by Stuart Woods
"Glad to meet you Sandy," Winthrop said. "Cara, will you two have a seat and excuse me for a minute? My secretary and most of the office are still at lunch, so I'll have to find the file on this matter."
"Take your time," Cara said. When the lawyer had gone, Cara spoke in a low voice. "I've just remembered something. You said that Peter claimed to have left a letter incriminating you in his lawyer's safe?"
"That's what he said."
"Well, his lawyer is Keyes, and his office is just across the hall."
Sandy looked at her sharply. "Cara, we're not safecrackers."
"We don't have to be," she said. "I went to a meeting in Keyes's office with Peter once, and I saw him open his safe."
"Surely you can't remember the combination."
"I don't have to. You know those little panels that pull out of desks that stenographers used to use to rest their pads on?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Well, Paul Keyes pulled out that panel and read the combination to the safe from a little piece of paper he had taped there."
"Still, how are you going to-" He looked up as Mark Winthrop returned.
"Got it," Winthrop said, blowing dust off the file. "It's been a while since anyone had a look at it."
Sandy stood up. "Mark, excuse me, but I've just remembered that I have to make an important call to New York. Is there somewhere I could have some privacy?"
"Sure," Winthrop said. "Pick an empty office down the hall; everybody's at lunch."
"Thank you; I'll be back shortly." Sandy left Winthrop's office and walked a few paces. Paul Keyes's name appeared on an open door. Sandy closed it behind him and went to the desk. He punched the telephone for a line and dialed his home number in New York. The answering machine picked up. He laid the phone on the desk and started looking; it took only a moment to slide out the steno panel and find the piece of paper taped to its edge. He repeated the combination several times to himself, then turned to the safe.
It was a good four feet high, an old-fashioned model with a large center knob. Sandy went to work. Nervous as he was, it took two trips back to the desk before he got the combination right. He turned the handle, and the safe door swung open.
The safe was divided into a dozen compartments, and there was no way to guess where Martindale's letter might be, so Sandy began at the top left, riffling through every file and envelope in the safe. He had spent ten minutes working his way to the bottom right of the safe when he heard voices in the hallway. People were beginning to return from lunch.
Sandy took out a batch of blue legal folders from the compartment and went through them. The very last one bore Martin-dale's name. Sandy opened it and found a single, sealed envelope. On it, written by hand, was the message: "To be opened in the event of my untimely death." It was signed by Peter Martindale.
The door to Paul Keyes's office opened slightly, and a man stood there, apparently talking to someone in the hallway. Sandy straightened up and stuffed the blue folder containing the envelope into his belt, buttoned his coat, and picked up the phone. "Yes, yes," he began saying. "That's all very well, but we've got to get moving on this." He pretended to listen.
Paul Keyes finished his conversation and turned to walk into his office. He stopped when he saw Sandy. "What-"
Sandy covered the phone with his hand. "I'm sorry, this must be your office," he said.
"Yes, it is," Keyes replied, looking offended.
"I'm very sorry, but Mark Winthrop sent me in here to use the phone." He glanced down and, to his horror, saw that the safe door was still open.
"It's quite all right," Keyes said, entering the room.
"I wonder if you'd be kind enough to give me just another moment's privacy," Sandy said. "I'm nearly finished."
"Oh, of course," Keyes said. He stepped back into the hall and half closed the door behind him.
"Look," Sandy said into the phone, into his answering machine, "I'm not going to be back in New York until Monday, so I'm just going to have to rely on you to handle this the best way you can." He reached out with a foot and pushed the safe door closed. "I would be very grateful if you would do that," he said, continuing his half of the supposed conversation. "Thank you so much." He hung up the phone, took a quick step to the safe, pulled up on the handle, and spun the dial. He made it back to the desk before Keyes was upon him.
"I am sorry for the imposition," he said to the lawyer. "I think Mark must have thought you'd be out for a while."
"Quite all right," Keyes said, holding the door open for Sandy.
Sandy left the office, and he felt Keyes's eyes on his back as he returned to Winthrop's office.
