by Stuart Woods
“That can’t be legal,” Craven said.
“Don’t be so sure. There’s no evidence of duress, the property owners did it because they hold Dr. Don in high esteem.”
“I’ve talked to a couple of dozen of these people, and I’ve found six who are disenchanted but are afraid to leave the cult, for fear of the wrath of Dr. Don.”
“Sounds like the basis for a class-action suit,” Madison said.
“Yeah, but we’re not in that business.”
“I’ll bet we know a lawyer who’d be glad to take the case.”
“You have somebody in mind?” Craven asked.
“There’s this New York attorney called Stone Barrington, who’s with Woodman & Weld. His son, Peter Barrington, is the director of Hell’s Bells. How about I put a flea in his ear?”
“I can’t think of anything wrong with that,” Craven said.
“I’ve got his cell number,” Madison replied.
—
Stone hung up his phone and called Herbie Fisher at Woodman & Weld, in New York.
“Hey, Stone, you still in England?”
“I may never come back. I’ve got some business for the firm, though, and I think you’re just the guy to handle it.” He took Herbie through the saga of Dr. Don.
“Yeah, I saw the movie—loved it.”
“I’ll tell Peter. I’ve got a list of six disaffected members of the Chosen Few who want their houses back.” Stone read him the list. “Call them and see if they’d like to sign on to a class-action suit, and if all of them don’t want to do it, Arthur Steele has a list of all of them, and you’ll have to start cold-calling them.”
“I’m on it,” Herbie said.
“You and I will co-represent,” Stone said. “I want my name on the suit, so Dr. Don will know I’m not through with him.”
“No problem. Call me for lunch when you get back, if you ever do. I’m buying.” Herbie hung up.
Stone called Dino and told him what was afoot.
“Oh, yeah, I like the sound of that,” Dino said, chuckling.
“See if you can think of a few other ways to rattle Dr. Don’s cage.”
“I’ll plumb the depths of my devious mind.”
“It would be interesting to know if Dr. Don has an automobile in New York City.”
“I’ll bet he does.”
“Maybe he has a few unpaid parking tickets?”
“Could be.”
“Then you could introduce Dr. Don to the intricacies of recovering a towed vehicle from the city pound.”
“I’ll bet that would take up a day or two of his time.”
“Let’s find out.”
Back at Dr. Don’s apartment, he and his wife were cleaning up after the cops when he found a fistful of paper. “What the hell are these?” he demanded, showing them to Cheree.
“Oh,” she said, “those are just parking tickets. They’re years behind on collecting—don’t worry about it.”
43
Dr. Don was reviewing his e-mails in the account available to his members when he got a jolt.
Dear Dr. Don, I got a call this morning from a man who said he was an FBI agent, asking about my mortgage. He wanted to know when I took it out, how much it was for, the interest rate and the amount of the payments. He also wanted to know if I entered into the arrangement voluntarily and if I knew that, if I left the Chosen Few, I would forfeit my house to you. Is that true? If so, it’s a disturbing development.
He found three more similar e-mails in his in-box. Cold sweat ensued. He sent one answer to them all:
I want you to know that everything in your mortgage is legal and proper and that you have nothing to worry about. The FBI is just harassing me through you. I’ve come to expect it, and I’m sorry they bothered you.
He saved the message for use in the future, if he had any more complaints. Then, later in the day he got another e-mail from the first correspondent.
Dear Dr. Don, I’ve had another phone call, this time from a man who said he was an attorney, asking me if I would join a class-action suit against you in the matter of my mortgage. What should I do?
He wrote back:
This is just a follow-up from the FBI call and part of their plan to harass me. Please don’t concern yourself; everything is fine.
But for the remainder of the day, every time he opened his e-mail there were more such messages. He went into the bedroom where Cheree was engaged in the always-lengthy process of applying her makeup.
“Something’s up,” he said to her, then told her about the e-mails.
“Is that about all those deeds in the safe?”
“It is.”
“Are you vulnerable?”
“Maybe—probably not.”
“Then don’t sweat it, just call your lawyer.”
He nodded and went back to his study, fighting panic.
—
Stone got a call from Herbie Fisher the following day. “I’ve got eighteen of Dr. Don’s homeowners signed up,” he said. “Given my progress, if I call all of them, I’m going to have a hundred and fifty or more. Shall I continue?”
“Sure, call them all, get some help around the office.”
“By now, I’m sure Dr. Don has heard from some of these people.”
“Good, I don’t care if he knows.”
“He could be packing his bags.”
“Great, I’d love for him to end up in Venezuela or Somalia—someplace really uncomfortable.”
“Okay, we’ll call ’em all.”
Stone hung up and called Dino. “Herbie Fisher is making real progress on getting together a class for a lawsuit.”
“That’s great.”
“I’m beginning to think that as we close in on Calhoun, he might take it on the lam, as they used to say in Warner Brothers movies.”
