Hot Mahogany

44

When they had finished their Dover sole and drunk their wine, Mildred went upstairs for a nap while Stone sat in a living room chair and wrote down descriptions of pieces and prices as Barton dictated them.

Three hours later, Mildred appeared, just as they were finishing the living room list. “Would you like to see my attic now?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” Barton said.

She led them to an elevator in the hall, they rode it to the top floor of the house, then walked up a flight of stairs. Mildred unlocked the attic door with a very old key, and they stepped inside. “Have a good time,” she said. “Drinks are at six-thirty, dinner at seven. You’ll be staying the night.” It wasn’t a question. She left them.

Barton switched on all the lights, and he and Stone looked around. The attic was as well arranged as a gallery in a museum, except the pieces were closer together. Everything was dusted and polished, and there was none of the clutter one associated with attics. “Stone, I don’t know if you realize this, but you are witnessing something that may never be seen again: the first cataloguing of what is, without doubt, the most important collection of American furniture in existence outside a museum, and only one or two museums might match it.”

“I understand,” Stone replied. He also understood that Barton was beginning the process of making himself the richest antiques dealer in the country.

Barton began moving slowly about the room, dictating to Stone. They were not interrupted until six o’clock, when the maid came into the attic.

“Drinks are in half an hour,” she said. “May I show you to your rooms?”

Barton retrieved his bag from his car, and Stone the small bag containing a couple of fresh shirts, underwear, socks and toiletries that he kept in the trunk of his car for unexpected occasions. They were taken to the third floor of the house and installed in bedrooms.

Stone’s room contained a mahogany secretary that, although smaller than Barton’s piece, seemed just as beautiful, and his bath was a wonderland of Edwardian plumbing. He took a quick shower and changed, then joined Barton downstairs.

Mildred Strong appeared moments later. “Well, gentlemen, how did your afternoon go?”

“Mildred,” Barton said, “you were right about your attic; it’s very impressive.”

“Tomorrow you can do the study, the library and the bedrooms.”

“I look forward to it,” Barton said.

“So do I,” Stone added. “This has been an education for me.”

They dined on cold lobster salad, followed by an expertly prepared chicken breast in a tarragon cream sauce, with haricots verts and pomme soufflé. The wines were a 1959 Puligny-Montrachet Clos des Perrières and a 1945 Lafite Rothschild, something Stone never thought he would taste. He decanted it for Mildred, and there was an inch or so of sediment left in the bottle. It was in perfect condition.

The conversation never touched on Mildred’s possessions but ranged over Newport gossip, sports (Mildred was a big Red Sox fan) and jazz. Stone had little to say; he preferred listening on this occasion.

They talked over coffee until ten o’clock, when Mildred excused herself and retired.

“You must be very happy,” Stone said to Barton when she had gone.

“I’m stunned, frankly,” Barton replied. “I have been since I walked into this house. I’m going to have to sell or mortgage everything I own to make this deal work; that’s if I can sell my banker on a long-term investment.”

“She may outlive you, Barton.”

“That has occurred to me, I assure you.”

“You haven’t asked her about Charlie Crow. That transaction she mentioned must have been with him.”

“I’m afraid to bring it up,” Barton replied. “But after tomorrow, she’ll be protected from his like.”

“She doesn’t seem to need much in the way of protection,” Stone pointed out. “She’s very much in command of herself.”

“She certainly is,” Barton agreed.

They finished their brandy and went upstairs to bed.

The following morning they breakfasted at seven and went to work at seven-thirty, doing the library and the study. They broke for lunch, then went to work on the bedrooms.

At four o’clock they had finished their work and were summoned to tea.

“Well, Barton,” Mildred said, “make me your offer.”

Barton handed her his list and waited while she read it. When she had finished, he said, “Mildred, I will offer you eighteen million dollars for everything on the list, and payments of eight hundred thousand dollars a year.”

Without hesitating, Mildred said, “Make it twenty million and a million a year; I’m fond of round numbers. Shall I call my lawyer?”

“Done, Mildred. Call him.”

The man, apparently alerted, appeared ten minutes later, and Mildred introduced him as Creighton Adams. Stone gave him a copy of the proposed contract, with the blanks filled in, and Barton gave him the list.

“Mrs. Strong,” the man said when he had read everything, “I see no problems with the contract. Are you satisfied with the numbers in it?”

“I am,” she said. “Oh, I know Barton will make a lot of money on the deal – eventually – but I admire his patience and his fortitude to take such a leap. Type it up.”

“I’ll have everything done by nine tomorrow morning,” he said,

“including a codicil to your will, acknowledging the arrangement and instructing your executors.”

Mildred saw him to the door and returned. “I have a dinner invitation this evening,” she said. “Would you two like me to have something prepared for you here, or would you prefer to go out?”

“Thank you, Mildred. I think we’ll go out,” Barton said.

“Then I’ll see you at nine tomorrow morning. I will probably sleep through breakfast.” She excused herself and went upstairs.

“I’ll take you to dinner, Stone,” Barton said. “We’ll celebrate.”

They dined at the Black Pearl, in Newport, ordering steaks and, eventually, two bottles of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame.

“This,” Stone said, tapping the bottle, “is Carla’s favorite, if you don’t already know.”

“I’m happy to have that information,” Barton said. “By the way, bill me for your time at your usual hourly rate; I know this work hasn’t been in your regular line, but you did it well.”

“It was instructive,” Stone said.

At nine o’clock the following morning Creighton Adams arrived with a notary and two associates for witnesses to the codicil. Both Mildred and Barton read the contract and the list, and both signed.

Barton took a checkbook from his pocket and wrote a check for a million dollars. “And another on this date each year,” he said, handing it to Mildred.

“Thank you, Barton, you have made this experience very pleasant.”

Her lawyer and his entourage rose to go, but Mildred waved them back to their seats. “Stay,” she said, “there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you.”

Barton and Stone made their good-byes.

“You’ve been very kind to us,” Stone said, shaking her hand.

“I would like very much to see you again, Stone,” Mildred replied. “You were excellent company.”

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.