by Stuart Woods
“And then you will auction everything and quadruple your money?”
“No, I would not like to auction such a collection and have it dispersed. What I had in mind is to interest a major museum in taking everything and, perhaps, re-creating some of your rooms to house a permanent collection.”
“Now that is an interesting idea, Barton,” Mildred said, looking thoughtful. “But why shouldn’t I just leave it all to a museum?”
“Because then you would realize nothing from the transfer of your possessions. You would lose a large annual income. Also, you would find yourself haggling with half a dozen museums over where the collection would go and how it would be displayed.”
Mildred frowned. “God knows I would hate doing that,” she said.
Stone watched as she sat perfectly still, soup spoon in midair for so long that he thought she had had a stroke and become catatonic. Then, suddenly, she spoke. “All right, Barton, I’ll do it,” she said, “in principle, contingent upon the details of your offer. You may have the run of the house this afternoon, or for as long as it takes, to put together your proposal.”
Barton nearly choked on his soup.
Stone had trouble not laughing out loud.
44
When they had finished their Dover sole and drunk their wine, Mildred went upstairs for a nap while Stone sat in a living room chair and wrote down descriptions of pieces and prices as Barton dictated them.
Three hours later, Mildred appeared, just as they were finishing the living room list. “Would you like to see my attic now?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” Barton said.
She led them to an elevator in the hall, they rode it to the top floor of the house, then walked up a flight of stairs. Mildred unlocked the attic door with a very old key, and they stepped inside. “Have a good time,” she said. “Drinks are at six-thirty, dinner at seven. You’ll be staying the night.” It wasn’t a question. She left them.
Barton switched on all the lights, and he and Stone looked around. The attic was as well arranged as a gallery in a museum, except the pieces were closer together. Everything was dusted and polished, and there was none of the clutter one associated with attics. “Stone, I don’t know if you realize this, but you are witnessing something that may never be seen again: the first cataloguing of what is, without doubt, the most important collection of American furniture in existence outside a museum, and only one or two museums might match it.”
“I understand,” Stone replied. He also understood that Barton was beginning the process of making himself the richest antiques dealer in the country.
Barton began moving slowly about the room, dictating to Stone. They were not interrupted until six o’clock, when the maid came into the attic.
“Drinks are in half an hour,” she said. “May I show you to your rooms?”
Barton retrieved his bag from his car, and Stone the small bag containing a couple of fresh shirts, underwear, socks and toiletries that he kept in the trunk of his car for unexpected occasions. They were taken to the third floor of the house and installed in bedrooms.
Stone’s room contained a mahogany secretary that, although smaller than Barton’s piece, seemed just as beautiful, and his bath was a wonderland of Edwardian plumbing. He took a quick shower and changed, then joined Barton downstairs.
Mildred Strong appeared moments later. “Well, gentlemen, how did your afternoon go?”
“Mildred,” Barton said, “you were right about your attic; it’s very impressive.”
“Tomorrow you can do the study, the library and the bedrooms.”
“I look forward to it,” Barton said.
“So do I,” Stone added. “This has been an education for me.”
They dined on cold lobster salad, followed by an expertly prepared chicken breast in a tarragon cream sauce, with haricots verts and pomme soufflé. The wines were a 1959 Puligny-Montrachet Clos des Perrières and a 1945 Lafite Rothschild, something Stone never thought he would taste. He decanted it for Mildred, and there was an inch or so of sediment left in the bottle. It was in perfect condition.
The conversation never touched on Mildred’s possessions but ranged over Newport gossip, sports (Mildred was a big Red Sox fan) and jazz. Stone had little to say; he preferred listening on this occasion.
They talked over coffee until ten o’clock, when Mildred excused herself and retired.
“You must be very happy,” Stone said to Barton when she had gone.
“I’m stunned, frankly,” Barton replied. “I have been since I walked into this house. I’m going to have to sell or mortgage everything I own to make this deal work; that’s if I can sell my banker on a long-term investment.”
“She may outlive you, Barton.”
“That has occurred to me, I assure you.”
“You haven’t asked her about Charlie Crow. That transaction she mentioned must have been with him.”
“I’m afraid to bring it up,” Barton replied. “But after tomorrow, she’ll be protected from his like.”
“She doesn’t seem to need much in the way of protection,” Stone pointed out. “She’s very much in command of herself.”
“She certainly is,” Barton agreed.
They finished their brandy and went upstairs to bed.
The following morning they breakfasted at seven and went to work at seven-thirty, doing the library and the study. They broke for lunch, then went to work on the bedrooms.
At four o’clock they had finished their work and were summoned to tea.
“Well, Barton,” Mildred said, “make me your offer.”
Barton handed her his list and waited while she read it. When she had finished, he said, “Mildred, I will offer you eighteen million dollars for everything on the list, and payments of eight hundred thousand dollars a year.”
