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  “Hey, get that guy!” somebody yelled.

  The young man got to his feet, grabbed his paper bag, and sprinted down the block toward Fifth Avenue, pursued by the garbage men. He ran straight across Fifth, nearly being run down by a police car, its lights flashing. Funny, he hadn’t heard the siren until now. He heard the car doors opening, and somebody shout, “Stop! Police! Stop!”

  Only one choice here, he thought. He ran straight at the park wall, throwing his paper bag ahead of him, vaulted over the wall, hit the ground on the other side, grabbed the paper bag, and was gone into the brush. They’d never get him now. Cops were too fat to run far. He emerged onto a walkway and ran down it toward Central Park South. The sound of police sirens faded into the distance.

  He had gotten away with it again.

  Chapter 8

  Amanda got out of the Mercedes and looked approvingly up and down the tree-lined block. The nineteenth-century development known as Turtle Bay comprised three sides of a city block between Second and Third Avenues in the Forties; all the houses opened to the rear on a common garden. She knew half a dozen people with houses on the block and recognized it for the highly desirable place to live that it was.

  She climbed the steps of the brownstone and rang the bell. The door was answered almost immediately by a Mediterranean-looking woman. Amanda followed her through an entrance hall and a formal drawing room into a book-lined study at the rear of the house, with a bay window overlooking the gardens.

  “Will you please be comfortable for a moment,” the woman said. She spoke with a rather heavy accent. “Mr. Barrington will be with you quick.”

  “Thank you,” Amanda said, taking one of a pair of leather wing chairs before the window.

  “I’ll get some tea,” the woman replied, then left.

  Amanda stood up and had a look around the room. It contained a great deal of original oak paneling, in addition to the bookcases, and there was an antique Persian rug on the floor, with old-fashioned parquet showing around its edges. A leather-topped walnut desk occupied a corner, and there were a number of silver-framed photographs on a shelf beside the desk, of people Amanda assumed to be Barrington ’s father and mother. On the wall behind the desk were three good-sized oils, all New York scenes, that Amanda would have bought on the spot. They were, she realized, all by Matilda Stone, who, she knew, had died fairly young and had left only around fifty canvases, all in private hands. She wondered what these three might be worth.

  Stone Barrington finished his phone call and hung up. “ Alma,” he called to his secretary, “I’m going upstairs to meet my four o’clock; hold all my calls.”

  “Right, Stone,” Alma called back from her adjacent office.

  Stone climbed the spiral staircase that led to the rear hall of the first floor of the house and entered his study. A tall, handsome, beautifully dressed and coiffed woman, who appeared to be in her early forties, stood before his desk, looking at his mother’s paintings. “Good afternoon,” he said.

  She did not turn around immediately, but went on looking at the paintings. “I don’t suppose I’ve seen more than a dozen of her pictures in my whole life,” she said, “but I’ve loved every one of them.”

  “Thank you; she’d be pleased to have the compliment.”

  She turned and walked toward him, holding out her hand. “I’m Amanda Dart.”

  He took her hand. “I’m Stone Barrington; won’t you sit down?”

  They each took a wing chair and, as if on cue, the servant appeared with a silver tray containing a matching teapot, two cups and saucers, and a plate with several slices of pound cake and some cookies.

  “This is my housekeeper, Helene,” Stone said. “She makes the best pound cake on the Eastern Seaboard.”

  “In the Western Hemisphere,” Helene said blithely.

  “Helene is Greek; humility does not come easily to her.”

  “And what would I have to be humble about?” Helene asked. “You bet not my pound cake.”

  Amanda smiled appreciatively. She wanted the strange woman to be gone. “Tell me about this house,” she said, so they’d have something to talk about while Helene poured. Anyway, she was interested.

  “Of course. It was built in the eighteen-nineties by the father of my great-aunt on my father’s side. I suppose that makes him my great-grandfather? The architect was a man named Ehrick Rossiter, who worked from the eighteen-seventies through the nineteen-thirties.”

  “He had an eye for proportion,” Amanda said, looking around the room.

  “Yes, and he filled the house with interesting detail. I’ll give you the tour someday, when you have the time.”

  “Thank you, I’d love that, but not today. Did you choose the furnishings?”

  “About half of them, I suppose. The rest came down from family or were in the house when my great-aunt left it to me.”

  “You’re very fortunate in your family’s tastes.”

  “I am.”

  “Has Bill Eggers told you why I’m here?”

  “No, he said he’d let you explain everything.”

  Amanda opened her alligator bag and handed him the scandal sheet. “Recently, I had a weekend in Saint Bart’s; the day of my return this was sent to at least several dozen fax machines around the city – perhaps farther abroad, who knows?” She waited while Stone read it.

  “Where were these photographs taken?” he asked.

  “At a hotel in Manhattan.”

  “What is it that you’d like me to do for you, Ms. Dart?”

  “I want you to find out who produced this… document,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know, of course.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  She looked at him blankly. “Because when someone is publicly telling gratuitous lies about me I want to know who it is.”

