by Stuart Woods
"We have no deal!" Sandy nearly shouted. "I called it off, and you violated my instructions! I feel no obligation to you whatever! Is that perfectly clear?"
"My friend, you are very ungrateful," Martindale said. "Don't you understand? I've set you free! Now all you have to do is set me free! You'll feel better when you entirely understand your position."
"Position? What position? I have no position!"
"Oh, but you do, dear man, you do. You now have a personal obligation to me that must be satisfied, and if you do not satisfy it soon and in the required way, I will bring you badly to grief."
"I don't really see how you can do that," Sandy said, but he felt less confident.
"I think it's best not to explain it to you on the telephone," Martindale said, "but until I can make it clear to you personally, please believe me when I tell you that it is in your interest to believe me. I can pull that very soft rug from under you very quickly, and I will do it, if I have to."
Sandy thought for a moment. "You want to meet?"
"Yes, and in San Francisco," Martindale said. "Be here by the end of next week; make the call as agreed, and I will give you further instructions. Do you understand?"
"I hadn't planned to be in San Francisco."
"Be here by the end of the week," Martindale said, then hung up.
Sandy stared at the phone for a moment, then hung it up and walked away. He was damned if he'd communicate further with that man, not in any way.
Sandy walked slowly back toward Madison Avenue, numb with dread and oblivious of his surroundings. He had gone little more than a block when something struck him, hard, in the right kidney. He fell to his knees, gasping with pain, and he was yanked sideways into a loading dock and forced onto his belly. His left arm was wrenched behind his back, and something struck him in the back of the neck. Sandy lost consciousness.
"Mister!" someone was shouting at him. "You all right?" Someone turned him onto his back.
Sandy blinked at the face hovering over him. A black man in coveralls was holding his head off the cement floor. "What?" he asked, rather stupidly.
"Can you talk to me?"
"Yes, I can talk. What happened?"
"I dunno; I came out of the john, and you was lying on my loading dock. Hang on, I'll get an ambulance, or something."
"No, no," Sandy said, struggling to get to his feet.
The man helped him up, then leaned him against the wall. "You want I should call a cop?"
"No, don't do that. I don't really know what happened; I wouldn't know what to tell a cop."
The man began dusting Sandy's clothes, and Sandy noticed that the left knee of his trousers was torn. Damn! he thought; a good suit, too! He felt for his wallet and his checkbook; both there. "Nothing seems to have been stolen," he said to the man. "I'll just be on my way; thanks for your help."
"Well, if you're sure you're okay," the man said.
Sandy stepped back out into the sunlight and started toward his office. His back and neck hurt like hell, and he was a little lightheaded, but he seemed to be walking all right. He glanced at his watch; there was no watch. He went back to where he had been struck and looked on the pavement, then it dawned on him: He had been mugged for his wristwatch. And he'd owned it for less than a day! He hadn't even added it to his insurance policy yet. Fifteen thousand dollars, right down the drain!
Back in his office, he told his secretary to hold his calls, then he took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and stretched out on the sofa under the windows. What had he gotten himself into? Now he was locked in with Peter Martindale. What was it the man had said on the plane? There were two flaws in Strangers on a Train-only one of the two men had agreed to the plan, and one of them was crazy. Well, he hadn't agreed to the plan, and Martindale couldn't be entirely sane.
He had to go to San Francisco, anyway; he'd lied to Martindale about that-he'd already postponed the trip for a month, and he had to buy wines. He was going to have to face the man and persuade him to drop this madness. He closed his eyes and dozed for a moment.
• • •
When Sandy woke the clock on the wall said nearly seven o'clock. He got gingerly to his feet and went to his desk. His secretary had apparently tiptoed into the room and left a Federal Express package there. He sank into his large leather chair and picked it up; he wasn't expecting anything from anybody. He tore it open and found another envelope inside, a padded one, the sort that books were mailed in. He opened that envelope and shook the contents out onto the desk. His wife's stolen jewelry lay before him.
