Hot Mahogany

by Stuart Woods

  “Would you like some coffee?” Barton asked.

  “Perhaps later,” Cavanaugh said. “Let’s get started.”

  “Stone and I will sit quietly while you and Julian examine the pieces,” Barton said. “When you’re done here, I’ll take you through the other rooms.”

  Armed with their copy of Barton’s prospectus, the two men began their tour of the living room, piece by piece, while the photographer started taking pictures of the room and the individual pieces.

  Barton drank coffee while Stone read the Times. He was about to start on the crossword when Cavanaugh finally spoke to them.

  “May we see the library and the dining room now, please?” he said.

  “Of course,” Barton replied. “Right this way.” He led them out of the living room, and Stone started on the crossword. Half an hour later the three men came out of the library and took the elevator upstairs.

  Stone had finished the crossword and was looking idly about the living room when they returned.

  “Now I’d like some coffee,” Cavanaugh said.

  Barton filled their cups from the heated urn, and they all sat down.

  “First of all, Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “there is a piece missing: the Goddard-Townsend secretary.”

  “Ah, yes, the secretary. I have already removed that to my home in Connecticut.”

  Stone tensed at this, feeling they might suddenly be in deeper water.

  “I’m still not certain whether I will offer the secretary as part of the collection,” Barton said. “I may retain it and sell it at a later date.”

  “Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “I would regard the collection as incomplete without the secretary.”

  “I can understand how you might feel that way, Peter,” Barton replied. “I’m prepared to consider including it in the sale, but that will depend on your willingness to address its proven value.”

  “I came here willing, upon a careful inspection of the collection, to offer you forty-five million dollars.”

  Barton shrugged. “That is a figure nearly high enough for the collection, without the secretary.”

  “The proven value of the secretary is twelve million dollars.”

  “That was in 1989,” Barton said, “and the number at that time was twelve point one million. Need I point out that fine American pieces are bringing a great deal more now than they did then and, moreover, that a private collector bought the last Goddard-Townsend secretary? There are a great many more billionaire private collectors around now than then. I should think a well-publicized auction might result in a bidding frenzy that could well bring double the last price for such a piece.”

  Cavanaugh and Whately exchanged a long glance. Whately gave a tiny shrug.

  “All right, Barton, tell me what you want for the lot, including the secretary.”

  “If you require me to name a number, Peter, that will be the price, without further negotiation. You will have to take it or leave it.”

  “What is the number?”

  “First of all there are conditions beyond the price.”

  “What are they?”

  “I want the pieces in the living room, library and dining room to be permanently displayed at the Metropolitan in replicas of the original rooms. If you wish, you may alternate pieces from the bedrooms and the attic in replicas of other rooms, as space allows. I want the collection to be called the Caleb and Mildred Strong Collection, and I want my name under theirs as originating curator. After that, you may list the name or names of benefactors.”

  Cavanaugh looked at Whately and got a small nod, then he turned back to Barton. “The name or names of benefactors may have to be listed in such a way as to be equal to those of the Strongs.”

  Barton nodded his agreement.

  “Are there any other conditions?”

  “The collection must remain in my possession, housed in a suitable, secured facility for one year, after which the sale will close.”

  “You’re thinking of the capital gains tax?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “Of course.”

  “It will take us at least that long to arrange space and build the rooms, anyway, so that is acceptable.”

  “And you will pay for insurance and security.”

  “In that case, we would have to house the collection in the museum’s storage areas. We could say that you’re loaning the collection to us for a year, in order to satisfy your tax requirement. Perhaps we could display a few of the more important pieces, like the secretary, with our current collection.”

  Barton looked at Stone questioningly. “Would lending them the collection for a year satisfy the capital gains requirement?”

  “I’m not an accountant or tax lawyer, but I believe so.”

  “Also, Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “such an arrangement would dictate that we pay the full price of the collection at the time of closing. That way, you would not have to pay the full income tax on a down payment.”

  Barton thought about this for a long moment.

  Stone knew he was thinking about the nineteen million dollars he needed to close the deal, and that he didn’t have.

  “Barton,” he said, “perhaps you should ask for a down payment and accept the tax consequences.” He was sure Barton knew exactly what he meant.

  “No, Stone. Peter is right. We’ll close on the full amount in a year.”

  Stone nodded, but he had to wonder where Barton was going to come up with the nineteen million by Tuesday.

  “Now, Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “the number?”

  “Seventy million dollars, but I will make a donation to the Metropolitan of five million, upon close of the sale. And in any publicity, interviews or conversations about the sale, you will state that the secretary accounted for twenty-five million of the seventy million dollars you paid.”

  Cavanaugh looked at Barton appraisingly for a long moment, then he said, “Agreed, upon the condition of inspection of the secretary by Julian and me.”

  “When?”

  “Julian and I are both coming to a dinner party at Abner Kramer’s house on Saturday night. I understand that you live nearby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we could inspect the piece that afternoon?”

  “Yes, that’s agreeable. Stone and I will be at that dinner, too, and I would be very pleased if you and Julian and your wives or companions, if they are coming, would be my guests overnight or for the weekend, if you like.”

  “Thank you, Barton, that would be most agreeable.”

  “Then, Peter,” Barton said, “let’s fill in the blanks in that agreement in your pocket and get it signed.”

  And they did so.

  58

  Stone and Barton stood on the sidewalk outside Mildred Strong’s house and watched the two men from the Met drive away.

  “That was quite a performance,” Stone said.

  “The performance of my life,” Barton said, mopping his brow. “I’m still sweating.”

  “You can retire after this one,” Stone said.

  “Oh, no. I’m going to copy a few of Mildred’s pieces while I still own them, and selling them should keep me busy for a few years.”

  “Have you figured out what sort of deal Charlie Crow and Mildred made?”

  “I think so, but we’ll know for sure on Saturday night.”

  “Why is Ab Kramer collecting you, Cavanaugh and Whately at the same dinner party?”

  “I think because he has something he wants to show us,” Barton said.

  Before Stone could ask what, or how he was going to come up with nineteen million dollars, Barton shook his hand and drove away.

  Stone arrived home, garaged his car and entered his office the back way. Joan immediately came into the office.

  “There’s a Mr. Henry Kennerly to see you,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “I believe that’s the gentleman who is accusing you of adultery with his wife?”

  “I believe you’re right,” Stone s
aid. “Wait until I buzz you, then show him in and stick around while I talk to him. I want a witness.”

  “Whatever you say,” Joan replied, then went back to her desk.

  Stone took off his jacket and tie and hung them up, then he opened his desk drawer and took out two rolls of quarters, putting a roll in each of the front pockets of his trousers. He buzzed Joan. She opened the door to Stone’s office and showed the man in, then stood next to the door.

  Henry Kennerly was even bigger than Stone remembered from his sighting at Elaine’s. He was at least two inches taller than Stone and forty pounds heavier, and it wasn’t all fat. He had a longer reach, too, Stone observed. He had known people like Kennerly before, starting in the schoolyard: bigger than everybody else and meaner, and accustomed to pushing people around.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kennerly,” Stone said. “Now kindly leave my offices at once. You are unwelcome here.”

  Kennerly moved his right hand. There was a click, and a steel police baton telescoped to its full length.

  Stone stood up, put his hands in his pockets and walked around his desk. “You’d better make your first swing count,” Stone said, “because you’re not going to get a second one. After that, I’m going to punish you for invading my offices and refusing to leave when asked, while my secretary calls the police.”

  “I don’t care if she does,” Kennerly said. “I’m going to beat you to a pulp.”

  “Thank you for that warning. Did you hear that, Joan?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “As soon as this is over call nine-one-one. And, Mr. Kennerly, if you don’t mind a little free legal advice, possession by a civilian of the baton you’re holding is a felony in New York City. You’ll be charged with aggravated assault.”

  “It’ll be worth it,” Kennerly said, advancing. He was big, but not very fast, and his body language telegraphed his move. He swung the baton in a wide arc at Stone’s head.

  Stone removed his hands from his pockets, stepped into the move and ducked as the thing whistled past him. With a roll of quarters in each hand, he swung twice, first straight into the man’s solar plexus. With Kennerly’s weight moving toward him, that brought him to his knees. Then Stone walked behind him and punched him in the back of the neck, and the big man fell forward onto his face, stunned.

  Joan left the room.

  Stone went to his desk, put the quarters in a drawer and took out his old NYPD handcuffs. He walked over to Kennerly, put a knee on his back to pin him in place and cuffed him.

  Joan walked back into the office. “I saw it all,” she said. “The police are on their way.”

  “Thank you, Joan,” Stone said. He sat down at his desk and called Dino.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “It’s Stone.”

  “Hi.”

  “You remember that gorgeous woman you met at dinner?”

  “How could I forget? Oh, I’m sorry about Genevieve’s behavior. That’s been straightened out.”

  “Thanks. Speaking of straightening out, the lady’s soon-to-be ex-husband, one Henry Kennerly, is lying on the floor of my office. He came in here, threatened to beat me to a pulp and assaulted me with a perfectly illegal police baton, which I think qualifies nicely as a deadly weapon. I disarmed him and cuffed him, and Joan has called nine-one-one, having witnessed the whole business. I just wanted you to know that he’ll be at the precinct soon, and I’ll come in later and sign the complaint.”

  “I’ll fill it out for you. You want me to forge your signature?”

  “Sure, why not, and I wouldn’t mind if it took a while to process him. See if you can house him with one or more persons he won’t feel very comfortable with; I want this to be an unforgettable experience for him.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I know his lawyer’s name, because he had me served yesterday.” Stone gave him the name. “Call him when Mr. Kennerly feels well enough to ask for his attorney.”

  “Will do.”

  “See you at dinner?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Stone hung up. Kennerly was stirring now, and swearing. A moment later Joan led two police officers into the room.

  “This our guy?” one of them asked.