  “I see.” Stone looked at the photographs carefully. “Ms. Dart,” he said, “are you saying this isn’t you in the photograph?”

  “Of course that’s what I’m saying,” she replied.

  “Ms. Dart, I am principally a lawyer, and when I am representing someone it is essential that I know everything there is to know about the situation in question.”

  “I don’t want to hire you as a lawyer, but as an investigator.”

  “There is little difference from my point of view. You see, if a client withholds information from me, I tend to spend too much of my time trying to find out why he is doing so. It would be much less expensive for you to save me that trouble. I expect Bill Eggers told you that I used to be a police detective.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Well, old habits die hard; I can usually tell when a person is lying to me.”

  “Oh, all right, it was… I was…” She seemed unable to go on.

  Stone looked at the photographs again. “And I believe I recognize the front door of the Trent in the background. You are not the first of my clients who has made use of it. After all, it’s the best, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s the best.”

  “As a lawyer, Ms. Dart, I am ethically bound to respect my clients’ confidences; and if I have your confidence I will be better able to help you.”

  Her shoulders sagged slightly, then she recomposed herself. “All right, the statements in the sheet are accurate; I wasn’t in Saint Bart’s, I was at the Trent, with a friend.”

  “Thank you for your candor. Now, why do you want to know who circulated this sheet?”

  “Mr. Barrington, until very recently I was in negotiations for a new contract with my newspaper and their news syndicate. The fax arrived at a very awkward time, so much that I had to accelerate the negotiations, and at very great risk to my career.”

  “How did the negotiations go?”

  “I got exactly what I wanted.”

  “Did your newspaper see this sheet before you reached agreement?”

  “I very much doubt it; I moved too quickly for that.”


  “So you are safe on that count, for the moment.”

  “For the next four years. However, revelations of the sort in that sheet tend to undercut my credibility, and credibility is the basis of my success in my work.”

  “I understand. So you would like me to try and stop this person or persons from doing this again?”

  “No. You find out who it is, and I’ll do the stopping, believe me.”

  “That sounds rather ominous, Ms. Dart. I hope you aren’t thinking of doing anything foolish.”

  “I am not a foolish person, Mr. Barrington, I assure you.” She suddenly smiled. “And I would be pleased if you would call me Amanda.”

  “Of course; please call me Stone.”

  “Will you assist me in this matter, Stone?”

  “If I may be sure of your continued full cooperation.”

  “You may indeed.”

  “Then I will begin by asking you a great many questions,” Stone said.

  “Let’s get started,” Amanda replied.

  Chapter 9

  The gardens were lovely now, Amanda noticed, half in sunshine and half in shadow. A lone gardener knelt and pulled at weeds.

  “Amanda?” Stone said quietly.

  “I’m sorry,” Amanda replied, returning her full attention to him. “I was just admiring the light in the garden.”

  “It is lovely, isn’t it?” Stone said. “I’ve sat whole days watching it.”

  “Please ask me your questions,” Amanda said, crossing her legs and adjusting her skirt. She was aware of Stone’s glance at her legs, which she knew were one of her best features.

  Stone knew he had been caught looking at her legs, but she didn’t seem to mind. “How many people knew you were going to spend the weekend at the Trent?” he asked.

  “Only my secretary, Martha,” Amanda replied. “Martha always knows where I am, in case of emergency.”

  “Last name?”

  “McMahon.”

  “And how long has Martha been with you?”

  “For fifteen years; she’s my most trusted employee.”

  “Do you think Martha could be bought?”

  “Absolutely not. Anyway, she’s extremely well paid. She earns on a par with a secretary to a top corporation head.”

  “Who else besides Martha knew?”

  “No one.”

  “How did you travel to the hotel?”

  “Oh, well, Paul, my driver, took me.”

  “So Paul knew where you were going?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, he knew the address, but I don’t think he could have known the significance.”

  “Did he know you were supposed to be in Saint Bart’s?”

  “Well, yes; he had been told that, in case anyone asked.”

  “So he knew you didn’t go to the airport, that you were doing something unusual.”

  “Yes, I suppose, but he never asked any questions. Paul never does.”

  “Last name?”

  “Brennan.”

  “How long with you?”

  “Nine years.”

  “Trustworthy?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So that’s two people who knew something. How about at the hotel? Whom did you see there?”

  “No one; the desk clerk had turned his back when I ran for the elevator.”

  “No maid, no anyone?”

  “A maid did bring some sheets and towels a couple of times, and, of course, there were room service waiters, but I was always in the bathroom when they arrived.”

  “They knew that Mr. Bell was with someone, though.”

  “I suppose they did; the meals were for two, after all, but they would have no reason to know it was me.”

  “Did you carry a handbag there?”

  “Yes, a small clutch.”

  “Where did you place it in the suite?”

  “I… dropped it on the floor when I entered the first time.”

  “Did it remain there?”

