Read Online The Seventh Commandment by Lawrence Sanders - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Sanders
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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.
Chapter 10
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
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.
Chapter 10
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
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