Hot Mahogany

59

On Saturday morning Stone collected first Tatiana from her home and then Carla from the Carlyle, and they headed north to Litchfield County.

The two women chatted amiably, which was good, as long as they weren’t chatting about him. He hated the thought of the two of them in the ladies’ room together.

“How much longer are you singing at the Carlyle?” Tatiana asked.

“I’ve just finished three months in the Bemelmens Bar,” Carla said, “and, after a few weeks’ rest and preparation, I’m moving into the Café Carlyle, across the hall, with a bigger backup group, and we’ll be there through New Year’s Eve.”

“That sounds like a wonderful step up,” Tatiana said.

“It certainly is a promotion, and the money’s better, too. And I’ll like having a six-piece group backing me, instead of just a bass player. The arrangements are being written now.”

They drove on, and the conversation fell away in favor of exclamations about the increasingly beautiful fall foliage as they headed north. Finally, they arrived at Barton’s house, and he came out the kitchen door to greet them.

“Stone, Peter Cavanaugh and Julian Whately will be staying over tonight – no women or companions along this time – so will you and Tatiana come over around six for a drink?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Peter will have the final contract ready for our signatures, and we’ll have plenty of witnesses. “I’d also like your help in showing them the mahogany secretary.”

“I’ll be glad to help.” Stone got Carla’s bags from the car, then he and Tatiana continued to his house.

“So,” Tatiana asked, “who will be at dinner tonight?”

“The four of us, plus Peter Cavanaugh, director of the Metropolitan Museum, and his furniture expert, Julian Whately,” Stone said. “Then there’ll be our hosts, Abner Kramer and his wife, and, I suspect, Mr. and Mrs. Charlie Crow.”

“Oh, God,” Tatiana said. “I have to deal with them again?”

“I think they’re going to have very little to say this evening. The subject is going to be furniture, which is a little out of Charlie’s line.”

“Do we have time for a, ah, nap before cocktails?”

“Oh, yes, plenty of time.”

They arrived at the house; he gave her a quick tour, then took their luggage upstairs. In a moment, they were in each other’s arms.

Darkness came early, since they were back on standard time, and the night was chilly but bright, with many stars and a waning but still bright moon. The moonlight glittered on the lake as they drove along its shores to Barton’s little peninsula.

Everyone else had gathered in the study for drinks by the time they arrived, and a roaring fire had taken the chill from the air. They were given drinks and fell to talking, mostly about furniture.

“Barton,” Peter Cavanaugh asked, “what do you think Ab Kramer has in mind for this evening?”

“I think he plans to impress us, especially you and Julian.”

“Has he bought something new?”

“He has a Goddard-Townsend mahogany desk and bookcase,” Barton replied, “one almost as nice as your new one.”

“Oh? Two popping up at once?”

“Well, not exactly, since Ab’s secretary is a fake.”

“How do you know that?” Cavanaugh asked.

“Because I made it myself, in my workshop.”

“Really? Does Ab know it’s a fake?”

“Well, since he didn’t buy it from me, I don’t know what provenance the seller offered him. He’ll be looking for approval from you and Julian, so please, don’t puncture his balloon and his ego. I think he’ll be happy, if you’re just noncommittal.”

“As you wish, Barton. Now, are you ready to show us the real thing?”

“Of course. Let’s go out to the barn, and bring your drinks.” Barton lead them out through the kitchen door to the barn, unlocked its massive door and showed everyone inside.

“This is quite a barn,” Cavanaugh said, looking around.

“Yes, we’ve done a lot of good work here. Stone, will you give me a hand, please?”

Barton and Stone unlocked the large cabinet, removed the false back wall and rolled out the Goddard-Townsend secretary on its dolly into a carefully designed pool of light, then stepped away.

Cavanaugh and Whately circled the piece slowly, taking it all in, then Cavanaugh stood back while Whately circled it again with a pocket flashlight and a small magnifying glass.

Stone stood next to Carla, who was watching everything with interest. “I believe I know your secret,” Stone said to her.

She looked at him appraisingly. “Secret?”

“I thought Peter Cavanaugh came up with seventy million dollars awfully quickly.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Carla said.

