Imperfect Strangers

"Stand still!" Martindale yelled.

A hole in the fog had come upon them, and Sandy could see Peter, no more than four feet away, pointing the pistol at him. He made to run, but as he turned, he saw that he was on the brink of an abyss. He was standing at the spot where the wall of the prison had collapsed.

"There!" Tony yelled. "I see them! Put my side of this thing as close to them as you can!" He tightened his seatbelt, opened the door on his side, lifted it off its pins, and tossed it into the backseat. "Closer!" he shouted, grabbing his shotgun and pumping a round into the chamber. It was an Ithaca riot gun with an eighteen-inch barrel, so the shot would spread quickly. "Closer, godammit!"

"Who are you pla

"The one with the gun, Bert," Tony said, exasperated. "If you can get me a shot at him."

Sandy stared into the uplifted gun barrel, into the silencer; he had gone as far as he could go and, to make matters worse, he felt the wall begin to sink under his feet. The helicopter was so close, now, he strained against the gale of wind from its rotors.

"Now it's over for you, Sandy," Martindale said. He pulled the trigger.

Sandy flinched and threw up a hand, but nothing happened. There was only a loud click. Misfire.

Martindale looked at the pistol, a

No more chances, Sandy thought. He felt the wall give way beneath him. The only thing to grab hold of was Martindale's gun. He reached for the barrel and pulled himself toward safety.

Martindale seemed surprised by this move, but he held on to the pistol.

Sandy had hold of his wrist now and, to his astonishment, Martindale moved forward, and a sort of do-si-do ensued. The two men changed places.

"Watch out!" Sandy yelled as Martindale stepped on to the sinking part of the wall.

And at that moment, a loud report came from the helicopter, and, simultaneously, Martindale's head snapped to one side as bloody flecks appeared on his face and neck. He let go of the pistol.

Sandy stood, his arm outstretched, still holding on to the gun's barrel. Then, the wall beneath Martindale gave way, and he plunged with the rubble all the way to the hard surface below.

Sandy's knees seemed no longer willing to support his weight. He backed away from the abyss, put his back to the wall and slowly slid down to a sitting position. What had happened? Why was he not dead? He pressed a button on the side of the pistol, and the cylinder fell open. Each of the six cartridges bore a mark from the firing pin. Sandy counted. Martindale had fired one shot at the guide, then, what-three at him? That was only four.

Then it came to him. This was the pistol that Martindale had given him to kill his wife. Sandy had fired two of the shots, himself, into a stack of cardboard boxes. He had saved his own life.

Now a loudspeaker barked at him. "Mr. Kinsolving!" the voice boomed.

Sandy struggled to his feet and looked over the parapet. That deputy-Wheeler-was holding a shotgun and speaking to him.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, and his voice echoed around the prison's walls.

Sandy shook his head. Wheeler was pointing back toward the tower.

"Go that way!" he said.

Sandy turned and walked back toward the tower, where Wembly was waiting for him.

"Are you all right, sir?" Wembly asked.

"I think I am," Sandy said, handing him the pistol. "In fact, I'm very sure of it."

Sandy spent the rest of the day at Alcatraz, talking to the San Francisco police and the FBI. Tony Wheeler was very helpful in filling in the background of what had occurred. It was simple, he told his law-enforcment colleagues: trouble between two men over a woman and a lawsuit; one of them took it hard and got a gun. He had been investigating.

As dark approached, Bert, the pilot, walked over to where Sandy and Tony stood. "Tony, I want to get back to Napa while I've got light to get out of here," he said. He had landed the helicopter in the prison yard.

"Mister Kinsolving," Tony said, "can you give me a lift back to Napa?"

"Of course, deputy," Sandy replied.

"You go ahead, Bert; I'll be along," Tony said.

It began to rain during the drive back to Napa.

"Deputy, I'm very grateful for what you did this afternoon," Sandy said.

"No problem," Tony replied. "Mr. Kinsolving," the deputy said, "will you tell me exactly what the hell has been going on?"

"It was just as you told the police and the FBI," Sandy said. "Jealousy over a woman, pique over a lawsuit. Martindale took it hard."

"Somehow, I think there's more to it," Tony said.

"Believe me, that's the whole story," Sandy lied.

CHAPTER 60

Sandy sat at his desk above the wine shop, countersigning purchase orders for French wines. He had been back in New York for a week now, feeling relaxed and happy, except for his conscience. The phone buzzed.

"Yes?"

"He's here, Mr. Kinsolving."

"Please send him in." He watched as Detective Alain Duvivier walked alone into the room. The two men shook hands perfunctorily, and Sandy offered the man a seat.

"Why did you want to see me, Mr. Kinsolving? And why without my partner?"

Sandy looked at his watch. "Are you off duty now?"

"More or less. Officially, I'm never off duty."

"Then let me offer you a glass of wine."

Duvivier blinked. "All right," he said.

Sandy opened a bottle of red on his desk and poured them both a glass, then he sat down. "This is a particularly nice burgundy that I import," he said, raising his glass and taking a sip. "A Clos de Vougeot, 1978, from the shippers, Bouchard, Pere et Fils."

Duvivier sipped from his glass. "It's excellent," he said. "But why did you want to see me?" He smiled a little. "Are you ready to confess?"

"As a matter of fact," Sandy said, "I am."

Duvivier's mouth fell open.

When Sandy had finished his story, and the two of them had finished the bottle, Duvivier finally spoke. "Do you feel better now?"

"I feel very much better," Sandy said. "You can arrest me, if you like."

"For what?" Duvivier asked. "About the most I could charge you with would be obstruction of justice-concealing the facts of a murder-but I doubt if it would stick. After all, you acted under duress."

Sandy shrugged.

"Anyway, I didn't read you your rights, so your confession would be inadmissible in court."

Sandy smiled. "I rather thought that might be the case. I just wanted to tell you; somehow, I felt you had a right to know the truth."

"Thank you. If you'd told me the facts at the begi

"I've thought about that, and you're right, I suppose, but there's no changing what's past. I'll just have to learn to live with the consequences of my actions."

Duvivier stood up. "Well, I'd better be getting home; my wife will have di

Sandy stood up and took another bottle of the wine from his desk. "Take this with my compliments-and, my apologies."

"Is this a bribe?" Duvivier asked.

"Probably."

"Don't worry, your story won't go any further. And my wife will enjoy the wine very much."

"I hope she does."

Duvivier stuck out his hand. "You know, you and your wife are very lucky. It could have ended differently."

"I know," Sandy said. "My wife and I are very, very lucky."