Stuart Woods - Hot Mahogany

“The executors of Mrs. Strong’s estate have made it clear that they will be strict about the terms of the contract. For all I know, they may have an auction house waiting in the wings to pull this collection to pieces and scatter it all over the world.”

Foster spread his hands wide. “Barton, I appreciate everything you’ve said, and I’m sure the collection is as important and worth as much as you say it is, but I’m afraid that, given the time pressure, the deal is just not doable for us. And I’m afraid that you’d get the same answer from any other bank.”

Barton hauled himself to his feet. “Thank you for your candor, James.”

Foster walked him to the door. “A better bet might be to approach a very wealthy individual who might buy the collection and present it to a museum.”

“Then I would lose any control I might have over where and how the collection would be displayed.”

“It’s an imperfect world, Barton.”

The two men shook hands, and Barton left. He went to a Kinko’s, where copies of his prospectus had been run off and bound. He messengered copies to Carla and Stone, then FedExed others to eight museum directors with a covering letter, then he drove back to Connecticut, feeling dejected and numb.

When Barton reached home, he got the mail from his mailbox and let himself into the house. He made a fire in the study, poured himself a drink and sat down to warm up. In his mind he riffled through his client list, most of them wealthy people, but he could not come up with one who would have both the cash and the commitment to collecting that would be required to bring the deal off. Harlan Deal, for instance, certainly had the money, but not the taste or sophistication to appreciate the value of the collection, let alone the commitment to a museum.

He began opening his mail. Halfway through the stack he came across an engraved envelope; inside was a dinner invitation for Saturday night from Ab Kramer.

Perhaps, he thought, he might know the right man after all.

Stone sat at his desk, going over the bank statements, broker- age statements and credit card statements of Henry Kennerly, jotting down notes and amounts as he went. It took him more than two hours to complete the job and total the amounts and categories. When he was done, he called Tatiana.

“Hello?”

“It’s Stone. How is the cleanup going?”

“I’ve got a professional crew, and they’ve promised to stay until it’s done, even if it’s midnight.”

“Good. Be sure and call your insurance company; they’ll pay for it.”

“I have already done that; their adjuster just left. I had to file a police report, though.”

“Good. That’s one more bargaining chip. And speaking of bargaining chips, do you have a pencil and paper?”

“I’ll get one,” she said and put down the phone. A moment later she was back. “Go ahead.”

“First of all, how long ago did you and Henry separate?”

“About five weeks ago.”

“Good. All of the following expenditures were made since that time.”

“Expenditures? Henry’s?”

“Yes.”

“How would you have access to his expenditures?”

“You’re not to ask me that; just listen.”

“All right.”

“During the past thirty days, Henry has spent more than eight thousand dollars in restaurants. I can tell you from experience that he would have to order a lot of expensive wines to get that figure so high. He has also spent more than two thousand dollars with a florist, and about twelve thousand dollars with three jewelers. Has he taken you to dinner, sent you flowers or given you jewelry during the past thirty days?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then here’s what you do: You instruct your attorney to get a subpoena for all of Henry’s financial records and to look for these expenditures, but don’t mention the exact amounts or tell him that I gave you this information. Remember, he has spent all this money from marital funds, so you’re entitled to half in cash.”

“That’s wonderful, Stone! How on earth…”

“No, no, no,” Stone interrupted. “Don’t ask.”

“Oh, all right.”

“And don’t tell your attorney that you’ve learned all this; just tell him you’ve become suspicious of Henry’s spending habits since you parted.”

“All right.”

“Now to more pleasant things. I have a little house in Washington, Connecticut, and I’ve been invited to a very nice dinner party on Saturday night. Will you come up there with me for the weekend?”

“Oh, I’d love to!” she said. “I’ve been stuck in the city for too long.”

“Good. We’ll drive up Saturday morning and come back Sunday or Monday, whichever you prefer.”

“It sounds wonderful. Now I have to get back to work.”

“Talk to you later.” Stone hung up, and Joan came in with an envelope.

“This arrived by messenger,” she said.

Stone opened the envelope and found Barton’s prospectus. He leafed through it slowly, marveling at the pieces, and suddenly he came to a stop. He found himself staring at a photograph of Barton’s mahogany secretary. He read the accompanying caption:

A very fine example of a secretary, in two pieces, from the firm of Goddard-Townsend, of Newport, commissioned by Josiah Strong in 1760 and housed in the family home since that time. It is, very possibly, one of only two pieces still in private hands. A sister piece sold for $12.1 million at Christie’s in June of 1989.

Stone remembered that he had walked through the entire house with Barton, cataloguing each piece, and there had been no Goddard-Townsend secretary in any of the rooms or the attic. It seemed that Barton had thought of a way to give the remaining piece still in his possession an instant provenance. Stone also recalled that Barton had said he could not remember whether the stolen piece was the original or his copy and no one could tell the difference.

Joan buzzed. “Barton Cabot on line one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Barton?”

“Yes, Stone. Did you get the prospectus?”

“Yes, I was just reading it.”

“I saw my banker earlier today, and my loan request was denied.”

“I’m astonished,” Stone said. “Isn’t the collection its own collateral?”

“That was only part of it. He said that such a large personal loan would have to be approved by the board of directors of the bank, which doesn’t meet again for another five weeks.”

“That’s bad news,” Stone said. “What is your next move?”

“It appears that my only move is to find a person who is wealthy enough and motivated enough to come up with the money. The drawback is I’ll have no control over how it’s sold. The pieces might have to be auctioned, piecemeal, to recover the investment, and even if a museum buys it, I’ll have no control over how the collection is displayed.”

“Have you sent the prospectus to any museums?”

“Yes, I’ve sent it to the eight directors most likely to want it, afford it and house it.”

“Well, maybe one of them will be able to come up with the money in time to close the sale with Mildred’s executors.”

“That will never happen. Even if they’re dying for it, they’d have to go first to their boards, then to their richest donors for the money. That could take months to resolve.”

“I wish I could help in some way,” Stone said, “but I don’t see what I can do.”

“No,” Barton said wearily, “I’ll have to find a way out of this myself, which means I have to come up with nineteen million dollars by Tuesday.”

“If anyone can do it, Barton, you can.”

“Tell me, Stone, did you, by any chance, receive an invitation to a dinner party at Ab Kramer’s on Saturday night?”