“Of course you would, since you got Eduardo to put up the money.”

“Shhhh,” she whispered. “How did you know?”

“I’ve known Eduardo for some years, as you well know, and I know that he’s on the board of the Metropolitan and one of its most generous contributors for special projects.”

“Don’t you tell Barton,” she hissed.

“I won’t, if you’ll tell me how much Eduardo committed to.”

“Eighty million,” she whispered, “and don’t you tell Barton that, either.”

“I promise,” Stone said.

Finally, Whately came and stood beside Cavanaugh, and Stone found himself holding his breath.

“Magnificent,” Whately said, “and in absolutely outstanding condition, the result, no doubt, of having been in one house since it was made.”

Cavanaugh clapped Whately on the back. “My judgment, precisely,” he said. He turned to the others and raised his glass. “A toast,” he said, “to the good eye and prescient judgment of the Met’s friend, Barton Cabot, not to mention his perfect timing in acquiring Mildred Strong’s collection. May we always be friends and colleagues.”

Stone took a large swig of his drink, greatly relieved. They went back into the house, Stone read the contract, and it was duly signed and witnessed.

They trooped over to Ab Kramer’s place, Cavanaugh and Whately in Stone’s car, since Barton was driving his usual van. This was the first time Stone had approached the house through the front gate, and the landscaping and well-lighted exterior made the place all the more impressive.

They were received on the front steps by Abner Kramer and his beautiful wife, and hands were shaken all around. They were led inside to an entrance hall, where Charlie Crow and his blonde bombshell awaited them. A butler took their coats, and they were led into the living room for cocktails.

The butler and a maid served them champagne or poured drinks, while another maid circled with a silver bowl of beluga caviar on a tray, with small buckwheat pancakes and condiments. Stone reckoned there was two thousand dollars’ worth of caviar in that bowl, and he dug in enthusiastically.

After a couple of drinks they were called to dinner, and Stone was happy to be seated between Tatiana and Mrs. Kramer, whose conversation was of art and the needs of the Metropolitan. It seemed likely Ab Kramer expected to be hit up for a donation before the evening was out.

After dessert, Peter Cavanaugh stood with his glass. “Ab, Charlotte, if you will permit me, I’d like to make an announcement. This won’t be made public for a few weeks, so I would be grateful for your discretion.” There were murmurs of agreement, then Cavanaugh continued. “I’d like you all to be the first to know that the Metropolitan Museum of Art has today, with the brilliant participation of our friend, Barton Cabot, acquired the largest and most perfect collection of eighteenth-century American furniture in the United States: the collection of Mildred Strong of Bristol, Rhode Island.”

There was glad applause from everyone, then Cavanaugh continued. “I wish I could take you there and show it all to you tonight, but that will have to wait for a year or so, while the Metropolitan clears gallery space and constructs replicas of the principal rooms of Mrs. Strong’s house, where the collection will be housed and displayed. I assure you, you will all be invited to the opening. Thank you.”

Cavanaugh sat down, and Ab Kramer stood and gave a brief but charming response. Then his wife invited the ladies to join her for coffee, in the manner of an English country house, while the gentlemen retired to Mr. Kramer’s study for half an hour of brandy and cigars.

As the butler opened the double doors, the men filed into the room to find, perfectly lit, the second Goddard-Townsend secretary some of them had seen that evening.

Everyone politely examined the secretary, and Julian Whately and Peter Cavanaugh gave it particularly close scrutiny. Finally, they pulled back, gazed at the piece and simultaneously nodded.

“An exceptional piece, very fine,” Whately said.

“Absolutely,” Cavanaugh concurred.

Stone made his own cursory inspection, feeling behind the piece for the brass plate. It was not there. He opened a couple of drawers and looked at the dovetailing, then joined the others as the cigars and brandy were passed.

Stone, who despised cigars, sat next to Barton, who didn’t smoke. “Since it’s practically indistinguishable from the other secretary,” he whispered, “why didn’t they think it was the genuine article?”

“Because,” Barton said, “if you ask an expert to authenticate a piece, presenting it as genuine, he will look for evidence that it’s a fake. But, if you tell him it’s a fake, he will not contradict you.”