Стюарт Вудс - Foul Play

Stone Barrington was headed down Second Avenue in the heaviest rain he could remember. Fortunately, he was in a taxi. He was also about a third of a block from his street. The traffic on the cross street had come to a complete halt, and thus, so had Second Avenue, and Stone had an appointment with a new client in five minutes.

“I think I’d better get out here,” he said to the driver.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you.” The rain was hammering on the cab’s roof, making a horrific noise.

“I’m going to get out!” Stone shouted, shoving some money through the plexiglass screen.

“You’re gonna drown!” the driver shouted.

“I have an umbrella!” Stone shouted back, opening the rear door. He stuck the umbrella out first and got it open, then he stepped into the street and kicked the door shut behind him. He was ankle deep in water, but he made it to the sidewalk, which was marginally better.

As he rounded the corner, the traffic on the cross street suddenly began to move, and turning onto his street, he looked up the block and saw a man kicking something on the sidewalk. His vision was not helped by the rain, but it looked as though a dog was being abused. Stone simultaneously started to trot and close his umbrella, wrapping the tab around it and securing it, while the rain began drumming on his hat. Then he realized that the lump on the sidewalk was a man.

“Hey!” Stone shouted at the kicker. The man looked up at him; he was wearing a ski mask. Stone ran at him — giving little thought to the size of the man, which was large — and drew back the umbrella. He swung at the man, connecting with his left arm, near the shoulder, and heard a shout of pain. The umbrella was golf-sized and had a thick wooden shaft, topped by a heavy, brierwood curved handle. Stone swung again, aiming at the head. The handle caught the man on the chin, but not solidly, since he was now withdrawing.

Stone thought of pursuing him, but the man on the ground let out a loud groan, gaining Stone’s attention. He opened the umbrella and held it over the victim. “Can you hear me?” Stone shouted.

“Yes,” the man said, nodding. Blood was being washed off his face by the rain.

“If I help you, can you get up?”

“Maybe.”

Stone held out his left hand, and the man grabbed it and struggled to his feet. “Hold on to my arm,” Stone said. “It’s just a few doors.” They shuffled up the street together, taking small steps. At the door, Stone found he couldn’t ring the bell without letting go of the umbrella, so that was what he did. He leaned on the bell and heard a continuous ringing.

A moment later, Joan Robertson, his secretary, opened the door, sized up the situation, and took the man off Stone’s hands. He grabbed the umbrella, closed it, and stepped inside.

“What happened?” Joan asked. “This man is bleeding.”

“Just get him inside, make him as comfortable as you can, then call 911 and ask for an ambulance. Tell them a man has been beaten up, and ask for the cops, too.”

By the time help arrived, Joan had the man out of his raincoat and jacket, his tie was loosened, and he was sitting up in a chair in Stone’s office, sipping from a mug of tea with an electric heater blowing on him. The EMTs arrived first and gave him a quick going-over.

“I don’t think anything is broken,” said the woman in charge of the team, “but it’s a good thing you arrived when you did, or the man might have killed him.”

The two cops stood by. “Our turn now?”

“Sure,” the woman said. “He doesn’t need to be transported. Whatever the lady put in that tea is probably as good for him as anything we’ve got in the wagon.”

Stone walked them to the door, while the cops started asking questions and taking notes. Soon they finished and took their leave.

All that Stone had heard of the conversation was the man’s name. “You’re Shepherd Troutman, is that right?”

“He’s your eleven o’clock,” Joan said. “He was on time, too.” She had tucked a blanket around him.

“He looks like he’s about the same size as Peter,” Stone said, referring to his grown son, who lived in Los Angeles. “See if you can find him a robe in Peter’s closet.”

Joan headed upstairs to Peter’s room, and Stone sat down on the sofa, across the coffee table. “Mr. Troutman, do you feel like talking a bit?” he asked.

“I guess I can rub a few words together and make simple sentences,” he said. “But don’t ask me to do any math.”

“That’s okay with me,” Stone said, “but with all the excitement, I can’t remember why we’re meeting. Who sent you to see me?”

“My banker,” Troutman said. “I’m new to the city, and I opened an account with him.”

“Who sent you to the banker?”

“A guy who went to college with him, who was my last banker.”

“What’s the new guy’s name?”

“Barton Crisp,” he said.

“He’s my banker, too, or one of them. You did well there.”

“That was my instinct.”

“Where’d you come to New York from?”

“Western Massachusetts.”

“My family springs from that area,” Stone said. “Hence my surname.”

“Great Barrington? I’m from Lenox.”

“Welcome to New York,” Stone said. “We’re normally more cordial than your reception this morning. Do you know who your assailant was, or why he attacked you?”

Troutman shook his head. “Right out of the blue. Never saw him before. Not that I saw him, with that mask on. I can’t think of why anybody would attack me, except to rob me. I have a few hundred dollars in my pocket, but he didn’t get that far before you came along. I haven’t thanked you properly. I’m very grateful for your help.”

“I’m glad I was there,” Stone said. “Why the move to New York?”

“I’ve never lived anywhere but Lenox, but my father died a few months ago, and I sold the family business for a lot of money, so I thought I’d make a fresh start.”

“Married?”

“Divorced, nearly two years ago.”

“Might your former wife want to come at you again for more money?”

“No, she got a very favorable settlement at the time, and she’s remarried.”

“Where are you living in the city?”

“At the Carlyle Hotel, for the moment, but I want to find an apartment to buy.”

Joan came back with a cashmere robe. “Mr. Troutman, if you’ll change into this, I’ll get your other things dried and pressed. There’s a powder room where you can change right over there.”

Troutman took the robe and excused himself.

Stone turned to Joan. “New client, new in town. Run off a copy of the list for him, will you?”

“Sure thing.” She went back to her desk, printed out the document, and returned to Stone’s office as Troutman did.

Stone took the document and handed it to his new client. “This is a list of names and addresses of people you might need to see or talk to at some point — doctor, dentist, insurance agent, financial adviser, real estate broker, etcetera.”

Troutman looked through the list. “Thank you. I’m sure this will be very useful. I probably should see the financial adviser first, since I’m sitting on a lot of cash.”

“If I may ask, how much did you derive from the sale of the business?”

“Two hundred sixty million, give or take,” Troutman replied, “after taxes. And I got about that much from my father’s estate. I was his only heir.”

“In that case, I’ll recommend a different financial adviser,” Stone said, taking the list from him and writing in the name, address, and number of Charley Fox, his own adviser. “Charley is accustomed to dealing in larger sums than most brokers, and he’s more creative in selecting investments. He handles all of my money.”