by Stuart Woods
"I see. Thank you very much indeed," Sandy said. He hung up the phone feeling elated. He had been afraid of some slip-up, of Peter's somehow not getting the message.
"Are you ready, Sandy?"
Sandy looked up, surprised. Joan was ready on the stroke of eight o'clock.
"Yes, let's go down. Albert is collecting us first, and we'll pick up Laddie and Betty on the way to the Waldorf."
"Fine," she said.
In the elevator she was quiet, primping in the mirror, making tiny adjustments to her clothing and makeup. The elevator stopped at the main floor.
"I'll go down with you," Sandy said suddenly.
"That's not necessary, Sandy."
"Well, it's dark down there, and you know that outside door doesn't always close the way it should."
"You're very solicitous this evening," she said.
"Just part of the service." He managed a smile.
The old elevator door took some time to close, and as it began to, Albert, Jock's longtime servant and driver, stopped it. "Excuse me, Mr. Kinsolving," he said, "but Mr. Laddie is on the car phone for you."
"He probably thinks we'll be late," Joan said. "You'd better reassure him."
"All right," Sandy said, stepping out of the car. Then he had a thought. "Albert, will you go down to the basement with Mrs. Kinsolving? I'd rather she didn't go alone."
"Really, Sandy, I've done it a thousand times," Joan said irritably.
Sandy took Albert by the elbow and guided him into the elevator. "I'll wait for you in the car," he said. Joan glared at the ceiling. Sandy strode through the lobby and got into the back seat of the old Cadillac. It was an old-fashioned limousine, with jump seats, not the contemporary stretched job that took up half a block. He picked up the phone. "Laddie?"
"Yes, Sandy. I tried the apartment, but you were gone. I take it you're on time?"
"Yes, we are; we should be there in under ten minutes; Joan's just getting her jewelry from downstairs."
"Well, I'm glad I caught you. Betty is unwell; she's dressed and everything, but she's just tossed her cookies into a flower pot, and she's a distinct shade of green. Will you forgive us?"
"Of course, Laddie; tell Betty I hope she feels better soon. Get some Pepto-Bismol into her."
"Right," Laddie said. "See you later." He hung up.
Sandy replaced the phone on its cradle, and remembered what a hard time he had had getting Jock to install the thing. Once he had had it, though, he had begun terrorizing the office the moment he left home, and he started again the moment he drove away from the office. The staff had talked of sabotaging the car phone.
Sandy glanced at his watch: ten past eight. He looked out the open door of the car and into the building: No sign of Joan and Albert. He rested his head against the back of the seat and thought. Monday, he'd see a lawyer, then ask for a meeting with Laddie, to give him the opportunity of doing the right thing. He hoped there'd be no necessity for a lawsuit.
"Mr. Kinsolving?"
Sandy jumped. Barton, the doorman, stood at the open car door. "Yes, Barton?"
"Sorry, sir, I've just come off my break, and I saw you in the car. Can I get you anything?"
"No, thank you, Barton, but could you have a look in the basement and see what's keeping Mrs. Kinsolving and Albert? I'm deep in thought, here."
"Of course, Mr. Kinsolving." Barton disappeared.
Sandy returned to his reverie. If Laddie didn't make a better offer, perhaps he'd entertain a sale, at the right price, of course. He couldn't see Laddie paying a new executive a high salary to come in and run the division; neither could he see Laddie wanting to do it himself. Sandy closed his eyes.
"Mr. Kinsolving!" Barton's voice was urgent.
"Yes, Barton?"
"You'd better come with me, sir," Barton said. "I don't know what's happened."
"What?" Sandy asked, confused, but Barton was already headed back inside.
Sandy snapped back to reality and got out of the car. She's having trouble with the lock, he thought; that's happened before. But his heart was beating fast. He saw Barton whisper something to the lobby man, Jimmy, and Jimmy picked up the telephone. The elevator was waiting.
The doors closed and the old elevator crept downward. "What's wrong?" Sandy asked.
