Stuart Woods - Hot Mahogany

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.

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.

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.