“I did everything exactly as you asked. I brought nothing from my old apartment here – not so much as a teacup.”
“And everything at your old apartment is in perfect order?”
“Absolutely perfect. There is nothing new there; only my old things. I intend to give everything to the Salvation Army.”
“Now tell me this, dear, and this is most important. Have you told anyone of your move here?”
“Not a soul.”
“Have you done anything to alert any of your friends or neighbors that you were about to move?”
“Nothing. No one knows.”
He patted her cheek and kissed her again. “Good girl.” He polished off his martini. “Now, if you will forgive me, I must do some work in my study for a while.”
“I’ll start cooking dinner, then,” she said.
“Oh, no; I’ve already made a reservation at a very good restaurant for dinner. It will be my surprise; can you be ready at eight?”
“Of course! I look forward to it. Now, you go and do your work. My soap opera is on now, and I never miss it.”
“Good, good.” Menzies gathered up the papers and went to his study, a handsome, book-lined room – books that he had collected for many years. He closed the door behind him, set the papers on his desk, sat down behind it, picked up a phone, and dialed a number. “I’m here,” he said to the man who answered. “Yes, all is well. Be downstairs in” – he looked at his watch – “three-quarters of an hour, exactly.” He hung up the phone and went to work, examining each of the legal documents in minute detail. It was perfect. He looked over the copy of his combined credit report, stretching back the usual seven years. Every payment on every account had been made on time. He leafed through the stock-account statements, though he was already very familiar with them. The balances, at the end of the previous month, totaled just over fifteen million dollars, and the market had gone up since then. He felt a wave of contentment at the thought of his wealth.
A copy of that day’s Wall Street Journal sat on the desk. He folded it and opened a desk drawer, looking for an envelope and finding it exactly where he had asked her to put it. She really is a good organizer, he thought. He stuffed the newspaper into the envelope, sealed it, and wrote in large letters on its outside “Mr. Smith” and an address. He glanced at his watch, then returned to the living room. “My dear,” he said, “there is one more matter to which I must ask you to attend, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, no, Herbie,” she said. “I don’t mind at all.”
“Ach!” he exclaimed, raising a forefinger.
“Oh, I’m so sorry – Howard.”
“That’s better; you must never forget. Now come, we’ll go downstairs, and I’ll explain on the way.” He led her out of the apartment and onto the elevator. “Take this envelope,” he said, handing it to her.
She accepted the envelope. “Mr. Smith,” she said.
“Yes, and the address in Long Island City is also there. I’ve arranged a car and driver for you, and I want you to deliver this envelope to this gentleman and get a receipt. That’s very important, the receipt.”
“What sort of receipt?” she asked.
“It should read, ‘received of Mrs. Menzies, one envelope of documents,’ and be signed with his full name, which is Franklin P. Smith.”
“I understand,” she said, as they reached the lobby.
“Would you like a cab, Mr. Menzies?” the doorman asked.
“No, thank you, Jeff, I believe a car is waiting… there he is!” He waved, and a black Lincoln Town Car, like thousands of others in the city, pulled up. The driver wore a bandage on his left ear. Menzies opened the door for his wife, and she got in. “The driver has the address,” Menzies said, “and he will escort you into the building when you arrive. I’ll see you in an hour or so, my dear.”
“Of course, my darling,” she replied, waving as the car pulled away.
Mitteldorfer, now Menzies, turned and walked back into the building. As the elevator rose, he sighed deeply. Now that that little detail was taken care of, he felt free. Now he could take care of a few other little details, then begin his new life. His first order of business was to inflict pain.
24
ON MONDAY MORNING, STONE BEGAN BY calling Bill Eggers at Woodman & Weld. “Good morning, Bill; could one of your associates close a real-estate transaction for me?”
“Sure, Stone; commercial or residential?”
“Residential. I’ve bought a house in Connecticut.”
“You? The quintessential city boy?”
“I like a little grass between my toes from time to time.”
“I smell a woman.”
“You have a very good nose.”
“I want to meet her.”
“You will, soon enough. I’ve agreed to close within two weeks.”
“You want me to get you a mortgage?”
“I’m paying cash.”
“There goes that big fee from the Allison Manning case last year.”
“Some of it.”
“I’ll assign Barry Mendel to close it for you. He’ll call you, and you can give him the seller’s lawyer’s name, and he can take it from there.”
“Thanks very much, Bill.”
“Lunch?”
“Not this week, I’m afraid; I’ve got a lot on my plate. I’ll call you.” He hung up. But not until this business is over, he thought. No need endangering any more of my friends.
Stone walked into the Bergman Gallery on Madison Avenue and asked the receptionist for Edgar Bergman. The gallery owner came out of his office immediately, a short, distinguished-looking man in a beautifully cut suit.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes,” Stone replied. “I believe Sarah Buckminster called you about me.”
“Indeed she did. I believe you have some security concerns?”
“Yes. There was an attempt to harm her recently, and I prefer to take it seriously until I’m sure there’s to be no repeat of the episode.”
“I understand, of course,” Bergman said, as if he really didn’t understand at all. “I should tell you that, as a gallery which frequently houses millions of dollars in art, our security precautions are quite extensive. Our insurance people insist.”
“Could you give me a brief tour?” Stone asked. “I’m interested in Sarah’s personal safety rather than in any possible theft, of course.”
“Of course. First of all, let me show your our rear entrance,” Bergman said, signaling Stone to follow. He walked to the rear of the gallery, opened a door, and led Stone down a hallway, emerging into the side street. “Sarah can enter and leave through this entrance,” he said. “It runs behind the boutique next door, and both the street door and the one to the interior of the gallery are steel and ballistic glass.”
“That’s good to know,” Stone said. “We’ll certainly take advantage of the entrance, and there’ll be a policeman on guard there. You should make a list of anyone else who is likely to use that entrance on the night.”
“Right.”
“May we look at the main entrance to the gallery?”
“Of course, follow me.” Bergman led the way back into the gallery and to its front. “There you are,” he said, gesturing at the front door.
Stone noted that it was made of stainless steel. “What about the plate-glass window?” he asked.
“It’s the best armored glass I could find in such a large size,” Bergman said. “I was concerned with smash-and-grab artists taking a painting or a piece of sculpture.”
“Is there any kind of coating?”
“No, I don’t believe so. In fact, I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“There is a coating available that can be applied like wallpaper. It’s perfectly clear, but it greatly reinforces large areas of glass and, of course, prevents shattering. I can give you the name of a man who installs it, if you like.”