"Oh? And who would that be?"
"Terrell duBois," she said.
"Holy Christ," Sandy said. Terrell duBois was the chairman of the wine division's principal competitor, duBois amp; Blanche. "Isn't Terrell married?"
"Yes, but that will come to an end in due course. Sandy, I would very much like all this to be as amiable as possible. You needn't move out of the apartment immediately-shall we say, the end of the month? I haven't told anybody about this, not even Laddie or Terrell, in any specific terms, and I think it would be in your best interests if we handled this calmly."
"In my best interests?"
"Laddie and I are inclined to be generous in the terms of your leaving the company, if you are cooperative. Should you decide to make a fuss, either over the divorce or over this alleged plan of Daddy's, then we will do only what is required of us by law. I hope I make myself clear."
"You certainly do," Sandy said.
"Please don't mention this to Angus just yet. Around the end of the month we'll formalize our arrangements, and Angus can be told then. I don't mind if you sniff around for another job between now and then. I'm sure you will find something suitable."
"You're planning to sell the wine division to duBois amp; Blanche, aren't you?"
"It crossed my mind. Laddie, as you know, has no interest in wine, and I can't see him paying some expert a lot of money and stock to run a division that has always been something of an embarrassment to him. He was very hurt when Daddy agreed to let you start a new division, you know."
"He never said anything but congratulations," Sandy said.
"Laddie always did hold in his emotions," Joan said. "By the way, although you will be, for all practical purposes, a free man at the end of the month, I do wish you to keep up appearances until that time."
"What sort of appearances?"
"Well, we do have some dinner invitations this month, and, you will recall, on Saturday night we have the Hamptons Hunt Ball, at the Waldorf. Since we are both on the board of the recipient charity, I think it would be proper to appear there. Do I have your agreement? Will you behave, just until the end of the month?"
"All right."
"Thank you, Sandy; I knew you would behave well about all this." She rose and left the room.
Sandy sat at the table, still stunned. He thought he had been prepared for the worst, but this went far beyond anything he had imagined. They were going to sell his wine division to Terrell duBois, and he was going to be on the street. True, he'd have a million or so in his pocket, from Jock's bequest and the sale of his stock, but that was a fraction of what he'd have had if Jock had lived to keep his commitment. Everything would be gone-his business, the London life, the grand apartment, the social status. He was out, and that was it.
He got to the park early, picked a bench and pretended to read his paper. He did not want to look despondent should he be seen by someone he knew. He sat there, running his situation over and over in his mind. He had made up his mind not to keep this appointment. He had been sure that, whatever happened between him and Joan, he could, somehow, make it right, or, at least, acceptable. Then he began to think about something else.
"Good afternoon," a voice said, and he jumped. "Don't look at me; just concentrate on your paper. We can hear each other very well."
Sandy resisted the temptation to turn and look at Peter Martindale. Instead, he folded his paper back to expose the crossword puzzle, took out his pen, and pretended to do it. Surreptitiously, he glanced around to see who might be within earshot. The park was by no means deserted, but the benches on either side of them were empty.
"You got here first," Peter said. "May I take that to mean that you are eager to get on with this?"
"You may," Sandy replied.
"You were pretty drunk on the airplane; do you remember what we discussed?"
"I do. We discussed removing the errors in Strangers on a Train."
"Yes, we did. Now we have to face what that means; it means that you and I are contemplating each committing a murder on a stranger. Do you think you can actually do that?"
"All I have to do is pretend she's my wife," Sandy said. "What about you? Can you pull this off?"
"Oh, yes," Peter said. "I can absolutely pull it off. I'll need your help, though, in planning it."
"And I yours," Sandy replied.
"Of course. All we have to do is pretend that we are murdering our own wives, then have the other step in and do it."
"That's about right, I'd say."
"Have you ever killed anyone, Sandy?"
"No, but I believe I can do it, especially if it's a stranger."
"We each have to do it without getting caught."
"Of course," Sandy replied. "That's understood. I don't believe either of us is interested in getting caught."
"Our best defense, even if suspected, is that we are completely unacquainted with our victims. And with each other. That last point is extremely important. We must never be seen in the same place again; we'll have to communicate through other means."
"What means?"
"I had in mind public telephones. You pick a couple of telephones in New York and memorize the numbers. I'll do the same in San Francisco. If either of us wants to contact the other, he calls from a public telephone, asks for, say, Bart, and is told by the other he has the wrong number. Two hours after the call, he goes to the appropriate pay telephone and waits to be called there. Mind you, even on public phones, we have to be circumspect. You can never tell when someone might accidentally be cross-connected."
"That sounds a good plan. Who goes first?"
"I don't think we need flip a coin," Peter said. "If you're ready to proceed, well, I'm already in New York. If you can plan something the next few days, I'll stay on and do the deed."
"How about Saturday night?"
"The day after tomorrow? Ideal, but what's the plan?"
"She and I are attending a charity ball that night. We've done this a hundred times, and it's always the same; we leave the apartment at eight and take the elevator to the ground floor of our building. She stays in the elevator, continuing to the basement, while I ask the doorman to get a cab for us."
"Why would she go to the basement?"
"Each apartment in the building has a storage room in the basement. I keep some out-of-season clothes and some wine in ours, and she keeps her furs there because it's cool, and her major jewelry is kept in a safe in the storeroom."
"It's always the same?"
"Always, for an event like this one. She won't need a fur at this time of year, of course, but she will certainly want her diamond necklace, and that's always kept in the safe. The insurance company insists, and we're not covered if it's stolen from the apartment."
"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."