Laddie spoke up again. "Walt, I want to thank you for coming to me immediately on your return. And now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Kinsolving and I have some talking to do."

"Of course, Mr. Bailley," Bishop said. He rose, shook hands with both the men and departed, closing the door behind him.

"Sandy," Laddie said. "This is only my rough estimate, of course, but I think the wine division must account for about a quarter of the value of the company; Joan's third of the remainder would account for another quarter. And, of course, you already own three percent of the stock. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, you are now the majority shareholder of John Bailley amp; Son. Ironic, isn't it?"

A great deal more ironic than you know, Sandy thought. "He told me he was going to do it," Sandy said. "I thought he just hadn't gotten around to it."

"He must have had some sort of premonition of his death,"

Laddie said. "It was certainly unlike him to do anything precipitously on the spur of the moment."

"Yes, that's true," Sandy said. He was getting his heartbeat under control, now.

"What do you want to do?" Laddie asked. "I'm at your disposal."

"Laddie, I don't want your company," Sandy said. "Tell you what: Let's get your accountant together with my accountant; the two of them can choose a third man, and the group can evaluate the company. I'll pull the wine division out of the corporation, and I'll sell you my share of the liquor company for whatever the three men say it's worth. The company has no debt; you won't have any trouble raising the cash for a buyout. That way, each of us will remain his own boss."

"Done," Laddie said, slapping his palm onto the desk top.

Sandy stood. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'd like to take a walk."

"Of course."

The two men shook hands and parted.

Sandy walked up Park Avenue, the May sunshine in his face, the air unusually clear and crisp. He was his own man; he felt omnipotent. After a lifetime of toil for Jock Bailley, he had been paid off, and paid off well. He'd have been happy with just the wine division, but now, as Joan's heir, he'd have enough cash from Laddie's buyout to expand the business, open a West Coast branch, maybe even buy a small vineyard or two. He'd always wanted to grow wine, to have his own vineyard's output sold in his own shop. Now he was going to have everything he'd ever wanted, and more.

He walked all the way uptown to his apartment house. As he let himself in, he heard Angus on the phone. He walked into the kitchen.

"Hi," Angus said. "You weren't gone long."

"I didn't feel like working," Sandy replied. "Many calls?"

"A steady stream," Angus said, handing him a handful of slips. "And one wrong number. We don't have anybody named Bart living here, do we?"

"Who?"

"Some guy called and asked to speak to Bart."

Sandy's feeling of omnipotence vanished.

Sandy walked up Madison Avenue with a lighter heart. He had just left the headquarters of John Bailley amp; Son, where he had concluded the corporate separation of the wine division from the company and where he had sold his interest in the liquor division. He gazed idly into shop windows; for many years he had been able to walk into any establishment and buy nearly anything he wanted, but today he had a wholly new sense of wealth. He had a cashier's check in his pocket for twenty-eight million dollars.

What would he buy? A jet airplane for his coast-to-coast trips? Not his style. A Rolls-Royce? Nothing gaudy. A vineyard? Maybe; he would see. But none of those things offered the immediate gratification he sought. He reversed his course and walked down Fifth Avenue; soon he stood in front of Cartier jewelers. He had never owned much in the way of jewelry. He walked into the store and was greeted by a beautiful young woman.

"May I show you something, sir?" she asked, her voice slightly French-accented.

The accent reminded him of Duvivier, who had been very quiet for the past month, and he dismissed it from his mind. "I'd like to look at a wristwatch, please," he said.

"Of course; this way, please." She led him to a long glass case filled with watches.

Sandy examined half a dozen, then picked up a Panther watch, in eighteen-carat gold with a matching bracelet. "How much?" he asked.

"This model is fifteen thousand dollars," she said. "Plus sales tax, of course. We also have the Panther with diamonds." He shook his head. Nothing gaudy. "I'll take it," he said, and handed her his Platinum American Express card. He would get a frequent-flyer mile for every dollar charged to the card, and the little bonus pleased him.

The young woman slipped the watch onto his wrist, showed him how to work the hidden clasp, then disappeared with the instrument to have a link removed from the bracelet for a better fit.

Sandy wandered around the store, glancing at diamond necklaces and broaches in the cases. Nobody to celebrate with, he reflected. One of these days before long he would come in here and buy some bauble for a beautiful new woman. The saleswoman returned, and he considered her for a moment. She was certainly elegant looking, and under the expensive suit she wore was surely a nicely sculpted body. He fantasized how she would look, feel in bed. It was a pleasant thought, but no. No sales clerks. He could afford any woman, now, any woman at all. He signed the credit card receipt, then slipped on the new watch and handed her his Rolex. "Would you send this to my home, please?"

"Of course, Mr. Kinsolving, and thank you for shopping with Cartier. I hope to see you again soon." She folded her business card into the receipt and handed it to him.

Maybe, he thought, looking at her breasts; maybe for some spontaneous evening of good food and sex, if he began to feel randy He didn't feel randy, not yet. It would come, though; it always did.

"Thank you…" he glanced at her card, "Ms. Duval."

"Angelique," she said.

He gave her a little wave and left the shop. He had one more business call to make, but he wanted to feel the check in his pocket for a while longer. He strolled slowly up Fifth Avenue, enjoying the sunshine and the atmosphere. He looked at the faces of the people approaching him. Perhaps one in ten seemed nearly as happy as he on this fine day. The others seemed worried, hurried, and harassed. He took as long as possible to reach his next stop, a handsome stone building off Fifth Avenue in the Sixties, not far from his apartment house. He climbed the steps and was observed by a uniformed man on the other side of the heavy door of glass and wrought iron. After the briefest of examinations, the man opened the door and showed him in.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Yes, I'd like to open an account," Sandy replied. He was in a foyer with marble floors and walls. A pair of overstuffed sofas faced each other; excellent paintings hung on the walls.

"Did you have an appointment, sir?"

"No. My name is Alexander Kinsolving; you may say that your bank was recommended by Arthur Shields of Wayne and Shields, my accountants."

"Would you please take a seat, sir?"

"Thank you." Sandy sat on one of the sofas and glanced at his new watch: two minutes past the hour. Let's see how long this takes, he thought.

The guard spoke briefly on a telephone, then returned. "Mr. Samuel Warren will see you, sir; please follow me." He ignored the stairs and showed Sandy into a small elevator. "You'll be met at the top, sir," the guard said, pressing a button and stepping out of the car.

Sandy rose four floors and stepped out of the elevator to be met by a plump, middle-aged woman.

"Mr. Kinsolving? Will you follow me, please?" She led him to the end of the hall to double doors of mahogany and opened one for him. "Mr. Warren, Mr. Alexander Kinsolving."