Hot Mahogany

60

Peter Cavanaugh turned to Abner Kramer. “Ab, do you mind if Julian and I have a look at some of your pieces in the living room?”

Kramer stood up. “Not at all. I’ll give you the tour.”

Cavanaugh held up a hand. “No, no, we’d just like to wander. You attend to your other guests.”

“As you wish,” Kramer said, sitting down.

Cavanaugh gave Barton a wink as he and Whately left the room, leaving Stone and Barton alone with Kramer and Crow.

Barton spoke first. “Ab, I assume you have provenance for your piece.”

“Of course,” Kramer replied, “would you like to see it? I’d appreciate your opinion on its authenticity.”

“Thank you, yes.”

Kramer walked across the room to his desk, opened a drawer, removed an unsealed envelope and brought it to Barton.

Barton opened the envelope and read the two sheets of paper inside. He shook his head. “Ab, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but I’m very much afraid you’ve been defrauded.”

“Impossible,” Kramer said. “That bill of sale and letter are on Mildred Strong’s own letterhead, in her own handwriting, which I’ve had authenticated by an expert.”

“Oh, it’s Mildred’s stationery and handwriting,” Barton said, “but it’s a fraudulent bill of sale.”

Kramer looked a little concerned now. “Why would you say that, Barton?”

Barton turned to Crow. “Charlie, when did you remove the secretary from Mrs. Strong’s house?”

“Why, the following afternoon,” Crow replied, but there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“That’s impossible, Ab,” Barton said. “You see, Stone and I were in the house that afternoon and for all of the next day, making an inventory of Mildred’s collection, and Charlie was never in the house.”

“That’s a lie!” Crow said angrily.

“And how much did you pay Mildred for her secretary, Charlie?”

“A very high price, I assure you.”

“Ab, you know that to be a lie, because you paid Charlie seven million dollars for the piece.” Barton held up a hand. “Please don’t deny it. I sold the Met Mildred’s secretary today for twenty-five million dollars. Peter will confirm that, if you like. And her piece is safely locked away in a secure location.”

Kramer turned and looked at Crow. “Charlie?”

“Don’t bother asking Charlie,” Barton said. “He’ll just keep lying to you. Charlie didn’t buy any piece of furniture from Mildred. What he bought was this.” He held up the envelope containing Mildred’s letter. “It cost her nothing to write it, and she gained half a million dollars. She would never allow Charlie to walk away with the centerpiece of her beloved collection.”

“Then how did you get the whole collection?” Kramer demanded.

“I offered her a million dollars a year for the rest of her life, and the balance of the agreed sum to her estate upon her death.”

“I’m sorry, Barton,” Kramer said, collecting himself. “But you can’t prove any of this. It’s your word against Charlie’s, and I choose to believe him.”

“Ab, Charlie and some friends of his beat me up and stole that secretary from me, and I can prove it. If you will go to the piece and remove the left-hand drawer, you will find my initials burned into the back side of it.”

Kramer stared at Barton for a moment, then went to the secretary and removed the drawer. He looked at it, then turned to Crow. “The initials are there. Charlie, how could Barton’s initials be there, unless he had had possession of the secretary before you did?”

“Come on, Ab. You didn’t care where I got it,” Crow said.

Barton spoke again. “Ab, I know you are in a difficult position, but I want to offer you a way out of it. You have three choices, really: One, Stone and I can load the piece into my van and return it to my home; two, you can write me a check for twenty million dollars and right now; three… well, that choice would involve the police and the newspapers, and I could write a very interesting article for Antiques magazine. But Peter and Julian will tell you that twenty million is a cheap price for a Goddard-Townsend secretary. They paid twenty-five million dollars for theirs, thus establishing a market.”

Stone now knew why Barton had specified a value for the piece in the contract with the Metropolitan.

“But I’ve already paid Charlie seven million dollars for it,” Kramer said.

“That, I’m afraid, is between you and Charlie,” Barton said. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to extract it from him.”

Charlie had gone very quiet and was staring at the floor.

Kramer thought about it for a minute, then went back to his desk, removed a large alligator-bound checkbook from a drawer, wrote a check and took it to Barton. “I’ll need Monday to move the money from my brokerage account,” he said.

“Of course,” Barton said, accepting the check. “You may have until three o’clock Monday afternoon to move the money, and at that time I’ll provide you with a genuine provenance for the piece. I’m sure you no longer wish to be associated with Charlie’s fraudulent one.” He tucked the documents Mildred had sold Crow into his pocket, along with Kramer’s check.

Cavanaugh and Whately returned to the study. “Beautiful things, Ab,” Cavanaugh said. “I hope you’ll think of giving the museum some of them at some future date.”

“I’ll consider that, Peter,” Kramer said. He seemed to have recovered from the shock of writing the check.

The women rejoined them, and they chatted for another hour, then the guests took their leave.

Back in Barton’s study, Stone took his host aside. “So the secretary you said was made in Charleston was yours all along.”

“Yes,” Barton replied, “it was. I thought I could get more from Ab for the piece by exposing Charlie than by auctioning it.”

“And, of course, you would save the million dollars you promised me for finding it.”

Barton looked stricken. “I really must apologize for that, Stone. I never intended to withhold your reward.”

“Then you won’t mind writing me a check now, will you?”

Barton swallowed hard. “Of course not,” he sighed. He went to his desk, wrote the check and handed it to Stone. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to avoid paying you.”

“Oh, I was certain you wouldn’t do that,” Stone said. He reached into his pocket and removed a small leather pouch and dangled it from its string. “Otherwise, I’d be minting my own very rare twenty-dollar gold pieces.” He dropped the pouch into Barton’s hand. “I found it in a drawer of Ab’s secretary when I was examining it.”

Barton smiled and slipped the die into his own pocket. “Then I think our business is concluded, and now we can concentrate on being friends.”

“I’d like that, Barton,” Stone said, tucking the check away.