by Stuart Woods
“You’re right, Dino.”
“I usually am.”
“Well, not all the time, just some of the time.”
“Too late; you already admitted it.”
“Well, there’s no point in going over to Sotheby’s, is there?”
“Why not? My car is outside.”
They tossed down their drinks, left Elaine’s and got into Dino’s car, driven by a young officer. “Take us to Rockefeller Center,” Dino said. “Sotheby’s.”
“So, what rookie are you torturing these days?” Stone asked, nodding at the driver.
“He’s a lucky kid, this one; he could be out there getting shot at, right, Leary?”
“You’re not related to Captain Leary, now retired, are you?” Stone asked.
“He’s my father,” the young man said, driving swiftly down Second Avenue.
“Well,” Stone said, “he made our lives hell for a few years at the One-Nine.”
“So he says,” Leary replied. “Says he enjoyed every minute of it, too.”
“Shut up and drive, Leary,” Dino said.
They found Sotheby’s, and Dino had Leary drive them around the block a couple of times, while they looked into darkened doorways with a flashlight.
“Your chicken has flown the coop,” Dino said. “Leary, take Mr. Barrington to his lovely home in Turtle Bay.”
“I know the joint,” Leary said.
“It’s not a joint,” Stone pointed out.
“Whatever.” Leary had them there in five minutes.
As they stopped, Dino’s cell phone rang. “Bacchetti. Yeah, yeah, I got it.” He hung up and turned toward Stone. “There’s a Barton Lowell Cabot at 110 North Shore Road, in Warren, Connecticut. The only guy by that name in three states.”
Stone made a note of the address.
“Look,” Dino said, “if he hasn’t turned up by morning, I’ll have the watch sergeant spread the word about him at the shift change.”
“Thanks, Dino. I’ll keep you posted.” Stone got out of the car, and it drove away. Stone walked up his front steps, and as he was fumbling for his key, he saw the moving shadow of someone behind him. He spun around, ready to repel a mugger, and found Barton Cabot standing there.
“Holy shit, Barton,” Stone said. “You scared me half to death.”
“I’m sorry,” Cabot replied.
“Why did you leave Elaine’s?”
“I’m supposed to sleep here tonight,” Cabot replied, with perfect logic.
“Why did you go to Sotheby’s?”
Cabot looked puzzled. “I don’t know. But then I came here.” Stone looked at the address on his jotter. “Do you recognize 110 North Shore Road, Warren, Connecticut?”
“Sure, I live there.”
Stone sighed and unlocked the door. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
4
Stone showed Barton to a guest room. “I’ll get you some pajamas and a change of clothes for tomorrow,” Stone said, “as soon as I turn off the lights downstairs and set the alarm.”
“Okay,” Barton said, sitting on the bed.
Stone went downstairs, switched everything off and tapped in the alarm code, then he went back upstairs to his bedroom to get the clothes for Barton. When he walked into the master suite, Barton was there, staring at four paintings grouped on a wall.
“Can I help you, Barton?”
“You’ve got some nice things in this house,” Barton replied. “I’ll give you eight hundred thousand dollars for these four pictures.”
“They’re not for sale,” Stone said.
“Do you have any more Matilda Stones?”
“No, just those. She was my mother.”
“Oh. She’s a wonderful painter,” Barton said. “You don’t often see her work on the market.”
“Barton, why do you think you have eight hundred thousand dollars?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I buy, I sell.”
“Pictures?”
Barton looked puzzled. “I guess.”
Stone went to his dressing room and got Barton the things he needed, then put them in his arms and turned him toward the stairs. “Do you remember where your room is?”
“Down the stairs, first door on the left,” Barton replied. “I remember things I just learned.”
“And I’m sure you’ll remember even more tomorrow morning,” Stone said, gently propelling him toward the stairs. He waited at the top until he heard the guest room door close, then he undressed and went to bed.
Stone walked into the kitchen the following morning to find Barton Cabot having breakfast, deep in conversation with Stone’s housekeeper, Helene. What surprised him was that the conversation was being conducted in Greek, Helene’s native language.
“Good morning, Stone,” Barton said.
“Good morning, Barton. I didn’t know you spoke Greek.”
“Neither did I.”
“He speaks my language beautifully,” Helene said, “and with an elegant accent.”
“Thank you, Helene,” Barton said.
Helene put scrambled eggs and bacon before Stone and went about her work.
“Stone,” Barton said, “what sort of work does Lance do?”
“Your younger brother is the deputy director of operations for the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. He was only recently appointed.”
“That’s a pretty important job, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“How did he get it?”
“Well, my first cousin, Dick Stone, was supposed to get it, but before he could start, he was murdered, along with his wife and daughter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Barton said. “Dick Stone,” he mused. “I think I knew him.”
“Oh? How?”
“I’m not sure; school, maybe.”
“Choate or Harvard?”
“Maybe both. He was younger than I.”
