Hot Mahogany

by Stuart Woods

  Stone stood next to Carla, who was watching everything with interest. “I believe I know your secret,” Stone said to her.

  She looked at him appraisingly. “Secret?”

  “I thought Peter Cavanaugh came up with seventy million dollars awfully quickly.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Carla said.

  “Of course you would, since you got Eduardo to put up the money.”

  “Shhhh,” she whispered. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve known Eduardo for some years, as you well know, and I know that he’s on the board of the Metropolitan and one of its most generous contributors for special projects.”

  “Don’t you tell Barton,” she hissed.

  “I won’t, if you’ll tell me how much Eduardo committed to.”

  “Eighty million,” she whispered, “and don’t you tell Barton that, either.”

  “I promise,” Stone said.

  Finally, Whately came and stood beside Cavanaugh, and Stone found himself holding his breath.

  “Magnificent,” Whately said, “and in absolutely outstanding condition, the result, no doubt, of having been in one house since it was made.”

  Cavanaugh clapped Whately on the back. “My judgment, precisely,” he said. He turned to the others and raised his glass. “A toast,” he said, “to the good eye and prescient judgment of the Met’s friend, Barton Cabot, not to mention his perfect timing in acquiring Mildred Strong’s collection. May we always be friends and colleagues.”

  Stone took a large swig of his drink, greatly relieved. They went back into the house, Stone read the contract, and it was duly signed and witnessed.

  They trooped over to Ab Kramer’s place, Cavanaugh and Whately in Stone’s car, since Barton was driving his usual van. This was the first time Stone had approached the house through the front gate, and the landscaping and well-lighted exterior made the place all the more impressive.

  They were received on the front steps by Abner Kramer and his beautiful wife, and hands were shaken all around. They were led inside to an entrance hall, where Charlie Crow and his blonde bombshell awaited them. A butler took their coats, and they were led into the living room for cocktails.

  The butler and a maid served them champagne or poured drinks, while another maid circled with a silver bowl of beluga caviar on a tray, with small buckwheat pancakes and condiments. Stone reckoned there was two thousand dollars’ worth of caviar in that bowl, and he dug in enthusiastically.

  After a couple of drinks they were called to dinner, and Stone was happy to be seated between Tatiana and Mrs. Kramer, whose conversation was of art and the needs of the Metropolitan. It seemed likely Ab Kramer expected to be hit up for a donation before the evening was out.

  After dessert, Peter Cavanaugh stood with his glass. “Ab, Charlotte, if you will permit me, I’d like to make an announcement. This won’t be made public for a few weeks, so I would be grateful for your discretion.” There were murmurs of agreement, then Cavanaugh continued. “I’d like you all to be the first to know that the Metropolitan Museum of Art has today, with the brilliant participation of our friend, Barton Cabot, acquired the largest and most perfect collection of eighteenth-century American furniture in the United States: the collection of Mildred Strong of Bristol, Rhode Island.”

  There was glad applause from everyone, then Cavanaugh continued. “I wish I could take you there and show it all to you tonight, but that will have to wait for a year or so, while the Metropolitan clears gallery space and constructs replicas of the principal rooms of Mrs. Strong’s house, where the collection will be housed and displayed. I assure you, you will all be invited to the opening. Thank you.”

  Cavanaugh sat down, and Ab Kramer stood and gave a brief but charming response. Then his wife invited the ladies to join her for coffee, in the manner of an English country house, while the gentlemen retired to Mr. Kramer’s study for half an hour of brandy and cigars.

  As the butler opened the double doors, the men filed into the room to find, perfectly lit, the second Goddard-Townsend secretary some of them had seen that evening.

  Everyone politely examined the secretary, and Julian Whately and Peter Cavanaugh gave it particularly close scrutiny. Finally, they pulled back, gazed at the piece and simultaneously nodded.

  “An exceptional piece, very fine,” Whately said.

  “Absolutely,” Cavanaugh concurred.

  Stone made his own cursory inspection, feeling behind the piece for the brass plate. It was not there. He opened a couple of drawers and looked at the dovetailing, then joined the others as the cigars and brandy were passed.

  Stone, who despised cigars, sat next to Barton, who didn’t smoke. “Since it’s practically indistinguishable from the other secretary,” he whispered, “why didn’t they think it was the genuine article?”

  “Because,” Barton said, “if you ask an expert to authenticate a piece, presenting it as genuine, he will look for evidence that it’s a fake. But, if you tell him it’s a fake, he will not contradict you.”

  60

  Peter Cavanaugh turned to Abner Kramer. “Ab, do you mind if Julian and I have a look at some of your pieces in the living room?”

