"Can you see me?" the man's voice asked.
Sandy struggled to focus his eyes, and after a moment, his vision was filled with the upper body and head of a young man in a tan shirt and trousers. "Yes, I can see you. What's happened?"
"You appear to have had a blow on the head," the young man said. "I'm Deputy Wheeler of the Napa sheriff's office. An ambulance is on its way, and we'll have you at the hospital in a few minutes."
"Hospital? What for?" Sandy tried again to sit up, and this time he made it. With the deputy's help he got to his feet, but he was dizzy, and he sat down heavily on the bed, rubbing his neck.
"With a head injury it's always best to get some X-rays and have a doctor take a look at you."
"Quite right, Sandy," Sam Warren said. He stepped forward and put a hand on Sandy's shoulder. "Are you in a lot of pain?" he asked.
"I've got a hell of a headache," Sandy replied. "Cara, do you think I could have some aspirin?"
"An ice pack would be a better idea," the deputy said.
Cara left and returned with some ice cubes in a towel; she pressed them to the back of Sandy's head.
Sandy sighed. "That's better," he said. "Now tell me what's happened?"
"You've had an intruder in the house," the deputy said.
Suddenly, everything came back to him. "Cara, are you all right? I saw you struggling with a man."
"Yes, I'm all right," she replied, stroking his hair. "Don't worry about me."
"Who was he?"
"I don't know for sure, but it could have been Peter," she said.
"Peter? Here?" He tried to think. "I was downstairs on the front porch; I turned off the living room lights and… I don't remember anything until I was in the bedroom. He hit me, I think."
The deputy spoke up. "Looks like he hit you from behind when you were downstairs, then again when you got up here. Mrs. Kinsolving saw that."
"Mrs. Kinsolving? What the hell did Joan have to do with this?"
"That's me, darling," Cara said, sitting beside him on the bed.
"Forgive me, I'm just getting my bearings."
"You've got some swelling on the side of your face," the deputy said. "Could somebody get some ice to put on it?"
"I'll do that," Sam said, then left the room.
"Did he try to hurt you?" Sandy asked Cara.
"Yes. He tried to strangle me with something."
"That necktie, I figure," the deputy said, pointing at the tie Sandy had been wearing earlier than evening. It was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed.
"I was lucky," Cara said. "I reached up with my arm to push him away, and my wrist was caught in the loop." She looked odd. "It's funny; he smelled like Peter, but he seemed to have a beard."
Shorty turned on final approach to Santa Monica Airport, and he was grateful for the runway lights rushing up at him. He hadn't had much for dinner, and he was tired, as well as hungry. He made his usual good landing, then slowed the airplane and turned off the runway toward his premises. He turned the plane and brought it to a stop, all lined up to be pushed back into the hangar. Then, before he could even cut the engines, the rear door opened, and Prendergast was out of the airplane.
Shorty turned off all the switches, then pulled back the mixture controls all the way. The engines died, and he turned off the ignition, alternator, and master switches. He was home, and he was five thousand dollars richer. That would get him out of the hole he was in.
He got out of the airplane and looked around. Prendergast had vanished, but from behind the hangar he heard a car start, then drive away. He could see parts of the access road from where he stood, and the car, he wasn't sure what kind, drove away at a leisurely pace, stopping at all the stop signs where the taxiways crossed the road.
Prendergast had sure been in a hurry to get out of the airplane, but he didn't seem to be in much of a hurry driving away Still, Shorty was glad he'd collected the money in advance.
He pushed the airplane back into the hangar, locked up, got the five thousand dollars from his desk drawer and went home.
CHAPTER 53
Sandy woke in a bed in the little Napa hospital to find a man in his room wearing a lab jacket and looking at an X-ray against a light box.
"Good morning," Sandy said.
"Ah, you're awake," the man replied. "I'm Dr. Swift, and I want to take a look at you before we let you go home."
"Sure," Sandy said, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. An empty bed with mussed covers stood nearby.
"Your wife stayed here, too; I've already had a look at her. There was some bruising on her neck, but she's all right."
Sandy submitted to a thorough neurological examination, then waited for the doctor to speak.
"There's no fracture," he said. "You have a mild concussion, and I'd like you to spend today in bed at home. If you feel nauseated, I want you to have your wife drive you back here at once, understand?"
"I understand," Sandy replied. He stood up, took his dressing gown from the end of the bed and slipped into it.
Cara came out of the bathroom and kissed him. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
"My neck's a little sore, but I'm not in any real pain."
"Then let's get you home; I've already paid the bill while you slept." She was wearing jeans and a sweater.
"Where did you get the clothes?" he asked as they walked down the hallway.
"I changed before I left the house."
"I feel a little strange leaving the hospital in a dressing gown," he said, getting into the car.
When they arrived at the house, the sheriff was waiting on the front porch, along with Deputy Wheeler.
"My name's Norm Ferris," he said, shaking Sandy's hand. "How are you feeling?"
"Much better," Sandy replied.
"Do you feel up to answering some questions?" the sheriff asked.
"Sure, come into the living room."
When they were all comfortable, the sheriff began. "Mrs. Kinsolving, last night you said that you thought the man who tried to strangle you was Peter. Who is Peter?"
"My ex-husband."
The sheriff nodded as if that was to be expected. "Can you be sure?"
"No, he just smelled like Peter, and he was the same size. I thought for a moment that he had a beard, but Peter doesn't have a beard."
"When did you last see Peter?"
"A few days ago in San Francisco."
"This would be Peter Martindale, then?"
"Yes."
"I read the newspaper article about the party at the sculptor's house," the sheriff said. "And I take it, Mr. Kinsolving, that you had recently brought a lawsuit against Mr. Martindale?"
"That's correct."
"Do you think Mr. Martindale is the kind of man who might become so angry about a lawsuit that he would attack your wife?"
Cara spoke up. "I think so, and I know my ex-husband much better than Sandy does."
"I telephoned Mr. Martindale's gallery this morning and was told that he is in Los Angeles, staying at the Bel-Air hotel," the sheriff said. "I tried to telephone him there, but the operator said that Mr. Martindale was not taking any calls. I've asked the LA. police to go to the hotel and question him about his whereabouts last night."
"Good," Sandy said.
Detectives Harrow and Martinez of the LAPD knocked on the door of the room to which the front desk had directed them. A "do not disturb" sign hung on the doorknob.
"Pretty fancy place," Harrow said, looking around at the lush tropical planting.
"You're right," Martinez said. "Wonder what it costs a night here?"
The door opened and a tall, slender man stood before them; he was wearing a necktie but was in his shirtsleeves. "Come in, gentlemen," he said. "The front desk said you're from the police?"
"That's correct, Mr. Martindale," Harrow said, showing his badge.
Martindale showed them to a seat. An open suitcase lay on the bed.
"You're checking out?" Harrow asked.