by Stuart Woods
“Since the building opened last year, and he had another place on Central Park West before that.” She gave him the address.
“For how long?”
“Something like ten years, I believe.”
“I hope you’ll include the painting of my house in your piece,” Stone said. “I can e-mail you fresh photos.”
“Thank you, I’d like to see them.”
“Other news: I’ve just heard that Calhoun was searched in customs at Kennedy yesterday, and they found a hundred grand in dollars and fifty grand in pounds, all confiscated, except the legal five thousand dollars, pending a hearing. And that’s after he paid eight thousand pounds in cash fines before departing London.”
“I’ll call customs right away and get a quote.”
Stone had a thought. “How close are you to publishing?”
“Next week.”
“Could you delay it for a week in order to peruse a file on Calhoun from a certain federal law enforcement agency? One that could be anonymously delivered to you today, and the source of which will never be revealed? The Brits saw it before Calhoun’s deportation.”
“I’ll know as soon as I see it.”
“Within the hour,” Stone said, grabbing a pencil. “Where are you?”
“At the New Yorker building.” She gave him a room number.
“Bye.” He hung up and called Joan. “Please send the FBI file on Calhoun, in a plain brown wrapper, no return address, to the following person.” He read her the name and address. “Include prints of your architectural photos.” He hung up and called Dino. “Here’s Dr. Don’s address in New York. He’s lived there for a year. Before that he lived at this address on Central Park West.”
Dino wrote them down. “You’ve been busy.”
“Not busy, lucky. I’ll tell you over lunch.”
36
Two days later, Dr. Don received a letter from the New York State tax people, demanding his federal tax returns for the past four years and a list of the days he had spent in New York during those years and their purpose. He immediately called his accountant. “How the hell am I supposed to get all this information?”
“I have your tax returns. Do you have a diary or keep a calendar of your travels?”
“Yes.”
“Then extract the information they want and send it to me. I’ll send them a letter saying that we’re working on it.”
“Are they going to hit me for back taxes?”
“It’s too early to tell. Do you pay state taxes in California?”
“No.”
“Where is your legal residence?”
“In Florida.”
“For how long?”
“Four years.”
“Where was your legal residence before that?”
“I’m not sure, exactly.”
“You don’t know where you lived four years ago?”
“Maybe New Mexico, maybe Georgia.”
“Did you pay state taxes in either of those?”
“Yes, in Georgia.”
“Send me the info, and I’ll get started.”
“How long is it going to take to clear this up?”
“Many months, maybe years.”
“Oh, shit.”
“That’s what everybody says.” He hung up.
—
Less than an hour later, Dr. Don received another call.
“Good morning, it’s Lisa, at The New Yorker.”
He managed a smiling voice. “Good morning, Lisa.”
“I’ve received an anonymous tip that the New York State tax authorities are investigating you. Any truth to that?”
“Are you in cahoots with my mailman? I just got a letter an hour ago.”
“Like I said, the source is anonymous—sounds accurate, though. What did they ask you for?”
“Tax returns, my schedule in New York.”
“Uh-oh.”
“That’s pretty much what my accountant said, though in a great many more billable words.”
“Thanks, that’s all I needed to know. Oh, just one more thing: Why did you paint the front of Stone Barrington’s house?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Goodbye, Lisa.” He hung up.
“Now what?” his wife asked.
“We’re down a point,” Calhoun replied.
—
Stone and Dino were about to leave for their morning ride when Lady Bourne, née Elizabeth Bowen, pulled up in her car and got out.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” Stone said, shaking her hand and introducing Dino. “How are you?”
“I’m very well, but Charles, I fear, is not.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I thought, perhaps, he looked slimmer on his return from Paris.”
“Yes, he’s losing weight steadily, not eating well. The doctor comes every day. He thinks we’re near the end.”
“May I come and see him?”
“I don’t think you would enjoy the experience, and he might not even know you’re there. I’ll give him your regards, and if he asks for you, I’ll call.”
“Please do.”
“I’ll tell him you’re exercising the horses, too—he’ll like that.”
“It’s more the other way around.”
“I want to thank you again for the wonderful honeymoon you gave us in Paris.”
“I only gave you the house—you supplied everything else.”
“Well, yes, but our visit was greatly enhanced by the house.”
“I’m glad.”
“By the way, that Inspector Holmes has called twice at the cottage to see Charles, but I sent him away both times. He may come and see you.”
“Do you know what it’s about?”
“The only contact that Charles has had with the police for many years was over the murder of Richard Curtis by the brigadier. I should think it’s in regard to that.”
“I see.”
“I just thought you should know Holmes might call.”
“Thank you.”
They shook hands again, and she drove away.
