“I did, inside a steel cabinet, which was locked and to which the doorman did not have a key.”
“Back up a step,” she said. “How did you get into my storage unit?”
“Simple—I bribed a doorman.”
“Which one?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“All right then, how did you get into the steel cabinet without a key?”
“I engaged a person with a deep knowledge of locks, and he picked it.”
“One more question,” she said. “Where is the painting now?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to ask Margaretta that question. Would she have access to the key to the steel cabinet?”
“All my keys are in a drawer in the hall table,” she said.
“And does Margaretta know that?”
“Yes.”
“Anyway,” Stone said, “that’s how I spent my day, and now I’m hungry.”
“Come with me, you have to help.”
Stone followed her into the kitchen. She poured the contents of a saucepan into a double boiler, already simmering, and handed him a rubber spatula. “That is béarnaise sauce. Please stir it until it thickens.”
Stone took the spatula and started stirring.
Morgan turned on three eyes on the gas range and dropped two boned chicken breasts into a small skillet with some butter and olive oil. She sautéed them quickly on both sides, then put them on two plates and added haricots verts and new potatoes from the other two pans, then held out the plates. “Now pour the béarnaise onto the two plates.”
He did so.
“Now turn off the stove and follow me.” She led him around a corner to a small dining nook, where two places had been elaborately set and a bottle of wine decanted. Stone set down the plates and pulled her chair out for her, then he sat down.
He picked up the wine bottle. “Haut-Brion ’59. Wherever did you get that?”
“From the gigantic wine cupboard in the kitchen, which you failed to notice. There’s a lot like that in there.”
They raised their glasses and drank, then began to eat.
“Wonderful,” Stone said.
“I’ll have more questions when we’re finished,” she said.
30
MORGAN DID NOT consider them finished until they had left the dinner table, gone upstairs to the bedroom, and made love twice.
“Now,” Stone panted, “do you have any further questions?”
“Not at the moment,” she said. “I am unable to organize my thoughts just yet.”
“Organize this,” Stone said. “I’m going to need to ask Margaretta some questions when she arrives tomorrow.”
“I think I understand the necessity of that,” Morgan said, “but not until we have finished breakfast. I don’t want to throw her off her stride.”
“She does make very good scrambled eggs,” Stone said, and they were soon asleep.
? ? ?
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, when they were awake, Stone said, “I have another question for you, and it’s a very important one.”
“Go ahead, I think I can handle it now.”
He took the remote controls, sat up both their beds, and turned to look her in the eye. “I once asked, if you had to choose between the van Gogh or sixty million, which you would pick. Does your answer still stand?”
“It does,” she said.
“You’re absolutely certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re going to have to sign a document to that effect,” he said.
“Gladly. Do you have it on you?”
“No, I’m naked at the moment, but I will produce it in due course, when we have the picture back.”
“How are we going to get it back?”
“We’re going to start by my questioning Margaretta.”
There was a knock at the door and Margaretta entered, wheeling their breakfast on a cart. Greetings were exchanged, breakfast was served, and she left them.
? ? ?
AFTER BREAKFAST, Stone shaved, showered, and dressed, and Morgan slipped a cashmere dressing gown on over her nightie. “All right,” she said, “let’s go see Margaretta.”
They went downstairs; Morgan retrieved Margaretta from the kitchen and invited her to sit down on the sofa opposite them. “Margaretta,” Morgan said, “Mr. Barrington needs to ask you some questions, and it’s important that you give him honest answers.”
Margaretta looked alarmed. “Did I do something wrong, Mrs. Tillman?”
“I hope you didn’t,” Morgan replied, but Margaretta did not look less alarmed.
“Margaretta,” Stone began, “on the Wednesday after the Saturday Mr. Tillman died, was a package from Federal Express delivered to this apartment?”
Tears appeared in Margaretta’s eyes and began to roll down her cheeks. Morgan got up and gave her a box of tissues, then sat down.
“Yes,” Margaretta said.
“Who delivered the package?”
“One of the doormen.”
“Which one?”
“Ralph.”
“Did Ralph sign for the package when Federal Express delivered it?”
“Yes, but not his name.”
“Whose name?”
“Gino.”
“Do you know why Ralph signed Gino’s name?”
“Ralph didn’t want anybody to know he signed it.”
“When you received the package, had it been opened, or was it still sealed?”
“It was open,” Margaretta said. “Ralph opened it.”
“Do you know why he opened it?”
“I think maybe he thought it was something valuable, and since Mr. Tillman had died . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“What was inside the package?”
“A picture,” she said, then pointed at the wall. “The one that used to be over there.”
“What did you do with the picture?”
“Ralph said I should take it home,” she said.
“Why did he say that?”
“He said it would look pretty in my living room, and Mr. Tillman wouldn’t need it anymore. So I took it home, and I bought a frame at the store, and I hung it on my wall.”
“Did Ralph say anything to you about the value of the picture?”
“No. He just said I deserved to have a pretty picture.”
“What did you do with the Federal Express box?”
“I took it downstairs to the storage room and locked it in a gray cabinet.”
“Why did you keep the box?”
“Because if anybody asked about the picture, I wanted to put it back in the box, like it was delivered.”
“Margaretta,” Morgan said, “where was I when the box was delivered?”
“At your hairdresser’s, ma’am.”
“Ah, yes, it was Wednesday, wasn’t it?”
“Ma’am,” Margaretta said, sniffling, “am I in any trouble?”
“Stone,” Morgan asked, “is Margaretta in any trouble?”
“No,” Stone said.
“Oh, thank God,” Margaretta said.
“Not if we get the picture back.”
Margaretta began to cry again.
“What’s wrong, Margaretta?” Morgan asked.
She kept crying, and Morgan went and sat next to her on the sofa and consoled her. Finally, she got herself under control.
“Now, Margaretta,” Stone said, as gently as possible, “is the picture still on your wall? All we have to do is go and get it, then you won’t be in any trouble.”
Margaretta began to cry again.
Stone looked at Morgan and shrugged helplessly.
“Margaretta, please answer Mr. Barrington,” Morgan said.
Margaretta continued to sob.
Stone was beginning to get a very bad feeling. “When you’re ready, Margaretta,” he said.
Morgan went to the bar, poured a glass of sherry, and returned to the sofa. “Here, Margaretta, drink this, it will make you feel better.”
Margaretta sipped the drink, then took a bigger sip.
“When you’re ready,” Stone said again.
Finally, she made the effort. “No, Mr. Barrington, it is not still on my wall.”
“Where is it, Margaretta?”
“The picture was stolen.”
“What?”
“Two days ago,” she said.
“Do you know who stole it?”
Margaretta nodded. “Yes, I think.”
“Who?”
“Manolo.”
“Who is Manolo, Margaretta?”
Morgan held up a hand to stop him. “Manolo is her son,” she said, “and Manolo has a drug problem.”
“He steals things to get money for drugs,” Margaretta said.
“Do you think he thought the picture was valuable?”
“I think he thought he could sell it for enough to buy drugs. He needs drugs every day.”
31
MARGARETTA WAS CRYING nonstop now, so Stone put his questions to her through Morgan, as it seemed to work better.
“Margaretta, does Manolo live with you?”