"Very good, I like it," Peter replied. "How do I get into the basement?"

"I had extra keys made an hour ago," Sandy said. "One to the outside door, and one to the storage room. I'll pass them to you before we part company." He gave Peter the address of the building.

"That's up near the Metropolitan Museum, isn't it?"

"Right. On the side street, there's a flight of stairs leading down to the basement door. A black, wrought-iron railing conceals the stairs from the street. Every evening around six, the janitor brings out the trash from the building and stacks it in the gutter nearby. Often, he doesn't close the door properly, so you may not even need the key. He's always finished by six-thirty, because he wants to get home for dinner. Watch the stairs for him and the block for foot traffic; sometime between six-thirty and seven-thirty, let yourself into the building. Our storage room is the one nearest the door, on the right. Let yourself into the storage room and wait there for her. I'll leave the rest to you, but when it's done, don't linger; get the hell out of there, and don't let yourself be seen on the street. That's all there is to it."

"Let me see," Peter said, and he went over the whole thing aloud again. "Why would the janitor be putting out rubbish on a ' Saturday night? Surely the city doesn't collect on a Saturday."

"We have a private service, and they pick up seven days a week. The basement doesn't have enough room to store the trash for more than twenty-four hours."

"Good. Do you want me to get the keys back to you?"

"No, dispose of them immediately in a way that they can't possibly be found. They could tie you and me to the event."

"Of course. How about San Francisco Bay?"

"How about the East River? Don't hang on to them a minute longer than you need to. And be sure you don't leave any trace of yourself-fingerprints, fibers, anything."

"Right. When I'm back in San Francisco, should I call you at your office to leave the phone numbers?"

"I won't be going to the office. Call the apartment." He gave Peter the number, and then told him to call only if it was absolutely necessary. "And don't say anything unless I answer. Ask for Bart, then recite the number twice. When I come to San Francisco to keep my part of the bargain, I'll do the same. It would be better if we didn't talk at all again until I come out there."

"I think you're right about that," Peter said. "But I want you to call me on Saturday afternoon at the Pierre and confirm our arrangements. If it's a go, just say, 'This is Bart, everything is fine'; if not, say 'This is Bart, everything is off,' then hang up. If I shouldn't be in at that moment, leave the same message with the operator. The Pierre is very good about messages."

"All right," Sandy said. "Anything else?"

"I think it would be good if we considered the worst. Suppose one of us is caught or suspected."

"I won't implicate you," Sandy said. "If I'm caught, it'll be my own fault. It wouldn't go any easier for me if I incriminated you, and vice versa."

"I agree," Peter said. "I wish we could shake hands on it, but I think we'd better just leave. You go first, and leave the keys on the bench."

"Right; good-bye and good luck."

"Same to you."

Sandy eased the keys from his pocket, wiped them carefully on his coattail, and set them on the bench. He got up and walked away, tossing his newspaper into a waste bin. At the corner, he looked back. The bench was empty.

Sandy left the park feeling as though he had just performed some daredevil stunt, and lived. He walked slowly up Fifth Avenue toward his apartment building, taking deep breaths, his heart pumping furiously.

Joan deserved this for treating him as she had; she thought she could walk away from the marriage with his business in her pocket, probably to sell it to Terrell duBois, and that that would put a dagger through his heart, retribution for his unfaithfulness. But who was responsible for his being unfaithful for all these years? Who but Joan? She had been loving, then after Angus was born, she became cool, then icy, then simply rock hard. His role in her life was to escort her to social events, a role he would play for the last time on Saturday evening.

By the time he reached the building his heart had returned to its normal rate after a walk, and his breathing was steady. He greeted the doorman and the lobby man and took the elevator to his apartment. It was Joan's, of course, but soon it would be his.

For two more days Sandy held his secret in his heart, feeling no doubt, anticipating the event. He felt this way until the moment he heard his son's voice on the telephone.

"Hi, Dad, I've got a day off, believe it or not." It was Saturday, the morning of the big day. "How about some tennis?"

"Sounds good," Sandy said automatically. "Meet me at the Racquet Club as soon as you can get there; I'll ring for a court, and we can have some lunch afterward."

"I'm on my way."

The voice had introduced a note of complexity to his feelings, and when he saw his son, standing in the lobby of the venerable club on Park Avenue, things got worse. Angus was taller than he, like his grandfather, and with Jock's prominent nose and receding hair. The strange science of genetics had skipped a generation, bypassing Sandy completely. For the first time Sandy thought of old Jock and what he would think of all this. Jock, the strict moralist, in his way, would be ashamed of him, he knew. They hugged and headed for the elevators.

Sandy had given up squash after Angus had read in a medical journal of the deaths of a large number of fit, middle-aged men on squash courts who were unable to tolerate the wild bursts of cardiorespiratory action required by the frequent spurts of activity during squash. He had taken up tennis again, after an absence of fifteen years from the sport, and he enjoyed playing with his son, who, although younger, was less crafty on the court. The two were, therefore, about evenly matched.

They changed in the locker room and walked out onto the court. The club was not crowded on a Saturday in May, the members mostly being at their country homes on Long Island or in Connecticut, and they had not had to wait for a court.

Sandy parried his son's power game with lots of spin, drop shots, and wily ball placement, and their match was close, but Angus took him in two straight sets. Two was enough for Sandy; some of his energy had gone elsewhere.

They sat in the grill and ate unhealthy bacon cheeseburgers, washed down with Dutch beer, and Sandy mostly listened. Angus was excited about the approaching end of his residency the following month.

"I'm thinking about establishing a practice of my own right away," he said.

"Wouldn't it be wiser to get some more experience with an established doctor?" Sandy asked.

"Ordinarily, yes. But I'm thinking about a new kind of cardiology, one that starts with a group of patients my own age and concentrates on fitness and diet. I'd rather keep well people healthy than treat sick ones," he said.

"How will you attract your first patients?" Sandy asked, interested.

"I'll advertise in the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. Doctors can advertise, now, you know, and my generation is a lot more fitness-oriented than yours. My inheritance will make it possible for me to find good office space and fund the ad campaign right away, without waiting. Mom and Uncle Laddie are my trustees, and I'm sure they'll go along with the plan."

"I'm sure they will."

Angus suddenly looked embarrassed. "Dad, I'm sorry about the will; I don't know why Granddad treated you the way he did, after all your years with him."