Стюарт Вудс - Foul Play

“You are not wearing any buttons,” she said, loosening his garment. “So speak freely.” She kissed him in a very nice place.

“I’m speechless,” Stone breathed.

It was deep into the wee hours before Stone picked up Holly and carried her to her bed, still sleeping like a child. He pulled back the covers and tucked her in, then he tiptoed out of the cottage and made his way back inside his house.

“Good morning,” a deep voice said, making him jump.

Stone looked into the library and saw Rod Troutman sitting before a fire, reading a book.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Rod said.

“I sometimes have that problem,” Stone said. “Would you like a pill?”

“I think not. I’ll finally switch off, then I can sleep late.”

“Don’t forget to put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign,” Stone said.

“I’ll remember,” Rod said. “How are things on the national front?” he asked. “Any wars looming?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stone said, then went upstairs to bed.

“Nice dressing gown,” Rod called from downstairs.

Stone’s cell phone rang at 6:00 am, and he struggled to answer.

“Hello?” he finally managed, hoarsely.

“It’s Lance. Where are you?”

“Three time zones west of you,” Stone said.

“I’ll call you back, but you may be dead by then.”

“Wait a minute!”

“Yes?”

“What do you mean, I may be dead by then?”

“Among the unloving, an ex — Stone Barrington.”

“I’m awake now. Please explain yourself.”

“A source has picked up a rumor that you are scheduled for permanent demolition.”

“Lance, I didn’t get to bed until two am and now it’s six. Please explain, or the hell with it, I’ll roll over and die.”

“You’ve had dealings with a man named Kronk, I believe.”

“You believe falsely. I have gone far out of my way to not have dealings with him.”

“Same thing.”

“Anyway, it’s my client he wants to kill.”

“Young Troutman?”

“Yes.”

“I knew his father. He fell off the perch recently, did he not?”

“Not. He wished it to be seen that way, so he undertook to disappear. I’m helping.”

“By withholding the patents?”

“Why do you need me? You already know everything.”

“Perhaps so, but there are things you don’t know.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Each of the patented machines has an internal clock and calendar. When the license for the patent runs out, the machine turns off and can only be restarted by activating a code in its software. The licensee pays for that code, which gives him access to the machine for another five or ten or whatever days, months, or years.”

“I’m not sure my client is aware of that.”

“He must be aware, or he could not have been operating his machinery for all these years.”

“That’s very interesting,” Stone said. “I believe I’ll have to bring it to his attention and ask why he’s never told me that.”

“What would you have done differently, if you had known?”

“Well, I would have...”

“Complete that sentence, please.”

“I don’t know what I would have done differently.”

“Maybe that’s why he hasn’t bothered to tell you.”

“That could be — annoyingly — true.”

“How else may I be of service to you, Stone?”

“Let’s start by telling me why you phoned me at five am.”

“It is six am, but let’s not quibble.”

“Never mind, I’m going back to sleep. You may phone me after nine am, California time.” Stone hung up and fell back on the bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

The doorbell rang. Stone looked at the bedside clock. Seven am. “What?”

“Your breakfast, sir. You ordered it for seven.”

Stone groaned. “Come in!”

A waiter struggled in and placed a silver tray on his lap. “May I pour you some coffee, sir?”

“Thank you, no. I always have coffee after breakfast.”

“As you wish sir.” He placed copies of the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times on the bed and left.

It surprised Stone how hungry he became when he saw the scrambled eggs and sausages. He ate them greedily, washed down by orange juice, then poured himself some coffee and shook out the New York Times.

A headline in the lower left-hand corner of the front page caught his eye. RASH OF HOUSE FIRES IN MARTHA’S VINEYARD , it read. Stone read quickly, then turned to the inside page to finish:

Three large beachfront houses burned to the ground last night along a stretch of highly desirable beachfront on this tony isle, each of them valued north of ten million dollars. Police and fire chiefs assume arson, but have no suspects.

“ Well, I have a suspect,” Stone said aloud to himself.

“What?” someone said.

Stone turned and found Shep Troutman standing in the open doorway.

“Bad news,” Stone said.

“I’ve already read the Times piece.”

“I suspect that the time clock has run out on Kronk’s machines,” Stone said.

“How do you know about the time clocks?” Shep asked.

“Well, I sure didn’t hear it from you,” Stone said, hotly.

“What good would it have done if I had mentioned it?”

“We’ll never know, will we? On the other hand, if you had mentioned that time was running out immediately, we might have beefed up security or otherwise anticipated his actions.”

“You could have done that anyway.”

“Protect empty houses that were not under threat? I’m not psychic, and I wasn’t hired to protect empty houses. I think you’d better scare up some local security in Lenox for the family manse. That’s all the advice I have to offer at the moment. Close the door on your way downstairs to explain this to your father. And by the way, you might pass the news on to your neighbors.”

“My neighbors?”

“The owners of the other two houses that burned. You’d better call your insurance company, too. Those people may tend to blame you.”

“I am the owner of the other two houses,” Shep said. “And when I became very, very wealthy, I canceled all such insurance and self-insured.”

“So, you rolled the dice and came up snake eyes, I believe the expression is?”

“I did, and I did,” Shep said. “And now I’ll rebuild them without a second thought for what they cost me.” He turned and went downstairs.

Stone continued with the newspaper, and switched on CNN as well. The arson on the Vineyard was now getting national, perhaps worldwide attention. He switched it off.

Then, from downstairs, he heard a deep-throated shouting. “You canceled the goddamned insurance on the houses? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Self-insurance is a good way to save money, if you can afford it!” Shep yelled back. “I was just unlucky!”

“Self-insurance and unlucky is a bad combination!” Rod yelled.

Stone turned on the TV again.

Stone was just out of the shower when the house phone rang. “Yes?”

“It’s your next-door neighbor,” she said. “How would you like to take a drive?”

“What, in a motorcade?”

“Suppose I could figure a way of doing it without an obvious motorcade?”

“How?”

“I seem to remember that you own a 1950s-era Mercedes-Benz 300S convertible.”

“The bright red one? Yes. And you think that would be less conspicuous than a motorcade?”

“I’ve worked out a plan with the Secret Service: First, they will drive ordinary-looking vehicles. Second, they will be spread out several car lengths, instead of right on the bumper. Third, the occupants will be male-female couples, wearing casual clothes.”