"I think it would be better if you saw for yourself, sir," Barton said.
Sandy led the way from the elevator. He turned a corner of the corridor and strode toward the storage room. The basement was lit by twenty-five-watt bulbs to save the building electricity, and Sandy could see ahead only dimly. Then, as he approached the storage room, he saw something blocking the corridor, something like a laundry bag. A few steps more and Sandy could see that Albert was lying across the hallway, his cap several feet away. He knelt beside the elderly man.
"Albert!" he said. "Can you hear me?"
Albert moaned and opened his eyes.
Then Sandy noticed that one side of his head was a dark color, and something was seeping down the servant's neck.
"Good God!" Sandy breathed. "Barton, call an ambulance!"
"I've already asked Jimmy to do that, sir," Barton replied.
Sandy reached for Albert's cap, then lifted the old man's head and let it down gently onto the cap. "Come with me," he said to Barton. He moved on down the hallway more gingerly, afraid of what he was going to find. The door to the storeroom stood ajar, but no light came from inside. Sandy reached into the room for the light switch, then flipped it on.
Joan lay on her back, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Her arms were askew, and her mouth was open. There were dark bruises on her throat. Across the room, the door to the old safe was open.
"Joan!" Sandy cried, moving to her side and slipping his hand under her head. He withdrew it quickly, and it came away bloody.
"Is she all right, sir?" Barton asked from behind her.
Sandy looked for a pulse at her wrist, then at her throat. "No, Barton," he said. "I don't think she's all right."
CHAPTER 7
Sandy sat in the lobby anteroom, a small, comfortably furnished lounge where those who had not been admitted to the apartments above could wait to be dealt with at the convenience of the building's occupants. He pulled his bow tie undone and leaned his head against the back of the leather couch, sighing deeply. He was alone in the anteroom, but a uniformed police officer stood just outside-protecting him or preventing him from leaving?
Had he done everything he could to prevent this? He had thought so, but he had been wrong, of course. Through my actions, he thought, I have caused the death of a human being. My wife is dead because of me. If I had just this one day to live over, he thought. No, this one week. I could change everything. No scotch on the airplane; no meeting with Martindale in the park; no trusting a concierge to deliver a message. But now it was too late; he was helpless to change anything.
"Mr. Kinsolving?" a deep voice asked.
Sandy jerked back to the present. A tall, neatly dressed, black man stood beside the sofa; a shorter, balder, red-faced white man stood slightly behind him.
"Yes?" Sandy managed.
"I am Detective Alain Duvivier," the black man said.
"How do you do?" Sandy said. This was very odd; Duvivier had some sort of accent. "You're a New York City policeman?"
Duvivier smiled slightly. "I was born in Haiti," he said, "but I have been an American citizen for more than twenty years, and a New York City policeman for nearly as long."
"I see," Sandy said.
Duvivier indicated the man behind him. "This is Detective Leary," he said. "He is probably more what you expected."
"I didn't mean-"
"I understand," Duvivier said kindly. "I wonder if we might go to your apartment and talk there?"
"Of course," Sandy said, getting to his feet. He led the detectives to the elevator and pressed a button. The old car rose slowly. "I'm sorry, but it's an old elevator. We manage to keep it running."
Duvivier nodded
.
At the eighteenth floor Sandy led them into his apartment, to his study, and offered them chairs, then took one himself.
"Mr. Kinsolving, are you quite all right?" Duvivier asked. "Would you like me to get you someone? A doctor? A relative?"
"I'm all right," Sandy replied. "I'm just… I don't know, stunned, I guess."
"That's quite understandable," Duvivier said. "Do you think you are up to answering some questions?"
"I think so."
"Please let me know if you grow tired and want to stop. Can I get you a drink of water?"
"No, no; I should be offering you something," Sandy said.
"Thank you, that's not necessary. May we begin?"
"Yes. What would you like to know?"
"Can you please tell me everything that happened this evening? Take your time, and be as thorough as you can."
