Imperfect Strangers

"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 ru

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, stu