And that was all. There wasn't another person in the world who could substantiate his story. Martindale could simply deny the whole proposition, laugh it off as the rantings of a madman, and Sandy could prove nothing. And he would still have Martindale to deal with.

The man was ahead of him all the way; he had known that Sandy would come around to thinking of killing him, instead of his wife, and he had taken precautions-or, at least, said he had taken precautions. It was a bluff that Sandy could not afford to call. Martindale had the upper hand all the way-he could incriminate Sandy, but Sandy could not touch him.

Suddenly, Sandy had lost his appetite. He passed up dessert and asked for his check. It was a ninety-minute drive back to his hotel, and he had a decision to make. He had to decide just what he was capable of.

On the way back, he stopped at a men's store in Napa and bought a lightweight, reversible raincoat, a tweed cap, and a pair of thin driving gloves.

Sandy picked at his room service dinner, washing small bites down with large swigs of Lars Larsen's cabernet sauvignon. He had always held his alcohol well, especially wine, so he didn't feel drunk. He was looking for a level of buzz that would make him reckless.

Not careless, however. A bottle of wine put him in a place where confidence was a given. He could say anything to anybody, take nearly any risk, meet any challenge on one bottle of red. Finally, he was there.

Sandy got into dark gray trousers, a black turtleneck cashmere sweater, and his blue blazer. As an afterthought, he took the bright red silk pocket square from the breast pocket and tossed it into his suitcase. Nothing distinctive, or memorable, to catch the eye of an unwelcome spectator. He stuffed a tweed cap into one pocket of the reversible raincoat and the driving gloves into the other, then he rolled the raincoat into a tight wad and tucked it under his arm. What else? If he'd had a false moustache he'd have worn that. Glasses. He rummaged into his briefcase and found an old pair of heavy, black-rimmed spectacles that he hadn't worn for years. He didn't much need glasses, except for reading in dim light. He slipped them on and regarded himself in the mirror. A sad but altered face stared back at him. He put the glasses into the breast pocket of the blazer and left his room.

On the street, he declined the offer of a taxi from the doorman and walked in the opposite direction from his last visit to the gallery. Moving quickly, he walked down the street, then turned two corners and doubled back toward the gallery. Half an hour later he had one more turn to make, one more block to go. He stepped into a doorway, unrolled the raincoat and put it on, plaid side out, then donned the tweed cap, the gloves and the glasses. His reflection in the shop window revealed a different man. Different than he had ever been.

He found himself short of breath. He stopped for a moment, took some deep breaths, and forced himself to continue at a slower pace. The streets were deserted.

He turned the last corner. In the middle of the block, where the gallery was, stood a little group of people, and one of them seemed floodlit. There were other lights, too; red and blue. He kept to the opposite side of the street and moved down the block. On the other side of the ambulance were two police vehicles, one a black and white, the other an unmarked car. Mesmerized, Sandy stopped across the street from the gallery and watched. Inside, a clutch of men stood talking, and there was the flash of a camera. The photographer was shooting down, at something behind the desk.

The television crew began moving toward the ambulance, and Sandy caught the eye of the cameraman. "What happened?" he asked.

"Lady got herself snuffed," the man said without slowing down. He positioned the camera at the rear of the ambulance, and after a moment, he was able to photograph a stretcher covered by a blanket as it was slid into the rear of the vehicle. Sandy started walking again, keeping it slow, not wanting to attract attention by seeming to hurry away. When he had gone a couple of blocks, he removed the raincoat, the cap and the gloves, wadded them up and stuffed them into a wastebasket. A find for one of the homeless. He put the glasses into his breast pocket again.

Back at the hotel, Sandy waited impatiently until the eleven o'clock news came on. The story did not run until just before the weather. Sandy recognized the reporter from the scene.

"Police are withholding the name of the victim pending notification of next of kin," he was saying. "All they will say at the moment is that a gun was used."

A police detective blinked into the bright light. "The victim was a Caucasian female in her late thirties," he said. "There was a single gunshot wound to the head."

"Will the position of that wound make identifying the body difficult?" the reporter asked.

"Probably not," the policeman answered. "We have identification materials from a handbag that had been emptied onto the floor. The perpetrator was probably looking for money; the desk had been rifled."

The reporter faced the camera again. "The owner of the gallery Peter Martindale, did not answer the phone at his residence, and his car was not in the garage. A neighbor said he believed that Mr. Martindale had gone to Los Angeles earlier in the day for a speaking engagement at a university there."

The weather report came on, and Sandy switched it off. What had happened? Had Martindale killed his wife in a fit of anger? Surely not, not when he was expecting Sandy to do it for him later that evening. This was baffling. Had Martindale contracted with more than one assassin, just to be sure? Made no sense at all. What the hell was going on?

The telephone rang. Sandy picked it up. "Hello?"

"It's Bart."

"Yes?"

"How was your evening?"

Sandy hesitated. "I think you must have the wrong number," he said.

"I was calling a pay phone," he said.

"This is not a pay phone; it's a hotel room."

"Will I find it necessary to call again?"

"I should think not," Sandy replied.

"All is well, then?"

"That depends on your point of view."

"Don't play games with me," he said.

"The game is over," Sandy replied, then hung up.

It was, he thought; it was over. And he was not a murderer.

Sandy walked out of the front door of the hotel into the bright sunshine, rested, fresh, and looking for his car.

"Mr. Kinsolving," the doorman said. "Your driver has just phoned in; he's had a flat on the freeway, and he looks to be a good half-hour late. Shall I phone for another car, or will you take the hotel car with our compliments?"

Sandy looked at the stretch limousine with the back door open. "That will do nicely," he said.

"I hope you won't mind sharing with another guest."

"Of course not."

The doorman put the luggage into the trunk, and Sandy climbed into the forward rear seat, just to have the experience of riding backward. A moment later a long female leg entered the car followed by a tall woman. She gathered herself into the rear seat and opened a New York Times.

Sandy looked her over quickly: mid-thirties, auburn hair to the shoulders, hazel eyes, good clothes. He thought of saying something, but she seemed purposefully absorbed in her Times.

Sandy, himself, was more interested in his San Francisco paper, which he had just bought in the hotel lobby. He flipped through the pages impatiently, looking for the story. It was on page three, and small; nothing much new from the earlier evening's television report, except that the police had disclosed that a cash box had been found in a wastebasket two streets away. Sandy hoped it wasn't the same basket in which he'd deposited his disguise. The gallery's owner still had not been located and thus not interviewed. The woman across from him finished the first section of her Times and placed it on the seat beside her.