Foster consulted his calendar. “Barton, the next scheduled meeting of the board is five weeks from today, and I’m not sure we could get the appraisals done by that time. They’re certainly not going to call a special board meeting for this purpose, and, anyway, I happen to know that three of the board members, including the chairman, are abroad. Couldn’t you ask for more time to close the deal?”
“The executors of Mrs. Strong’s estate have made it clear that they will be strict about the terms of the contract. For all I know, they may have an auction house waiting in the wings to pull this collection to pieces and scatter it all over the world.”
Foster spread his hands wide. “Barton, I appreciate everything you’ve said, and I’m sure the collection is as important and worth as much as you say it is, but I’m afraid that, given the time pressure, the deal is just not doable for us. And I’m afraid that you’d get the same answer from any other bank.”
Barton hauled himself to his feet. “Thank you for your candor, James.”
Foster walked him to the door. “A better bet might be to approach a very wealthy individual who might buy the collection and present it to a museum.”
“Then I would lose any control I might have over where and how the collection would be displayed.”
“It’s an imperfect world, Barton.”
The two men shook hands, and Barton left. He went to a Kinko’s, where copies of his prospectus had been run off and bound. He messengered copies to Carla and Stone, then FedExed others to eight museum directors with a covering letter, then he drove back to Connecticut, feeling dejected and numb.
When Barton reached home, he got the mail from his mailbox and let himself into the house. He made a fire in the study, poured himself a drink and sat down to warm up. In his mind he riffled through his client list, most of them wealthy people, but he could not come up with one who would have both the cash and the commitment to collecting that would be required to bring the deal off. Harlan Deal, for instance, certainly had the money, but not the taste or sophistication to appreciate the value of the collection, let alone the commitment to a museum.
He began opening his mail. Halfway through the stack he came across an engraved envelope; inside was a dinner invitation for Saturday night from Ab Kramer.
Perhaps, he thought, he might know the right man after all.
54
Stone sat at his desk, going over the bank statements, broker- age statements and credit card statements of Henry Kennerly, jotting down notes and amounts as he went. It took him more than two hours to complete the job and total the amounts and categories. When he was done, he called Tatiana.
“Hello?”
“It’s Stone. How is the cleanup going?”
“I’ve got a professional crew, and they’ve promised to stay until it’s done, even if it’s midnight.”
“Good. Be sure and call your insurance company; they’ll pay for it.”
“I have already done that; their adjuster just left. I had to file a police report, though.”
“Good. That’s one more bargaining chip. And speaking of bargaining chips, do you have a pencil and paper?”
“I’ll get one,” she said and put down the phone. A moment later she was back. “Go ahead.”
“First of all, how long ago did you and Henry separate?”
“About five weeks ago.”
“Good. All of the following expenditures were made since that time.”
“Expenditures? Henry’s?”
“Yes.”
“How would you have access to his expenditures?”
“You’re not to ask me that; just listen.”
“All right.”
“During the past thirty days, Henry has spent more than eight thousand dollars in restaurants. I can tell you from experience that he would have to order a lot of expensive wines to get that figure so high. He has also spent more than two thousand dollars with a florist, and about twelve thousand dollars with three jewelers. Has he taken you to dinner, sent you flowers or given you jewelry during the past thirty days?”
“Certainly not.”