"Thanks," Duvivier said, and the two detectives left the shop. Back in the car, Duvivier rested his head against the seat back, then sat up straight. "Head over to Fifth Avenue," he said.
"Huh?"
"Fifth Avenue."
"You had a thought?"
"I've had a thought."
Leary parked the car, and the two men got out. "I follow your thinking," he said.
"It's a long shot, but worth a try," Duvivier replied. They crossed the street, and Duvivier led the way down the steps. He tried the first key; it went into the lock, but wouldn't turn. He extracted it and tried the other key. It worked. He opened the door. "Come on," he said.
They walked half a dozen steps to the storeroom. Duvivier inserted the key into the lock and turned it. "Yes!" he said.
"They're Kinsolving's then," Leary said.
"Yes, and he gave them to someone who's now in Los Angeles. Come on, let's get out of here."
Back in the car, Duvivier asked, "Do we have a photograph of Alexander Kinsolving?"
"No reason why we should," Leary said, "and there wouldn't be anything on record, since he doesn't have a record."
"Where could we find a recent photograph, do you think?"
Leary thought about it. "Remember, Kinsolving took his wine business out of the Bailley company?"
"Yes."
"Maybe there was an announcement about it somewhere?"
Duvivier grinned. "The Wall Street Journal," he said. "Let's go to the public library at Fifth and Forty-second."
When Duvivier left the library he was still grinning, and he had an envelope under his arm.
Leary laughed aloud. "We're such terrific fucking detectives," he said. "They couldn't do no better on 'N.Y.P.D. Blue.'"
Duvivier took the photostat of the newspaper article from the envelope and placed it on the locksmith's counter. "Have you ever seen this man before?" he asked, then he held his breath.
The locksmith held the stat up to the light and thought about it for a minute. "Yeah," he said, "I think I have. Hang on just a minute, will you?"
Duvivier and Leary changed glances.
"It's not enough to hang him," Leary said.
"No," Duvivier replied, "but it might be enough to crack him, if he thinks we know where the keys came from."
The locksmith came back from his desk with a newspaper. "Yeah," he said, "I thought I'd seen him before." He tapped the front page of yesterday's New York Daily News.
Duvivier and Leary looked at the newspaper and saw Sandy Kinsolving at the airport, walking behind an Arab, then falling behind a luggage cart.
"Has this man ever been in your shop?" he asked the locksmith.
The locksmith shrugged. "Lots of people come in this shop," he said. "Who knows?"
Duvivier sighed.
CHAPTER 42
In the early afternoon Sandy sat in Sam Warren's conference room at the Mayfair Trust and listened to the phone conversation between Sam, his lawyer, and Larsen and his lawyers in San Francisco, as they worked through minute changes to the sales documents for the vineyard. Simultaneously, he went through the list of assets of the vineyard and through the appraiser's report, asking questions and looking for anomalies. At four o'clock Sandy affixed his signature to each of the documents, and their representative in San Francisco, having ascertained that Larsen had signed, presented the seller with a cashier's check for nine million dollars.
At last, Sandy had his vineyard. He walked back to the wine shop slowly, enjoying the summer afternoon and contemplating the changes and improvements he would make. There was an owner's house; Cara could furnish and decorate that. There was the change of name; Cara could design the labeling. He would gradually sell off the wines made under Larsen, and in the autumn, his first vintage would come in, the first wines bearing the name Kinsolving Vineyards. He was a happy man.
He was less happy when, back at the shop, his secretary intercepted him on the way to his office.
"Mr. Kinsolving, that Detective Duvivier and another policemen are waiting in your office; I didn't know what else to do with them."
"Thanks, that's fine," Sandy replied, gritting his teeth. He walked into his office and Duvivier and his partner, Leary, stood up from the sofa. "Afternoon, gentlemen," Sandy said, taking a seat at his desk. "Have you found my wife's killer?"
Duvivier walked toward the desk. "We're making real progress," he said, placing a pair of keys on the desktop.
Sandy looked at the keys; he knew exactly what they fitted and that they could have come from only one place. "Keys?" he asked.
"The keys to your building's basement and your storeroom," Duvivier said, then stopped.
"Whose keys?" Sandy asked.
"The killer's keys," Duvivier replied.
"You've arrested him?" He hoped to God not.
"Not exactly," Leary said.
"You're pursuing him, then?"
"Not exactly," Duvivier replied.
"Detective, please explain exactly what is going on here," Sandy said, with a note of irritation in his voice.
"We thought you might like to tell us," Duvivier replied.
"Tell you what?"
"How the killer got the keys."
"Why do you think I know that?"
"I believe you took your keys to the Third Avenue Locksmiths and had them duplicated, then gave the duplicates to the killer," Duvivier said.
"Then you're a fool," Sandy replied, "and you're wasting both your time and mine."
"We took your photograph to the shop and showed it to the locksmith," Duvivier said. "What do you think he said?"
"Detective, don't ask me questions to which I obviously do not have the answer."
"All right, Mr. Kinsolving, the locksmith said he had seen your face before. In his shop."
There was nothing to do but bluff, Sandy knew. They hadn't arrested him yet, so there was a chance that they were bluffing, too. "So what?" he replied.
"So now we can place you at the locksmith's," Duvivier said.
"Get to the point, Detective. What is all this supposed to mean?"
"Have you ever been into the Third Avenue Locksmith's?"
"Not that I recall," Sandy replied. "What if I have been? Would that have some meaning in my wife's death?"
"It would if you had your keys duplicated and gave them to a hired murderer," Duvivier replied.
"I didn't do that," Sandy said. "Where did you get the keys?" He knew, but he thought he ought to ask, for appearances sake.
"They were given to us by the murderer."
"You've arrested him, then?"
"He says you paid him to kill your wife."
"Then he's lying; I had absolutely nothing to do with my wife's death," Sandy replied. "But you haven't answered my question: Have you arrested somebody in the matter of my wife's murder?"
"It's you who must answer the questions, Mr. Kinsolving," Duvivier said.
Sandy stood up. "You're very wrong about that. I don't know what the hell you're doing here, but I told you that I didn't want to hear from you again, unless you'd found my wife's killer, do you recall that?"
"I do."
"Have you arrested my wife's killer?"
"Not yet."
"Then get out of my office, and if you have anything else to say to me, say it to my lawyer, Mr. Murray Hirsch. Is that clear?"
Duvivier said nothing.
"Detective," Sandy said, growing angry now, "are you here to arrest me?"
"No, sir."
"Then I bid you good day." He walked to his office door, opened it, and stood, waiting for them to leave.
The two detectives exchanged a glance, then reluctantly left the office.
On the street, Leary turned to Duvivier. "You didn't really expect that to work, did you?"
"It was worth a shot," Duvivier replied.
"Do you still think he was involved?"
"I'm certain of it."
"I wish I was as certain as you," Leary said.