"Well, I think we should keep you pretty liquid, since you're going to be expanding, and God knows, interest rates are way down at the moment. We have a short-term lending program for periods as brief as a weekend-department stores, race tracks, other businesses that need substantial cash on hand to do business. That brings in much higher rates than are available to the ordinary bank depositor at our competitors, and it's low-risk. I'll have a talk with some of our other people here, and we'll have a few other ideas ready for you, say, tomorrow?"
"Sounds good," Sandy said, turning over the check and endorsing it. "I'll have Arthur send over the corporate resolutions for the business account."
Warren went to his desk and came back with some forms. "We'll need your signature, of course, but don't worry about the rest of the information; we'll deal with that as we need to."
The door opened and the secretary entered. She handed Warren a small folder; he thanked her and handed it to Sandy. "Your checkbook," he said. "Temporary, of course; we'll order something to your specifications."
Sandy took the checkbook and examined it; it was made of black alligator, and the checks inside didn't look temporary; his name and address were elegantly printed on them. He stood to go, and Warren stood with him. The two men strolled toward the office door.
"Sandy, among our many other services we offer advice on large purchases-airplanes, yachts, real estate. Should you feel inclined to purchase any of those or almost anything else, please let me know. We can sometimes effect large savings. In general, if you want something done and don't know who to call, call me." He handed Sandy a card. "My home number's there, too; I'm at your disposal day or night."
"Sam, it's going to be a pleasure doing business with you."
CHAPTER 12
Sandy entered his Madison Avenue shop with a fresh sense of proprietorship. He greeted his employees and took the stairs to his second-floor office overlooking the street. His secretary handed him a number of telephone messages, and the first one read: Call Bart at 4.00 p.m. eastern time. A number preceded by the San Francisco area code followed. Sandy ground his teeth. There was no avoiding this, he supposed; best to get it over with.
At a quarter to four he left his desk, asked his cashier for some quarters and left the shop. He walked over to Lexington Avenue and found a pay phone. At four o'clock sharp he dialed the number and fed in a handful of quarters.
"Well," Peter Martindale's voice said immediately on being connected. "Nice to hear from you; I said I'd wait a month."
"You didn't," Sandy said. "You called my home."
"Sorry about that," Martindale said. "I thought it best to inject a note of reality early on. By the way, congratulations on your business transaction; I read about it in the Wall Street Journal this morning. I expect my little contribution improved your position."
"I specifically asked you not to do it; I changed my mind, and I left the required message, as specified by you."
"Sorry, old fellow, didn't get the message in time," Martindale drawled.
"That's a bald-faced lie," Sandy said; he was trembling with anger. "The concierge told me that he handed it to you personally."
"A little white lie," Martindale admitted. "I thought it best to proceed as planned. Now it's time for your part of our deal."
"We have no deal!" Sandy nearly shouted. "I called it off, and you violated my instructions! I feel no obligation to you whatever! Is that perfectly clear?"
"My friend, you are very ungrateful," Martindale said. "Don't you understand? I've set you free! Now all you have to do is set me free! You'll feel better when you entirely understand your position."
"Position? What position? I have no position!"
"Oh, but you do, dear man, you do. You now have a personal obligation to me that must be satisfied, and if you do not satisfy it soon and in the required way, I will bring you badly to grief."
"I don't really see how you can do that," Sandy said, but he felt less confident.
"I think it's best not to explain it to you on the telephone," Martindale said, "but until I can make it clear to you personally, please believe me when I tell you that it is in your interest to believe me. I can pull that very soft rug from under you very quickly, and I will do it, if I have to."
Sandy thought for a moment. "You want to meet?"
"Yes, and in San Francisco," Martindale said. "Be here by the end of next week; make the call as agreed, and I will give you further instructions. Do you understand?"
"I hadn't planned to be in San Francisco."
"Be here by the end of the week," Martindale said, then hung up.
Sandy stared at the phone for a moment, then hung it up and walked away. He was damned if he'd communicate further with that man, not in any way.
Sandy walked slowly back toward Madison Avenue, numb with dread and oblivious of his surroundings. He had gone little more than a block when something struck him, hard, in the right kidney. He fell to his knees, gasping with pain, and he was yanked sideways into a loading dock and forced onto his belly. His left arm was wrenched behind his back, and something struck him in the back of the neck. Sandy lost consciousness.
"Mister!" someone was shouting at him. "You all right?" Someone turned him onto his back.
Sandy blinked at the face hovering over him. A black man in coveralls was holding his head off the cement floor. "What?" he asked, rather stupidly.
"Can you talk to me?"
"Yes, I can talk. What happened?"
"I dunno; I came out of the john, and you was lying on my loading dock. Hang on, I'll get an ambulance, or something."
"No, no," Sandy said, struggling to get to his feet.
The man helped him up, then leaned him against the wall. "You want I should call a cop?"
"No, don't do that. I don't really know what happened; I wouldn't know what to tell a cop."
The man began dusting Sandy's clothes, and Sandy noticed that the left knee of his trousers was torn. Damn! he thought; a good suit, too! He felt for his wallet and his checkbook; both there. "Nothing seems to have been stolen," he said to the man. "I'll just be on my way; thanks for your help."
"Well, if you're sure you're okay," the man said.
Sandy stepped back out into the sunlight and started toward his office. His back and neck hurt like hell, and he was a little lightheaded, but he seemed to be walking all right. He glanced at his watch; there was no watch. He went back to where he had been struck and looked on the pavement, then it dawned on him: He had been mugged for his wristwatch. And he'd owned it for less than a day! He hadn't even added it to his insurance policy yet. Fifteen thousand dollars, right down the drain!
Back in his office, he told his secretary to hold his calls, then he took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and stretched out on the sofa under the windows. What had he gotten himself into? Now he was locked in with Peter Martindale. What was it the man had said on the plane? There were two flaws in Strangers on a Train-only one of the two men had agreed to the plan, and one of them was crazy. Well, he hadn't agreed to the plan, and Martindale couldn't be entirely sane.
He had to go to San Francisco, anyway; he'd lied to Martindale about that-he'd already postponed the trip for a month, and he had to buy wines. He was going to have to face the man and persuade him to drop this madness. He closed his eyes and dozed for a moment.
• • •
When Sandy woke the clock on the wall said nearly seven o'clock. He got gingerly to his feet and went to his desk. His secretary had apparently tiptoed into the room and left a Federal Express package there. He sank into his large leather chair and picked it up; he wasn't expecting anything from anybody. He tore it open and found another envelope inside, a padded one, the sort that books were mailed in. He opened that envelope and shook the contents out onto the desk. His wife's stolen jewelry lay before him.