“Did you know him well?”
“I don’t know, but I think I liked him.”
“Everybody liked Dick, except his brother.”
“Caleb?”
“That’s right.”
“He was my class, I think. I didn’t like him.”
“Neither did Dick.”
Stone didn’t feel like reciting a long explanation about how Dick had died and who had killed him, so he changed the subject. “If you’re done, let’s get started.”
“Started where?”
“To your house.”
“Where is that?”
“At 110 North Shore Road in Warren, Connecticut.”
“That sounds right.”
“Let’s go find out,” Stone said.
Helene handed Cabot his old clothes, newly washed and pressed, and Stone led him to the garage and put him into the car.
“What is this?” Cabot asked, indicating the car.
“A Mercedes.”
“What kind of Mercedes?”
“An E55,” Stone said, pressing the remote to open the garage door.
“That’s the fast one, isn’t it?”
“The fastest Mercedes,” Stone said, backing out of the garage and closing the door. “At least it was when I bought it.”
“I have a Mercedes, I think.” Barton said.
Stone got them to the other side of town and onto the West Side Highway. Soon they were on the Sawmill River Parkway.
“This is the way I go,” Barton said. “I like driving on this road.”
“So do I.”
“Do you get to Connecticut often?”
“Not as often as I’d like. I have a cottage in Washington, not far from your house.”
“Ah yes, lovely village.”
“I think so. I thought Lake Waramaug was in Washington Township. Why is your address in Warren?” Stone wanted to see if Barton had an answer to that.
“The sout
h shore is in Washington; the northwest shore is in Kent; and North Shore Drive is in Warren.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a lovely lake, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I think I’ve lived there for some time. I think I built the house or at least renovated it,” Barton said. “There’s a barn, too. I work there.”
“At what?”
“At a desk.”
They drove in silence for a while, until they got off the four-lane highway at New Milford. Stone put his left-turn signal on as they approached a stop sign.
“It’s faster if you turn right,” Barton said.
“I guess it is, if you’re going to Lake Waramaug,” Stone said, changing lanes. “I was turning for Washington, as usual.”
They passed through New Milford, then New Preston, then the lake came into view.
“Which way?” Stone asked.
“Take the south road and drive around the lake,” Barton said. “I like the drive.”
“All right.”
Barton made a vague motion with his hand. “There’s a cave up there somewhere where people lived for twenty thousand years,” he said. “At least that’s what I read in a book.”
They drove around the lake to the north side, and Stone watched for numbers.
“The second driveway on your right,” Barton said.
Stone made the turn and discovered that Barton’s house was on a peninsula, jutting into the lake.
“This is the second-largest natural lake in Connecticut,” Barton said.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Stone stopped at the house, and Barton got out and stood there, sniffing the air.
Stone got out, too. “I’ll take you inside,” he said.
Barton shook his head. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Something.”
5
Barton Cabot was running his hands through his pockets, and after a moment, he came up with a key. “The barn,” he said, turning toward the large outbuilding.
Stone followed him, wondering what the hell was going on. Barton ignored the large barn doors and went instead to a large door on the side of the structure facing the house. He inserted the key in the lock and turned it, but before he opened the door he turned toward Stone.
“Very few people have ever been inside my barn,” Barton said.
Stone shrugged. “If you don’t want me in there, I won’t go in.”
Barton went inside. “Close the door and lock it behind you,” he said.
Stone stepped into an elegant vestibule and reached for the door. To his surprise, it was made of steel and very heavy. He pulled it shut and turned the lock.
Barton opened another door with his key. He passed through it, giving Stone the same instructions.
Stone locked the second door behind him and turned to find himself in nothing resembling a barn, but a large workshop. On one side of the shop was a wall filled with hand tools that seemed to be very old, over a long workbench. He noticed that there didn’t appear to be any power tools. The air was cool and damp. “This isn’t a barn, is it, Barton?” Stone asked.
“No. There used to be a barn on this site, but I tore it down, constructed this building, then reassembled the old barn around it.”
“That’s amazing,” Stone said, “but why?”
“To make antique reproductions and to preserve the wood with which they are made. It’s temperature and humidity controlled.” He led the way to the end of the room and pointed to a wall of racks containing pieces of mahogany and walnut, seemingly from deconstructed furniture. “When I get a piece that’s beyond restoration I conserve the wood,” Barton said. “I’ve been doing this for more than twenty years. I’m a very good woodworker, myself, and I employ two other men who are more highly skilled than I. My greatest value is my eye.”
“Do you sell your pieces as reproductions or as originals?” Stone asked mildly, as if the question were not an insult.
“Depends,” Barton said. “The reproductions we make are from woods of the period and are made with tools, glues and stain formulas of the period. If they stood side by side, it would take a very great expert to pick the original. Viewed singly, hardly anyone alive could authoritatively call one of my pieces anything but an original.”
“Then your pieces must be very valuable,” Stone said.
