Warren came from behind his desk and extended his hand. "How do you do?" he asked. "I'm Sam Warren; please call me Sam. It's Sandy, isn't it?"

"That's right," Sandy replied shaking the man's hand. "I didn't know you were expecting me."

"I wasn't, exactly, but Arthur Shields rang today and said I might be hearing from you. I'm glad it was sooner than later." Warren waved him to a comfortable sofa and sat down beside him. "Would you like some coffee or tea?"

"Tea would be nice," Sandy replied.

Warren nodded to the woman, who still stood at the door, and she disappeared. The two men chatted idly until she returned with a silver tea service, then Warren poured for them both. "Now, Sandy," he said, "how can I be of service?"

"Are you acquainted with John Bailley and Son?" Sandy asked.

"Of course. Fine people, I hear."

"I've just acquired the wine division of the company, which I started some years ago, and some cash for my interest in the liquor division. I've always banked at Morgan Guarantee, the company's bank, but now that Jock Bailley is gone, and since my wife recently passed away, I feel that it's better to reestablish elsewhere. Your bank comes highly recommended by Arthur Shields."

"That's very flattering," Warren said. "Let me tell you a little about Mayfair Trust: we're private, of course-very private; we're based in London, with branches in a dozen cities around the world, and we offer a range of services that are as personal as our clients wish them to be-investments, mergers and acquisitions, money management, practically anything you might require. We have a few customers who simply deposit funds with us and deal with their affairs themselves, but nearly all of our clients ask for a more complete service."

"That is what I had in mind," Sandy said. "I've always operated the wine division as a subsidiary of the larger company, but now I'm independent, and I will need a lot of advice."

"Do you have expansion plans?" Warren asked.

"I already have a London company, and I was thinking of a specialist West Coast branch, dealing primarily in California wines."

The two men talked for more than an hour, and Sandy was impressed with Warren's immediate comprehension of what he wanted to do, and with the off-the-cuff suggestions he made.

Finally, when they seemed finished with their discussion, Warren asked, "Shall I open both personal and business accounts for you, then?"

"Yes, please." Sandy took the cashier's check from his pocket and handed it to Warren.

Warren looked at it and chuckled. "And how long have you had this in your possession?"

"A couple of hours, I suppose."

Warren rolled his eyes. "Oh, dear, the earnings we've already lost! We must put this to work immediately!"

"I'd like a quarter of a million in my personal checking account and two million available for working capital. What would you suggest doing with the balance?"

"Well, I think we should keep you pretty liquid, since you're going to be expanding, and God knows, interest rates are way down at the moment. We have a short-term lending program for periods as brief as a weekend-department stores, race tracks, other businesses that need substantial cash on hand to do business. That brings in much higher rates than are available to the ordinary bank depositor at our competitors, and it's low-risk. I'll have a talk with some of our other people here, and we'll have a few other ideas ready for you, say, tomorrow?"

"Sounds good," Sandy said, turning over the check and endorsing it. "I'll have Arthur send over the corporate resolutions for the business account."

Warren went to his desk and came back with some forms. "We'll need your signature, of course, but don't worry about the rest of the information; we'll deal with that as we need to."

The door opened and the secretary entered. She handed Warren a small folder; he thanked her and handed it to Sandy. "Your checkbook," he said. "Temporary, of course; we'll order something to your specifications."

Sandy took the checkbook and examined it; it was made of black alligator, and the checks inside didn't look temporary; his name and address were elegantly printed on them. He stood to go, and Warren stood with him. The two men strolled toward the office door.

"Sandy, among our many other services we offer advice on large purchases-airplanes, yachts, real estate. Should you feel inclined to purchase any of those or almost anything else, please let me know. We can sometimes effect large savings. In general, if you want something done and don't know who to call, call me." He handed Sandy a card. "My home number's there, too; I'm at your disposal day or night."

"Sam, it's going to be a pleasure doing business with you."

Sandy entered his Madison Avenue shop with a fresh sense of proprietorship. He greeted his employees and took the stairs to his second-floor office overlooking the street. His secretary handed him a number of telephone messages, and the first one read: Call Bart at 4.00 p.m. eastern time. A number preceded by the San Francisco area code followed. Sandy ground his teeth. There was no avoiding this, he supposed; best to get it over with.

At a quarter to four he left his desk, asked his cashier for some quarters and left the shop. He walked over to Lexington Avenue and found a pay phone. At four o'clock sharp he dialed the number and fed in a handful of quarters.

"Well," Peter Martindale's voice said immediately on being connected. "Nice to hear from you; I said I'd wait a month."

"You didn't," Sandy said. "You called my home."

"Sorry about that," Martindale said. "I thought it best to inject a note of reality early on. By the way, congratulations on your business transaction; I read about it in the Wall Street Journal this morning. I expect my little contribution improved your position."

"I specifically asked you not to do it; I changed my mind, and I left the required message, as specified by you."

"Sorry, old fellow, didn't get the message in time," Martindale drawled.

"That's a bald-faced lie," Sandy said; he was trembling with anger. "The concierge told me that he handed it to you personally."

"A little white lie," Martindale admitted. "I thought it best to proceed as planned. Now it's time for your part of our deal."

"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.