"We were going out to a charity ball at the Waldorf Hotel," Sandy said. "We left the apartment shortly after eight and took the elevator downstairs. I got off in the lobby, and Joan-my wife- continued to the basement."
"Had you done this before? Allowed her to go to the basement alone, I mean."
"Nearly always," Sandy said. "We have a storage room in the basement, and Joan's furs and her best jewelry are kept there-the jewelry in a safe. Usually, if we're going to something dressy, Joan will go down to retrieve what she needs for the evening, while I ask the doorman to get us a cab."
"But you didn't need a cab this evening, did you?"
"No, a car was calling for us. It's funny, but I was going to ride down to the basement with Joan, but when the doors opened to the lobby, the driver, Albert, said that I had a telephone call on the car's phone."
"Why were you going to change your routine and go to the basement with your wife?" Duvivier asked.
"I don't know, exactly; I just had a feeling…"
"Of danger?"
"Not exactly; I just suddenly felt that I should go with her."
"But the telephone call made you change your mind?"
"Yes. So I asked Albert to accompany Joan. She protested, said she'd been down there hundreds of times, but I made Albert go. I suppose if I hadn't, I might be the one with the broken head. Still, I wonder if it might have been different if…" His voice trailed off.
"And who was on the telephone?"
"My brother-in-law, Joan's brother, Laddie. That is, John Bailley, Junior."
"And how long did you speak with him?"
"I don't know exactly, a few minutes, I suppose. He had called to say that his wife had become ill, and they wouldn't be able to go to the ball with us, as had been our plan. We were to have picked them up on the way. I was still talking to him when Barton, the doorman, came to get me. He took me downstairs. No, wait-he came to the car and asked if there was anything he could do for me. I looked at my watch and saw that Joan and Albert had been downstairs for some time. I still hadn't finished my conversation with Laddie-we briefly discussed some business-so I asked Barton to go and see what was keeping them. I was still on the phone when he came back and asked me to come downstairs with him."
Duvivier nodded. "Did anyone else witness any of this activity in the lobby or in the car? Any of the other occupants of the building?"
"Jimmy, the lobby man, was there. I suppose he might have."
"Why is the safe in your storage room, instead of in your apartment?"
"We forgot to provide for a wall safe when we were remodeling, years ago. Then quite a large old safe became surplus at my office, and I bought it and had it delivered to the storage room. It was too large for any convenient place up here."
"Mr. Kinsolving, had the building ever had intruders in the basement before tonight?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. Late last year-November or December, I think-the custodian found two boys trying to break into one of the storerooms. It seems that the outside door to the street hadn't closed properly, and they had sneaked in. They ran as soon as they saw him."
"Did this ever happen again?"
"I don't think so; I would have heard about it, I think. You see, I'm the president of the co-op board. The incident was discussed at our monthly meeting, and we authorized the purchase of a door-closing mechanism to make sure the door would close properly. My impression was that it worked pretty well. The custodian would know better than I."
"Perhaps you could tell me a little about the building and its tenants," Duvivier said.
"Well, it was built in the twenties; there are nineteen floors, with a single apartment on each floor. There are no tenants; each occupant owns his apartment. The owners are all people of substantial means-one of the board's requirements is that anyone buying an apartment must pay cash-no mortgages."
"That keeps the riffraff out, I suppose," Duvivier said.
"Not really," Sandy replied. "Quite a lot of riffraff can buy an apartment for cash these days. The board has other requirements."
"What sort of requirements?"
"Well, an owner may not conduct a business from his apartment; his financial statement must show that he can raise the purchase cash without borrowing on other assets; he may not have a criminal record or a history of fractious litigation; he must produce a number of excellent references, including some from his previous abode and neighbors. That sort of thing. Anyone who can meet all the requirements is very likely to be a good neighbor."
"Are there any restrictions as to race or religion?" Duvivier asked.
"No. Of our nineteen families, seven are Jewish, three are black, and one Hispanic," Sandy replied.
