“Lunch?”
“Not this week, I’m afraid; I’ve got a lot on my plate. I’ll call you.” He hung up. But not until this business is over, he thought. No need endangering any more of my friends.
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.”