Shakeup

by Stuart Woods

  “Then you will not know about Mr. Bing.”

  “Know what?”

  “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Craft, but we have been informed by our London office that Mr. Bing and his wife were shot and killed in their home this morning, while having breakfast. Their apartment was ransacked.”

  Eddie thought about that. They would have been through the Chunnel by that time.

  A man came into the room and handed Eddie a document.

  “Your deposit receipt, sir.”

  Wirtz handed Eddie a small document case, bound in alligator leather. “Here are your checkbooks, a debit/ATM card, which you must sign, your PIN number, and a bankbook, indicating your balance. You may write checks in any currency, anywhere in the world and the bank will automatically give you the best exchange rates upon receipt.”

  Eddie accepted the document case, but his mind was spinning. “Do you have any other details of Mr. Bing’s death?”

  Wirtz shrugged. “I’m afraid not. But Mr. Bing has been known, at times, to deal with people who are, shall we say, unorthodox. It is my supposition that you and Mr. Bing have had business?”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “Have you booked a hotel room in Zurich?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bing booked it for us.”

  “Then I would advise that you not keep the reservation, don’t cancel, just ignore it.” He took a notepad and wrote down a name and address. “This is a small, private hotel owned by a friend of ours, in the western suburbs of the city. I will book you a room there. Tomorrow, you should leave Switzerland. Paris is nice this time of year, I believe.”

  Eddie shook his hand and was escorted from the building by the uniformed man. He handed Shelley the address of their new hotel.

  “Please enter this in the GPS.”

  “We’re changing hotels?”

  “I’ll explain it to you later.”

  The GPS came to life and began issuing instructions. Eddie followed them to their new hotel. He parked, and a doorman dealt with the luggage. Once in their suite, he sat Shelley down and told her what had happened.

  Shelley took it like a champ, Eddie thought.

  “Are we in any danger, Eddie?” she asked.

  “No one in the world knows where we are,” he said, “except our new banker, who made the reservation for us. When we leave here tomorrow morning, even he won’t know where we’re headed.”

  “All right,” Shelley said. “If you’re not worried, I’m not worried.”

  49

  Stone sat down to dinner with Felicity and the Bacchettis.

  “How are you feeling?” Viv asked.

  “Normal,” Stone said, “and I’ve remembered something: two names, Alfie and Eddie. They were spoken when I was out, or nearly so.”

  “Spoken by whom?” Felicity asked.

  “A man’s voice. British, I think.”

  “Eddie is probably the guy the feds are looking for,” Dino said.

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Craft.” He turned to Felicity. “He’s somebody who may know something about a crime in the States.”

  “I can have him looked up,” Felicity said. “Excuse me for a moment.” She left the room.

  “That’s not much to go on,” Stone said.

  “You came here expecting a burglar,” Dino said, “and one found you. You were also looking for a burglar named Eddie. Sounds like a good lead to me.”

  Felicity returned and took her seat. “Mr. and Mrs. Craft arrived the day before yesterday,” she said, “and immediately went to ground. They’re not registered at any hotel in the U.K.”

  “That was my information,” Stone said.

  “We’ve also taken note—in the dim past—of a burglar named Alfie Bernstein,” she said. “He disappeared nearly twenty years ago after completing a prison sentence.”

  “If he disappeared, he would have changed his name,” Viv said.

  “No doubt, but we’ve no idea of that name,” Felicity said. Her phone rang. “I’ll just take this here, if that’s all right,” she said. “Yes?” she listened carefully, then hung up. “A new Mercedes was registered yesterday to an Edward Craft, at an address in Belgrave Square,” she said. “The leaseholder’s name is Alfred Bing, who has no record with the police or anybody else, except . . .”

  “Except what?” Stone asked.

  “Except that Mr. Bing and Mrs. Bing were murdered in that same flat this morning, while breakfasting.”

  Stone blinked. “And where were Mr. and Mrs. Craft at the time of the murder?”

  “They left the country on the seven AM Chunnel this morning,” Felicity said. “So, they’re somewhere in Europe in their new Mercedes. I’ve noted the registration number.”

  “Then they must have left London very early this morning—certainly no later than five-thirty,” Stone said.

  “Just so,” Felicity replied. “They are not suspects in the deaths of the Bings.”

  Dinner arrived, and they gave it their attention. When they were on coffee, Stone said, “I should phone in this information to the FBI.” His turn to leave the room. He called Maren Gustav and filled her in.

  “I’m impressed,” she said. “How would you like to become an FBI special agent?”

  “Less than almost anything in the world,” Stone replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I still have dinner guests to attend to.” He hung up and returned to the library.

  Felicity was on the phone again, listening intently. Finally, she hung up. “My people have had a word with the New Scotland Yard,” she said. “The Bing flat in Belgrave Square was stuffed with objets d’art and paintings. More than a dozen pieces and pictures have been identified as stolen—and that’s just for a start. They have another forty or so to check out.”

