“I know how to get to the Ethan Allen store,” Holly said.
Barton chuckled. “Well, at least you’re honest.” He began a lecture on the piece.
Stone had heard it before, so he wandered around the shop, looking at the old hand tools on the walls. They reminded him of things he had seen on the walls of the woodworking shop at Williamsburg, Virginia, where period-style furniture was still made. He returned to Holly and Barton.
“There are only seven of these known to exist, apart from this one, and six of them are in museums or other institutions,” Barton was saying. “There are only two of them in private hands, and this is one of them. The other is said to rest in a private home near San Francisco that is built directly over the San Andreas Fault.”
“I wonder how the owner’s insurance company feels about that?” Holly observed.
“It’s probably self-insured.”
“How would someone authenticate a piece like this?”
“By being very familiar with other pieces from the same maker.” He pointed to the carved scallop shells at the top of the piece. “For instance, the cuts made in these figures can be matched to the work of a maker, by the tools he used and the strokes he made. There are no signatures, numbers or brass plates identifying the maker, and all the pieces are somewhat different from each other, often built to the specifications of those who commissioned them.”
Stone came over. “Barton, can we talk?”
Barton showed Stone and Holly to a little sitting area at one end of the shop, and they all took seats.
“Barton,” Stone said, “I want to ask you about a couple of people you were in the army with. Will you tell me what you can about them?”
“If my memory is working properly,” Barton said.
“The first is a Charles Crow.”
Barton looked thoughtful.
“You remember Bob Cantor?”
“Oh, yes. My best squad lead, later my best platoon leader. I got him a field commission.”
“Crow was a member of Cantor’s original squad.”
“Oh, yes. I remember him,” Barton said, looking enlightened. “A real hustler; he was always buying or selling something, for less than it was worth when buying and considerably more when selling.”
“Sort of like an antiques dealer,” Holly interjected.
Barton laughed, showing a lot of teeth.
It was the first time Stone had seen him even smile, and he wondered if the joke would have gotten as big a laugh if it had come from him instead of Holly. “Did you ever see Crow after your outfit was back in the States?”
“I threw a party during our last week together, as people were beginning to be discharged or transferred.”
“Was Crow discharged or transferred?”
“Why do I think you already know the answer to that question?” Barton asked.
“Sorry, Barton; I have to check your memory from time to time to see how it’s working.”
“Of course. Crow didn’t re-up, as I recall. Neither did Cantor, though I thought he would have had a future if he’d stayed in the Corps.”
“Do you have any idea what became of Crow after his discharge?”
“I remember that he was a New Yorker. I think he might have returned there, but I’ve no idea what he did after that.”
“Another name: Abner Kramer.”
“Ah, Ab,” Barton said, smiling again. “A great success story. He was a big cheese at Goldman Sachs, then started his own investment bank, and he has a colonial estate up here. He’s up practically every weekend.”