  Kramer stood up. “Not at all. I’ll give you the tour.”

  Cavanaugh held up a hand. “No, no, we’d just like to wander. You attend to your other guests.”

  “As you wish,” Kramer said, sitting down.

  Cavanaugh gave Barton a wink as he and Whately left the room, leaving Stone and Barton alone with Kramer and Crow.

  Barton spoke first. “Ab, I assume you have provenance for your piece.”

  “Of course,” Kramer replied, “would you like to see it? I’d appreciate your opinion on its authenticity.”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  Kramer walked across the room to his desk, opened a drawer, removed an unsealed envelope and brought it to Barton.

  Barton opened the envelope and read the two sheets of paper inside. He shook his head. “Ab, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but I’m very much afraid you’ve been defrauded.”

  “Impossible,” Kramer said. “That bill of sale and letter are on Mildred Strong’s own letterhead, in her own handwriting, which I’ve had authenticated by an expert.”

  “Oh, it’s Mildred’s stationery and handwriting,” Barton said, “but it’s a fraudulent bill of sale.”

  Kramer looked a little concerned now. “Why would you say that, Barton?”

  Barton turned to Crow. “Charlie, when did you remove the secretary from Mrs. Strong’s house?”

  “Why, the following afternoon,” Crow replied, but there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  “That’s impossible, Ab,” Barton said. “You see, Stone and I were in the house that afternoon and for all of the next day, making an inventory of Mildred’s collection, and Charlie was never in the house.”

  “That’s a lie!” Crow said angrily.

  “And how much did you pay Mildred for her secretary, Charlie?”

  “A very high price, I assure you.”

  “Ab, you know that to be a lie, because you paid Charlie seven million dollars for the piece.” Barton held up a hand. “Please don’t deny it. I sold the Met Mildred’s secretary today for twenty-five million dollars. Peter will confirm that, if you like. And her piece is safely locked away in a secure location.”

  Kramer turned and looked at Crow. “Charlie?”

  “Don’t bother asking Charlie,” Barton said. “He’ll just keep lying to you. Charlie didn’t buy any piece of furniture from Mildred. What he bought was this.” He held up the envelope containing Mildred’s letter. “It cost her nothing to write it, and she gained half a million dollars. She would never allow Charlie to walk away with the centerpiece of her beloved collection.”

  “Then how did you get the whole collection?” Kramer demanded.

  “I offered her a million dollars a year for the rest of her life, and the balance of the agreed sum to her estate upon
her death.”

  “I’m sorry, Barton,” Kramer said, collecting himself. “But you can’t prove any of this. It’s your word against Charlie’s, and I choose to believe him.”

  “Ab, Charlie and some friends of his beat me up and stole that secretary from me, and I can prove it. If you will go to the piece and remove the left-hand drawer, you will find my initials burned into the back side of it.”

  Kramer stared at Barton for a moment, then went to the secretary and removed the drawer. He looked at it, then turned to Crow. “The initials are there. Charlie, how could Barton’s initials be there, unless he had had possession of the secretary before you did?”

  “Come on, Ab. You didn’t care where I got it,” Crow said.

  Barton spoke again. “Ab, I know you are in a difficult position, but I want to offer you a way out of it. You have three choices, really: One, Stone and I can load the piece into my van and return it to my home; two, you can write me a check for twenty million dollars and right now; three… well, that choice would involve the police and the newspapers, and I could write a very interesting article for Antiques magazine. But Peter and Julian will tell you that twenty million is a cheap price for a Goddard-Townsend secretary. They paid twenty-five million dollars for theirs, thus establishing a market.”

  Stone now knew why Barton had specified a value for the piece in the contract with the Metropolitan.

  “But I’ve already paid Charlie seven million dollars for it,” Kramer said.

  “That, I’m afraid, is between you and Charlie,” Barton said. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to extract it from him.”

  Charlie had gone very quiet and was staring at the floor.

  Kramer thought about it for a minute, then went back to his desk, removed a large alligator-bound checkbook from a drawer, wrote a check and took it to Barton. “I’ll need Monday to move the money from my brokerage account,” he said.

  “Of course,” Barton said, accepting the check. “You may have until three o’clock Monday afternoon to move the money, and at that time I’ll provide you with a genuine provenance for the piece. I’m sure you no longer wish to be associated with Charlie’s fraudulent one.” He tucked the documents Mildred had sold Crow into his pocket, along with Kramer’s check.

  Cavanaugh and Whately returned to the study. “Beautiful things, Ab,” Cavanaugh said. “I hope you’ll think of giving the museum some of them at some future date.”