  Stone stared at his mother’s four pictures on the wall. “I mentioned this before, but now I’m sure. Those pictures are in a different order than they were when we got here.”

  “Yes,” Felicity said, “you did mention that, but you had recently been rendered unconscious, so I dismissed the thought.”

  “Let me get some tools,” Stone said, and left the room with a sinking feeling in his heart. He was already thinking about how to recover those pictures.

  * * *

  —

  At that moment, Eddie and Shelley were dining at the Hôtel Ritz, in Paris. They were occupants of a handsome suite, and their new Mercedes was tucked away in the hotel’s garage.

  “Eddie,” Shelley said. “Aren’t we a little exposed here?”

  “No, because I checked in under the name of Charles Gwynne. I happened to have a spare passport in that name. So do you, but I haven’t given it to you yet. You’re Claire Gwynne. We’ll have to get you a wedding ring tomorrow. We’ll need to lift a license plate from a similar Mercedes, as well.”

  * * *

  —

  Stone unfastened the fourth picture and set it on the floor beside the others. He freed one from its frame and examined it closely, then he turned it over and inspected the back of the painting. He set that down and inspected the other three in the same way. “I must say, I thought I had this figured out, but I don’t.”

  “Explain, please,” Felicity said.

  “Well, I was—due to circumstances beyond my control—alone in a room for some time with two professional thieves, who had, presumably, come here to steal something. And yet, I can’t demonstrate that they stole anything. I thought they had, perhaps, replaced my mother’s paintings with copies, but all four of these are genuine. Believe me, I know my mother’s work.” He fastened the paintings to the wall, this time in the correct order, then joined the others for cognac.

  “Well,” Dino said, “your thieves must have already begun their work, when you arrived on the scene, because they put the pictures back
on the wall in the wrong order.”

  “I suppose that must be so,” Stone admitted.

  “You discovered them at their work,” Viv said, “and that must have discombobulated them considerably. I mean, the sudden appearance of a naked man with a gun would rattle anybody.”

  Felicity clapped her hands. “They were so discombobulated, they put the originals back and left with the forgeries!”

  “What forgeries?” Viv asked.

  “The ones they intended would replace Stone’s mother’s works. Stone, do you remember anything you saw when you entered the room? Think about it.”

  Stone closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself entering the library. Finally, he spoke. “The pictures were not on the wall,” he said. “There was just a blank space! Then the lights went out.”

  “The pictures were probably on the floor,” Felicity said. “They had to put something on the wall, or you would have known the next morning that all four had been stolen. But in their rattled state, they put back the originals and left the premises with the forgeries!”

  “That seems highly improbable,” Stone said.

  “Then think of another scenario,” Felicity said. She waited for a moment. “Anyone? Anything at all?”

  “Felicity is right,” Dino said. “What is Occam’s razor?”

  “The simplest solution is usually the correct one,” Viv said. “If you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.”

  “And in this case, Felicity’s solution is not just the simplest solution, it’s the only one,” Dino said.

  “Also,” Stone said, feeling enlightened, “it solves two crimes. This one and the murder of Alfred Bing and his wife.”

  “How so?” Felicity asked.

  “Bing must have had an order for the paintings—a dishonest collector, no doubt, since they couldn’t have been sold publicly. So, the client paid for the paintings, then had them checked out and discovered they were forgeries. Then he went back to Bing’s flat—or, more likely, dispatched someone else—with orders to get back his money. The police said the flat had been ransacked, so maybe he got it back. Then the dispatched guy dispatched the Bings!”

  “I love it!” Felicity said, laughing.

  “But,” Dino interjected, “if he got his money back, he only got half of it, because Bing must have already paid off Eddie Craft. I mean, he bought a very expensive car, then left the country in the dead of night.”

  Everybody laughed, then they had another cognac.

  50

  And then, a few hours after their flight from Paris, the rains came to Miami. “Let’s get out of here,” Eddie said to Shelley.

  “I miss home, in New York,” she said. “You think we’ll be okay on the airlines?”

  “I’m not taking that chance,” he said. He called the concierge and had them booked in a drawing room on a train that evening.

  * * *

  —

  Maren, reunited with Stone in New York, rolled over and woke him.

  “Mmmph,” Stone said.

  She fondled him. “Any interest?”

  “Always,” Stone replied, turning to her.

  * * *

  —

  Over breakfast, Maren took a call, then hung up. “Eddie Craft was spotted landing in Miami yesterday,” she said. “We’re canvassing hotels there.”

  “You should canvass flights to New York, too.”

  “It’s being done.”

  Stone munched thoughtfully on a sausage. “How about trains?”

  “A train?” she asked. “You can still get a train to New York from Miami?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure. I’d check, if I were you.”

  Maren got on the phone and spoke for five minutes. “There is such a thing as a train, and all the reservation lists are being checked.” An hour later, she got a call.

