by Stuart Woods
“There are still a few things that need doing, but I could do them myself,” Stone said.
“And there’s a lovely little garden out back. Do you know what that means to an Englishwoman?”
“I can imagine. The garden’s all yours.”
Carolyn came back down the stairs. “Did you plan to pay cash or finance it?”
“I can pay cash,” Stone replied.
“Good; here’s the deal. Increase your offer ten percent and agree to close in two weeks, and the place is yours.”
“Done,” Stone said.
“Let’s go to my office and type up an offer,” Carolyn said, marching them out to the Range Rover. “And you’ll have to come to dinner the next time you’re up from the city. I’ll introduce you to a lot of people.”
Two hours later, the sellers had faxed back a signed contract, and Stone left with it in his pocket, having left a large check as deposit.
“Did that really happen so quickly?” Sarah asked.
“It certainly did.”
“Why were you so ready to buy it?”
“Weren’t you?”
“Of course, but…”
“I was way ahead of you. I’d been thinking about a country place for a while, and I spent a weekend up here a couple of years ago with…an acquaintance.”
“And who might that have been?” Sarah asked archly.
“A woman named Amanda Dart.”
“The gossip columnist? The one who was murdered outside the Plaza Hotel?”
“One and the same.”
“Did they ever figure out who killed her?”
“No arrest was ever made.”
“But they know?”
Stone shrugged. “Maybe, but it won’t ever be solved.”
“Why not?”
“Because the people who arranged it don’t make a practice of committing murders that can be solved.”
“Stone, tell me the house you just bought wasn’t Amanda Dart’s.”
“It wasn’t. I’m not even sure exactly where Amanda’s place is. I was only there a couple of times, and it was on some back road or other.”
“You didn’t tell me you’d been to Washington before.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Am I ever going to get to know all the nooks and crannies of your devious mind?” she asked.
“God, I hope not.”
“I’m going to have to start looking for furniture and fabrics.”
“Listen, Sarah,” he said, “we still have to be very careful.”
“With money?”
“With your safety.”
“Why? Hasn’t your suspect flown the coop?”
“Yes, but we don’t know where he’s flown to. You can’t tell anybody about this place for the time being, and maybe not for a long time.”
“But I want to tell everybody.”
“I’ll tell you when it’s okay. As far as decorating goes, I think we should buy a bed and some other necessities in the city, then furnish the place from the shops and antique shops around here. There are a lot of them.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Something else.”
“What?”
“I’m worried about your show. I know it would be difficult, but do you think you could cancel, or at least, postpone it?”
“Are you insane? Bergman has sent out a thousand invitations, at the very least.”
“I drove past the gallery yesterday; it’s very exposed, opening right onto Madison Avenue. I’d feel better if it were on a side street.”
“Stone,” she said, “understand me clearly: I am not going to have my life ruled by some maniac who wants to harm us. I’ll tell you a story: I lived in London at the height of the IRA bombings a while back. I was having dinner with my parents at a little restaurant in Chelsea, when someone set off a car bomb next door. We all hit the floor, of course, but when the smoke had cleared, my father ordered another cup of coffee to replace the one that had blown away, and he sat there and finished it. ‘Never,’ he said, ‘never let people like that cause you to alter your existence in the slightest.’ Since that time, I never have, and I never will. I wouldn’t have left my friends’ apartment if I hadn’t been so anxious to get into bed with you.”
“Well, that was an awfully good reason,” Stone said.
“So you understand that I will not cancel my show.”
“I understand. I hope you understand that I’m going to do whatever I can to make it as safe a show as possible.”
“I’ll be happy to introduce you to Bergman; the two of you can discuss that.”
“I’ll be happy to meet him.”
They reached the inn and went upstairs to dress for dinner.
“It was an awfully nice day,” Sarah said, as she ran her bath.
“I suppose there are worse ways to see a place than with a real-estate agent who knows her stuff.”
She got into the tub. “Join me?”
“You betcha.” He climbed into the tub with her, but his mind was on the Bergman Gallery.
23
M R. AND MRS. HOWARD MENZIES ARRIVED at their Park Avenue apartment building for the first time and got out of a taxi. Mrs. Menzies was an attractive woman in her early fifties, dressed in a Chanel suit and very good shoes, her graying hair carefully coifed. Mr. Menzies was perhaps two or three years older than his new wife and was dressed in a gray, pin-striped suit that was, though of good quality, a little out of fashion.
“Oh, I’m so nervous,” Mrs. Menzies said. “I hope you’re going to like it.”
“My dear,” Mr. Menzies replied, “put your mind at rest. I have the utmost confidence in your taste and judgment.”
The doorman greeted Mrs. Menzies warmly.
“Oh, Jeff,” she said, “I want you to meet Mr. Menzies; he was abroad when we bought the apartment, and he’s seeing it today for the first time.”
“How do you do, Mr. Menzies,” Jeff said, shaking hands. “I’m sure you’re going to love the building.”
“I’m sure I will, too, Jeff,” Mr. Menzies replied, rewarding the doorman with a smile.
“Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you,” Jeff said.
“Darling,” Mrs. Menzies half whispered, “Jeff has been very helpful with our moving in.”
“Thank you so much for helping my wife, Jeff,” Mr. Menzies said warmly, slipping a hundred-dollar bill into the doorman’s hand.
They took the elevator to a high floor and got out. Mrs. Menzies slipped a key into her husband’s hand. “You open the door,” she said nervously.
“Of course, my dear.” Menzies unlocked the door, pushed it open, and allowed his wife to precede him into the apartment. He was immediately struck by the warmth, comfort, and beauty that his wife had brought to the decorating of the apartment. He followed her from room to room, admiring what she had chosen and occasionally spotting an old, familiar piece of furniture or a picture that he had chosen years before. The apartment was only six rooms, but perfect for a childless, middle-aged couple. They had views across Park Avenue to the park and down the avenue. “It must be beautiful at Christmas,” he said, “with all the trees lining the avenue.”
“I’m told it is,” she replied. “We’ll have to wait a few months to find out.”
He took both her hands in his. “My dear, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the way you have put the place together. It feels as if we have always lived here.” He kissed her lightly.
“It was my great pleasure to do this for you,” Mrs. Menzies said. “I’ve done all the other things you asked me to do, as well. Shall I fix you a drink, and we’ll talk about them?”
“What a very good idea,” Menzies replied. “May I have a martini? I haven’t had a martini for such a long time.” He took a seat on the living-room sofa and relaxed, while his wife puttered at the wet bar.
She returned with a tray containing two martinis and some canapés that she had prepared earlier, in antic
ipation of her husband’s homecoming. She set her drink on the coffee table, then brought an accordion file to the sofa, before taking a sip. “Here are the legal documents,” she said, “all in perfect order. Here are the ownership papers for the apartment; and here are the bank and brokerage statements, arranged by date. And here are your passport and driver’s license applications. Your appointment for the driving test is tomorrow at three.”
Menzies looked quickly through the documents. “You are a wonder!” he exclaimed. “Everything is exactly as I wished it to be. Now, my dear,” he said, taking her hands in his, “what about your personal arrangements?”
“I did everything exactly as you asked. I brought nothing from my old apartment here—not so much as a teacup.”
“And everything at your old apartment is in perfect order?”
“Absolutely perfect. There is nothing new there; only my old things. I intend to give everything to the Salvation Army.”
“Now tell me this, dear, and this is most important. Have you told anyone of your move here?”
“Not a soul.”
“Have you done anything to alert any of your friends or neighbors that you were about to move?”
“Nothing. No one knows.”
He patted her cheek and kissed her again. “Good girl.” He polished off his martini. “Now, if you will forgive me, I must do some work in my study for a while.”
“I’ll start cooking dinner, then,” she said.
“Oh, no; I’ve already made a reservation at a very good restaurant for dinner. It will be my surprise; can you be ready at eight?”
“Of course! I look forward to it. Now, you go and do your work. My soap opera is on now, and I never miss it.”
“Good, good.” Menzies gathered up the papers and went to his study, a handsome, book-lined room—books that he had collected for many years. He closed the door behind him, set the papers on his desk, sat down behind it, picked up a phone, and dialed a number. “I’m here,” he said to the man who answered. “Yes, all is well. Be downstairs in”—he looked at his watch—“three-quarters of an hour, exactly.” He hung up the phone and went to work, examining each of the legal documents in minute detail. It was perfect. He looked over the copy of his combined credit report, stretching back the usual seven years. Every payment on every account had been made on time. He leafed through the stock-account statements, though he was already very familiar with them. The balances, at the end of the previous month, totaled just over fifteen million dollars, and the market had gone up since then. He felt a wave of contentment at the thought of his wealth.
A copy of that day’s Wall Street Journal sat on the desk. He folded it and opened a desk drawer, looking for an envelope and finding it exactly where he had asked her to put it. She really is a good organizer, he thought. He stuffed the newspaper into the envelope, sealed it, and wrote in large letters on its outside “Mr. Smith” and an address. He glanced at his watch, then returned to the living room. “My dear,” he said, “there is one more matter to which I must ask you to attend, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, no, Herbie,” she said. “I don’t mind at all.”
“Ach!” he exclaimed, raising a forefinger.
“Oh, I’m so sorry—Howard.”
“That’s better; you must never forget. Now come, we’ll go downstairs, and I’ll explain on the way.” He led her out of the apartment and onto the elevator. “Take this envelope,” he said, handing it to her.
She accepted the envelope. “Mr. Smith,” she said.
“Yes, and the address in Long Island City is also there. I’ve arranged a car and driver for you, and I want you to deliver this envelope to this gentleman and get a receipt. That’s very important, the receipt.”
“What sort of receipt?” she asked.
“It should read, ‘received of Mrs. Menzies, one envelope of documents,’ and be signed with his full name, which is Franklin P. Smith.”
“I understand,” she said, as they reached the lobby.
