“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.
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.”
“Based on what I was told when I had the glass installed, I’m perfectly satisfied that, as it is, it will offer excellent protection.”
“As you wish,” Stone said, fingering the thick curtains that lined the window. “What are these made of?”
“Just ordinary wool. I pull them sometimes when we’re doing installations, and the gallery looks messy.”
“I see. Sarah said you’ve sent out a large number of invitations.”
“Yes, indeed; to my A-list.”
“Are you keeping a record of acceptances?”
“Yes, but you should understand that people will often show up without having responded to the invitation.”
“In that case, could you let the officer on the door have your mailing list, so that he can check off arrivals?”
Bergman frowned. “I wouldn’t like to do anything that will delay the entrance of guests; I wouldn’t want them lined up down the block while someone searches a list of twelve hundred people for names. What if it rains?”
“I see. Tell me, do you have an employee who would recognize most of your list on sight?”
“I have my wife,” Bergman said. “I, of course, must move around the crowd, but she could stand near the door early on, while guests are still arriving. If there is a strange face, she could make a signal to the policeman, I suppose, but I wouldn’t want her there all evening.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Stone said. “The policeman will have a sketch of our suspect, but we can’t be sure how accurate that is.”
“I’ll speak to my wife,” Bergman said. “I assume that someone will be with Sarah the whole time.”
“I will be with her,” Stone said.
“Are you a policeman, Mr. Barrington? You certainly don’t look like one.”
“No, but I used to be. I’m an attorney, now; my interest in Sarah is personal. What’s upstairs?”
“Accounting, shipping, and clerical,” Bergman replied. “The fire exit and all the windows are heavily reinforced against outside entry.”
Stone’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He held out a hand to the gallery owner. “Thank you, Mr. Bergman,” he said. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”