“I wonder what’s stirred up the inspector?” Dino asked.
“Who knows?” They mounted their horses and rode away.
37
Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun was having lunch with his wife when the doorman called up. “Dr. Calhoun?”
“Yes?”
“There are two gentlemen at the front desk who have identified themselves as police officers. Shall I send them up?”
“What do they want?”
“They wouldn’t tell me, sir, but they showed me badges and IDs.”
Calhoun signed. “All right, send them up.” He threw down his napkin.
“Now what?” Cheree asked.
“Now there are policemen at the door.”
“I’ve seen enough policemen this week to last me a lifetime,” she said.
Dr. Don answered the door and two men showed him badges that were different from each other and insisted he read their IDs.
“All right,” Calhoun said, “you’re policemen. Now what?”
“May we come in, sir? We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Oh, all right.” He took them into the living room and seated them facing away from the view. They didn’t deserve it. “What can I do for you?”
“First, I should say that I am Lieutenant Shaw, from the Connecticut State Police, and this is Lieutenant Roberts, from the New York State Police. For your convenience, we are conducting this interview together, rather than separately.”
“I derived that from your IDs.”
The officer showed him two photographs. “Are these two men your employees?”
“They are employed by a corporate entity of which I am an of
ficer.”
“They were arrested, one in Connecticut, one in New York State, and they were both carrying firearms unlicensed in either state.”
“I heard about that. I wish to apologize.”
“I’m afraid, sir, that apologies do not erase felony arrests. Were they armed on your instructions?”
Calhoun blinked rapidly. “I do not recall giving them such instructions.”
“We understand that you and these two men were recently arrested in the United Kingdom on the same charge. Is this correct?”
“That was over a real estate dispute, nothing important.”
“Sir, please answer the question.”
“Should I have my attorney present?”
“You are not under arrest, sir, but that’s entirely up to you.”
“How does the business in London relate to the business in Connecticut and New York?”
“It seems to indicate a pattern of behavior, sir.”
“I think it would be best if I decline to answer other questions and refer you to my attorney.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Calhoun wrote down the name and phone number and handed it to them.
“One other question, sir: Do you possess a firearm at this residence?”
“You can ask my attorney that.”
“Thank you, sir.” The two men rose and headed for the door, then one of them turned back. “I almost forgot,” he said, handing Calhoun a blue envelope. “You’ve been served.”
Calhoun was left staring at the envelope as the door closed behind him.
“Served what?” Cheree asked.
Calhoun ripped open the envelope. “Notices to appear in court in both Litchfield, Connecticut, and Katonah, New York.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Katonah in the morning, Litchfield in the afternoon.”
“Oh, good,” she said acidly. “We’ll have a nice day in the country.”
Calhoun called his attorney and reported his conversation with the two policemen.
“And you said they were your employees?”
“I said I was an officer of the company that employs them. Will you be at this hearing?”
“I’m licensed in both New York and Connecticut. I’ll go with you. And I’ll bring a couple of blank checks on the firm for bail money.”
“Bail money?”
“It’s what you pay to get out of jail, like in Monopoly.”
“Jail?”
“Dr. Calhoun, if you sent two armed men on some sort of mission, without the requisite firearms licenses, it is very likely that both they and you will be charged.”
“Oh, dear Jesus,” Calhoun breathed.
“Speak to him, it might help.”
38
Stone was in the library, reading some correspondence sent to him by Joan, when Geoffrey appeared. “Excuse me, Mr. Barrington, but Deputy Inspector Holmes is here and wishes to see you.”
“All right, Geoffrey, send him in.” He rose to greet the policeman, whose demeanor was, as always, neutral. Stone waved him to a seat. “How can I help you, Inspector?”
“Mr. Barrington, during your time at Windward Hall have you become aware of Sir Charles’s, ah, family situation?”
“In what respect?”
“In respect to the parentage of his children.”
“Ah.” Stone thought about it for a moment and decided to tell what he knew; this man was not going to let go. “I have become aware of that,” he said.
Holmes produced a notebook. “May I ask how you learned of it?”
“I suppose you could say, from the horse’s mouth.”
“Could you be explicit about which horse?”
“It was the Sunday night when Sir Charles gave a large party, at which he announced his imminent marriage to the former Elizabeth Bowen. I was sitting on that sofa”—he pointed to the one facing the fire—“and Sir Charles entered the room with another man, who turned out to be his son.”
“Leslie?”
“If you say so. I was sort of scrunched down on the sofa, having a brandy, so they couldn’t see me, and they spoke freely.”
“And what did they have to say?”
“Let’s see: the son complained about his father’s selling the house to me, instead of keeping it in the family, which I took to mean leaving it to him, or perhaps his sister, or both.”
