by Stuart Woods
“Barton,” Stone said, “is the secretary I just saw in your barn the original or the reproduction?”
Barton ignored the question. “Stone, there are people out there who would kill for this piece of furniture,” he said. “I know, because they nearly killed me. Perhaps they think they did.”
“Barton,” Stone said, “please answer my question: Is that secretary the original or the reproduction?”
Barton sighed and took a swig of his Scotch. “I don’t know,” he said.
6
Stone and Barton left Lake Waramaug and drove to Danbury.
“Barton,” Stone said, “I’m in some doubt as to whether you’ve completely recovered your memory.”
“I’m not entirely certain, myself,” Barton said. “I seem to remember the things I try to, but I don’t know if I’m just avoiding thinking about the things I think I might not remember.”
Stone shook his head. “Let’s start with the basics: If I leave you in Danbury, buying a van, will you be able to find your way home?”
“Yes. I found my way home an hour ago, didn’t I? From what the doctor in New York told me, once memory starts to return, it continues. Maybe it stops, and some things can’t be recovered, but there’s no regression.”
“That makes sense, I guess. I’m just concerned about leaving you alone in Connecticut with no sense of whether you’ll be safe.”
“Safety is a different question,” Barton said. “My safety is in the possibility that whoever put me in the hospital thought he had put me in the grave.”
“You’re speaking in the singular. Was it one man?”
“I don’t know; he was the most convenient pronoun.”
“Do you have any memory at all of how you got into difficulties?”
“No.”
“But you think it was connected with the secretary?”
Barton looked at Stone as if he were a simple child. “There are two secretaries; one of them is gone, and so is my van. What do you deduce from that?”
“All right, all right. Is there a way to figure out whether the one in the barn is the original or the reproduction?”
“I can get my people in there and, among the three of us, we can probably figure that out. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them made some sort of mark on the reproduction.”
“Then I think you should get them in there, so we’ll know which one we’re dealing with.”
“Why? Whoever has the other one won’t be able to tell the difference. No auction house will be able to tell the difference, not that they could auction it without getting caught.”
“So you think it will be disposed of privately?”
“I think whoever did this already had a buyer. If you were a thief of art you wouldn’t bother to steal, say, a Van Gogh, unless you already had a buyer, would you?”
“I guess not, but what about provenance? Won’t the buyer demand it?”
“Either the buyer is an expert or fancies himself one, or he’ll hire an unscrupulous expert to authenticate it. Provenance can be arranged.”
“Is the piece insured?”
“Yes, but only for what I paid for it. That would be unsatisfactory recompense for the effort I’ve put into this project.”
“But you can sell the one you have, can’t you?”
“I always meant to keep the reproduction for myself,” Barton said. “Of course, merely owning the reproduction, keeping it in my house, would keep the insurance company from paying for the theft, because their experts would think it the original.”
“Which it may well be.”
“Yes. I could never let anyone in the house again, unless I represented it as the reproduction, and I couldn’t afford to insure the piece for what it would bring at auction.”
“This is awfully confusing,” Stone said.
“I’m the one who’s supposed to be confused,” Barton said.
“It seems to be contagious,” Stone replied.
Following Barton’s directions, they pulled into a car dealership, and Barton pointed across the lot. “There,” he said, pointing to a line of new vans, “that’s the one I want, the second in line.”
Stone drove him to the showroom. “I’ll wait until you’ve actually bought the van,” he said.
“Don’t worry, I’ve brought my checkbook,” Barton said. “I’ll be out of here in the van in half an hour. Go home, Stone, and I thank you for your help. If my brother should ask, tell him I’m just fine.” He got out of the car, closing the door behind him, and strode toward the dealer’s showroom.
Stone turned around and pointed the car toward I-84 West. He would be home in an hour and a half.
Stone and Dino sat at Elaine’s, eating dinner.
“That’s a weird story,” Dino said. “Can a piece of furniture be worth twenty-five million dollars?”
“Maybe more,” Stone said, “according to Barton.”
“Did you see the news tonight?” Dino asked.
“No.”
“They rescued those people in Afghanistan. Nobody got hurt.”
“So Lance made the right call?”
Dino shrugged. “I guess, unless they ignored his advice.”
“Was there anything on the news or in the afternoon papers about Barton Cabot?”
“No, not a word,” Dino replied.
“That’s kind of odd, isn’t it? It’s a pretty good story.”
“I think it’s only a good story if the press finds out he’s Lance’s brother.”
“Or if they hear about the secretary,” Stone pointed out.
“I’m not talking,” Dino said. “Are you?”
“Nope. Barton hopes whoever attacked him thinks he’s dead.”
“He would be safer if they thought that, I guess,” Dino said.
“And if nobody knows about the secretary he still has, which might be the original.”
“Well, yes, I suppose he would be in a hell of a lot of danger, if that were public knowledge.”
“I’m not talking,” Stone said. “Are you?”
