Foul Play

Thirty-Three

They dined on a discussion of Nostrovia. “Some of the furnishings were ornate to the point of being grotesque,” Stone said.

“She was a perfect example of the owner who has too much money and not enough to spend it on,” Brooke chimed in.

“Do you think Kronk will stop chasing us now?” Shep asked.

“Perhaps,” Stone said. “Let’s see if he believed my story of your departure to parts unknown.”

Brookes spoke up, “I’ve never understood why all this is happening,” she said.

“Neither had I,” Shep said, “until this afternoon.”

“Enlighten us,” Stone said.

“I remembered something, and I’ll have to check it out: I think it may be the result of Mr. Kronk’s attorneys not reading the sales documents thoroughly.”

“Oh, good. I love lawyers’ mistakes. What’s this one?”

“We have a machine that we have developed over three generations, and its patent was withheld from the sale. Perhaps they didn’t notice. Odd, because it’s probably the most valuable of the company’s possessions.”

“What is the machine?”

“We call it a multilathe, though the name is an oversimplification. It’s a very complex piece of equipment that can create a large number of machine parts at once, each to a very precise specification. We used to sell the parts to our customers, but in the past few years we decided that it was better to license the patent and let them make their own parts, but at a very high price. It’s a huge income producer for the company. I believe that Kronk has discovered the error and is trying to get the patent without paying for it, and thinks that would be easier with me out of the way. The patent is probably worth more than the company.”

“If you were selling it to him what price would you put on it?”

“Perhaps half a billion dollars, or even more.”

“More,” Rod Troutman said.

“Ah,” said Stone. “Does Kronk think you have cheated him?”

“I shouldn’t think so, because his attorneys wrote the contract.”

“And they’ve probably been taken out and shot by now,” Dino said.

“So all this is over a machine?”

Shep shook his head. “No, it’s over a piece of paper: the patent on the machine. We licensed the patent to ourselves some years back, and the license is coming up for renewal quite soon.”

“Have Kronk or his attorneys asked for the patent?”

“No, but I expect they’ll get around to it,” Shep replied. “If they’ve noticed the omission from the contract.”

Rod Troutman began to laugh.

“What’s so funny, Dad?”

“This whole business. It’s hilarious! I love doing this to these people!”

“Shep,” Stone said, “where is the actual, physical patent now?”

“In the company safe, in Dad’s old office,” Shep said.

“So, it’s obtainable?”

“If they haven’t changed the combination,” he replied.

Rod spoke up. “I doubt if they could open it, even if they have the combination. It’s a very special safe.”

“What kind of safe?”

“An Excelsior. It was made in Berlin shortly before the outbreak of World War II, and the factory was bombed to dust during that misunderstanding and the owner killed. My father ordered the safe on a trip to that city, and it was shipped, I believe, in June of 1939. They sent a technician with it to see that it was properly installed and that the new owners could open it.”

“If the combination has not been changed,” Stone asked, “could you open the safe?”

“The last time I tried, it took three efforts before I got it right,” Rod said.

“Were you present when the safe was delivered in 1939?” Stone asked.

“Yes. I was a small boy, of course, but the safe fascinated me. I remember that the technician lectured my father firmly about keeping me away from the safe, so I wouldn’t get locked in.”

“Do you remember the man who installed it?”

“I do, oddly enough. He was an impressive man — tall, ramrod straight, with a handlebar moustache. He had a name that amused me, but for the life of me, I can’t remember it right now.”

“Could his name have been Solomon Fink?” Stone asked.

Rod’s face lit up. “Yes! How on earth could you know that?”

“We’ve met, he and I.”

“My God, he would have to be more than a hundred years old!” Rod said.

“A hundred and five, now, I think.”

“How did you know him?”

“A very good friend of mine — Dino’s father-in-law, Eduardo Bianchi — died last year. When his daughter — Dino’s ex — was clearing out his study, they found a safe concealed behind a bookcase. An Excelsior. No one had the combination; apparently, Eduardo had taken it to his grave.”

“Did you ever get it opened?”

“Yes. A business associate of mine said that he knew a very talented safecracker, who might be able to open it. His name was Solomon Fink, and he was resident at a very nice nursing home in Brooklyn. He was a hundred and four years old. As it turned out, he had installed the safe, apparently, on the same trip when he installed the one in your father’s office, Rod. Wisely, he never went back to Berlin.”

“Could he still remember the combination?”

“Yes, but as it turned out, he didn’t need it.”

“Why not? How could he open it without the combination?”

“I watched him do it. He bent over, ran a finger along the bottom of the safe’s door, and pulled off a piece of tape. The combination was written on it. He opened the door in seconds.”

“Do you think there might be a piece of tape on my father’s safe?”

“There might be.”

“Well, Dad,” Shep said. “How on earth do we find out?”

“I suppose we’ll just have to break into my old office,” Rod said.

“Do you still have the keys?”

“I have the keys to every door in the building,” Rod replied.

“Do you still have the combination?” Stone asked.

“It’s in my head,” Rod said, “and thus, may or may not be accessible.”

“Then we’ll just consult the strip of tape on the bottom of the safe’s door.”

“How do we know it’s there?” Shep asked.

“I’ll call Sol Fink and ask him,” Stone replied.