"Pay attention," Martindale said. "Right, then left, then down a level, making a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, then left again. Please note the elevators on your right."

"Why are we here, Peter?"

"Patience, Sandy, patience. Now, watch." Martindale stopped at a barrier, took a plastic card from his pocket and inserted it into a box mounted on a steel post. The barrier rose, and Martindale drove into a separate parking lot and pulled into a parking space. "A carpark within a carpark, you see," he said, "reserved for members of the law firm, Winthrop and Keyes, and their clients. It rises automatically when a car departs."

"I see," Sandy said. "Why do I care?"

"One more thing to note," Martindale said, "and then I'll tell you. Look over there." He pointed.

"The telephone booth?" Sandy said.

"Correct; the firm has generously supplied an old-fashioned telephone booth for the convenience of its people. You don't see actual telephone booths much any more."

"What of it?"

"It's very conveniently located. Tomorrow afternoon at two-thirty, Sandy, my wife will attend a deposition at Winthrop and Keyes. Helena has, you see, filed for divorce. She will arrive on time-she always arrives on time-in a red Mercedes 500SL convertible, a shiny new one, bought for her with my hard-earned money. The car wears a vanity license plate-DEALER, it says. She will stop at the entrance to the private carpark, give her name to the receptionist upstairs, be admitted, and park her car. She will proceed to the elevators, ride upstairs, and give her sworn testimony. When she is finished, probably in less than an hour, she will return to her car and drive away. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"But she will not drive away, for you will be waiting in the telephone booth I have just shown you. You will arrive here between two forty-five and three o'clock. If you leave the door of the booth ajar, the light inside will not go on; if someone other than Helena comes along, you will be talking on the telephone; if someone seems to be waiting for the telephone, you call out that you will be a long while on the phone, and he will go away. You will see Helena as she enters her car. You will check to see that no one is about, then you will leave the telephone booth. Here, take this." He handed something wrapped in a handkerchief over the seat to Sandy.

Sandy took it and unwrapped the handkerchief. It was a short-barreled pistol, and Sandy had been to enough movies to know that the extension of the barrel was a silencer. "Where on earth did you get this?" he demanded. "It's illegal, isn't it?"

Martindale laughed. "Sandy, really; it's not necessary or advisable for you to know. Of course, it's illegal," Martindale said. "It's a thirty-eight; two in the head should do it. Take her handbag, keep any cash, then dump the bag in the waste receptacle over there," he said, pointing to a trash can, "where it will surely be found, thus establishing a motive of robbery." Martindale handed a key to Sandy. "Then, get into this car, which will be parked here, put on the cap and dark glasses and drive out of the lot. Drive slowly, cautiously. Drive the car to my gallery. There is a carpark across the street; park it there, leave the key in the glove box, and lock the car with the button on the door handle, here." He pointed to his left, then he looked back and smiled broadly at Sandy. "Then go and sin no more."

"Where will you be?" Sandy asked.

"In Tucson, where I will have gone to an opening of an artist I represent. I will take part in the deposition by telephone, then attend the opening, thus establishing, beyond doubt, my presence in another city."

Sandy was silent.

"Is this simple enough for you, Sandy?"

"How will I know it's your wife?" Sandy asked. "Last time, I thought the other woman was Helena."

"By her bright blonde hair," Martindale said, "and by the car, which I have described."

"The other woman had bright blonde hair," Sandy said.

"The other woman is, tragically, dead," Martindale replied. "Incidentally, don't touch the gun for any reason; wear gloves and some sort of coat when you fire it, and discard both as soon as possible. Certain residues are left on clothing when a gun is fired."

"I see," Sandy said.

"Is everything perfectly clear?" Martindale asked.

"Yes."

"Repeat your instructions as I've told you."

Sandy repeated what he was to do.

"Perfect. You really are a quick study, Sandy."

"And when this is done, Peter, it's over."

"Absolutely. When it's done, you and I will never again see each other, or even speak. Unless, of course, we happen to be seated next to each other on an airplane." He chuckled.

"Make sure that never happens," Sandy said.

"Don't worry, I will. Now, Sandy, I want you to get out of the car, take the elevator up to the lobby, and leave the building. You can get a cab back to the Ritz-Carlton; I have business upstairs."

Sandy rewrapped the pistol and put it into his coat pocket. He got out of the car and left Martindale sitting there.

Back on the street, he decided to walk to the Ritz-Carlton. The weight of the gun in his pocket was a constant distraction. When he reached his room he put the pistol in a drawer, under his underwear, then sat for a long time, staring out the window at the San Francisco skyline, wondering how he had come to this.

When Sandy woke the following morning, he found that a fax had been slid under his door; he opened it and read the message from Sam Warren, that he and Mike Bernini's lawyer had concluded negotiations on a contract and that Larsen had come down to nine million even on his selling price for the vineyard. He telephoned Warren.

"Hello, Sandy," the lawyer said. "I trust you got my fax."

"I did, Sam, and I'm delighted," Sandy replied. "I know you recommended eight million eight as a maximum price, but I'm inclined to give Larsen the nine million. What do you think?"

"I think you're right; it's not worth quibbling about such a small percentage of the purchase price. What I'll do is agree to the price, but insist on a purchase of assets, instead of the corporate stock. They've been resisting that, but I think we're buying that sort of freedom from previous liability with the extra two hundred thousand."

"Sounds good. When do you think we can close?"

"It'll take a few weeks; we have to do our own inventory of the stock and take a few other precautions, but we'll get a sales agreement signed almost immediately, I should think. Are you happy with the deal I worked out with Bernini's lawyer?"

"Extremely. I think he'll be worth every penny. I thought I might take him to lunch today and celebrate."

"Let me call Larsen's lawyer and get the final agreement first," Sam said. "He should be in his office in another half hour."

"Call me back, then," Sandy said. He hung up and ordered breakfast, but when it came, he wasn't as hungry as he had thought. His elation over being so near agreement with Larsen was mixed with a deep dread of what the day held, and he left half the ham and eggs on the plate.

Warren called back inside an hour. "They've agreed," he crowed. "The deal's done. I'm faxing him documents, and Larsen will sign today and fax them back, then they'll FedEx the originals, and we'll have them by Monday. I'll have copies hand delivered to your lawyer."

"Thank you so much, Sam, for handling all this so expeditiously," Sandy said.

"It's what we do," Warren replied, then said good-bye and hung up.

Sandy called his office in New York and got his secretary on the line. "There's a case of Lafite Rothschild nineteen forty-five in the number one cellar," he said. "Please send a stockman down for it, then put a big red ribbon on it and send it directly over to Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust."