Hot Mahogany

7

Lance pulled up a chair and sat down. He looked uncharacteristi- cally tired and gaunt.

“Congratulations on the extraction of your people,” Stone said.

“Thank you. Where is my brother?”

“At home.”

“At your home?”

“At his home.”

“And where would that be?”

“At 110 North Shore Drive, Warren, Connecticut. I’m sorry, I don’t know the zip code.”

“You left him alone?”

“As far as I could tell, he lives alone; he’s used to it.”

“But how is he?”

“Better. He’s remembered a lot of things.”

“Does he remember what happened to him?”

“Except that.”

“Does he recall what he’s been doing for the past thirty years?”

“We didn’t discuss his history, but from what he did tell me, I think he’s spent a lot of it reproducing and selling antique furniture.”

Lance seemed struck dumb.

“No kidding,” Stone said.

“Reproducing and selling antique furniture,” Lance repeated, tonelessly.

“Apparently, he’s very good at it. He lives in a beautiful house on a lake and has quite an extraordinary workshop, filled with old hand tools. There were no power tools, come to think of it. In fact, he must have done very well; he offered me eight hundred thousand dollars for four of my mother’s paintings. Of course they’re probably worth several times that; I suppose that’s what makes him successful.”

“Are you saying he tried to cheat you?”

“No, I’m just saying he’s good at being an antiques dealer.”

“Does he have a store?”

“If he does, he didn’t mention it, and I didn’t see one.”

“Do you have his phone number?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“When did you leave him?”

“Early this afternoon, in Danbury, buying a new van. His old one disappeared with a valuable piece of furniture in it, around the time he was beaten up.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone being mugged in New York for a piece of antique furniture,” Lance said.

“New York is a big market for antiques,” Stone said.

“Yeah,” Dino chimed in, “people are mugged every day for their cell phones; why not for antique furniture?”

“Right,” Stone said, “especially a piece of antique furniture that may be worth twenty-five million dollars.”

“Or more,” Dino echoed.

Lance looked back and forth at the two, seemingly trying to decide if they were insane. “Are you both insane?” he asked.

“No,” Stone said. “If anybody is insane, it’s your brother. But he seemed lucid to me.”

“And you bought this story about the piece of furniture? How do you know it even exists?”

“Actually, there are two identical pieces of furniture. I saw one of them; I took his word for the other one.”

“What kind of piece of furniture?”

“A mahogany secretary, about seven feet tall by four feet wide, built around 1760 by the firm of Goddard-Townsend of Newport, Rhode Island.”

“I’ve heard something about that,” Lance said. “Didn’t it set some sort of sales record at Sotheby’s?”

“Christie’s.”

“How did Barton get hold of it?”

“Goddard-Townsend built six or seven of them. Barton has two – or rather, one. Maybe. He built the other one himself, with a little help from his friends. Nobody can tell it from the original, maybe even not Barton.”

“Because of his amnesia?”

“Because of the quality of the workmanship, according to Barton. One of them was, apparently, in the van when it was stolen.”

“Which one? The reproduction or the original?”

“Barton doesn’t know. Not that it would matter, since not even an expert can tell the difference.”

Lance put his face in his hands. “This is preposterous,” he said.

“I know just how you feel,” Stone said, “and he’s not even my brother.”

“Is he still in any sort of danger?”

“Not as long as whoever attacked him thinks he’s dead, or doesn’t know about the other secretary.”

“Why does he think the secretary is worth twenty-five million dollars?”

“Because the last one sold brought twelve million, and that was in 1989. Consult the Department of Labor’s consumer price index for the rate of inflation, and ponder on how many crazy billionaires there are running around these days, spending zillions on everything from jet airplanes to New York penthouses. They have to furnish those penthouses with something, don’t they?”

“Stone, if this is some wild tale you’ve dreamed up, I’ll have you shot; I swear I will. I can do that.”

“Lance,” Dino said.

“You, too, Dino.”

“Don’t point that thing at me,” Dino said. “This is Stone’s story; I don’t know any more about it than you do. I have only Stone’s word for it, and… well, you know.”

“Thanks, Dino,” Stone said

“God, I’m tired,” Lance said. “I haven’t slept since the day before yesterday.”

“Lance,” Stone said, “go to my house, find a guest room and get some sleep. There’s a key under the stone lion on the stoop.”

“Maybe,” Lance said.

“What’s the alternative? Faint in the street? You have a car and driver, don’t you?”

“I think so,” Lance said.

Stone thought he was fading fast. “Well, with your last remaining strength, go fall into it and give the driver my address. You know it, don’t you?”

“I used to. Yes, I know it.”

“Quickly, Lance, while your lips will still move.”

Lance nodded, got up and, without another word, walked out of the restaurant.

“It will all seem clearer to him tomorrow,” Dino said.

“No, it won’t,” Stone replied.