by Stuart Woods
“So, I guess we’re in for another bout of estate settling,” Joan commented.
“Yes, we are.”
“I thought that, after dealing with Eduardo Bianchi’s estate, I’d never have to do that again until you fell off the twig.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll see that Woodman & Weld do a full-court press. The main thing is to get the valuations of the real estate done. Call those people who did Eduardo’s house and get them on the job.”
“Right.”
Stone sat down at his desk and started to go through the mail and messages, then Dino called.
“Welcome back.”
“Thanks. What do you hear from the Palm Beach cops?”
“They failed to bag Biggers.”
“I thought when they sealed off the island they’d spot him.”
“No such luck. We’ve got somebody on his apartment building, but no luck so far. Dinner tonight?”
“Let’s make it tomorrow night. I brought Susannah Wilde’s sister back with me—you’ll like her.”
“I like them all, Stone, it’s just that they don’t like you for very long.”
“That’s a dirty Communist lie.”
“Then why do they keep dumping you?”
“I’m just too much trouble, too set in my ways. See you tomorrow night.” He hung up, and Joan buzzed.
“You won’t believe who’s on line two,” she said.
“Do I have to guess?”
“Just pick up.”
Stone pressed the button.
“Good morning,” a familiar voice said.
“Harvey?”
“I thought that was a very nice service you had for Carrie. And I appreciate the bed. I didn’t think I should check into a hotel.”
Stone buzzed Joan, and he mouthed, Get Dino to trace this. “I guess not,” he said to Biggers.
“So, counselor, now that Carrie is gone, you have no conflict with representing me, do you?”
“Just a deep moral conflict,” Stone replied. “But, without actually representing you, I’ll give you some very good advice.”
“And what’s that?”
“Turn yourself in.”
“But I’m an innocent man.”
“All the more reason. Get everything straightened out, then resume your life.”
“And it’s going to be a very nice life.”
“Harvey, you seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that you are still in Carrie’s will.”
“Of course I am—she didn’t have time to change it.”
“On the contrary, I drew a new will for her, and she swiftly executed it. I think I can tell you, without violating a confidence, that the only mention of your name in the document is a statement excluding you from inheriting any part of the estate.”
“The bitch! I’ll contest it!”
“You don’t have a leg to stand on. You’re divorced, you agreed to and were paid a generous settlement, and then she changed her will. No attorney in the United States would take your case under those circumstances.” This was not strictly true, Stone knew, but he wanted to be emphatic.
“Well, that’s a disappointment.”
“There’s also the matter of your murdering her, which would prevent you from inheriting, even if you were still in the will.”
“But I didn’t murder her!”
“Then that’s exactly what you should tell the police when you have your inevitable chat with them.”
“I suppose you’d be glad to arrange that.”
“I’d be delighted. Where can I get in touch with you?”
“I think it’s best that I stay on the move.”
“Harvey, do you have any idea what you’re up against? Three police forces, one of them the largest in the world, have made your arrest a top priority, and you have no idea what they can bring to bear on that.”
“I watch enough TV to make a pretty good guess,” Harvey said. “And that reminds me, I should hang up now or you’ll trace my call. Maybe I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.
Stone hung up, too, and Joan came in, shaking her head. “It was a cell call from somewhere outside the city. There wasn’t time to figure out where. We’re not expecting another visit from Mr. Biggers, are we?”
“Not likely.”
32
Stone and Gala had breakfast in bed the following morning.
“I’m going up to Carrie Fiske’s apartment this morning to look it over,” Stone said “Would you like to come along?”
“Yes. Do you have a key?”
“Sheriff Martinez sent her luggage from the Ghost Ranch house,” Stone said. “Her handbag was among her effects, and there were keys to her properties.”
“I’d love to see it.”
—
They arrived at the Park Avenue building at mid-morning; Stone identified himself to the building’s superintendent, and they were allowed to enter the apartment.
“How long did Ms. Fiske own the apartment?” Stone asked the man.
“Her grandfather was the original owner,” he replied. “Her parents lived here, too, part of the time, and she owned it since their deaths a few years ago. I’ll leave you to look around, Mr. Barrington.”
Stone and Gala wandered around the rooms, Gala pointing out various pieces of furniture and art. They went upstairs to where the four bedrooms were and went into the master. “That’s a Klimt, I believe,” Gala said, indicating a large painting on the wall over a dressing table. She opened a large art book on the dressing table and found the picture. “There you are. A pity it’s not The Woman in Gold.”
They went into Carrie’s dressing room, which was very large. “Goodness, what a wardrobe!” Gala said, looking through the dresses. “I believe some of these things must have belonged to her grandmother and mother.”
Stone leaned against a panel, and it gave a little, then sprang open, revealing a large safe with an electronic keypad lock. “This looks custom-made,” he said. He dug into his pocket and found the key to the apartment. On the same ring was a gold tag with a number engraved on it.
“Is that the combination?” Gala asked.