“Could be.”
“Do you think you might find a way to mention to the director that Dr. Don could be a flight risk?”
“I think I could do that. If he buys it, he could probably get the guy’s passport on a watch list.”
“I would just love that.” Stone hung up and called Herbie. “How many you got in your class so far?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Go ahead and file the suit. Calhoun is at his New York apartment, as far as I know. Let him hear from us.”
“What if he runs?”
“I’m working on getting his passport invalidated.”
“What a good idea!”
—
Bright and early the following morning Dr. Don’s doorbell rang, then there was hammering on the door. He got there in his pajamas. A man with a briefcase stood there.
“Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun?”
“Who are you? How did you get past the doorman?”
“I have a delivery for you,” the man said, thrusting a clipboard at him. “Sign on the bottom line.”
Calhoun signed. “What delivery?”
The man handed him an envelope. “You’ve been served, pal.”
Dr. Don closed the door and turned to find Cheree standing behind him in a teddy. “What’s going on? Who was that?”
Calhoun ripped open the envelope and read the first paragraph. “Class-action suit,” he said. “Twenty-three complainants.”
“Come back to bed—that’s going to take months, if not years.” She took his hand and led him back to the bedroom.
Calhoun lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, until the alarm clock went off at eight.
44
Stone asked the stables to saddle a horse for him, then he rode through the wood, across a meadow, and spurred his mount to jump the stone wall that separated his property from the Curtis estate. There were various vehicles parked in front of the big house, Susan’s among them, and he thought he�
�d drop in and see how the work was going. A hitching post had thoughtfully been provided a century or so ago, from the look of it, and he tied his horse there.
Inside there was a mix of sounds: light machinery, a grinder of some sort, various shouts from assorted workers. He found Peter and Ben in the library, which looked to be nearly finished. “Good morning.”
“Morning, Dad. We’re just lining up our setups for our first day’s shooting, which looks like being after the weekend.” Stone left them to it and toured the other rooms. The drawing room was nearing completion, too, and large men were carrying in pieces of reupholstered furniture. He started back to the front door, and as he approached, a man appeared, peering tentatively inside. Stone recognized Leslie Bourne, Sir Charles’s son. “Good morning. It’s Leslie Bourne, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and I recall that you are Mr. Barrington.” They shook hands.
“Can I help you, Mr. Bourne?”
“Perhaps you can. I’m looking for my father.”
“I think you’ll find him at his cottage next door.”
“Oh, not that father—I mean Sir Richard Curtis.”
Stone thought that the man must not read the papers—at least, not the county papers. “I’m afraid Sir Richard is deceased.”
Bourne looked as though he had been slapped. “What?” He apparently couldn’t think of anything else to say. “When?”
“Some weeks ago. He was murdered in the meadow at Windward Hall.”
“Murdered? By who?”
“By Brigadier Wilfred Burns.”
Bourne’s mouth hung open.
“The brigadier was arrested and charged, then he hanged himself in his jail cell.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Bourne said. “He and Sir Richard were the best of friends.”
“It seems that everyone around here is the best of friends, until they start killing each other or themselves.”
“Is that meant to be funny?”
“Merely an observation.”
“I see.”
“Perhaps you would like to know that your father—I’m referring to the man whose name you carry—appears to be in the last stages of his illness. Perhaps you’d like to visit him.”
“I think not.”
“May I ask, why did you want to see Sir Richard Curtis?”
“I’d hoped he might clear up a few things for me.”
“Perhaps your father could do that.”
Bourne ignored the comment. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
“This house and its property have been sold to a hotel group, who plan to turn it into a country house hotel.”
“What a good idea,” Bourne said. “Tell me, are they looking for investors? I run what you Americans call a hedge fund.”
“And what do you call it?”
“An investment group. We’re always looking for places to put our clients’ money. You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m sorry, what was your question?”
“Are they looking for investors? The hotel group.”
“No, they aren’t, it’s a closely held company.”
“May I know its name?”
“The Arrington Group.”
“Ah, yes, they’re in Los Angeles and Paris and are building something in Rome, I believe.”
“Your information is good.”
“Perhaps you can tell me, whence the name Arrington?”
“From Arrington Calder Barrington.”
“Oh? Are you a relation?”
“She was my wife, now deceased.”
“I didn’t know. And Calder?”
“The late actor Vance Calder, her previous husband.”
“Ah, yes, Centurion Studios. We’ve had a go at putting some money there but were shut out.”
“Yes, the studio is owned mostly by its current and retired employees. There are only a very few outsiders who own shares. Someone made a bid a few years ago, but it was rejected by a vote of the stockholders, who are very attached to the studio.”
“And would you know who the outsiders are?”
“I am one of them. The others are my associates.”
“Calder had a son, didn’t he?”
“A stepson. I am his father.”
