“Oh, no,” she said.

“The price of freedom, my dear.”

“Well, then, I’ll shut up and pay it. What kind of clothes will I need in Connecticut this weekend?”

“Country stuff like tweeds for the daytime and, I don’t know, maybe an LBD for the dinner party. It’s black tie.”

“Is black tie the norm up there?”

“No. It’s very odd. I sense some sort of special occasion, but I don’t know what it is. You’ll enjoy seeing the house, though; it’s very beautiful.”

“That’s not all I’m going to enjoy,” she said, then hung up.

57

Late that night, as Stone was returning home from dinner, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Barton Cabot.”

“Good evening, Barton.”

“I’m sorry to call you so late, but something has come up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Quite the contrary.”

“Okay, what’s right?”

“I’ve just had a call from Peter Cavanaugh, the director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He wants to see Mildred’s collection tomorrow morning at eleven, and he’s bringing along his chief curator of American furniture.”

“That’s great.”

“Greater than you know. This means two things: One, he’s moving fast in order to get in ahead of the other museums, and two, he’s already got the money, or most of it, promised by some benefactor or benefactors.”

“That’s great.”

“Yes, it is. Now, here’s what I want you to do: First of all, I want you to be at Mildred’s house tomorrow morning at ten-thirty.”

“All right, I can do that if I leave early enough.”

“And on the way, I want you to call… What’s Mildred’s lawyer’s name?”

“Creighton Adams.”

“I want you to call him and have him tell the guards on the property to let us in the house at ten-thirty.”

“I can do that, and I’m sure he won’t have any objections. Why do you want me there?”

“Because Peter is bringing his witness, and I want one, too, so that I can hold him to account for anything he says tomorrow. Also, I would not be surprised if, after he has satisfied himself about the quality of the collection, he will have something for me to sign, and if so, I want you there to read it.”

“All right.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning at ten-thirty, and don’t be late.”

“I’ll be there,” Stone said. “But Barton, there’s something you’d better be prepared for.”

“What’s that?”

“I noticed that you included a photograph of your remaining mahogany secretary in your prospectus, but it’s not listed in the inventory we prepared and that you and Mildred signed.”

“Don’t be concerned about that. If it comes up, just follow my lead.”

“I do have a very important concern, Barton.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve told me that you don’t know whether the stolen secretary is the original or the copy. I am not going to be a party to defrauding the Metropolitan Museum, so you must do nothing to put me in that position. If you do, I’ll have to do whatever is necessary to protect myself.”

“I understand, and you need not be concerned. If I sell the Met the secretary, it will be the original, I assure you. By the time this is over, you will understand fully.”

“Thank you, Barton. I’ll see you at ten-thirty tomorrow morning.”

“Good-bye.” Barton hung up.

Stone was up early the following morning and on the road by eight-thirty. On the way he called Creighton Adams and arranged for them to be let into the house.

He arrived in Bristol five minutes early and found Barton already in the house. He gave the guard his name and walked in.

Barton was pacing around the living room with the housekeeper, making minute adjustments to the positions of things in the room while she was putting coffee and cups on the sideboard. When he was finished there, he visited both the library and the dining room, then went upstairs to the bedrooms while Stone had coffee.

Barton came down looking happy, and the housekeeper returned to her work. “We’re ready,” he said, then he was immediately on his feet, looking out the window. “They’re here early.”

The housekeeper answered the door and brought the two men into the living room, accompanied by a photographer and his assistant, who was laden with equipment.

Barton introduced Stone, and Cavanaugh introduced Julian Whately, his curator of American furniture. The two men were craning and turning their heads like a pair of exotic birds as they took in the room’s contents; they were clearly excited.

“Would you like some coffee?” Barton asked.

“Perhaps later,” Cavanaugh said. “Let’s get started.”

“Stone and I will sit quietly while you and Julian examine the pieces,” Barton said. “When you’re done here, I’ll take you through the other rooms.”

Armed with their copy of Barton’s prospectus, the two men began their tour of the living room, piece by piece, while the photographer started taking pictures of the room and the individual pieces.

Barton drank coffee while Stone read the Times. He was about to start on the crossword when Cavanaugh finally spoke to them.

“May we see the library and the dining room now, please?” he said.

“Of course,” Barton replied. “Right this way.” He led them out of the living room, and Stone started on the crossword. Half an hour later the three men came out of the library and took the elevator upstairs.

Stone had finished the crossword and was looking idly about the living room when they returned.

“Now I’d like some coffee,” Cavanaugh said.

Barton filled their cups from the heated urn, and they all sat down.

“First of all, Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “there is a piece missing: the Goddard-Townsend secretary.”

“Ah, yes, the secretary. I have already removed that to my home in Connecticut.”

Stone tensed at this, feeling they might suddenly be in deeper water.

“I’m still not certain whether I will offer the secretary as part of the collection,” Barton said. “I may retain it and sell it at a later date.”

“Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “I would regard the collection as incomplete without the secretary.”

“I can understand how you might feel that way, Peter,” Barton replied. “I’m prepared to consider including it in the sale, but that will depend on your willingness to address its proven value.”

“I came here willing, upon a careful inspection of the collection, to offer you forty-five million dollars.”

Barton shrugged. “That is a figure nearly high enough for the collection, without the secretary.”

“The proven value of the secretary is twelve million dollars.”

“That was in 1989,” Barton said, “and the number at that time was twelve point one million. Need I point out that fine American pieces are bringing a great deal more now than they did then and, moreover, that a private collector bought the last Goddard-Townsend secretary? There are a great many more billionaire private collectors around now than then. I should think a well-publicized auction might result in a bidding frenzy that could well bring double the last price for such a piece.”

Cavanaugh and Whately exchanged a long glance. Whately gave a tiny shrug.

“All right, Barton, tell me what you want for the lot, including the secretary.”

“If you require me to name a number, Peter, that will be the price, without further negotiation. You will have to take it or leave it.”

“What is the number?”

“First of all there are conditions beyond the price.”

“What are they?”

“I want the pieces in the living room, library and dining room to be permanently displayed at the Metropolitan in replicas of the original rooms. If you wish, you may alternate pieces from the bedrooms and the attic in replicas of other rooms, as space allows. I want the collection to be called the Caleb and Mildred Strong Collection, and I want my name under theirs as originating curator. After that, you may list the name or names of benefactors.”