There was a note, neatly printed in block capitals:
I DON'T NEED THIS, I JUST THOUGHT IT WOULD LOOK BETTER IF I TOOK IT. TO PROTECT YOUR POSITION, YOU SHOULD TELL THE COPS HOW YOU GOT IT BACK. DON'T WORRY, THERE AREN'T ANY FINGERPRINTS, AND THEY WON'T BE ABLE TO TRACE THE PACKAGE.
There was a good four hundred thousand dollars in jewelry on the desk. Sandy groaned.
Duvivier stood before Sandy's desk and stared at the pile of jewelry. "Is it all there? Everything?"
"Everything."
"And it came by Federal Express?"
"Yes," Sandy replied, "the package is on the desk; I'm afraid my fingerprints must be on it, but I haven't touched the jewelry."
"Well, my guess is we won't find any fingerprints on the pieces or the package." Duvivier poked at the envelope with a pen. "And the return address is likely to be fiction. It was sent yesterday from a Federal Express office on Sixth Avenue in the forties, a busy one, so it's unlikely that any of the counter people will remember who brought it in."
"I don't understand," Sandy said. "Why would he return all the jewelry? Wasn't it the reason he attacked Joan in the first place?"
"I can only speculate about that," Duvivier replied. "I suppose he could have had a bout of conscience, but I doubt it. More likely, he realized he couldn't unload it without greatly increasing his chances of getting caught."
"He could have just dumped it in a trash can somewhere," Sandy said. "He didn't have to send it back."
"It's odd, I'll grant you."
"To tell you the truth, I wish he'd kept it," Sandy said. "A month had passed, and I was becoming reconciled to what happened, and now this comes along and dredges the whole thing up again."
"Well, I'm sure the pieces would bring quite a lot at auction," Duvivier said. "Especially the ones formerly owned by the Duchess of Windsor."
Sandy shook his head. "I don't want to go through that. I'll put them away, and maybe someday, when my son marries, he'll I want to give them to his wife."
Duvivier nodded. "And what has happened to you in the past month?" he asked.
Sandy shrugged. "Most of my time has been taken up with the business."
"I read that you'd bought the company."
"No, my father-in-law left me the wine division and my wife a part of the rest of the company. I sold her inheritance to her brother. That will give me the capital I need for expansion."
Duvivier frowned. "My information was that Mr. Bailley had left you half a million dollars and nothing else."
Sandy shook his head. "No, it turns out that Jock Bailley made a new will a couple of days before his death. We didn't know about it at first, because it was done by a lawyer in the legal department, not his personal attorney."
"I see," Duvivier said. "And what is the attorney's name?"
"Walter Bishop."
"Friend of yours?"
"No, I didn't know him. You see, for the past few years I've worked almost entirely out of this office and London. I've spent little time at the company headquarters; I only know the top executives there."
Duvivier regarded him solemnly. "You've been very fortunate the past few weeks, haven't you?"
"If you think my wife's being murdered was fortunate-"
"My apologies; I simply meant that out of that tragedy have risen a number of strokes of luck: Your wife's jewelry is stolen, but it is returned; your father-in-law mostly excludes you from his will, but then a n
ew will turns up. Suddenly, you own the business and you're a very wealthy man."
Sandy was suddenly angry. "And you think I've somehow engineered all this? You think I hired somebody to kill my wife, and I forged a new will?"
"It seems a possibility, doesn't it?"
"Well, I want you to investigate the possibility, Mr. Duvivier. I want you to delve into everything I do, question everyone I know, find the answer to every question."
"Do you?"
"I certainly do. But let me tell you something else; if, while you're investigating me, it suddenly turns up in the press that I'm a suspect in my wife's murder, or if anything else untrue, but derogatory, is published, I'm going to hold you and your department responsible. I will answer every question you have, cooperate in any way I can, but if you defame me or cause me to be defamed in the process, you will find your department facing a very serious lawsuit."
"Mr. Kinsolving-"
"You've mentioned that I'm newly wealthy; well, it's true, and I will spend whatever part of that wealth is necessary to protect my good name."
"Please, Mr. Kinsolving."