"Oh, hello," Cara said. "Turns out I didn't need your advice. The trust is revocable, and I'm revoking it. It was very simple; we needn't have come into town, after all."
"Good. All ready to go, then?"
"All ready."
Sandy extended his hand to Winthrop. "So nice to meet you," he said. "I really can't thank you enough. Ah, for handling Cara's problem so expeditiously." He took Cara's elbow and guided her out of the office.
"Did you get it?" she asked out of the corner of her mouth as they walked down the hallway toward the reception room.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "I certainly did."
CHAPTER 46
They got into the car. Sandy took out the legal folder, ripped open the envelope, and turned on the dome light. He read quickly.
"Jesus Christ!" he said. "He's done more than relate what happened; he's completely reversed our positions. Listen to this: 'Mr. Kinsolving then told me that if I didn't murder his wife, he would kill my wife, Helena, and see that I was blamed. It was only under the greatest duress that I acceded to his wishes. I was very frightened of Mr. Kinsolving.'"
"It doesn't surprise me," Cara said.
"He's me and I'm him. The police would have a field day with this."
"I'm glad we got hold of it," Cara said. "If Peter had accidentally died and Keyes had opened that, well, I don't know what would have happened."
"Do you suppose he made more than one copy?"
Cara looked at the document. "This is an original signature, and it's notarized. I don't think he'd have gone to that trouble twice; he'd have felt safe, knowing this was in Keyes's safe."
Sandy looked at his watch. "We're due in Keller's office."
"Let's go."
Sandy pushed in the car's cigarette lighter, waited for it to heat, then set fire to the document. He got out of the car and held the flaming paper over a steel waste basket until it was nearly consumed, then dropped it into the basket, watching it turn to ash. Then he took Cara's hand and headed for the elevators.
Harry Keller turned out to be extraordinarily handsome- thick gray hair, dark eyes, a tall, trim figure, and a gorgeously tailored blue suit. He made them comfortable, then turned to Sandy. "Tell me how I can help you, Mr. Kinsolving."
"I'll be as concise as I can," Sandy said. "An art dealer named Peter Martindale sold two pictures to a man named Lars Larsen, the owner of a vineyard I recently purchased. The pictures were part of the property I bought, and I have been reliably informed that the larger of the two, allegedly a John Wylie oil, is not genuine."
"What is the value of the painting?" Keller asked.
"Larsen paid Martindale forty thousand dollars for it, and the dealer says the picture is now worth seventy-five."
"It would be, if it were genuine," Cara said.
"Ms. Mason, do you have some expertise in this field?"
"One of my degrees is in art history, and I was married to Peter Martindale, until recently. I worked in the gallery with him."
"In your opinion, is Mr. Martindale of such a moral makeup that he would perpetrate a fraud?"
"Indeed, yes."
"Would you testify to that effect in a court of law?"
"I would, if you think it would help."
The lawyer turned back to Sandy. "Mr. Kinsolving, what would you like to do about this?"
"As the current owner of the picture, I'd like to sue Martindale. Larsen has indicated he'd be happy to join me in the suit."
"Mmmm. The usual procedure would be for you to sue Larsen and Martindale, but if Larsen's willing, we could do it that way. What would you hope to accomplish in a lawsuit?"
"I want the current value of the painting, if it were genuine; I want Martindale to pay all of my legal bills in the suit."
"That seems reasonable, and, assuming we can get independent corroboration of the falsity of the painting, I believe we could accomplish that. In fact, I think we should be able to accomplish that in a settlement. Mr. Martindale has his reputation to think of, after all."
"I'm not much concerned about Mr. Martindale's reputation," Sandy said. "In fact, I think I would be performing a sort of public service if this incident became public knowledge."
Keller smiled slightly. "I suppose that in the normal course of events, the news might get out. Have you considered criminal fraud charges?"
"I don't want to send the man to jail. I think the spotlight of public attention on this incident would serve to teach him his lesson, not to mention the money it will cost him."
