Stuart Woods: Imperfect Strangers

"Different from other people's marriages, I mean."

"In what way?"

"Well, I can't remember you and Mom ever showing much affection for each other, and to tell the truth, I've always enjoyed the company of both of you more when you weren't together."

Sandy stared down at the table. "I don't know that I could explain our marriage to you, Angus," he said. "I've never even tried to explain it to myself. The fact is, we both would have been happier if we'd ended it years ago."

"Did Granddad have anything to do with your staying together?"

"Not directly, but of course, I worked for him, and I loved my work, and I'm not sure I could have continued there if your mother and I had parted."

Angus nodded. "Well, I guess each of us does what he has to in order to do the thing he wants most to do."

"That's a very sage observation from such a new physician," Sandy said.

They both laughed, and soon Angus was on his way somewhere.

Walking back to the apartment, Sandy's emotions were in turmoil. In a few hours, he planned to murder Angus's mother, or at least, have her murdered, and tomorrow he would have to face his son and pretend to be sad about her death.

Sandy had never been very introspective, but now he looked inside himself and asked the hard question. Am I a murderer? Can I do it and live with myself? Can I do it and live with my son? He started to think about what life would be like without the wine division and the Fifth Avenue apartment and the house on Nantucket and the club memberships, but he stopped himself. Those things were not relevant to the kind of man he was. Could he be who he was and start being someone else tomorrow?

"I am not a murderer," he said aloud to himself. "I am not, and I never can be." He was not particularly religious, but he felt that criminals, especially murderers, received some sort of higher justice, something beyond the courts and prisons and various methods of ending the lives of those who had killed. He stopped next to a pay phone. "I am not a murderer," he said.

He put a quarter in the phone and got the number from information, then dropped another coin into the machine and dialed the number.

"Hotel Pierre," a woman's voice said.

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Peter Martindale," Sandy said.

"One moment." A ringing ensued, then stopped. "There's no answer from that suite; would you like to leave a message?"

"Yes," Sandy replied, "and it is most urgent that Mr. Martindale receive the message."

"It's our practice to immediately put the message under the door of the suite and to turn on the flashing message light," she said. "Mr. Martindale is unlikely to miss it."

"Good. Would you please tell him that Bart called," he spelled it for her, "and that the project has been canceled, everything is off."

"I've got that," she said. "Would you like me to connect you with the concierge? Mr. Martindale would have to pass his desk, and he could also deliver the message directly."

"Yes, thank you." Sandy repeated the message and its urgency to the concierge.

"I'll be certain that he gets it," the concierge said. "Mr. Martindale said he was going out for only a short time, so he should have it soon."

Sandy hung up and continued his walk toward the apartment building. He felt somewhat lighter on his feet and in his heart. On Monday, he'd see a good lawyer and find out what could be done to negotiate a better settlement with Joan and Laddie. After all, he wasn't stone broke; he had what he had saved and invested, that was around a million dollars, and he had the half million from Jock. He could get started again, at least in a small way. Maybe he could find some investors. His son had already expressed a willingness to help. He walked on, reflecting on how close he had come to ruining his life, to jeopardizing his reputation and his personal freedom.

He must have been temporarily mad, he thought, turning into the lobby. Well, he was sane now, and he would simply make the best of things.

At seven forty-five Sandy knotted his black satin bow tie and slipped into his dinner jacket. He slipped the Patek-Phillipe pocket watch into his waistcoat pocket and ran the chain through its special buttonhole. Satisfied with his appearance, he left his dressing room and walked across the bedroom. Joan was on schedule, which meant she would be ready about ten minutes after he told her what time they must leave.

He went into his study and, dabbing a light film of perspiration on his forehead, sank into a chair and picked up the telephone. He had a slightly queasy feeling in his stomach, and he wanted to make it go away He dialed the Pierre and asked for the concierge.

"This is Mr. Bart," he said to the man. "I left a message a couple of hours ago for Mr. Peter Martindale."

"Oh, yes sir, the urgent one. I handed it to him myself half an hour later, so you may be sure he got it."

"Did he read it in your presence?" Sandy asked.

"Yes, sir, he did."

"What was his reaction?"

"He looked, well, relieved, I suppose. He asked me to get him on an evening flight for San Francisco, and he checked out about an hour ago."

"I see. Thank you very much indeed," Sandy said. He hung up the phone feeling elated. He had been afraid of some slip-up, of Peter's somehow not getting the message.

"Are you ready, Sandy?"

Sandy looked up, surprised. Joan was ready on the stroke of eight o'clock.

"Yes, let's go down. Albert is collecting us first, and we'll pick up Laddie and Betty on the way to the Waldorf."

"Fine," she said.

In the elevator she was quiet, primping in the mirror, making tiny adjustments to her clothing and makeup. The elevator stopped at the main floor.

"I'll go down with you," Sandy said suddenly.

"That's not necessary, Sandy."

"Well, it's dark down there, and you know that outside door doesn't always close the way it should."

"You're very solicitous this evening," she said.

"Just part of the service." He managed a smile.

The old elevator door took some time to close, and as it began to, Albert, Jock's longtime servant and driver, stopped it. "Excuse me, Mr. Kinsolving," he said, "but Mr. Laddie is on the car phone for you."

"He probably thinks we'll be late," Joan said. "You'd better reassure him."

"All right," Sandy said, stepping out of the car. Then he had a thought. "Albert, will you go down to the basement with Mrs. Kinsolving? I'd rather she didn't go alone."

"Really, Sandy, I've done it a thousand times," Joan said irritably.

Sandy took Albert by the elbow and guided him into the elevator. "I'll wait for you in the car," he said. Joan glared at the ceiling. Sandy strode through the lobby and got into the back seat of the old Cadillac. It was an old-fashioned limousine, with jump seats, not the contemporary stretched job that took up half a block. He picked up the phone. "Laddie?"

"Yes, Sandy. I tried the apartment, but you were gone. I take it you're on time?"

"Yes, we are; we should be there in under ten minutes; Joan's just getting her jewelry from downstairs."

"Well, I'm glad I caught you. Betty is unwell; she's dressed and everything, but she's just tossed her cookies into a flower pot, and she's a distinct shade of green. Will you forgive us?"

"Of course, Laddie; tell Betty I hope she feels better soon. Get some Pepto-Bismol into her."

"Right," Laddie said. "See you later." He hung up.

Sandy replaced the phone on its cradle, and remembered what a hard time he had had getting Jock to install the thing. Once he had had it, though, he had begun terrorizing the office the moment he left home, and he started again the moment he drove away from the office. The staff had talked of sabotaging the car phone.

Sandy glanced at his watch: ten past eight. He looked out the open door of the car and into the building: No sign of Joan and Albert. He rested his head against the back of the seat and thought. Monday, he'd see a lawyer, then ask for a meeting with Laddie, to give him the opportunity of doing the right thing. He hoped there'd be no necessity for a lawsuit.