"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."

"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."