"Just as well," Keller said. "Unless we could establish that this is a common practice of Martindale's, the courts would rather see such a matter settled in a civil case."
"Will you represent me in this matter?" Sandy asked.
"I will be happy to. I own a number of pictures myself, and although I have never bought any from Mr. Martindale, I wouldn't like to see him get away with this. I will require a retainer of ten thousand dollars to proceed, and if we get it back from Martindale, I will, of course, refund your retainer."
"I'll have Sam Warren get you a check tomorrow," Sandy said. "How soon can we file suit?"
"I'd like to send an expert up to look at the picture and any documentation you have. Once he concurs in the painting's lack of authenticity, I'll file immediately. Shouldn't be more than a few days, I should think."
"What are our chances of achieving restitution?" Sandy asked.
"Does Mr. Martindale have any substantial assets?" the lawyer asked.
Cara spoke up. "He owns a large apartment, the gallery building, and a considerable stock of valuable pictures," she said. "I should know; I paid for most of it."
"Then our chances are very good," Keller said. "Where is the picture now?"
"In the main house at the vineyard," Sandy said, writing down the address."
"Is tomorrow too soon for my expert?"
"Not at all; we look forward to seeing him. By the way, the painter Saul Winner has said he'd be happy to testify."
"Does Mr. Winner have any axe to grind with Mr. Martindale?"
"I'm afraid so," Cara said.
"Well, let's stick to detached observers," Keller said.
"Can you ask your man to render an opinion on how good a forgery the picture is?" Cara asked. "It would be wonderful if he thought it so bad that no knowledgeable dealer could possibly mistake it for the real thing."
"A good point," Keller said, "and should we go to trial I would enjoy asking Mr. Martindale about his opinion of his own judgment. He is unlikely to want to destroy his own reputation in court, but then if he claims expertise, he makes himself out to be a con man."
Sandy and Cara laughed aloud.
"I want to be there to see that," Cara said.
Keller spoke up again. "I really do think you should consider what sort of a settlement you might accept from Martindale," he said. "He certainly won't want to go to trial."
"I'd accept what I've already told you," Sandy said, "plus a public admission that he deliberately sold a forgery, perhaps a nice ad in the San Francisco papers."
"He'd want confidentiality of the terms of a settlement," Keller said.
"I won't agree to that," Sandy replied.
Keller smiled. "You're a hard man, Mr. Kinsolving; one after my own heart."
CHAPTER 47
Cara spread out the San Francisco Sunday papers on the bed. "This is wonderful," she said. "Listen." She read aloud. "'A bomb was detonated in the San Francisco art world last week when a lawsuit was filed against a prominent local art dealer, Peter Martindale, whose gallery specializes in nineteenth-century English paintings. The suit was brought by New York wine merchant and Napa Valley vineyard owner Alexander Kinsolving, who, when he bought the Larsen Vineyard, also acquired with the vineyard a painting, ostensibly an oil by John Wylie. The painting had been sold by Peter Martindale to the vineyard's previous owner, Lars Larsen, and, according to a certificate supplied with the picture, had been certified by Martindale as being a genuine Wylie.
"'After Kinsolving had bought the vineyard, a visitor to his property, the abstract painter, Saul Winner, saw the picture and proclaimed it a fake. Kinsolving then contacted San Francisco attorney Harry Keller who has long had the sobriquet Killer Keller, and Keller sent an independent expert, said to be an official of the San Francisco Museum, to Napa to view the painting. This expert, according to Keller, described the picture as a forgery, and not even a clever one.
"'Keller, interviewed in his office on Friday, said that his client would decline to settle out of court, unless Peter Martindale is willing to publicly admit that he deliberately sold a forgery.
"'Martindale, contacted at his gallery yesterday, said, "This gallery is in the business of dealing in fine paintings, genuine ones by eminent artists, and we would never stoop to such an action. I expect to be fully vindicated."
