“Derek, could I speak to you for a moment before you leave?” Mitzi asked.
Stone put down his fork. “Please excuse me for a moment.” He went looking for the men’s room.
SHARPE TOOK Stone’s seat. “How can I help you, Mitzi?”
“Well, Derek,” she said, “my friends from Charleston were very pleased with the quality of the, ah, ‘art,’ you sold them, and they’d like to make another purchase.”
“The same again?”
“No. This time they’re less interested in the grassy picture and more interested in the powdery ones.”
“All right. How much would they like?”
She leaned forward and whispered, “Ten kilos.” “My goodness,” Sharpe said. “Your friends have become more… commercial, shall we say!”
“Perhaps. I’m not familiar with their business arrangements.”
“Of course not.”
“And how soon could you deliver?”
“Two, three days,” Sharpe said. “And at the same price per.”
“Oh, I should think a volume discount would be in order,” Mitzi said.
“I might be able to get you five percent off,” Sharp replied.
“Oh, I think ten percent would be more acceptable to my friends,” Mitzi said, giving him a brilliant smile.
“Given the quantity, I can do that,” Sharpe said.
“We’ll do it the same way as last time,” Mitzi said. “I’m more comfortable with this sort of transaction in my own home.”
“I don’t know about that, Mitzi,” Sharpe said. “My sources don’t like to repeat themselves geographically. I’m sure you understand.”
“No, I don’t,” Mitzi said firmly. “And I’m not going to do this on some street corner. Anywhere else but my home would be a deal breaker.”
Sharpe shrugged. “All I can do is try,” he said.
“Try hard,” Mitzi replied. She shook his hand, and he went to join Larsen in the lobby, just as Stone was returning.
“How’d it go?” Stone asked.
“I got ten percent off!” Mitzi squealed. “He bridled at doing it in the apartment again, but I put my foot down.” She looked around. “This is an awfully nice hotel; why don’t we get a room?”
Stone looked at his watch. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until tonight before I can jump you. Eight thirty at Elaine’s?”
“Oh, all right,” she said, giving him a luscious kiss.
50
STONE WALKED HOME, and as he came through the front door, Joan flagged him down.
“A Brian Doyle is waiting in your office,” she said. “He insisted; he showed me a badge.”
“Right,” Stone said. He tiptoed down the hall to his closed door and put his ear to it. He could hear the sound of drawers being opened and closed. Silently he turned the knob, then threw open the door.
Brian Doyle was caught with a handful of cancelled checks. “What do you want?” he demanded, as if Stone had entered his office unannounced.