"And how do you determine if an applicant has a criminal record?" Duvivier asked.
"The building has nine employees. Three of them-the three lobby men-are retired New York City policemen, who are armed at all times. One of them makes enquiries about criminal records; I'm not quite sure how they go about it."
Duvivier smiled. "I see. How long have you lived in the building?"
"Fourteen years."
"May I ask, did you purchase your apartment for cash?"
"Yes, from my wife's trust fund."
"Your wife was wealthy in her own right, then?"
"Moderately so. When we bought the apartment we paid probably a fifth or sixth of what it would bring now."
"Are you independently wealthy, Mr. Kinsolving?"
"No. I mean, I earn a good living, and I have some investments, but my wife has always been wealthier than I."
"Mr. Kinsolving, forgive me for asking this, but have you and your wife recently had any domestic difficulties?"
Sandy took a deep breath. Who else had Joan told? Best to be frank. "Yes and no. I mean, no, we have had no quarrels or upheavals, but nevertheless, earlier this week my wife expressed the intention of getting a divorce."
"Did she say why?"
"She said she was in love with another man."
"And his name?"
"Terrell duBois."
"Is Mr. duBois known to you?"
"Yes, he is a business competitor of mine."
"What is your business, sir?"
"1 am senior vice-president of John Bailley amp; Son, who are importers and distributors of wine and spirits. I run the wine division."
"And Mr. duBois is in the wine business?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Kinsolving, would a divorce from your wife make a material difference in the circumstances of your employment?"
"Possibly. Part of my conversation with Laddie on the car phone was directed at that. We both expressed a desire to meet and work out how the company would be run. You see, Joan and Laddie's father, Jock Bailley, passed away earlier in the week, so things were in a state of flux."
"I see," Duvivier replied. "I believe the scene in the basement has been cleared by now; I wonder if you would accompany us down there?"
"All right."
The three men got into the elevator and started down.
"May I ask, what is in the safe?" Duvivier asked.
"In th
e way of valuables, only my wife's jewelry. I only have a few things, and I've never bothered putting them in the safe. Other than her jewelry, there are various papers-insurance policies, some stock certificates, our wills."
They reached the basement and walked toward the storage room, stepping over a pool of blood where Albert's head had lain. The door to the storage room was ajar, and Sandy was relieved to see that Joan's body had been removed. There was, however, another pool of blood.
"Have you figured out what happened?" Sandy asked.
"This is preliminary, of course," Duvivier said, "but we believe the intruder was already in the building when Mrs. Kinsolving and the chauffeur got off the elevator. He probably stood in the shadows in that alcove, there, and waited for Mrs. Kinsolving to open the storage room and the safe."
"The safe was open?"
"I'll come to that in a moment. Apparently, Albert hung back a bit, and the intruder struck him in the back of the head with a fire extinguisher that was affixed to the wall in the alcove. He then went to the storage room and attacked Mrs. Kinsolving."
"I saw marks on her neck," Sandy said. "Was she strangled?"
"Yes, but her head also struck the concrete floor with some force, first. She was probably unconscious when she was strangled, so she would have experienced no distress."
"I'm glad of that," Sandy said, "but if her head had already struck the floor with enough force to leave that blood, surely she would have been unconscious. Why would he have strangled her? He didn't strangle Albert, did he?" It seemed best to ask the obvious questions.
"No, he didn't strangle Albert. Perhaps she saw his face, and he didn't want a witness left who could identify him."
"I see," Sandy muttered.
"Would you open the safe, please?"
Sandy knelt and, from memory, worked the combination, then swung open the door.
Duvivier pointed a small flashlight at the interior. "Would you see if there is anything missing, please?"
Sandy looked into the safe, then extracted a velvet-lined tray.
"A necklace of diamonds and sapphires and a matching bracelet are both gone; they fit these indentations here. Joan had the trays made to accommodate specific pieces. I believe she was already wearing her diamond wristwatch."