"I mean it; I have nothing to hide from you or anybody else, but I will not become a Claus von Bulow for the nineties, do you understand me?"
"Mr. Kinsolving, I have no intention of making that happen."
"Good. Now take that jewelry and that package and start investigating. I'm exhausted, and I'm going home to bed."
"Mr. Kinsolving, are you quite all right? You seem to be moving rather stiffly."
"I slept on the sofa for a while; I woke up with a stiff neck."
Duvivier wrote out a receipt for the jewelry and left. Sandy got into his coat to home, tired, depressed, and angry.
All the way home he kept looking over his shoulder, wondering if another mugger was there. He couldn't stop himself.
CHAPTER 13
Sandy got off the airplane in San Francisco and into the waiting car. He checked into his suite at the Ritz-Carlton, unpacked, gave some clothes to the valet for pressing, took a nap, then ordered dinner from room service. He watched television for an hour, then, a little after ten he consulted the telephone book, slipped into a freshly pressed jacket, and went downstairs.
"Can I get you a taxi, sir?" the doorman asked.
"No, thank you, I think I'll take a walk," he replied. He headed down the hill toward the main shopping district, his hands in his pockets. It had been unseasonably hot in the afternoon, but with evening the temperature had dropped. He walked more purposefully to keep warm.
Half an hour later he had found the address, prominently located among a dozen other expensive-looking galleries. He window-shopped several of them before coming to a stop before the Martindale Gallery. It was past ten-thirty now, and he was surprised to see all the lights on and a woman working at a desk at the rear of the big room. She turned a page of what seemed to be a large ledger. Sandy tried the door, but it was locked; the woman looked up and waved a hand. "We're closed," she mouthed.
Sandy waved back and walked on down the street, but not before he had had a good look at her. About thirty-five, yellow hair, fashionably done, a cashmere sweater and pearls. Hard to estimate her height when sitting, but she seemed not very tall. All in all, very attractive, he thought.
The following morning he telephone the gallery and asked for Peter Martindale. "This is Bart," he said when the man came on the line.
"Ah, Bart," Martindale said. "Good to hear from you. Ready to meet?"
"Yes."
"Go down to the waterfront and take the boat for the Alcatraz tour; there's one at noon-that okay?"
"Yes."
"I'll find you." Martindale hung up.
Sandy took a taxi to the pier and bought a ticket for the tour. The morning was cloudy and cool. At the last moment before the boat cast off, Peter Martindale, wearing a light raincoat, a tweed cap and dark glasses, stepped aboard and took a seat at the opposite end of the craft from Sandy.
Sandy avoided looking at him on the trip out. When they docked, he disembarked along with the twenty-five or thirty other passengers and allowed himself to drift toward the end of the strung-out group. The tour guide greeted them, said a few words about the history of the place, then set off into the prison proper. A steel door clanged shut behind them, echoing through the abandoned facility. As the group moved slowly through the building, Sandy caught a motion in the corner of his eye. Martindale stood a few feet away, in a cell. He beckoned. When the tour guide turned to continue on, Sandy stepped into the cell.
"I thought this would be an appropriate setting," Peter Martindale said. He indicated a steel bunk hanging from the wall. "Take a pew."
Sandy sat down, and Martindale sat on the opposite bunk.
"Well, here we are," Martindale said. "I suggested we meet here, because I wanted you to see the inside of a prison; find out what sort of place you'll end up if you fail to hold up your end of the bargain."
"There was no bargain," Sandy said heatedly.
Martindale held up a hand. "Please, Sandy, please; we're way past that, now; there is a bargain, because I say there is a bargain. Face up to it; you have no choice."
Sandy sat silently, staring at the gallery owner; he could not think what to do next; the man would not be dealt with.
"I see I'm going to have to convince you," Martindale said. He reached into a pocket of his raincoat, took out a plastic bag, and tossed it across the cell to Sandy.
Sandy caught the small bag, and it was surprisingly heavy. He held it up to a ray of sunlight streaming through the barred window; his Cartier watch was in the bag. He looked up at Martindale.
Martindale smiled. "This little exercise is to help you understand that you are vulnerable."
