“Oh, okay Today?”
“Yep. The seller has already signed off on everything. All we need is your signature, notarized, a couple of dozen times, and a cashier’s check for the purchase price and closing costs; or you can give me a personal check and we’ll pay it out of our trust account.” He gave Stone the exact amount.
“I’ll wire it to your trust account today, and you can issue the check.” He wrote down the law firm’s account number.
“Sure; you want to come over today?”
“Listen, Bill, I’m holed up at the Carlyle, and I don’t want to go out today. Could you come over here?”
“Sure, what time?”
“Come at noon; I’ll buy you a room-service lunch.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
“I’m in Room 1550, registered under the name of Elijah Stone.”
“See you at noon.” Eggers hung up.
Stone called his broker and asked him to wire-transfer funds from his money market account to the trust account of Woodman & Weld, then he cal
led ABC Furniture and asked them to go ahead and deliver his purchases to the Connecticut house.
“We’ve got a truck going up that way tomorrow,” the woman said.
“That’s great,” Stone replied. He called the housewares store and asked for overnight delivery on his purchases, then he called Bob Berman.
“I thought you were on your way to England,” Berman said.
“Change of plans. I didn’t want to go back to the house, so I’m at the Carlyle Hotel. I wonder if you’d do me a big favor?”
“Name it.”
“Would you go over to the house tonight—and I mean in the dead of night—make sure the house isn’t being watched, then let yourself in. You’ve still got a key?”
“Yeah, not that I need one; I installed your security system, remember?”
“I remember. Go up to my study; there’s a gun safe in a cabinet under one of the bookcases. Can you pick the lock?”
“Is the pope Polish?”
“Get the little Walther .765 automatic and its shoulder holster, and a spare clip. Then get the car out and take it to the Carlyle garage—it’s open twenty-four hours—and tell the attendant it’s for Mr. Stone in 1550. Lock the gun in the glove compartment.”
“I can do that,” Berman said.
“Thanks, Bob, I owe you one.”
“Only one?”
“All right, a couple of dozen.”
“That’s more like it. Good luck on staying alive.” Berman hung up.
That done, he called the Klemm office in Washington, Connecticut, and got the numbers of the local utilities and the phone company. By the time Bill Eggers rang the doorbell, he’d arranged for water and electricity, and he had phone numbers for the house.
Bill Eggers came in, followed by Joan Robertson, who had earlier offered to help with Stone’s secretarial work. She greeted him cheerfully, as if he had not nearly gotten her involved in his current dangerous mess.
“Why don’t we order lunch now, and then we can close while they’re preparing it?” Stone suggested. “Joan, will you join us?”