“Would you like a cab, Mr. Menzies?” the doorman asked.
“No, thank you, Jeff, I believe a car is waiting…there he is!” He waved, and a black Lincoln Town Car, like thousands of others in the city, pulled up. The driver wore a bandage on his left ear. Menzies opened the door for his wife, and she got in. “The driver has the address,” Menzies said, “and he will escort you into the building when you arrive. I’ll see you in an hour or so, my dear.”
“Of course, my darling,” she replied, waving as the car pulled away.
Mitteldorfer, now Menzies, turned and walked back into the building. As the elevator rose, he sighed deeply. Now that that little detail was taken care of, he felt free. Now he could take care of a few other little details, then begin his new life. His first order of business was to inflict pain.
24
O N MONDAY MORNING, STONE BEGAN BY calling Bill Eggers at Woodman & Weld. “Good morning, Bill; could one of your associates close a real-estate transaction for me?”
“Sure, Stone; commercial or residential?”
“Residential. I’ve bought a house in Connecticut.”
“You? The quintessential city boy?”
“I like a little grass between my toes from time to time.”
“I smell a woman.”
“You have a very good nose.”
“I want to meet her.”
“You will, soon enough. I’ve agreed to close within two weeks.”
“You want me to get you a mortgage?”
“I’m paying cash.”
“There goes that big fee from the Allison Manning case last year.”
“Some of it.”
“I’ll assign Barry Mendel to close it for you. He’ll call you, and you can give him the seller’s lawyer’s name, and he can take it from there.”
“Thanks very much, Bill.”
“Lunch?”
“Not this week, I’m afraid; I’ve got a lot on my plate. I’ll call you.” He hung up. But not until this business is over, he thought. No need endangering any more of my friends.
Stone walked into the Bergman Gallery on Madison Avenue and asked the receptionist for Edgar Bergman. The gallery owner came out of his office immediately, a short, distinguished-looking man in a beautifully cut suit.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes,” Stone replied. “I believe Sarah Buckminster called you about me.”
“Indeed she did. I believe you have some security concerns?”
“Yes. There was an attempt to harm her recently, and I prefer to take it seriously until I’m sure there’s to be no repeat of the episode.”
“I understand, of course,” Bergman said, as if he really didn’t understand at all. “I should tell you that, as a gallery which frequently houses millions of dollars in art, our security precautions are quite extensive. Our insurance people insist.”
“Could you give me a brief tour?” Stone asked. “I’m interested in Sarah’s personal safety rather than in any possible theft, of course.”
“Of course. First of all, let me show your our rear entrance,” Bergman said, signaling Stone to follow. He walked to the rear of the gallery, opened a door, and led Stone down a hallway, emerging into the side street. “Sarah can enter and leave through this entrance,” he said. “It runs behind the boutique next door, and both the street door and the one to the interior of the gallery are steel and ballistic glass.”
“That’s good to know,” Stone said. “We’ll certainly take advantage of the entrance, and there’ll be a policeman on guard there. You should make a list of anyone else who is likely to use that entrance on the night.”
“Right.”
“May we look at the main entrance to the gallery?”
“Of course, follow me.” Bergman led the way back into the gallery and to its front. “There you are,” he said, gesturing at the front door.
Stone noted that it was made of stainless steel. “What about the plate-glass window?” he asked.
“It’s the best armored glass I could find in such a large size,” Bergman said. “I was concerned with smash-and-grab artists taking a painting or a piece of sculpture.”
“Is there any kind of coating?”
“No, I don’t believe so. In fact, I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“There is a coating available that can be applied like wallpaper. It’s perfectly clear, but it greatly reinforces large areas of glass and, of course, prevents shattering. I can give you the name of a man who installs it, if you like.”
“Based on what I was told when I had the glass installed, I’m perfectly satisfied that, as it is, it will offer excellent protection.”
“As you wish,” Stone said, fingering the thick curtains that lined the window. “What are these made of?”
“Just ordinary wool. I pull them sometimes when we’re doing installations, and the gallery looks messy.”
“I see. Sarah said you’ve sent out a large number of invitations.”
“Yes, indeed; to my A-list.”
“Are you keeping a record of acceptances?”
“Yes, but you should understand that people will often show up without having responded to the invitation.”
“In that case, could you let the officer on the door have your mailing list, so that he can check off arrivals?”
Bergman frowned. “I wouldn’t like to do anything that will delay the entrance of guests; I wouldn’t want them lined up down the block while someone searches a list of twelve hundred people for names. What if it rains?”
“I see. Tell me, do you have an employee who would recognize most of your list on sight?”
“I have my wife,” Bergman said. “I, of course, must move around the crowd, but she could stand near the door early on, while guests are still arriving. If there is a strange face, she could make a signal to the policeman, I suppose, but I wouldn’t want her there all evening.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Stone said. “The policeman will have a sketch of our suspect, but we can’t be sure how accurate that is.”
“I’ll speak to my wife,” Bergman said. “I assume that someone will be with Sarah the whole time.”