"'Keller, in response, said, "If Mr. Martindale wishes to have a swift opportunity to defend his reputation publicly, then my client and I will waive depositions and go straight to trial at the earliest possible moment. We have no interest in what Mr. Martindale has to say, unless it is in front of a judge and, if he likes, a jury"'"
Sandy laughed. "Keller has a way with him, doesn't he?" He held up another newspaper. "The New York Times has a piece, too, though a smaller one. The good news is it comes in an issue that has a feature on art galleries, so it will be widely read." The phone rang, and Sandy picked it up. "Hello?"
"Sandy? It's Saul Winner."
"Saul, you kept your promise; it's a perfect piece."
"Isn't it? Listen, a sculptor friend of mine, Martin Cage, is throwing what sounds like a very good party early this evening. Can I tempt you and Cara into town for it? I'd love to show you both off."
"Hang on." Sandy turned to Cara. "Saul wants us to go to a party this evening at Martin Cage's house. You up for it?"
"You bet I am," she replied.
"Saul, we'd love to." He wrote down the address. "See you sixish." He hung up.
"This," Cara said, "is going to be fun."
Martin Cage's house was on a low hill overlooking San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. Valet parkers sprinted to and from the street, disposing of the guests' cars, and waiters stood by the front door, dispensing drinks from trays. Cara took a glass of champagne and Sandy asked somebody to make him a bloody mary.
Saul Winner grabbed them before they had gone a dozen steps and stepped between them, hooking their arms in his. "You're mine for the duration of this party," he said sweeping them through the house and onto a large rear lawn, which also served as a sculpture garden for the works of their host.
At least two hundred people were standing, drinking, and, as Saul began to work the crowd, Sandy thought he had never before met so many artists, dealers, collectors, and curators in one place. Saul was introducing Cara, to the few people she didn't already know, as "the former Helena Martindale, whose friends call her Cara." Sandy discovered very quickly that he did not like the name Martindale attached to her in any way, and he resolved to do something about it.
He was astonished at the number of people who, upon being introduced, uttered encouraging words about his lawsuit. Apparently, everybody had read the Sunday papers.
A slender young man carrying a notebook and accompanied by a photographer planted himself f
irmly in their path and shot Saul a look. "Saul, you must introduce me."
"Ah, Simon," Saul said. "Allow me to introduce Sandy Kinsolving and-"
"And Cara," Sandy interrupted.
"Sandy, this is Simon Teach, who, you may remember, wrote the article in this morning's paper."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Teach," Sandy said, shaking the man's soft hand. "I hung on your every word."
"Oh," Teach replied, "I should think Peter Martindale is more likely to hang, don't you?"
Cara spoke up. "From your lips to God's ear."
"Ah, yes, Cara," Teach said, pumping her hand. "I believe you were once something more than friends with the aforementioned, were you not?"
"Will you pillory me for my past errors in judgment, Mr. Teach?"
"Why no, dear lady; just getting the facts straight."
A waiter turned up at Sandy's elbow with a large bloody mary, and Sandy accepted it gratefully. He toasted Teach. "Your continued good health," he said.
Teach raised his own glass. "And good sources," he replied. They clinked glasses.
"Ah," Saul cried, "our host!"
Sandy looked up to see a small man with shoulder-length hair making his way toward them.
"Sandy, Cara," Saul said, "may I present Martin Cage?"
"You are very welcome," Cage said with relish, "and may you always bring with you such good news. It's about time somebody nailed the bastard."
"Many of your guests have expressed similar sentiments," Sandy said, shaking the man's hand.
"Martin," Cara said, "your work is very striking. I wish there were fewer people to block my view of it."
"On another occasion, Cara, I will bring you here alone, so that you may drink in its every nuance."
"Oh, Martin!" Saul exclaimed suddenly. "You are wicked!"
Sandy and Cara turned and followed his gaze up the lawn, to see Peter Martindale striding confidently toward them, resplendent in a white linen suit.
Simon Teach was very nearly jumping up and down. "Oh boy, oh boy!" he was muttering under his breath. He turned to his photographer, a young girl. "Miss this and I'll strangle you with that camera strap." The girl began clicking off shots with her machine-driven camera.