  “I’ll consider that, Peter,” Kramer said. He seemed to have recovered from the shock of writing the check.

  The women rejoined them, and they chatted for another hour, then the guests took their leave.

  Back in Barton’s study, Stone took his host aside. “So the secretary you said was made in Charleston was yours all along.”

  “Yes,” Barton replied, “it was. I thought I could get more from Ab for the piece by exposing Charlie than by auctioning it.”

  “And, of course, you would save the million dollars you promised me for finding it.”

  Barton looked stricken. “I really must apologize for that, Stone. I never intended to withhold your reward.”

  “Then you won’t mind writing me a check now, will you?”

  Barton swallowed hard. “Of course not,” he sighed. He went to his desk, wrote the check and handed it to Stone. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to avoid paying you.”

  “Oh, I was certain you wouldn’t do that,” Stone said. He reached into his pocket and removed a small leather pouch and dangled it from its string. “Otherwise, I’d be minting my own very rare twenty-dollar gold pieces.” He dropped the pouch into Barton’s hand. “I found it in a drawer of Ab’s secretary when I was examining it.”

  Barton smiled and slipped the die into his own pocket. “Then I think our business is concluded, and now we can concentrate on being friends.”

  “I’d like that, Barton,” Stone said, tucking the check away.

  EPILOGUE

  On Monday morning in New York, after a good breakfast at Stone’s house, Tatiana called her attorney and spoke briefly with him, then hung up the phone. “Henry has agreed to my settlement terms,” she said, smiling. “I think his night in jail made him more reasonable.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” Stone said, kissing her. “You’ll soon be a free woman.”

  “I’m looking forward to that,” Tatiana said. “Now, I must go home and get some things done.”

  “Dinner tonight?” Stone asked.

  “Of course,” she replied. “I’m going to be taking up most of your dinner hours from now on.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Stone replied. He walked her over to her house through the garden and set her luggage in the kitchen, then returned to his own house and went into his office. He read slowly through the Times and stopped at the business section. A headline on the first page caught his eye.

  KRAMER COMPANY JOINS DEAL amp; CROW IN REAL ESTATE VENTURE

  Abner Kramer, in a fax to this newspaper on Sunday afternoon, announced that he had paid Charles Crow of the new firm of Deal amp; Crow seven million dollars for two hundred thousand of Mr. Crow’s personal shares in the new company, which will have a public offering next month. Observers were surprised at the transaction, since Mr. Crow might have profited by retaining his shares for the IPO.

  The rest of the piece didn’t matter. Ab Kramer had extracted his pound of flesh from Charlie Crow’s carcass.

  Joan came in with the mail, and Stone handed her Barton Cabot’s check. “Please deposit this,” he said. “Then write Dino a check for two hundred thousand and one to Bob Cantor for fifty thousand. Then give the IRS their share.”

  “Good,” Joan said. “What’s left will just about cover the bill on top of your mail.” She went back to her office.

  Stone opened the envelope and found the invoice for the conversion of his airplane to a turboprop. Joan was right; what was left of Barton’s money would just about cover it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Goddard-Townsend desk and bookcase is real, and the one sold at Christie’s in June 1989 actually brought $12.1 million, at that time the highest price ever paid for a piece of American furniture. I am told that it was bought by a member of a Texas oil family and, indeed, now stands in a house that rests upon the San Andreas Fault in California.

  I am grateful to my friend Nick Brown, who sold the desk at Christie’s, for sending me to Dean Failey, the gentleman who was in charge of arranging the sale. Mr. Failey was extraordinarily helpful to me in learning about the piece and its sale.

  Before selling the secretary, Nick Brown had a replica built by a very fine cabinetmaker for a rumored price of $38,000. I tried very hard to learn the name and address of the maker, but neither Nick nor Mr. Failey nor Christie’s nor Google was able to help me. Mr. Failey did, however, tell me of the maker’s search in Central or South America for the perfect mahogany tree and of its delivery to the United States disguised as a shipping crate, and I have shamelessly adapted that story to my own ends in this book. Whoever and wherever the gentleman is, I thank him.

  I am, once again, grateful to my agent, Morton Janklow, of Janklow amp; Nesbit, and especially to his principal associate, Anne Sibbald, and to all the other folks at J amp;N for their hard work on my behalf over the past twenty-seven years.

  I am grateful, too, to my publisher, Ivan Held; to Michael Barson, head of publicity at Putnam, and his hardworking staff (Michael also works hard); and, especially, to my editor, the incredibly light-fingered Rachel Kahan, for her support and guidance.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

  However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I hav
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