“He must have inherited Vance Calder’s shares.”
“He did, or rather his trust did. Before you ask, I am his trustee.”
“You seem to be involved in very interesting properties, Mr. Barrington.”
“I have that good fortune.”
Bourne handed him a card. “Perhaps we could have lunch sometime, when you’re in London.”
Stone slipped the card into his pocket. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a horse waiting.”
“Ah, yes, I saw him on my way in. Handsome animal.”
“Yes. He was your father’s before.”
“Tell me, how did you come to buy Windward Hall?”
“I was introduced to Sir Charles by a mutual friend.”
“I see.”
“I must go. I’m sure your father would like to see you once more.”
“I very much doubt it,” Bourne replied.
Stone left him standing on the front steps and rode away.
45
Dr. Don came into the kitchen for breakfast and found his wife dressed to go out.
“Do you have any plans for today?” she asked.
“Nothing important. Something I can do for you?”
“I need to hit half a dozen shops, and the service doesn’t have a driver available. Would you drive me around? I’m only going to need a few minutes at each place, then we can have a good lunch somewhere.”
“Sure, why not?”
“Ready in half an hour?”
“Sure.” Calhoun dug into his eggs.
—
Calhoun called down to the garage for the car and had it waiting at the curb when Cheree came down. “Where to first?”
“Let’s start with Lord & Taylor, then work our way uptown.”
Calhoun managed an illegal U-turn on West Fifty-seventh Street, then turned downtown on Fifth Avenue. They were lucky with traffic and the lights and arrived at Lord & Taylor in ten minutes. Cheree went inside, and somebody pulled out of a space at the curb, so Calhoun swung in. He saw something in the store window, so he switched off the car and got out to have a look. When he turned to go back a traffic officer was standing at the rear of the car, writing a ticket. He didn’t disturb her, just waited until she had taped it to the windshield and worked her way down the street. What the hell, he thought, it’s already got a ticket on it, so I won’t get another if I run inside for a minute.
He trotted to the men’s department and asked to try on the jacket in the window. He liked it, a tailor came and marked some alterations, then he paid for it and went back outside. A UPS van was parked in the spot once occupied by his car. Jesus, had it been stolen?
The UPS driver stopped on his way into the store. “Was your car the Bentley parked there?”
“Yes. Did you see who took it?”
“Tow truck. They take them to a police garage downtown on the West Side. You can Google it for the address.”
“Thank you.” He sat there, steaming, until Cheree came out.
“Where’s the car?”
“Towed. I have to go downtown and pay the fee to get it back.”
“Oh, swell. Well, I’ll hoof it up to Saks while you do that. Call me when you’re ready to pick me up for lunch.” She started up Fifth Avenue, while Calhoun looked for a cab; it took fifteen minutes, and he got inside gratefully. “You know the police garage downtown where your car goes when it gets towed?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go there. Can I have some air-conditioning?”
&nb
sp; “Sorry, it’s broken.”
The drive downtown took all of half an hour, and Calhoun had sweated through his shirt by the time they got there. He paid the driver, went inside, and presented himself at a window.
“Help you?” a man in a uniform said.
“My car was towed about forty-five minutes ago on Fifth Avenue in the Forties.”
“What kind?”
“Bentley Mulsanne.”
The man checked his clipboard. “Not here yet—I’d have noticed. You can wait for it.” He pointed at some uncomfortable-looking chairs.
Calhoun took a chair, one with a leatherette seat, patched with duct tape. There were half a dozen other people waiting, and it reminded him of being in the holding cell in Katonah. He took several deep breaths to calm down and cool down. No air-conditioning here, either, just a fan. An hour and two trips to the window later, he once again presented himself at the window.
“Ah, the Mulsanne,” the cop said. “Not here yet.”
“How long can it take for the truck to drive here from Fifth Avenue? It only took me half an hour in a cab, and it’s been an hour and forty-five minutes.”
“License number?”
“New York, TCF-1.”
The cop turned to his computer and did a search. “Ah, here’s the problem: they took it to the Queens garage.”
“Queens?”
“Sometimes we get short of space here, and they get redirected.” The man handed him a card with the address, and Calhoun went outside to get a cab. Nothing, and he could see for blocks. He started trudging east, and took off his jacket to cool down. Finally, he found a cab on Ninth Avenue and gave the driver the address in Queens. He called Cheree.
“Yes? You hungry?”
“Starved, but the car is at the police garage in Queens, and I’m on my way there. Go ahead and get something. I’m going to be a while.”
“Okay.”
He hung up and waited the forty minutes it took to get to the Queens garage through heavy traffic, then presented himself at the window. “Bentley Mulsanne, New York plate TCF-1.”
“Nice ride,” the cop said, and checked his clipboard. “Oh, yeah, it’s upstairs. Check out with me, and I’ll give you the keys.”
