6
Stone and Barton left Lake Waramaug and drove to Danbury.
“Barton,” Stone said, “I’m in some doubt as to whether you’ve completely recovered your memory.”
“I’m not entirely certain, myself,” Barton said. “I seem to remember the things I try to, but I don’t know if I’m just avoiding thinking about the things I think I might not remember.”
Stone shook his head. “Let’s start with the basics: If I leave you in Danbury, buying a van, will you be able to find your way home?”
“Yes. I found my way home an hour ago, didn’t I? From what the doctor in New York told me, once memory starts to return, it continues. Maybe it stops, and some things can’t be recovered, but there’s no regression.”
“That makes sense, I guess. I’m just concerned about leaving you alone in Connecticut with no sense of whether you’ll be safe.”
“Safety is a different question,” Barton said. “My safety is in the possibility that whoever put me in the hospital thought he had put me in the grave.”
“You’re speaking in the singular. Was it one man?”
“I don’t know; he was the most convenient pronoun.”
“Do you have any memory at all of how you got into difficulties?”
“No.”
“But you think it was connected with the secretary?”
Barton looked at Stone as if he were a simple child. “There are two secretaries; one of them is gone, and so is my van. What do you deduce from that?”
“All right, all right. Is there a way to figure out whether the one in the barn is the original or the reproduction?”
“I can get my people in there and, among the three of us, we can probably figure that out. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them made some sort of mark on the reproduction.”
“Then I think you should get them in there, so we’ll know which one we’re dealing with.”
“Why? Whoever has the other one won’t be able to tell the difference. No auction house will be able to tell the difference, not that they could auction it without getting caught.”
“So you think it will be disposed of privately?”
“I think whoever did this already had a buyer. If you were a thief of art you wouldn’t bother to steal, say, a Van Gogh, unless you already had a buyer, would you?”
“I guess not, but what about provenance? Won’t the buyer demand it?”
“Either the buyer is an expert or fancies himself one, or he’ll hire an unscrupulous expert to authenticate it. Provenance can be arranged.”
“Is the piece insured?”
“Yes, but only for what I paid for it. That would be unsatisfactory recompense for the effort I’ve put into this project.”
“But you can sell the one you have, can’t you?”
“I always meant to keep the reproduction for myself,” Barton said. “Of course, merely owning the reproduction, keeping it in my house, would keep the insurance company from paying for the theft, because their experts would think it the original.”
“Which it may well be.”
“Yes. I could never let anyone in the house again, unless I represented it as the reproduction, and I couldn’t afford to insure the piece for what it would bring at auction.”
“This is awfully confusing,” Stone said.
“I’m the one who’s supposed to be confused,” Barton said.
“It seems to be contagious,” Stone replied.
Following Barton’s directions, they pulled into a car dealership, and Barton pointed across the lot. “There,” he said, pointing to a line of new vans, “that’s the one I want, the second in line.”
Stone drove him to the showroom. “I’ll wait until you’ve actually bought the van,” he said.
“Don’t worry, I’ve brought my checkbook,” Barton said. “I’ll be out of here in the van in half an hour. Go home, Stone, and I thank you for your help. If my brother should ask, tell him I’m just fine.” He got out of the car, closing the door behind him, and strode toward the dealer’s showroom.
Stone turned around and pointed the car toward I-84 West. He would be home in an hour and a half.
Stone and Dino sat at Elaine’s, eating dinner.
“That’s a weird story,” Dino said. “Can a piece of furniture be worth twenty-five million dollars?”
“Maybe more,” Stone said, “according to Barton.”
“Did you see the news tonight?” Dino asked.
“No.”
“They rescued those people in Afghanistan. Nobody got hurt.”
“So Lance made the right call?”
Dino shrugged. “I guess, unless they ignored his advice.”
“Was there anything on the news or in the afternoon papers about Barton Cabot?”
“No, not a word,” Dino replied.
“That’s kind of odd, isn’t it? It’s a pretty good story.”
“I think it’s only a good story if the press finds out he’s Lance’s brother.”
“Or if they hear about the secretary,” Stone pointed out.
“I’m not talking,” Dino said. “Are you?”
“Nope. Barton hopes whoever attacked him thinks he’s dead.”
“He would be safer if they thought that, I guess,” Dino said.
“And if nobody knows about the secretary he still has, which might be the original.”
“Well, yes, I suppose he would be in a hell of a lot of danger, if that were public knowledge.”
“I’m not talking,” Stone said. “Are you?”
“Nope,” Dino said. “What do you think Barton intends to do about all this?”
“Do about it?”
“Come on, Stone, if you had lost a piece of furniture that might be worth twenty-five million bucks, wouldn’t you do something about it?”
“I’d call the cops and the newspapers and get as much publicity about it as I could. That would make it harder to sell, and if there was already a buyer, it might make him too nervous to complete the sale.”
“So why doesn’t Barton do that?” Dino asked. “If he could get it back, he’d have furniture worth fifty million.”
“Good point.”
“And Barton is a hotshot ex-Marine. That kind of military experience molds a man. Why would he accept being beaten up and left on the street for dead?”
“Another good point,” Stone admitted. “Do you think I should call Lance and tell him about all this?”
“You won’t have to,” Dino said, nodding toward the door. “He just walked in.”