Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 4

They sat down to lunch at one o'clock. When the food had been served the servants left the room and the family was alone. They ate nearly silently, and when the dishes had been cleared and coffee served, Laddie, who sat at the head of the table, in Sandy's usual place, took a document from his pocket.

"Father left explicit instructions," he said. "They're brief; I'll read them to you: 'I wish my body to be cremated as soon as possible after my death and my ashes to be buried in my family's plot in Aberdeen, Scotland, without ceremony. If my family and friends wish to hold a memorial service at a later date, they may do so. All my other intentions have been outlined in my will, which is in my office safe, and a copy of which has been deposited with my attorney.' It's signed and dated January first of last year."

Laddie laid the document on the table. "I have already given the funeral directors their instructions. The ashes will remain with them until I can get away to take them to Aberdeen. I'll try to do it next week.

"I went to the office this morning, and in the presence of Father's secretary and two other employees, opened his safe and removed the will." He removed another document from his pocket and laid it on the table. "I don't know that we need a formal reading, as its instructions are very simple. There are approximately a million and a half dollars in bequests to servants and charities. Apart from that, there is a bequest to Angus of five million dollars, in trust until his thirtieth birthday, and one to Sandy of half a million dollars, to be paid outright. He left the company to Joan and me in equal shares. I am his executor. I will set up your trust as soon as possible, Angus, and I'll disburse your bequest as soon as the will has been probated, Sandy. Does anyone have any questions?"

Everyone was silent.

"The will is here, if anyone wishes to read it," Laddie said. With that, he rose. "If you'll excuse me, I think I should get back to the office to begin overseeing the necessary changes there." He nodded to them all and left, his wife on his arm.

Angus rose and kissed his mother on the cheek. "If you'll excuse me, Mother, Dad, I have to be back at the hospital." He left Sandy and Joan sitting at the table.

Joan spoke first. "I expect this must come as something of a shock to you, Sandy."

"What?" Sandy said, popping out of a daze.

"The will, and the bequest to you."

"Well, it wasn't what he had intended to do as recently as last week," he replied.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that he called me into his office and said that he was grateful to me for my loyalty to him and the company, and that he intended to leave me the wine division. He said he would be making a new will shortly."

"Did anyone else overhear this conversation?" Joan asked.

"No, but he said he would tell Laddie about it. And, of course, his lawyer."

"Laddie has said nothing of this, and when I spoke to the lawyer this morning, he made no mention of it, either. Not that it matters, of course. That document there," she pointed at the will, "is his last and very legal testament."

Sandy folded his napkin and placed it on the table. "I'd better get down to the office and help Laddie." He started to rise.

"I don't think that will be necessary, Sandy," Joan said.

Sandy sat down again. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Laddie and I talked this morning. We feel that you should leave the company with immediate effect."

"What?"

"We both feel that it would be best if Laddie managed the company alone. I'll be joining the board. We'll buy your three percent of the company at book value, or you can keep the stock and collect dividends, if you wish. We would prefer to buy you out and keep all the stock in the family."

"Am I no longer in the family?" he asked, as calmly as he could manage.

"Sandy, our marriage has been an empty one for both of us for years; it's my very strong feeling that we should end it as soon as possible."

"And how long have you been planning this, Joan?" he asked.

"It's been on my mind for some time. I'm sure it's crossed yours, as well. I've been seeing someone else for some months."

"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."

"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.