  “That’s the assailant,” Stone replied. “I’d appreciate it if you’d use your cuffs and give me mine back.” He gave them an account of the incident, Joan backed it up, then the two cops recuffed Kennerly, stood him up and frog-marched him out of the room.

  “I’ll get you for this!” Kennerly screamed on his way out.

  “Please make note of that threat,” Stone called to the cops and got a thumbs-up in return.

  Stone went back to his desk and called Tatiana.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Stone. Good news: Henry just came over here and took a swing at me with a club.”

  “Oh, Stone, I’m so sorry. Are you badly hurt?”

  “Not at all. I said it was good news. He’s on the way to the police station now, and I imagine it will be some hours before his attorney can bail him out. Call your lawyer and tell him to add assault with a deadly weapon to Henry’s list of misdeeds.”

  “I will do so immediately.”

  “I think your settlement problems will all be over before the weekend, to which I am greatly looking forward.”

  “And I as well.”

  “Pick you up Saturday morning at ten?”

  “See you then.”

  Stone hung up, feeling he had done a good day’s work.

  59

  On Saturday morning Stone collected first Tatiana from her home and then Carla from the Carlyle, and they headed north to Litchfield County.

  The two women chatted amiably, which was good, as long as they weren’t chatting about him. He hated the thought of the two of them in the ladies’ room together.

  “How much longer are you singing at the Carlyle?” Tatiana asked.

  “I’ve just finished three months in the Bemelmens Bar,” Carla said, “and, after a few weeks’ rest and preparation, I’m moving into the Café Carlyle, across the hall, with a bigger backup group, and we’ll be there through New Year’s Eve.”

  “That sounds like a wonderful step up,” Tatiana said.

  “It certainly is a promotion, and the money’s better, too. And I’ll like having a six-piece group backing me, instead of just a bass player. The arrangements are being written now.”

  They drove on, and the conversation fell away in favor of exclamations about the increasingly beautiful fall foliage as they headed north. Finally, they arrived at Barton’s house, and he came out the kitchen door to greet them.

  “Stone, Peter Cavanaugh and Julian Whately will be staying over tonight – no women or companions along this time – so will you and Tatiana come over around six for a drink?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Peter will have the final contract ready for our signatures, and we’ll have plenty of witnesses. “I’d also like your help in showing them the mahogany secretary.”

  “I’ll be glad to help.” Stone got Carla’s bags from the car, then he and Tatiana continued to his house.

  “So,” Tatiana asked, “who will be at dinner tonight?”

  “The four of us, plus Peter Cavanaugh, director of the Metropolitan Museum, and his furniture expert, Julian Whately,” Stone said. “Then there’ll be our hosts, Abner Kramer and his wife, and, I suspect, Mr. and Mrs. Charlie Crow.”

  “Oh, God,” Tatiana said. “I have to deal with them again?”

  “I think they’re going to have very little to say this evening. The subject is going to be furniture, which is a little out of Charlie’s line.”

  “Do we have time for a, ah, nap before cocktails?”

  “Oh, yes, plenty of time.”

  They arrived at the house; he gave her a quick tour, then took their luggage upstairs. In a moment, they were in each other’s arms.

  Darkness came early, since they were back on standard time, and
the night was chilly but bright, with many stars and a waning but still bright moon. The moonlight glittered on the lake as they drove along its shores to Barton’s little peninsula.

  Everyone else had gathered in the study for drinks by the time they arrived, and a roaring fire had taken the chill from the air. They were given drinks and fell to talking, mostly about furniture.

  “Barton,” Peter Cavanaugh asked, “what do you think Ab Kramer has in mind for this evening?”

  “I think he plans to impress us, especially you and Julian.”

  “Has he bought something new?”

  “He has a Goddard-Townsend mahogany desk and bookcase,” Barton replied, “one almost as nice as your new one.”

  “Oh? Two popping up at once?”

  “Well, not exactly, since Ab’s secretary is a fake.”

  “How do you know that?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “Because I made it myself, in my workshop.”

  “Really? Does Ab know it’s a fake?”

  “Well, since he didn’t buy it from me, I don’t know what provenance the seller offered him. He’ll be looking for approval from you and Julian, so please, don’t puncture his balloon and his ego. I think he’ll be happy, if you’re just noncommittal.”

  “As you wish, Barton. Now, are you ready to show us the real thing?”

  “Of course. Let’s go out to the barn, and bring your drinks.” Barton lead them out through the kitchen door to the barn, unlocked its massive door and showed everyone inside.

  “This is quite a barn,” Cavanaugh said, looking around.

  “Yes, we’ve done a lot of good work here. Stone, will you give me a hand, please?”

  Barton and Stone unlocked the large cabinet, removed the false back wall and rolled out the Goddard-Townsend secretary on its dolly into a carefully designed pool of light, then stepped away.

  Cavanaugh and Whately circled the piece slowly, taking it all in, then Cavanaugh stood back while Whately circled it again with a pocket flashlight and a small magnifying glass.