Without hesitating, Mildred said, “Make it twenty million and a million a year; I’m fond of round numbers. Shall I call my lawyer?”
“Done, Mildred. Call him.”
The man, apparently alerted, appeared ten minutes later, and Mildred introduced him as Creighton Adams. Stone gave him a copy of the proposed contract, with the blanks filled in, and Barton gave him the list.
“Mrs. Strong,” the man said when he had read everything, “I see no problems with the contract. Are you satisfied with the numbers in it?”
“I am,” she said. “Oh, I know Barton will make a lot of money on the deal – eventually – but I admire his patience and his fortitude to take such a leap. Type it up.”
“I’ll have everything done by nine tomorrow morning,” he said,
“including a codicil to your will, acknowledging the arrangement and instructing your executors.”
Mildred saw him to the door and returned. “I have a dinner invitation this evening,” she said. “Would you two like me to have something prepared for you here, or would you prefer to go out?”
“Thank you, Mildred. I think we’ll go out,” Barton said.
“Then I’ll see you at nine tomorrow morning. I will probably sleep through breakfast.” She excused herself and went upstairs.
“I’ll take you to dinner, Stone,” Barton said. “We’ll celebrate.”
They dined at the Black Pearl, in Newport, ordering steaks and, eventually, two bottles of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame.
“This,” Stone said, tapping the bottle, “is Carla’s favorite, if you don’t already know.”
“I’m happy to have that information,” Barton said. “By the way, bill me for your time at your usual hourly rate; I know this work hasn’t been in your regular line, but you did it well.”
“It was instructive,” Stone said.
At nine o’clock the following morning Creighton Adams arrived with a notary and two associates for witnesses to the codicil. Both Mildred and Barton read the contract and the list, and both signed.
Barton took a checkbook from his pocket and wrote a check for a million dollars. “And another on this date each y
ear,” he said, handing it to Mildred.
“Thank you, Barton, you have made this experience very pleasant.”
Her lawyer and his entourage rose to go, but Mildred waved them back to their seats. “Stay,” she said, “there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you.”
Barton and Stone made their good-byes.
“You’ve been very kind to us,” Stone said, shaking her hand.
“I would like very much to see you again, Stone,” Mildred replied. “You were excellent company.”
As Stone drove back to New York, he reflected that he had never spoken so little in two days. He reckoned that was what had made him such good company.
But, he remembered, he and Barton still did not know why Charlie Crow had visited Mildred Strong and what had transpired at their meeting.
45
Stone was halfway home before he thought of it. He called Bob Cantor.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Stone. Can you still get into people’s bank accounts?”
“Most of the time; depends on which bank it is.”
“I don’t know its name, but it’s an independently owned bank in Bristol, Rhode Island.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Hang on while I look it up.” Cantor clicked some computer keys. “I’ve got the Bristol Trust, the only independent in town. What’s the name on the account?”
“Last name Strong; first name either Mildred or Mrs. Caleb.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know if any deposits were made yesterday or today.”
“Here we go. Only one deposit has been made this month, and that was yesterday, a check in the amount of half a million dollars. Nice deposit, but it’s still uncollected.”
“How long does it take a bank to collect on a deposit?”
“Depends on how hard they’re trying, I guess. I’d allow a week.”
“Any information on the account that the check was drawn on?”
“An account number at the Central Manhattan Bank.”
“Can you see who the account belongs to?”
“Hang on. I’ll have to bust into that bank’s accounts.” More typing. “Well, well, it’s drawn on the account of one Charles Crow.”
“Can you get into that account? I’d like to know of any large deposits this month and where they came from.”
“Gee, you want a lot, don’t you?”
“Always.”
More typing. “Here we are. Charlie deposited half a million bucks yesterday, and… Wow!”
“What?”
“Six and a half million dollars today.”
“From where?”
Much typing. Stone paid attention to not running into the huge truck ahead of him.
“It’s not from a bank; it’s wired from an account in a brokerage firm, Swensen-Styne, a big Internet firm.”
“In whose name?”
“That’s odd. The account name is encoded; all I can see is two series of asterisks with a space in between.”
“How many asterisks?”
“Five in the first group, six in the second.”
“Can you decode it?”
“The short answer is maybe, but it could take days or even longer. You want to pay for that kind of time?”
“No, I don’t,” Stone said. “I’d rather guess.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Abner Kramer.”
“That fits the asterisks, but so would a lot of other names.”
“That’s the only name I care about, at the moment.”
“Whatever you say, Stone.”
“Bye-bye, Bob.”
“See ya.” Cantor hung up.
So did Stone. He checked his watch. Barton Cabot would still be on the road home. He called his cell phone.
“Hello?”
“It’s Stone.”
“Hi. You home already?”