  “Thank you.” She hung up. “He’s not on anybody’s reservation list.”

  “What if he’s traveling under another name?” Stone asked.

  “You’re a big help. Got a name for me?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then shut up, please.”

  Stone thought it a good time to take a shower.

  * * *

  —

  Early that evening Eddie and Shelley got off the train at Grand Central and were met by a porter, who took them to a waiting town car. “Do you think somebody might be waiting for us at your place?” Shelley asked.

  “Let’s see.” Eddie called the doorman’s station in his building. “This is Mr. Craft,” he said.

  “Good evening, Mr. Craft,” the man replied. “Are you on your way home? There’ve been some gentlemen waiting, asking for you.”

  “No, Walter, I’m stuck in London for another couple of weeks,” Eddie said. “Be sure and tell that to anybody who asks.” He hung up. “Is your place still available?” he asked Shelley.

  “Sure. My girl comes in once a week and cleans.” She gave the driver the address, three blocks from his apartment house.

  It was small, but attractive and comfortable, Eddie thought. He settled into a reclining chair and switched on the TV. He had missed TV while in Europe; all they had was CNN, no Fox News.

  * * *

  —

  Stone was watching MSNBC, while Maren was packing. He heard her phone ring, then she hung up and came into the bedroom.

  “Eddie Craft is back in New York,” she said.

  “One of your people spotted him?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Ah, wiretap.”

  “Don’t say that word. Somebody might be listening.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “We’re not using it to gather evidence,” she said, “just to gather Eddie. He called his doorman to ask if anyone had asked about him. That means he’s thinking about going home.”

  “I thought you said he was home already.”

  “In the city. Not at home in his apartment.”

  “You can tell that with a wiretap?”

  “I didn’t hear that, and I won’t answer it.”

  “Okay, where in Manhattan is he?”

  “Within a six-block radius of his apartment house.”

  “In what direction?”

  “Northeast.”

  “Then all you have to do is a little basic navigation.”

  “Navigation?”

  “Let’s say you’re on a boat, and you want to find your position.”

  “Okay, let’s say that.”

  “There’s a lighthouse on the chart you’re using to navigate. Let’s say the lighthouse is Eddie’s apartment building.”

  “Okay.”

  “You look at your compass, then at the lighthouse. Let’s say it’s at 210 degrees; that means it’s southwest of you. Now, on your chart you draw a line from the lighthouse at 030 degrees, which is the opposite of 210 degrees. Your position is somewhere on that line.”

  “Got it. Where on that line?”

  “To learn that you need a second landmark. Let’s say there’s a mountain peak to the right of the lighthouse. You draw a line from the mountain peak, until it crosses your first line. Where they cross is your position. So, you see, one landmark gives you direction; the second gives you distance.”

  “There are no mountains in Manhattan,” she said. “What do I use for the second landmark?”

  “How about the gate to Central Park at Sixty-sixth Street?” Stone got out a city map and drew the two lines for her. He pointed to where they crossed. “Eddie is in this building right here, probably a townhouse with several apartments in it, since that’s mostly what you have on that block.”

  “Which floor is Eddie on?”

  “For that, you have to use a different navigational technique.”

  “What is that
?”

  “You ring the bell.”

  “Which bell?”

  “All of them, and you have men positioned on each floor, so when Eddie emerges, they introduce themselves with their badges, then arrest him on a material witness warrant. You do have such a warrant, don’t you?”

  “We do.”

  “Well, there you are. Go get him!”

  Maren picked up her phone and gave the person who answered the address. “Eddie Craft is in that building,” she said. “Station men on each floor, then ring all the bells. When he comes out, take him into custody and take him to the office.” She hung up. “That was brilliant,” she said.

  “Any Sea Scout could do it,” he said. “Perhaps the FBI should recruit from the Sea Scouts.”

  “Good idea.”

  * * *

  —

  Eddie was trying to digest the latest conspiracy theory on Fox when the doorbell rang. As he rose to answer it, he heard the bell upstairs ring, then another above that. He went to the peephole and peeped into the hallway. At the right edge of his view, the brim of a hat could be seen. Eddie sensed immediately that the hat rested on the head of an FBI agent.

  Eddie hurried into the kitchen, where Shelley was scrambling eggs, and raised the window beside her and looked out. A fire escape beckoned. “Listen,” he said. “Wait until I’m out the window, then go to the door with a spatula in your hand and play dumb. And put this on.” He handed her an apron, then stepped through the window, closed it behind him, then walked down one flight.

  * * *

  —

  Shelley put on the apron, picked up the spatula, and, impulsively, picked up the small skillet in her other hand. She opened the door. “Yes?” she said to the man lurking there.

  “Eddie Craft?” he said.

  “Really? I look like an Eddie?”

  “Is Eddie Craft here?”

  “Who is Eddie Craft?”

  “He lives here.”

  “Not in this apartment,” she said.