“You have no idea,” Barton replied. He walked the length of the room and opened another door. “My garage,” he said, looking through the door. “My van is gone.”
“Should it be there?”
“Will you drive me to Danbury? I must buy a new van.”
“Has your van been stolen?” Stone asked.
“I can think of no other reason why it would not be locked in the garage,” Barton replied.
“Then why don’t we report it to the police? Perhaps it will be recovered; then you won’t have to buy a new one.”
“Two reasons,” Barton said. “One: If the van was stolen, I don’t want word to get out, particularly not to the police; two: If the van was stolen, it is probably at the bottom of the East River and, thus, useless to me.”
“I see,” Stone said. “Or I think I see.” He threw up his hands. “Or maybe I don’t see.”
“If the van was stolen, something very valuable was inside,” Barton said.
“What was it?” Stone asked.
Barton didn’t reply. Instead, he went to a cabinet and opened the double doors, revealing a safe, which he opened. He pulled out an inside drawer, removed a key, then crossed the room to a larger pair of doors. He unlocked them and swung them wide open, revealing a closet perhaps eight feet wide and twelve feet high. Inside, the rear wall was hung with still more antique hand tools. “Give me a hand,” Barton said.
“A hand at what?”
“Go to the right side of the wall. There’s a handle, see?”
Stone found the handle.
“There’s one on my side, too. Take hold of yours and pull with me.”
Stone did as he was asked. To his surprise, the rear wall slid out on wheels. Gently, they rolled the wall into the room, a good four feet from the front of the cabinet.
“Now,” Barton said. He stepped behind the wall and flipped a switch. Lights came on.
Stone walked behind the wall and found that it hid a large compartment, in which rested what appeared to be a mahogany secretary, perhaps seven feet tall and four feet wide. It was gorgeous. The soft light brought out tones in the wood that made it extraordinary. “That’s the most beautiful piece of furniture I’ve ever seen,” he said.
“And well it should be,” Barton said. “Help me close it up again.”
Barton switched off the lights, and they moved the wall back into the cabinet. He locked the cabinet and returned the key to the safe, then locked that. “Let’s go into the house,” he said.
Stone followed him out of the barn, and Barton locked the steel doors behind them. He led the way to the house and used the barn key to open a door. They emerged into a modern kitchen, and Barton continued through that room into a handsome study, paneled in old woods, with leather furniture. “I bought this room from a country house in the north of England and reassembled it here,” he said.
“It’s lovely,” Stone said.
“I need a drink.” Barton said, opening cabinet doors to reveal a well-stocked bar. “Would you like something?”
“Thank you, no,” Stone said. “Too early for me.”
Barton poured himself a Scotch, then took a match from a box and lit the fire that had already been laid in the fireplace. “Have a seat,” he said, “and I’ll tell you a story.”
Stone sat down on the leather couch, and Barton took a chair.
“In the mid-eighteenth century a very fine firm of cabinetmakers in Newport, Rhode Island, called Goddard-Townsend, were making some of the finest furniture in colonial America. The traders and sea captains who populated
Newport would bring back mahogany logs from the Caribbean and South America that were nothing like those available today. They were dense and fine-grained, not the spongy, forced-growth trees that make up plantations now, and the furniture of which they were made glowed and smiled at the viewer in a way that can no longer be reproduced. All the best of that wood was gone by the end of the eighteenth century.
“Goddard-Townsend, during the seventeen fifties and sixties, made, among other pieces, a series of mahogany secretaries – probably no more than six or seven. One of these pieces was made for the esteemed Brown family of Newport – Brown University, among other things, was named for them. The piece remained in the family from that time until the late nineteen eighties, when the patriarch, John Nicholas Brown, died. They then emptied out their house in Newport, Harbor Court, and sold it to the New York Yacht Club, which turned the house into their Newport headquarters.
“In 1989, the Brown family put the secretary up for auction at Christie’s. I think they thought it might bring a few hundred thousand dollars. It brought twelve point one million dollars, becoming the most expensive piece of American furniture ever sold at auction.”
Stone blinked at the price. “That’s staggering,” he said.
“I expect it staggered the Browns, too,” Barton said. “Four years ago I came into possession of one of the other Goddard-Townsend secretaries. It had passed through the hands of several families over the centuries, and I bought it privately from a family who were, perhaps, not entirely acquainted with its value. I won’t tell you what I paid for it, but I think that its value at auction will have increased greatly since the Brown secretary was sold in 1989. There are more billionaires around now than then, and they all seem to want eighteenth-century American furniture. The secretary you just saw could very well bring double that of the 1989 sale, if I can establish a good provenance, which is problematical.”
Stone tried to get his mind around that number.
“I brought the secretary here, and my people and I set out to reproduce it. With considerable effort I located some good mahogany. We matched the grains closely to the original and went to work. The project took us more than a year, and when we were finished we had two virtually identical secretaries.”
