Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

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 new 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.

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."