Cavanaugh looked at Whately and got a small nod, then he turned back to Barton. “The name or names of benefactors may have to be listed in such a way as to be equal to those of the Strongs.”
Barton nodded his agreement.
“Are there any other conditions?”
“The collection must remain in my possession, housed in a suitable, secured facility for one year, after which the sale will close.”
“You’re thinking of the capital gains tax?” Cavanaugh asked.
“Of course.”
“It will take us at least that long to arrange space and build the rooms, anyway, so that is acceptable.”
“And you will pay for insurance and security.”
“In that case, we would have to house the collection in the museum’s storage areas. We could say that you’re loaning the collection to us for a year, in order to satisfy your tax requirement. Perhaps we could display a few of the more important pieces, like the secretary, with our current collection.”
Barton looked at Stone questioningly. “Would lending them the collection for a year satisfy the capital gains requirement?”
“I’m not an accountant or tax lawyer, but I believe so.”
“Also, Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “such an arrangement would dictate that we pay the full price of the collection at the time of closing. That way, you would not have to pay the full income tax on a down payment.”
Barton thought about this for a long moment.
Stone knew he was thinking about the nineteen million dollars he needed to close the deal, and that he didn’t have.
“Barton,” he said, “perhaps you should ask for a down payment and accept the tax consequences.” He was sure Barton knew exactly what he meant.
“No, Stone. Peter is right. We’ll close on the full amount in a year.”
Stone nodded, but he had to wonder where Barton was going to come up with the nineteen million by Tuesday.
“Now, Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “the number?”
“Seventy million dollars, but I will make a donation to the Metropolitan of five million, upon close of the sale. And in any publicity, interviews or conversations about the sale, you will state that the secretary accounted for twenty-five million of the seventy million dollars you paid.”
Cavanaugh looked at Barton appraisingly for a long moment, then he said, “Agreed, upon the condition of inspection of the secretary by Julian and me.”
“When?”
“Julian and I are both coming to a dinner party at Abner Kramer’s house on Saturday night. I understand that you live nearby?”
“Yes.”
“Then we could inspect the piece that afternoon?”
“Yes, that’s agreeable. Stone and I will be at that dinner, too, and I would be very pleased if you and Julian and your wives or companions, if they are coming, would be my guests overnight or for the weekend, if you like.”
“Thank you, Barton, that would be most agreeable.”
“Then, Peter,” Barton said, “let’s fill in the blanks in that agreement in your pocket and get it signed.”
And they did so.
58
Stone and Barton stood on the sidewalk outside Mildred Strong’s house and watched the two men from the Met drive away.
“That was quite a performance,” Stone said.
“The performance of my life,” Barton said, mopping his brow. “I’m still sweating.”
“You can retire after this one,” Stone said.
“Oh, no. I’m going to copy a few of Mildred’s pieces while I still own them, and selling them should keep me busy for a few years.”
“Have you figured out what sort of deal Charlie Crow and Mildred made?”
“I think so, but we’ll know for sure on Saturday night.”
“Why is Ab Kramer collecting you, Cavanaugh and Whately at the same dinner party?”
“I think because he has something he wants to show us,” Barton said.
Before Stone could ask what, or how he was going to come up with nineteen million dollars, Barton shook his hand and drove away.
Stone arrived home, garaged his car and entered his office the back way. Joan immediately came into the office.
“There’s a Mr. Henry Kennerly to see you,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I believe that’s the gentleman who is accusing you of adultery with his wife?”
“I believe you’re right,” Stone said. “Wait until I buzz you, then show him in and stick around while I talk to him. I want a witness.”
“Whatever you say,” Joan replied, then went back to her desk.
Stone took off his jacket and tie and hung them up, then he opened his desk drawer and took out two rolls of quarters, putting a roll in each of the front pockets of his trousers. He buzzed Joan. She opened the door to Stone’s office and showed the man in, then stood next to the door.
Henry Kennerly was even bigger than Stone remembered from his sighting at Elaine’s. He was at least two inches taller than Stone and forty pounds heavier, and it wasn’t all fat. He had a longer reach, too, Stone observed. He had known people like Kennerly before, starting in the schoolyard: bigger than everybody else and meaner, and accustomed to pushing people around.
“Good morning, Mr. Kennerly,” Stone said. “Now kindly leave my offices at once. You are unwelcome here.”
Kennerly moved his right hand. There was a click, and a steel police baton telescoped to its full length.
Stone stood up, put his hands in his pockets and walked around his desk. “You’d better make your first swing count,” Stone said, “because you’re not going to get a second one. After that, I’m going to punish you for invading my offices and refusing to leave when asked, while my secretary calls the police.”
“I don’t care if she does,” Kennerly said. “I’m going to beat you to a pulp.”
“Thank you for that warning. Did you hear that, Joan?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“As soon as this is over call nine-one-one. And, Mr. Kennerly, if you don’t mind a little free legal advice, possession by a civilian of the baton you’re holding is a felony in New York City. You’ll be charged with aggravated assault.”
“It’ll be worth it,” Kennerly said, advancing. He was big, but not very fast, and his body language telegraphed his move. He swung the baton in a wide arc at Stone’s head.
Stone removed his hands from his pockets, stepped into the move and ducked as the thing whistled past him. With a roll of quarters in each hand, he swung twice, first straight into the man’s solar plexus. With Kennerly’s weight moving toward him, that brought him to his knees. Then Stone walked behind him and punched him in the back of the neck, and the big man fell forward onto his face, stunned.
Joan left the room.
Stone went to his desk, put the quarters in a drawer and took out his old NYPD handcuffs. He walked over to Kennerly, put a knee on his back to pin him in place and cuffed him.
Joan walked back into the office. “I saw it all,” she said. “The police are on their way.”
“Thank you, Joan,” Stone said. He sat down at his desk and called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“It’s Stone.”
“Hi.”
“You remember that gorgeous woman you met at dinner?”
“How could I forget? Oh, I’m sorry about Genevieve’s behavior. That’s been straightened out.”
“Thanks. Speaking of straightening out, the lady’s soon-to-be ex-husband, one Henry Kennerly, is lying on the floor of my office. He came in here, threatened to beat me to a pulp and assaulted me with a perfectly illegal police baton, which I think qualifies nicely as a deadly weapon. I disarmed him and cuffed him, and Joan has called nine-one-one, having witnessed the whole business. I just wanted you to know that he’ll be at the precinct soon, and I’ll come in later and sign the complaint.”
“I’ll fill it out for you. You want me to forge your signature?”
“Sure, why not, and I wouldn’t mind if it took a while to process him. See if you can house him with one or more persons he won’t feel very comfortable with; I want this to be an unforgettable experience for him.”