“Nope,” Dino said. “What do you think Barton intends to do about all this?”
“Do about it?”
“Come on, Stone, if you had lost a piece of furniture that might be worth twenty-five million bucks, wouldn’t you do something about it?”
“I’d call the cops and the newspapers and get as much publicity about it as I could. That would make it harder to sell, and if there was already a buyer, it might make him too nervous to complete the sale.”
“So why doesn’t Barton do that?” Dino asked. “If he could get it back, he’d have furniture worth fifty million.”
“Good point.”
“And Barton is a hotshot ex-Marine. That kind of military experience molds a man. Why would he accept being beaten up and left on the street for dead?”
“Another good point,” Stone admitted. “Do you think I should call Lance and tell him about all this?”
“You won’t have to,” Dino said, nodding toward the door. “He just walked in.”
7
Lance pulled up a chair and sat down. He looked uncharacteristi- cally tired and gaunt.
“Congratulations on the extraction of your people,” Stone said.
“Thank you. Where is my brother?”
“At home.”
“At your home?”
“At his home.”
“And where would that be?”
“At 110 North Shore Drive, Warren, Connecticut. I’m sorry, I don’t know the zip code.”
“You left him alone?”
“As far as I could tell, he lives alone; he’s used to it.”
“But how is he?”
“Better. He’s remembered a lot of things.”
“Does he remember what happened to him?”
“Except that.”
“Does he recall what he’s been doing for the past thirty years?”
“We didn’t discuss his history, but from what he did tell me, I think he’s sp
ent a lot of it reproducing and selling antique furniture.”
Lance seemed struck dumb.
“No kidding,” Stone said.
“Reproducing and selling antique furniture,” Lance repeated, tonelessly.
“Apparently, he’s very good at it. He lives in a beautiful house on a lake and has quite an extraordinary workshop, filled with old hand tools. There were no power tools, come to think of it. In fact, he must have done very well; he offered me eight hundred thousand dollars for four of my mother’s paintings. Of course they’re probably worth several times that; I suppose that’s what makes him successful.”
“Are you saying he tried to cheat you?”
“No, I’m just saying he’s good at being an antiques dealer.”
“Does he have a store?”
“If he does, he didn’t mention it, and I didn’t see one.”
“Do you have his phone number?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“When did you leave him?”
“Early this afternoon, in Danbury, buying a new van. His old one disappeared with a valuable piece of furniture in it, around the time he was beaten up.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone being mugged in New York for a piece of antique furniture,” Lance said.
“New York is a big market for antiques,” Stone said.
“Yeah,” Dino chimed in, “people are mugged every day for their cell phones; why not for antique furniture?”
“Right,” Stone said, “especially a piece of antique furniture that may be worth twenty-five million dollars.”
“Or more,” Dino echoed.
Lance looked back and forth at the two, seemingly trying to decide if they were insane. “Are you both insane?” he asked.
“No,” Stone said. “If anybody is insane, it’s your brother. But he seemed lucid to me.”
“And you bought this story about the piece of furniture? How do you know it even exists?”
“Actually, there are two identical pieces of furniture. I saw one of them; I took his word for the other one.”
“What kind of piece of furniture?”
“A mahogany secretary, about seven feet tall by four feet wide, built around 1760 by the firm of Goddard-Townsend of Newport, Rhode Island.”
“I’ve heard something about that,” Lance said. “Didn’t it set some sort of sales record at Sotheby’s?”
“Christie’s.”
“How did Barton get hold of it?”
“Goddard-Townsend built six or seven of them. Barton has two – or rather, one. Maybe. He built the other one himself, with a little help from his friends. Nobody can tell it from the original, maybe even not Barton.”
“Because of his amnesia?”
“Because of the quality of the workmanship, according to Barton. One of them was, apparently, in the van when it was stolen.”
“Which one? The reproduction or the original?”
“Barton doesn’t know. Not that it would matter, since not even an expert can tell the difference.”
Lance put his face in his hands. “This is preposterous,” he said.
“I know just how you feel,” Stone said, “and he’s not even my brother.”
“Is he still in any sort of danger?”
“Not as long as whoever attacked him thinks he’s dead, or doesn’t know about the other secretary.”
“Why does he think the secretary is worth twenty-five million dollars?”
“Because the last one sold brought twelve million, and that was in 1989. Consult the Department of Labor’s consumer price index for the rate of inflation, and ponder on how many crazy billionaires there are running around these days, spending zillions on everything from jet airplanes to New York penthouses. They have to furnish those penthouses with something, don’t they?”
“Stone, if this is some wild tale you’ve dreamed up, I’ll have you shot; I swear I will. I can do that.”
“Lance,” Dino said.
“You, too, Dino.”
“Don’t point that thing at me,” Dino said. “This is Stone’s story; I don’t know any more about it than you do. I have only Stone’s word for it, and… well, you know.”