  “No, when I left, it had been put on a table, by the maid, I suppose.”

  “Might she have had time to open it?”

  “Possibly; my driver’s license was inside, and some credit cards.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m beginning to see, too, I think,” she said. “It’s hard to go anywhere without someone knowing, isn’t it?”

  “It is. With that in mind, can you think of anyone else who might have known?”

  “I can’t think of anyone else.”

  “Bill Eggers?”

  “No; I told him nothing.”

  “Let’s look at the Saint Bart’s end, then.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “In the same way that certain people in New York knew you were remaining in the city, certain people in Saint Bart’s would have known of your absence there.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, certainly my, ah, putative host, the Duke, knew of my absence, though he didn’t know why. The staff at the house would have known I was not there, had anyone asked. They would have known about my message on the answering machine, conceivably.”

  “Was the Duke in residence at that time?”

  “No, he was in London. I believe he’s in Saint Bart’s this week.”

  “I think you might call him and ask if anyone inquired about your presence or absence there during the time you were at the Trent.”

  “Good idea,” she said, making a mental note.

  “Have you visited the Duke’s house before?”

  “Twice.”

  “How many staff?”

  “A butler, a housekeeper, three maids, and a cook and kitchen staff. Oh, a driver. They’ve all been with the Duke for years, and he made a point of their discretion.”

  “Good.”

  He was very thorough, Amanda thought, and she liked that. She liked his looks, too – tall, slender, blond hair going gray. She liked the good suit and shirt – not custom-made, perhaps, but fine quality. She liked the house. She could make this man very well known, if she chose to. He was the sort of man she might like to be seen with. She would think about that.

  “You would have made a good police detective,” Stone said.

  Her eyebrows went up. “Why do you think so?”

  “You’re very observant, very analytical,” he replied. “At least as much so as I.”

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “Only an observant person would see that.”

  “Amanda, I think you may have it in you to solve this mystery without my help. Certainly you know the people involved better than I. You know who might wish to hurt you.”

  Amanda laughed ruefully. “They are legion,” she said. “In my business I make enemies every week, even though I try very hard not to.”

  “I can see how it might be difficult not to make enemies.”

  “Not difficult, impossible. I run the most innocuous item about someone’s marriage or divorce and, at the very least, I’m perceived as having taken sides in the matter, sometimes by both parties.”

  Stone laughed, and she joined him. She had seemed a bit stiff at first, but now she had loosened up, and she was charming. He was forty-two, and he tended to be attracted to women a decade younger, but she must be around his age, he thought, and he found her appealing. Careful, this was business, at least for the moment. He had been on the point of offering her a drink.

  Amanda glanced at her watch.

  “Am I keeping you from something?” Stone asked. “I think we’re about finished for now, if you have to leave.”

  “I have another hour,” she said, “if you do; and the sun is well over the yardarm. I wonder if I might have a drink?”

  “Of course,” Stone said. Mind reader! “What would you like?”

  “Oh, something light.”

  Stone picked up the phone and pressed a button or two. “Helene, there’s a bottle on the bottom shelf of the small refrigerator. Would you bring that and a couple of glasses?”

  Helene appeared with a bottle of ch
ampagne in a silver wine cooler and a pair of flutes.

  “Just set it on the desk; I’ll open it,” Stone said.

  Helene departed; Stone opened the champagne and poured.

  “Veuve Clicquot,” Amanda said. “My very favorite.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied.

  Amanda lifted the thin glass and took a sip. And Baccarat crystal, too, she thought. “Enough of business,” she said. “Tell me about you.”

  “Not much to tell. Grew up in the Village; P.S. Six, NYU, law school, joined NYPD, made detective, took early retirement, practiced law. That’s me in a nutshell.”

  “Stone,” she said, “men like you don’t fit into nutshells.”

  He laughed.

  “I’m having some people for dinner on Friday evening. Will you come?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  She dug a card from her purse and handed it to him. “Come at six-thirty; that’ll give us time to talk a bit before the others arrive.”

  “All right.”

  She looked around the rooms. “Your books tell me more about you than you do.”

  Stone shrugged. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “We’ll see,” she replied.

  Chapter 10

  Stone arrived at Elaine’s at eight-thirty, having only just sobered up from the champagne with Amanda Dart. Jack, the headwaiter, seated him at the table just beyond the newly painted no-smoking line and brought him a Wild Turkey on the rocks without being asked. Dino was late, which didn’t surprise him. They had dinner once a week, usually at Elaine’s, but Dino had a lot of demands on his time these days. Lieutenant Bacchetti, formerly Stone’s partner on the force, now ran the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct on East Sixty-seventh Street.

  Elaine pulled up a chair and sat down. “You meeting Dino?”

  “Yep.”

  “He might be late; his kid had a birthday party earlier.”

  “Then I’m surprised he’s coming at all.”

  “I’m not,” she chortled. “He’d do anything to get out of something like that.”

  “You’re probably right. Elaine, do you know Amanda Dart?”