“Two-two-seven-seven-four-three,” Stone read from the tag. “Those numbers, converted to letters, spell ‘Carrie.’” He tapped the numbers into the keypad and spun the safe’s wheel: the door opened. “It’s just a large jewelry box,” Stone said. He pulled out a couple of trays to reveal pairs of earrings and some rings.
“I think you should auction these pieces individually,” Gala said. She pulled out the bottom tray and gasped.
“What is it?”
Gala picked up the piece: it was a high choker made of diamonds and rubies. “I don’t believe it.”
“What don’t you believe?”
Carrie took him by the hand and led him back into the bedroom, where she flipped through the pages of the Klimt book until she found the portrait she was looking for.
“The Woman in Gold,” Stone said. “I’ve seen it at the Neue Galerie.”
Gala pointed at the necklace in the portrait. “Look at this,” she said, holding up the choker next to the portrait. “Did you see the film about the painting?”
“No.”
“Along with this portrait and other Klimts, the Nazis stole this choker from the family, and it ended up on the neck of Mrs. Hermann Goering.”
“You think it’s the real thing?”
“Let’s go back to the safe.” She led him back to the dressing room and opened a small door inside the safe. There was a stack of papers inside, and Gala riffed through them. “Receipts,” she said, “some of them going back to the twenties.” She pulled out a yellowed envelope, which bore the legend Bijoux Blume, Rue St.-Honoré, Paris. “How’s your French?” she asked.
“Poor.”
“I’ll translate—it was sold to one A. L. Fiske, in 1946. It was made by Blume from the original design drawings of the choker depicted in Klimt’s Woman in Gold. The diamonds are all certified as flawless, as are the rubies.”
“Do you suppose the jeweler is still there?”
Gala produced her iPhone and Googled the shop. “No mention of it. This receipt is dated more than sixty years ago.”
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” Stone said. “Does anybody know where the original necklace is?”
Gala did some more Googling. “Apparently, the last time it was seen, Mrs. Goering was wearing it.” She read on. “As the Russians approached Carinhall, Goering’s hunting lodge, he removed his belongings and burned the place to the ground. I wonder where he took them?”
“That would have been right at the end of the war,” Stone said. “I don’t think he would have taken them to Berlin.”
“Switzerland,” Gala said. “I’ll bet he got everything to Switzerland.” She read on. “Goering was Hitler’s deputy and was supposed to succeed him on his death. He sent Hitler a message saying that, if he didn’t hear from him shortly, he would assume command of the Reich in Hitler’s name, as Hitler had earlier provided. Martin Bormann intercepted the message and convinced Hitler that Goering was attempting a coup, so in his will, Hitler dismissed Goering from all his posts. Goering had fled to his retreat on the Obersalzberg, and he was then moved to Radstadt, near Salzburg, in Austria, where he was arrested by the U.S. Army. There’s no mention of his personal property.”
Stone looked carefully at the necklace. “There’s something engraved here, but it’s too small for my eyes.”
Gala peered at it. “Mine too.”
Stone found a small velvet bag in the safe and dropped the choker into it and put it into his jacket pocket. He pocketed the Blume receipt, as well.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, closing the safe and spinning the wheel. As they emerged from the elevator the man at the desk motioned him over.
“Ms. Fiske’s former husband was just here,” he said. “He wanted to collect some of his things from the apartment. I told him you were here, and he said he’d come back later.”
“If Mr. Biggers returns, please deny him entrance to the apartment, then call the police and tell them he was here. I am Ms. Fiske’s executor, and you are not to admit anyone to the apartment without written permission from me.” He gave the man his card. “Let’s go,” he said to Carrie.
33
They got into a cab, and Stone got out his cell phone. “Excuse me a moment, I’ve got to call my security guy.” He pressed the speed dial and waited.
“Bob Cantor.”
“Bob, it’s Stone Barrington.”
“What do you need?”
“I need you to go to the following address.” Stone read it to him. “I want the locks to all the exterior doors rekeyed, and make sure you find all of them on both floors. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“You can leave one key with the super, and tell him he’s not to admit anyone without written permission from me. Also, check out the security system, then call the managing company and change the entry and exit codes to the number 1946. Also, change the cancellation code, in the event of a false alarm, to Bob.”
“Like my name?”
“Sort of.”
“How many keys you want?”
“Send me a dozen. Then I want you to go to East Hampton.” He gave him the address of the beach house. “Stop by my place on your way, and Joan will give you keys to both properties and a letter of authorization.”
“Okay.”
“You know somebody who does what you do in Palm Beach, Florida?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Same instructions to him.” He gave Bob the address. “The housekeeper’s name is Hazel, and he can give three keys to her, then FedEx another dozen to me. Joan will call Hazel and let her know he’s coming. And get it done fast, will you?”
“Don’t I always?”
“Thanks, Bob.” Stone hung up, then looked up a number in his list of contacts and called it.
“Paul Eckstein.”
“Paul, it’s Stone Barrington.”
“How are you, Stone?”
“Very well, thanks. I have a very large appraisal and cataloging assignment for you.”