“And how did Sir Charles respond to that?”
“He said that the son’s mother had left both her children very well fixed, and he saw no need to enrich them further. Do you know if that is correct?”
“If I may be indiscreet, I believe it is widely thought in the county that most, if not all, of the family money derived from the parentage of the wife, and that their relationship was based at least as much on economics as on familial affection.”
“I see. Well, the conversation—or at least, Sir Charles—continued as he explained his son’s parentage to him.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Holmes said, displaying unusual relish, for him. “How did he explain it?”
“It went back to an accident many years ago when they were sailing with a group of friends on Sir Charles’s yacht. The boy—Leslie, you say?”
“Yes.”
“The boy had an accident in which he was cut and bleeding very badly. They got him to a local hospital, but he needed a blood transfusion. Apparently neither of the parents had the same blood type as Leslie.”
Holmes consulted his notes. “That would be Type A Positive, for both of them,” he said.
“Yes, but the boy had a rarer type.”
“That would be Type B Negative,” Holmes read from his notes. “The rarest, I believe.”
“If you say so. The friends were tested and, fortunately, one of the men present had the correct type. A transfusion was given, and the boy recovered.”
“You see the contradiction here?” Holmes asked.
“Yes, it would appear that, since neither of the parents had the rare type, the son would have been fathered by another man.”
“Quite so. A man with Type B Negative. Did Sir Charles mention the name of the blood donor?”
“No, he did not. I had the impression that he wished to deny his son knowledge of his parentage, perhaps out of spite. He may have had some other reason, of course—I wouldn’t know about that.”
“These circumstances are terribly interesting,” Holmes said mildly.
“I suppose they are, in a gossipy sort of way, but how does that concern the police?”
“As a possible motive for murder.”
“Now,” Stone said, “you’ve lost me.”
“Well, as investigator to former investigator, if I may, let us suppose that the owner of the Type B Negative on that day was Sir Richard Curtis.”
“All right. You’re saying that Sir Charles could have murdered him out of outrage that he had fathered a child with Lady Bourne?”
“Yes, I am.”
“But the accident and the knowledge of the blood types occurred decades ago, apparently. That would be a very long time to hold a grudge, to keep outrage on the boil, would it not? Especially since Sir Charles and Sir Richard have been presumed by everybody who knows them, that I have met, to have been the best of friends during those decades.”
“I’ll grant you that.”
“And, in any case, you have a confessor to the murder in the person of the brigadier.”
“Wilfred Burns, yes. But what would his motive be?”
“I never met the man, only saw him from a distance a couple of times, so I wouldn’t know.”
“I’ve been looking into the backgrounds of the principals in this case,” the inspector said, “and in going over their military records I have discovered that Sir Richard was not the only man i
n the neighborhood who had Type B Negative blood.”
“Oh?”
“The brigadier was Type B Negative, as well.”
“Interesting, but how would that give the brigadier a motive for murder?”
“Guilt, perhaps.”
“Guilt? Guilt over what?”
Stone heard a chiming noise, and the inspector withdrew a watch on a chain from his waistcoat and stared at it, apparently appalled at what he saw. “Good heavens,” he said, rising, “I’m afraid I am late for a very important appointment. Please excuse me.”
He left the room abruptly, closing the door behind him, leaving Stone baffled.
39
Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun sat in a holding cell in Katonah, New York. His companions were not what Calhoun would consider felicitous company, and at least one of them smelled very bad. Calhoun had been there for the better part of two hours, and his discomfort had made it seem twice that.
His attention was drawn to the door by the rattling of a key in the lock. “Which one of you is Calhoun?” the jailer asked.
Calhoun’s hand shot up. “I am.”
“No,” said another prisoner, raising his hand, “I am Calhoun.”
Calhoun stood up, terrified that the other man, not he, would be set free. “I am Calhoun! Check my wallet—it’s in an envelope at the front desk.”
“Okay, Calhoun, come with me,” the jailer said. He pointed to the interloper. “You, siddown and shaddup.”
Calhoun followed the jailer down a hall and to the front desk, where his attorney waited, clutching a brown envelope.
“Okay,” the lawyer said, “you’re sprung.” He handed Calhoun the envelope. “Your personal effects.”
Calhoun followed him to the car, where his wife waited in the backseat, and settled himself in the front passenger seat before retrieving his watch, ring, wallet, and other effects from the envelope.
“Do you know how long I’ve been sitting in this car?” his wife demanded to know.
“Just about as long as I have been sitting in a cell, I expect.”
“I’m sorry it took so long,” the attorney said, starting the car. “The wheels of justice grind slowly.”
