Other officers were discovering cash in other suitcases.
“You can take five thousand dollars with you,” the supervisor said, handing him a stack of hundreds. “We’re confiscating the rest, pending a court hearing.”
Calhoun sagged. “I hope to God the cars I ordered are waiting,” he said to his steaming wife.
They were waiting, he discovered, after an hour and a half in customs, in a distant parking lot. After a long walk, they piled into the cars and were driven to Calhoun’s high-rise apartment in Manhattan.
There, with a drink in hand, Calhoun began to think about revenge.
The package containing the closing documents for the sale of Curtis House arrived at Windward Hall early the following morning, and Stone had time to review them before the ten AM completion. He reflected that everything was so much simpler when a mortgage company was not a party to the sale.
Lady Curtis looked somehow younger than the last time he had seen her. He assumed it was because a load had been lifted from her shoulders, and she was now independently wealthy, if she had not been before. She signed the documents eagerly, as did Stone and Marcel, and she turned over all the well-tagged keys to the house, then they adjourned for a light lunch.
Afterward, Susan showed Marcel and Stone the computer renditions of the main rooms of Curtis House and the plans were approved with few changes.
“Now I’ve got to go back to London, put my own house in order, and get work started on the draperies and wallpaper. I’ve got three crews arriving on Monday morning, one for the public rooms, one for the bedrooms, and one for the bathrooms. The engineering drawings for the new heating and air-conditioning systems will be along in a couple of weeks, and we’ll send them out for bids to companies in the area.”
“That’s good,” Marcel said. “Our neighbors will think better of us if we use local outfits, instead of bringing everything down from London.”
Stone walked Susan out to her car. “When will I see you?”
“Next weekend, and after that I’ll be working almost entirely from here, getting the plans organized for our application for the planning commission.”
“Won’t we need an architect for that?”
“I am a licensed architect with a degree from Cambridge,” she said.
“I didn’t know, but that’s very handy.”
“Various people will come down from London in aid of restructuring my company, and I’ll interview job applicants here, too. Would you prefer it if I worked from Curtis House?”
“Whatever is most convenient for you. I’m happy to have you here, but we’ve given you all the space we have available, and I’ll understand if it’s not enough.”
“I’ll give that some thought and let you know,” she said.
He kissed her, and she drove away in her green Range Rover.
“What a package,” he said aloud to himself.
34
After Susan had driven away, Stan brought the Land Rover around for Marcel.
“You’re leaving so soon?” Stone asked.
“Yes, my airplane is on the way to your field. I must run to Paris, then Rome for a few days, to keep our kettles boiling there, then I’ll be back.”
“You’ll be very welcome,” Stone said.
“I’ve left a few things in my room,” Marcel said, “including some laundry.”
“I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”
Marcel got into the car and was driven away.
Stone and Dino walked over to the stables, where horses had been saddled for them.
“You should keep some riding clothes here,” Stone said.
“What riding clothes? I don’t own any.”
“There’s a shop in Beaulieu that will fix you up.”
They mounted, then rode across the meadow, through the wood, then jumped the stone wall onto the Curtis House property. There were two large moving vans parked in front of the house, and furniture was being loaded on them.
“They’re going to London, to Susan’s workshop, for reupholstering,” Stone explained.
“Susan is quite a girl,” Dino said. “Why don’t you hang on to her?”
“I’d like that, but I don’t know if she’s going to have time for me. She’s expanding her company while redoing Curtis House, and she’s got her hands full.”
“She doesn’t work nights, does she?”
“That’s what’s keeping us going.”
They rode slowly around the property, seeing things they hadn’t noticed before.
“I saw the hermit’s house,” Dino said. “I’ll bet the brigadier was an interesting guy.”
“I never met him, and saw him on the property only twice.”
“You remember when we were young, back at the Nineteenth, and got our first big homicide?”
“How could I forget?”
“Remember the lesbian lady who offed herself in the bathtub?”
“I do.”
“And we thought for a while she had done it out of guilt, but it turned out she wasn’t the murderer?”
“I do.”
“Ever since, I’ve always been suspicious when suicides confess.”
“As I recall, she didn’t confess.”
“Right, but we assumed she was guilty, anyway.”
“I see your point. Are you suspicious of the brigadier’s confession?”
“Sometimes there are motives for suicide other than guilt,” Dino said. “I don’t know enough about this one to form an opinion, but I think you ought to keep that in mind.”
“Why? I’m not investigating it. I accept his confession as sincere.”
“Maybe you ought to know more about the case,” Dino said, then spurred his horse into a gallop and jumped another stone wall.
Stone followed him and concentrated on the wall, putting everything else out of his mind.
Dr. Don was enjoying his first breakfast back in New York, and his wife, Cheree, seemed to be, as well. “How are you feeling?” he asked her.
“Well, I hadn’t expected to be back in New York this soon. I thought we were going to buy that house and operate over there for a while.”
“Well, yes...”
“After all, it’s gotten a little hot on this side of the Atlantic, hasn’t it? I mean, that magazine piece we heard about is going to come out sooner or later. What was it, New York?”
“The New Yorker.”
“You should never have given that woman the interview.”
“Oh, I don’t know, at least I got my side of the story told.”
“You just wanted to screw her,” Cheree said with a snort. “Did you, by the way?”
“I did not, she was not my type.”
“Oh, Don, your type is anything with a pussy.”
He laughed. “I’ve been accused of that.”
“I thought I was keeping you satisfied.”
“Oh, you are, my sweet,” he said, patting her on the knee. He finished his coffee just as the doorbell rang, and he went to answer it. He opened the door to find the New Yorker writer, Lisa Altman, standing there.
“Good morning,” she said brightly.
“How did you get past the doorman?” he asked.
“Oh, we’re old friends,” she said. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” he said, stepping back and admitting her.
“The New Yorker is gearing up to run my profile on you, and I wanted to ask a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” He led her into the living room, with its spectacular view of Central Park, and sat her down facing the window. “Now,” he said, settling into a chair, “what can I tell you?”
“Tell me how you managed to get yourself declared persona non grata from Britain.”
Calhoun was stunned. “How on earth...?”