“As large as the Bianchi estate?”
“Larger. Can you come to my house this morning? I’ll give you the details.”
“Certainly. I can be there in an hour.”
“That’s fine. And Paul, please bring a loupe with you.”
“I never go anywhere without one.”
Stone hung up. “Now we’ll get this show on the road.”
Back at his office, Stone buzzed Joan. “Please print me up a hundred letterheads, ‘The Estate of Carrie Fiske,’ using this address and adding my name as executor and trustee.” He gave her the keys to the apartment and beach house. “Bob Cantor will be here soon. Give these to him. Paul Eckstein will be here, too. Send him in. And write me two ‘To Whom It May Concern’ letters, mentioning Bob in one and Paul and his assignees in the other, saying that they are authorized to be admitted to the Fiske premises on my authority as executor.”
Joan went back to her office.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” Gala said, “I have a screenplay to work on.”
“I’ll send you up some lunch later.”
She vanished into the elevator.
—
Bob Cantor arrived, picked up the keys and his letter, and left. Paul Eckstein was right on his heels.
“Come in, Paul, and have a seat.”
Eckstein did so. “Well, what do you have for me? I’m all excited.”
“Does the name Carrie Fiske ring a bell?”
“Vaguely. Socialite?”
“In a big way. She was murdered near Santa Fe a few days ago, and she was my client.”
“Murdered? By whom?”
“The principal suspect is her ex-husband, Harvey Biggers.”
“That rings a faint bell, too. Financial guy, very big?”
“Yes.”
“Carrie had three residences.” He handed Paul a sheet of paper with the addresses. “The East Hampton house is about what you’d expect around Georgica Pond. There’s some good contemporary art—I saw a couple of very nice Hockneys—but the Palm Beach and New York residences, as you can tell by the addresses, are prime, and the contents of each contain the collections of three generations, and are something to behold—furniture, silver, jewelry, and art. I want the three appraisals as furnished, but I want to have the option of auctioning an impressive number of pieces of American antique furniture and the better paintings, so make separate appraisals of each.”
“How soon do you need this?”
“How fast can you get it done?”
“The East Hampton house, a week. The Palm Beach and New York places, two weeks, if I use a separate team for each place.”
“And that would cost the same as if one team took five weeks?”
“Yes, except for any travel expenses. I’ll consult with real estate agencies on property values, but I’ll want my own people to do the interiors, and I’ll want museum and auction house people for the art.”
“I’ll have keys to all three properties sent to you within twenty-four hours.” Joan came in with the authorization letter, and Stone signed it and gave it to Eckstein, who read it.
“This will do nicely.”
“Something else.” He took the velvet bag from his pocket and placed it in Paul’s hand.
Paul weighed it. “Heavy. What is it?”
“That’s what I want you to tell me.”
34
Paul Eckstein shook the bag, and the contents fell into his hand. He stared a
t it for a moment, then reached over and pointed Stone’s desk lamp at the necklace. He retrieved a loupe from his pocket and examined, randomly, a number of the stones. “These are very good,” he said.
Stone took the Blume receipt from his pocket and handed it to Paul. “This says they’re all flawless.”
Paul read the letter. “Oh, the necklace is a copy—for a minute there, my heart was in my mouth.” He looked at some of the rubies. “Mind you, it’s an excellent copy, by the original maker.”
“What’s it worth?”
“At auction, a couple of million dollars, maybe more, if you get a couple of enthusiasts bidding.”
“There’s a tiny stamp inside the choker,” Stone said. “I couldn’t make it out.”
Paul held the piece close to the lamp, located it, and looked at it through his loupe. “Jesus Christ,” he said, and there was wonder in his voice.
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘Bijoux Blume, Paris 1899.’”
“The receipt says 1946.”
“Then either the receipt or the necklace is lying.”
“Which one?”
“Stone, do you know what this is, or what it’s a copy of?”
“Sort of. It’s very like the choker in Gustav Klimt’s Woman in Gold.”
“Its proper title is Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer, painted in 1907—or rather, finished in that year. Klimt worked on it for three years before that.”
“Yes, I saw it at the Neue Galerie a while back.”
“The painting, along with several others, and the choker, were confiscated by the Gestapo shortly after the Anschluss, the Nazi takeover of Austria.”
“I know.”
“The paintings ended up in the Belvedere Museum, in Vienna. Frau Bloch-Bauer’s niece sued the Austrian government, took them all the way to the Supreme Court, then went to arbitration to get them back.”
“I know. What happened to the necklace?”
“It ended up in the possession of Hermann Goering. His wife wore it.”
“What happened to it at the end of the war?”
“Goering took his possessions out of his hunting lodge, called Carinhall, after his late first wife. As the Russian Army approached, he set fire to the house, and it burned to the ground, then he escaped to his house on the Obersalzberg, the Bavarian Alps. From there he made his way to Radstadt, near Salzburg, where he planned to surrender to the Americans in order to stay out of the Russians’ hands, but he was captured by the American Army before he could surrender.”