“Thanks, Dino,” Stone said
“God, I’m tired,” Lance said. “I haven’t slept since the day before yesterday.”
“Lance,” Stone said, “go to my house, find a guest room and get some sleep. There’s a key under the stone lion on the stoop.”
“Maybe,” Lance said.
“What’s the alternative? Faint in the street? You have a car and driver, don’t you?”
“I think so,” Lance said.
Stone thought he was fading fast. “Well, with your last remaining strength, go fall into it and give the driver my address. You know it, don’t you?”
“I used to. Yes, I know it.”
“Quickly, Lance, while your lips will still move.”
Lance nodded, got up and, without another word, walked out of the restaurant.
“It will all seem clearer to him tomorrow,” Dino said.
“No, it won’t,” Stone replied.
8
When Stone got out of the cab in front of his house he saw a huge black SUV idling at the curb. He put his key into the front door lock, turned it and walked into the entrance hall to find a man, braced against the living room doorjamb, pointing an evil-looking automatic weapon at him. “Good evening,” Stone said. “May I direct you to the silver?”
“Let’s see some I.D.,” the man said.
“Go fuck yourself,” Stone said, brushing past him. “I live here, and I’m going to bed.” He got into the elevator and pressed the button. As the door closed, the man was still standing there, pointing the weapon at him, trying to decide whether to fire. Stone didn’t care; it had been a long day.
The following morning, as Stone was finishing breakfast, Lance Cabot came into the kitchen, looking refreshed.
“I borrowed one of your shirts and some underwear,” he said, taking a stool at the kitchen counter.
Helene, Stone’s housekeeper, looked at Lance closely. “You look younger today,” she said.
“Thank you, my dear,” Lance replied, “but that was my elder brother, yesterday.”
“Oh,” Helene said, setting eggs, bacon and a buttered English muffin before him.
“Do you eat this way every day?” Lance asked Stone, as he dug into the food. “Why don’t you weigh four hundred pounds?”
“Slim genes,” Stone said. “Feeling better?”
“Better but not less confused. Give me directions to Barton’s house.”
Stone complied. “Would your jackbooted thugs like some breakfast?”
“They’re very self-sufficient,” Lance replied. “I expect they’ve already eaten.”
“One of them pointed a machine gun at me last night. In my own home.”
“Sorry about that; my new rank requires a complement of security only slightly less unwieldy than that of the president. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“He didn’t fire,” Stone said. “If I had been after you, you’d be dead now.”
“I’m my own last line of defense. Anyway, I told him not to shoot you, or he would have. Believe me.”
“If you say so. I don’t need a demonstration.”
Lance finished his breakfast and turned to his coffee. “That was excellent, my dear,” he said to Helene.
Helene turned red and batted her eyelashes.
“Barton spoke Greek to Helene,” Stone said. “Did you know he could do that?”
“Latin, too,” Lance said, “since prep school. Did Barton say anything about why he left the Marine Corps?” Lance asked.
“I’ve told you everything he said,” Stone replied.
“After I got this job I ordered his service record from the Pentagon, but they said it was sealed.”
“Did they say why?”
“They don’t know why; the management has changed since then. They
just know it’s sealed.”
“The military mind at work.”
“Well, yes, I guess you could call it that. You were inside Barton’s house?”
“Yes. It’s very impressive.”
“Was there any sign of a woman?”
“There was no sign of anyone, but it was very neat, and I doubt that he does his own housework. There must be a woman, even if she’s hired.”
“Come on, Stone, you’re a better observer than that. Tell me something I can use.”
“Use for what?”
“For figuring out what’s going on with Barton.”
“The kitchen has all the latest stainless-steel stuff. He has a study that he imported from a country house in the north of England and reassembled.”
“You’re not being helpful.”
“Those were the only two rooms I was in. For all I know, he has a harem stashed upstairs, or a Boy Scout troop.”
“The harem would be more like him. Barton always liked women.”
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“He often made it a bad thing; it was his only weakness.”
“I don’t know what deductions you expect from me, Lance. He seems to have a lot of money. Did he inherit it?”
“I don’t know; I never saw my father’s will. The banker who was my trustee wouldn’t show it to me. I didn’t get control of my inheritance until I was thirty, and by then I hadn’t seen Barton for years. I don’t know what our father left him.”
“Was your father a wealthy man?”
“He seemed to be. God knows, he lived well. There was the house, I suppose, and there must have been some investments. I mean, he left me something. He was very clever about how he did it. His instructions to his executor, I was told, were to give me as much as I earned each year, so I was twice as well off as my peers. But you don’t earn all that much, working for the government.”
“Well, Barton must have had enough capital to get started in the antiques business. He couldn’t have made all that much in the military.”
“I suppose,” Lance sighed. He stood up. “Well, I’m off to Connecticut to confront my errant brother. I should be saving the world, but I’m going to Connecticut.”