"How did you-"
"Really, Sandy, you're an intelligent man, but not a very clever one. Five hundred dollars in the palm of the nearest hoodlum took care of that bit of business. I watched the whole thing from across the street, you know."
"But I called you in San Francisco."
"Of course you did; call forwarding took care of the rest." He removed a small cellular telephone from his pocket and held it up to the light. "A service of your friendly telephone company. Put the watch on."
Sandy slipped the watch, still in its plastic bag, into his pocket. "If you're so good at hiring hoodlums, why don't you just hire one to solve your problem?"
"Because hired hoodlums will turn on one in the blink of an eye; they make some stupid mistake, and when they're arrested they're reeling off one's name, address, and social security number before the cell door is locked, trying to do a deal. I want someone who can't do a deal, Sandy, and that's you, old fellow."
Sandy shook his head.
"Think of what you have now, Sandy-the business is yours; a rather large chunk of cash is yours; you're in a new world- accounts at Mayfair Trust, and all that."
Sandy looked up at him.
"Of course, I followed you. Now, let's get down to business."
"I won't do it," Sandy said quietly.
Martindale sighed. "All right, I'd hoped this wouldn't be necessary, but there it is. Sandy, you've seen how easily I got to you? It would be just as easy for me to get to your son."
"Now, wait a minute-"
"Works all those nights at the hospital," Martindale said.
"Walks home to his flat a few blocks away. Dangerous place, the streets of Manhattan-even the Upper East Side."
Sandy's shoulders sagged.
"Ah, I think I've finally gotten through to you," Martindale said.
"What do you want me to do?" Sandy asked, defeated.
"How long will you be in San Francisco?"
"Two more nights. I'll be up in the wine country all day tomorrow, and I'll leave the day after on a morning flight."
"You'll be back in the city tomorrow night?"
"I can be."
"Good; make your way to my gallery a little after nine in the evening. It's at-"
; "I know where it is."
Martindale smiled. "Good man. I'll tell Helena that a client is coming in from New York to see the Constable, the big one on the east wall; late plane and all that. She'd do anything to sell the Constable. Big bucks, as you Yanks say. Now, let me describe her to you."
"I saw her there last night."
Martindale looked surprised for the first time. "Sandy, I've underestimated you; you were getting ready all along, weren't you?"
"She was sitting at the desk in the rear of the gallery about ten-thirty, going through a large ledger."
"That's my girl," Martindale said. "Attention to detail, always. What she was doing, of course, was looking for just the right moment-financially-to let the ax fall."
"She's still working in the gallery? In spite of your… situation?" Sandy asked.
"Oh, we're nothing if not civil," Martindale said, chuckling. "You see, I'm not meant to know about her… relationship. It's meant to be a surprise. Sort of makes me bulletproof with the police afterwards, you see. I didn't know, so it couldn't be a motive."
"She's very attractive."
"Of course. Did you think I'd marry some scrubber? She's the perfect picture of the well-born California girl." Martindale leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Down to business, now: The street is deserted after ten, as I'm sure you noticed last evening. Greet Helena, chat with her; look at the Constable. Then, wander over to the little Turner on the back wall. That will put you within a couple of feet of the desk; there's a loaded pistol in the top right-hand drawer. Have a look out the front windows to make sure the coast is clear, then take the pistol and use it." He pointed at his heart. "One here." He pointed at his forehead. "Then, one here, just to be thorough. I hope I don't have to remind you to wear gloves? We don't want any residue on your hands, do we?"
"I suppose not."
"Then, before you go, mess her up a bit-rip her knickers off, that sort of thing; stick the pistol up her cunt, if you're really into it. The money box is in the top left-hand drawer; leave the checks, but take the cash-have dinner on me! Leave the gun there-it's registered to me-and go out the back door. It opens onto an alley that runs into the street around the corner. Walk slowly, do some window shopping, don't get rid of the gloves until you're well away from the premises." He reached out and put a hand on Sandy's knee. "And then, old cock, you're a free man-very free and very rich. Go back to New York, live your life, enjoy! You and I won't see each other again."