“No. I’m still half an hour away.”
“What’s up?”
“I ran a check on Mildred’s bank account, and yesterday she deposited a check for half a million dollars from Charlie Crow.”
There was a long silence. “Interesting,” Barton said, finally.
“It gets even more interesting. I checked on Charlie’s account, too. Yesterday he deposited a check in his own account for half a million dollars, and – get this – today he received a wire transfer of six and a half million dollars.”
Barton was silent again.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I don’t know, Stone. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that Charlie Crow bought the mahogany secretary that I temporarily stole and delivered to your house from Mildred Strong, then sold it to Ab Kramer for seven million dollars, representing it as the real thing.”
“What about the brass plate on the back of the piece?” Barton asked. “Ab wouldn’t pay seven million dollars for a piece clearly identified as a copy.”
“Charlie would have told Ab that he, himself, put the plate on the piece to disguise the real maker.”
“And why would Ab want it disguised?”
“Because he thinks the secretary is the one Charlie stole from you.”
“Let me get this straight,” Barton said. “You think Charlie stole the secretary from me, then sold Ab a copy, telling him that it was mine, right?”
“Right.”
“That brings to mind two questions: One, if Charlie had my secretary, what has he done with it, and two, what did he buy from Mildred?”
“He bought the Charleston piece from Mildred.”
“And paid her over four hundred thousand dollars more than it was worth? I thought we agreed that Charlie wasn’t stupid.”
“If he’s getting seven million for it, what does he care if Mildred holds him up for an extra three hundred thousand? We already know she’s a shrewd lady.”
“That’s possible, I guess. What’s your answer to my first question?”
“I forgot the question.”
“If all you guess is true, what has Charlie done with my secretary?”
“That remains to be seen. Maybe he has another buyer, one who’s less gullible than Ab Kramer.”
“I would not describe Ab as gullible.”
“Then maybe the secretary that Charlie had delivered to Ab yesterday is your piece, not the one I delivered to you.”
“Then that would still mean that Charlie paid Mildred four hundred thousand dollars too much for the Charleston copy. It’s possible but certainly not plausible. What would he want with a copy anyway, if not to fool Ab? If I’m to put any credence in your theory, I’d have to accept that either Charlie or Ab is a fool, and I can tell you that, from my knowledge of both of them, neither is a fool.”
“Let me think about this some more,” Stone said. He hung up and continued driving home, baffled.
46
Late Sunday morning Stone woke up with a feeling of unease. He was in the shower before he figured out why: The wedding was at two o’clock. Unease turned to dread. Why, he asked himself, had he promised to go to the wretched event? Because, he replied to himself, he didn’t think it would actually happen.
He grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower. She might not show, he pointed out to himself; there was still time. He felt better.
He made himself a large brunch: a bagel, cream cheese and Irish smoked salmon, orange juice and coffee, enough to last him until dinner. The phone rang, and he picked it up.
“Hello?”
“It’s Dino.”
“Hey.”
“You want a ride to the church?” Dino sounded as if he were suppressing laughter.
“Oh, shut up. I’ll take a cab.”
“I just want to be sure you show up; you promised Genevieve, remember?”
“I remember.”
“If you don’t show up, she’ll blame me.”
“Why would she blame you?”
“
For not seeing that you got to the church on time.”
“I’ll manage.”
“I’ll pick you up at one-thirty.”
“Okay.” Stone hung up and looked at the kitchen clock. He had only forty-five minutes. He finished eating, went upstairs and got into a suit and tie and some well-polished black shoes. He was standing outside the house when Dino’s car, driven by his rookie detective, pulled up. Stone got into the backseat with Dino and Genevieve.
“I’m so glad you’re going to the wedding,” Genevieve said.
“I told you I would, didn’t I?”
“Dino said he didn’t think you would.”
Stone leaned forward and glared at Dino, who was sitting on the other side of Genevieve. “Dino was just covering his ass in case I didn’t show,” he said, then leaned back again.
“Did you send a gift?” Dino asked.
“I sent a very nice silver bowl from Tiffany,” he replied acidly.
“Did you have it engraved?” Genevieve asked.
“Of course.”
“With Eliza’s initials or his?”
“With one of each.”
“That’s mean.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Now she can’t take it back.”
“So what?”
“Suppose she decides not to go through with it?”
“Then she’ll still have a very nice silver bowl and a reminder of her former fiancé.”
“You’re hoping she won’t go through with it, aren’t you?”
“I’m hoping no such thing. She’s a free woman, and she can do whatever she wants. She will do whatever she wants.”
“No, she won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“She wants you, not Edgar.”
“She told you that?”
“She didn’t have to.”
“You divined it, then?”
“I know her very well.”
“I thought I did, too. I thought she’d never marry a doctor.”
“She may not.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
