"She's very attractive."

"Of course. Did you think I'd marry some scrubber? She's the perfect picture of the well-born California girl." Martindale leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Down to business, now: The street is deserted after ten, as I'm sure you noticed last evening. Greet Helena, chat with her; look at the Constable. Then, wander over to the little Turner on the back wall. That will put you within a couple of feet of the desk; there's a loaded pistol in the top right-hand drawer. Have a look out the front windows to make sure the coast is clear, then take the pistol and use it." He pointed at his heart. "One here." He pointed at his forehead. "Then, one here, just to be thorough. I hope I don't have to remind you to wear gloves? We don't want any residue on your hands, do we?"

"I suppose not."

"Then, before you go, mess her up a bit-rip her knickers off, that sort of thing; stick the pistol up her cunt, if you're really into it. The money box is in the top left-hand drawer; leave the checks, but take the cash-have dinner on me! Leave the gun there-it's registered to me-and go out the back door. It opens onto an alley that runs into the street around the corner. Walk slowly, do some window shopping, don't get rid of the gloves until you're well away from the premises." He reached out and put a hand on Sandy's knee. "And then, old cock, you're a free man-very free and very rich. Go back to New York, live your life, enjoy! You and I won't see each other again."

Sandy reached out and put his hand on top of Martindale's. "Make very sure of that, Peter, because once she's dead, if I ever hear from you again I'll make it my business to kill you. Do you understand me?"

"Of course, dear chap," Martindale said, getting to his feet. "I'm surprised you hadn't thought of that before now; I certainly was ready for you to try. But you see, I knew you'd realize that you might as well kill Helena as me. Much safer, and you'd have my help."

"Let's get out of here," Sandy said.

"One more thing: In the event that you're still thinking about trying to kill me, you should know that I've handwritten an account of our little arrangement, complete with gory details, and had my signature notarized. That document, along with the keys to your basement and storeroom, are in an envelope in my lawyer's safe, and written upon the envelope is an instruction to open it in the event of my death. Once Helena is out of the picture, I'll retrieve the envelope and give it to you for disposal."

"Let's get out of here," Sandy repeated.

"You've got it all, then?"

"All of it."

"Good. You go back the way you came." He glanced at his watch. "The group should be back where they started in a couple of minutes; I'll catch them up from behind. You first."

Sandy left the cell and walked back toward the tour's starting point. He gazed up at the tiers of cells around him; his steps echoed around the abandoned prison. Truly, he thought, this would be hell on earth. He resolved not to end up in a place like this. Shortly, the group appeared from around a corner, and he joined the rear of the crowd and worked his way up to the middle. As he boarded the boat for the trip back he saw Martindale get on.

On the trip back, the sun came out.

Sandy stood in the dusty soil of a Napa Valley vineyard and listened to Mario Scotti, its owner, extoll the virtues of his latest vintage.

"I tell you, Sandy, it is the best I have ever made!" Mario was saying.

Mario said this every year, of course, in his slightly accented English. He had been born in Tuscany and had come to California as a child, but he had never entirely lost his accent. Sandy bought Mario's wines each year, and in increasing quantities, but this year he had come for advice, as well. "Mario, I will increase last year's order by twenty percent if you will find me a vineyard to buy." Sandy knew that if there was a vineyard in Napa to be bought, Mario would know about it, and he was not disappointed.

"Larsen," Mario said.

"Lars Larsen?"

"What would a Swede know about wine? Vodka, maybe, but not wine."

Sandy knew the property: it was a few miles south, well located, pretty. "Why does Larsen want to sell?"

"The same as anybody else; he's spent all his money. The difference is, Larsen has spent it replanting with phyloxera-resistant vines."

The phyloxera parasite, scourge of European vineyards, had come to California, and every vineyard was faced with the huge costs of planting and maturing new vines that would resist the pest.

"What's his equipment like?"

"Beautiful. The man is obsessive about having the best this, the best that; always has been. Larsen was never one to make do the way I have to."

"I've drunk a bottle here and there, and it was good."

"He makes a pretty good cabernet and a pretty good merlot. Larsen is a technician; I think he believes that if he could reduce the best wine to a chemical formula, that he could duplicate it endlessly, like ink. He has a good, young winemaker over there; an artist, if he wasn't working for a chemist."

"You know how much he wants?"

"I can find out."

"Find out."

Sandy sat in the walled garden of the restaurant, Tre Vigne, and sipped the Larsen cabernet. Larsen sat across the table from him, watching for his reaction.

"Very nice," Sandy said.

Larsen's face fell. "That's all? Very nice?"

"It's excellent," Sandy admitted.

"It's superb," Larsen said. "You won't get my price down by bad-mouthing my wines."

Sandy shrugged. "So why isn't the merlot living up to its potential?" He knew he had struck home by Larsen's expression.

"So, I haven't been making it as long," Larsen said grudgingly.

"Tell you what I want to see, Lars-the books, the machinery, the figures on replanting, the lot. I want you to put a package together and send it to my bankers in New York." He wrote down Sam Warren's name and address. "And in a couple of weeks I'll get back to you. If we like what we see, we'll make you a substantial offer-I'm not out to steal you blind, I just don't want to pay a dime too much."

"I guess I can live with that," Larsen said. "I'll introduce your banker to my lawyer; we'll see what happens. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and labor in my vineyard." Larsen shook hands and left.

When Sandy was sure he had left the restaurant, he whipped out his portable phone and called Sam Warren.

"How are you, Sandy?" Warren asked.

"I'm wonderful, Sam; I've found a property in Napa, and it's a gem."

"So soon?"

"My contacts are good." He told Sam about Mario Scotti.

"So why doesn't Scotti buy it himself?"

"For the same reason nobody else around here can afford it at the moment-they're all investing heavily in replanting. I've asked Larsen to send you a complete package on the place, and I'd like you and your people to go over it as soon as possible."

"Of course. We'll research what other Napa and Sonoma properties have brought recently, too, and if you can get us the package quickly, we'll have a ballpark figure for you within a few days."

"That's what I wanted to hear," Sandy said. "Scotti could be of help to you in setting a price. Talk to you next week." He hung up and addressed the remains of his pasta; he could not believe his good fortune in locating such a good property so quickly. He looked up at the trees shading the garden and at the blue sky beyond. That particular bit of sky was the roof over one of the world's premier wine-growing regions, and soon he would own a piece of it-his life-long dream.

Then he remembered what he had agreed to do that night, and it was as if the sun had left the sky. He forced himself to consider going to the police. He could call Duvivier right now, from his table, and spill the whole story. After all, the concierge at the Pierre would back him up on the message he had given to Martindale.