important thing. Isn't it, Father?"

"The only thing," said Callaway, a broad-chested man who liked to show his teeth.

Dora stood up. The pastor rose at the same time and took a wallet from his inner jacket pocket. He extracted a card and handed it to her.

"The address of the Church of the Holy Oneness," he said. "Service every Friday evening at eight. But you'll be welcome anytime you wish to stop by."

"Thank you," she said, tucking the card in her shoulder bag. "I may just do that. Mrs. Starrett, it's been a pleasure meeting you, and I hope to see you again."

"And the insurance?" Callaway asked. "When may the beneficiaries expect to have the claim approved?"

Dora smiled sweetly. "As soon as possible," she said, and shook his hand.

Charles was waiting in the foyer, and she wondered how much of the conversation he had overheard. He helped her on with her parka.

"Thank you, Charles."

She thought he might have winked at her, but it was such an unbutlerlike act that she decided he had merely blinked. With one eye.

Clayton Starrett could see no physical resemblance between Helene and Turner Pierce, yet they both showed the same face to the world: cool, somewhat aloof, with tight smiles and brief laughs. And both dressed with careless elegance, held their liquor well, and had a frequently expressed distaste for the commonplace. "Vulgar!" was their strongest term of opprobrium.

Sitting with them in the living room of Helene's apartment, sharing a pitcher of gin martinis, Clayton noted for the first time how pale both were, how slender, how languid their gestures. In their presence he felt uncomfortably lumpish, as if his energy and robust good health were somehow vulgar.

"And what was Guthrie's reaction when you gave him the raise?" Turner asked.

"He was surprised," Clayton said. "Perhaps shocked is a better word. I know he never expected anything like that. I did it, of course, to give him a bigger stake in the company. You might call it a bribe-to keep his mouth shut about the*gold deals."

"You think it'll work?"

"I don't know," Clayton said worriedly. "Sol is an honest man-maybe too honest. In spite of the raise he may keep digging. I got the feeling he wasn't completely satisfied with my explanation."

"Helene?" Turner said.

"Don't do anything at the moment," she advised. "The money may convince him it would be stupid to make waves. But you better tell Dick Satterlee to keep an eye on him, just in case."

"Yes, that would be wise," Turner said. "Since his New Orleans contact was eliminated, Ramon wants to increase his investments elsewhere. We'll be getting the lion's share, so the last thing we want right now is a snoopy accountant nosing around. I'll phone Satterlee at home and alert him." He glanced at his Piaget Polo, finished his martini, stood up. "I've got to run. Thanks for the drink, sis."

"I'll give you a call later," she said.

He swooped to kiss her cheek. "Much later," he said. "I won't be home until midnight."

"I hope you're behaving yourself," she said.

"Don't I always?" he said. "Clay, sometimes this sister of mine acts like she's my mother."

They all laughed. Turner gathered up his leather trench coat and trilby. "Clay," he said, "don't worry about Sol Guthrie. I'll take care of it."

"Good," Clayton said. "He's been with Starrett a long time and only has two years to go before he starts drawing a hefty pension. He'd be a fool to endanger that."

"Sometimes honest men do foolish things," Turner said. "You know the old saying: No good deed goes unpunished. I hope Mr. Guthrie knows it."

He waved a hand at them and left. Helene rose to bolt the door and put on the chain. "Another party tonight?" she asked Clayton.

He nodded. "The third this week. My wife is cohostess of this one. At the Pierre."

"For which charity?"

He shrugged. "Who the hell knows-or cares. For unwed mothers or to spay stray cats or something."

"So you have to go home to dress?"

He smiled at her. "Not for an hour," he said.

"Time enough," she said. "We can go around the world in an hour."

If she seemed languid, almost enervated, when dressed and in the company of others, she displayed a totally different persona when naked and alone with him. Her strength was astonishing, her vigor daunting. Indifference vanished; now she was vital and determined. She gave Clayton credit for this transformation. "You make me a pagan," she told him.

He could scarcely believe his good fortune. This lovely, intense young woman seemed to have no wish but to give him pleasure. There was nothing he asked that she would not do, and their lovemaking became a new world for him. He was a sexual despot, and she his willing slave, eager to serve.

He thought he had never known an ecstasy to equal this, and only later did he begin to plot how he might change his life to insure that his happiness would endure forever.

Dora Conti had been trying for almost a week to pin down a meeting with Felicia Starrett. Two appointments had been made, but Felicia called at the last minute to cancel both, oflFering excuses that seemed trivial to Dora: she had to have her hands waxed, and Bloomies was having a panty hose sale.

Finally she agreed, positively, to meet Dora for a drink at the Bedlington cocktail lounge at 4:30 on Friday. She was only twenty minutes late.

She came sailing into the bar wearing a mink Eisenhower jacket that Dora would have killed for. Under the jacket she wore a white turtleneck sweater, and below was a skirt of black calfskin, short and tight. Her only jewelry was a solitaire, a marquise-cut diamond in a Tiffany setting. Five carats at least, Dora guessed.

Felicia shook hands, took off her mink and tossed it onto an empty chair. "Chivas neat," she yelled at the bartender. "Perrier on the side." She sat down across the table from Dora, looked around the cocktail lounge. "Ratty dump," she said..

"Isn't it," Dora said pleasantly. "Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time, Miss Starrett. I appreciate it."

"I hope it's only a few minutes. I have an appointment for a trim and rinse at five-thirty, and if I'm late Adolph will probably scalp me. Who does your hair?"

"I do," Dora said. "Doesn't it look like it?"

"It's okay," Felicia said. "Like you don't give a damn how it looks. I like that. May I have one of your cigarettes?"