Shakeup (Stone Barrington #55) - Stuart Woods Page 0,59

for cognac.

“Well,” Dino said, “your thieves must have already begun their work, when you arrived on the scene, because they put the pictures back on the wall in the wrong order.”

“I suppose that must be so,” Stone admitted.

“You discovered them at their work,” Viv said, “and that must have discombobulated them considerably. I mean, the sudden appearance of a naked man with a gun would rattle anybody.”

Felicity clapped her hands. “They were so discombobulated, they put the originals back and left with the forgeries!”

“What forgeries?” Viv asked.

“The ones they intended would replace Stone’s mother’s works. Stone, do you remember anything you saw when you entered the room? Think about it.”

Stone closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself entering the library. Finally, he spoke. “The pictures were not on the wall,” he said. “There was just a blank space! Then the lights went out.”

“The pictures were probably on the floor,” Felicity said. “They had to put something on the wall, or you would have known the next morning that all four had been stolen. But in their rattled state, they put back the originals and left the premises with the forgeries!”

“That seems highly improbable,” Stone said.

“Then think of another scenario,” Felicity said. She waited for a moment. “Anyone? Anything at all?”

“Felicity is right,” Dino said. “What is Occam’s razor?”

“The simplest solution is usually the correct one,” Viv said. “If you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.”

“And in this case, Felicity’s solution is not just the simplest solution, it’s the only one,” Dino said.

“Also,” Stone said, feeling enlightened, “it solves two crimes. This one and the murder of Alfred Bing and his wife.”

“How so?” Felicity asked.

“Bing must have had an order for the paintings—a dishonest collector, no doubt, since they couldn’t have been sold publicly. So, the client paid for the paintings, then had them checked out and discovered they were forgeries. Then he went back to Bing’s flat—or, more likely, dispatched someone else—with orders to get back his money. The police said the flat had been ransacked, so maybe he got it back. Then the dispatched guy dispatched the Bings!”

“I love it!” Felicity said, laughing.

“But,” Dino interjected, “if he got his money back, he only got half of it, because Bing must have already paid off Eddie Craft. I mean, he bought a very expensive car, then left the country in the dead of night.”

Everybody laughed, then they had another cognac.

50

And then, a few hours after their flight from Paris, the rains came to Miami. “Let’s get out of here,” Eddie said to Shelley.

“I miss home, in New York,” she said. “You think we’ll be okay on the airlines?”

“I’m not taking that chance,” he said. He called the concierge and had them booked in a drawing room on a train that evening.

* * *

—

Maren, reunited with Stone in New York, rolled over and woke him.

“Mmmph,” Stone said.

She fondled him. “Any interest?”

“Always,” Stone replied, turning to her.

* * *

—

Over breakfast, Maren took a call, then hung up. “Eddie Craft was spotted landing in Miami yesterday,” she said. “We’re canvassing hotels there.”

“You should canvass flights to New York, too.”

“It’s being done.”

Stone munched thoughtfully on a sausage. “How about trains?”

“A train?” she asked. “You can still get a train to New York from Miami?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure. I’d check, if I were you.”

Maren got on the phone and spoke for five minutes. “There is such a thing as a train, and all the reservation lists are being checked.” An hour later, she got a call.

“Thank you.” She hung up. “He’s not on anybody’s reservation list.”

“What if he’s traveling under another name?” Stone asked.

“You’re a big help. Got a name for me?”

“I don’t.”

“Then shut up, please.”

Stone thought it a good time to take a shower.

* * *

—

Early that evening Eddie and Shelley got off the train at Grand Central and were met by a porter, who took them to a waiting town car. “Do you think somebody might be waiting for us at your place?” Shelley asked.

“Let’s see.” Eddie called the doorman’s station in his building. “This is Mr. Craft,” he said.

“Good evening, Mr. Craft,” the man replied. “Are you on your way home? There’ve been some gentlemen waiting, asking for you.”

“No, Walter, I’m stuck in London for another couple of weeks,” Eddie said. “Be sure and tell that to anybody who asks.” He hung up. “Is your place still available?” he asked Shelley.

“Sure. My girl comes in once a week and cleans.” She gave the driver the address, three