“Then here’s what you do: You instruct your attorney to get a subpoena for all of Henry’s financial records and to look for these expenditures, but don’t mention the exact amounts or tell him that I gave you this information. Remember, he has spent all this money from marital funds, so you’re entitled to half in cash.”
“That’s wonderful, Stone! How on earth…”
“No, no, no,” Stone interrupted. “Don’t ask.”
“Oh, all right.”
“And don’t tell your attorney that you’ve learned all this; just tell him you’ve become suspicious of Henry’s spending habits since you parted.”
“All right.”
“Now to more pleasant things. I have a little house in Washington, Connecticut, and I’ve been invited to a very nice dinner party on Saturday night. Will you come up there with me for the weekend?”
“Oh, I’d love to!” she said. “I’ve been stuck in the city for too long.”
“Good. We’ll drive up Saturday morning and come back Sunday or Monday, whichever you prefer.”
“It sounds wonderful. Now I have to get back to work.”
“Talk to you later.” Stone hung up, and Joan came in with an envelope.
“This arrived by messenger,” she said.
Stone opened the envelope and found Barton’s prospectus. He leafed through it slowly, marveling at the pieces, and suddenly he came to a stop. He found himself staring at a photograph of Barton’s mahogany secretary. He read the accompanying caption:
&nbs
p; A very fine example of a secretary, in two pieces, from the firm of Goddard-Townsend, of Newport, commissioned by Josiah Strong in 1760 and housed in the family home since that time. It is, very possibly, one of only two pieces still in private hands. A sister piece sold for $12.1 million at Christie’s in June of 1989.
Stone remembered that he had walked through the entire house with Barton, cataloguing each piece, and there had been no Goddard-Townsend secretary in any of the rooms or the attic. It seemed that Barton had thought of a way to give the remaining piece still in his possession an instant provenance. Stone also recalled that Barton had said he could not remember whether the stolen piece was the original or his copy and no one could tell the difference.
Joan buzzed. “Barton Cabot on line one.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Barton?”
“Yes, Stone. Did you get the prospectus?”
“Yes, I was just reading it.”
“I saw my banker earlier today, and my loan request was denied.”
“I’m astonished,” Stone said. “Isn’t the collection its own collateral?”
“That was only part of it. He said that such a large personal loan would have to be approved by the board of directors of the bank, which doesn’t meet again for another five weeks.”
“That’s bad news,” Stone said. “What is your next move?”
“It appears that my only move is to find a person who is wealthy enough and motivated enough to come up with the money. The drawback is I’ll have no control over how it’s sold. The pieces might have to be auctioned, piecemeal, to recover the investment, and even if a museum buys it, I’ll have no control over how the collection is displayed.”
“Have you sent the prospectus to any museums?”
“Yes, I’ve sent it to the eight directors most likely to want it, afford it and house it.”
“Well, maybe one of them will be able to come up with the money in time to close the sale with Mildred’s executors.”
“That will never happen. Even if they’re dying for it, they’d have to go first to their boards, then to their richest donors for the money. That could take months to resolve.”
“I wish I could help in some way,” Stone said, “but I don’t see what I can do.”