Stone stopped at the house, and Barton got out and stood there, sniffing the air.
Stone got out, too. “I’ll take you inside,” he said.
Barton shook his head. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Something.”
5
Barton Cabot was running his hands through his pockets, and after a moment, he came up with a key. “The barn,” he said, turning toward the large outbuilding.
Stone followed him, wondering what the hell was going on. Barton ignored the large barn doors and went instead to a large door on the side of the structure facing the house. He inserted the key in the lock and turned it, but before he opened the door he turned toward Stone.
“Very few people have ever been inside my barn,” Barton said.
Stone shrugged. “If you don’t want me in there, I won’t go in.”
Barton went inside. “Close the door and lock it behind you,” he said.
Stone stepped into an elegant vestibule and reached for the door. To his surprise, it was made of steel and very heavy. He pulled it shut and turned the lock.
Barton opened another door with his key. He passed through it, giving Stone the same instructions.
Stone locked the second door behind him and turned to find himself in nothing resembling a barn, but a large workshop. On one side of the shop was a wall filled with hand tools that seemed to be very old, over a long workbench. He noticed that there didn’t appear to be any power tools. The air was cool and damp. “This isn’t a barn, is it, Barton?” Stone asked.
“No. There used to be a barn on this site, but I tore it down, constructed this building, then reassembled the old barn around it.”
“That’s amazing,” Stone said, “but why?”
“To make antique reproductions and to preserve the wood with which they are made. It’s temperature and humidity controlled.” He led the way to the end of the room and pointed to a wall of racks containing pieces of mahogany and walnut, seemingly from deconstructed furniture. “When I get a piece that’s beyond restoration I conserve the wood,” Barton said. “I’ve been doing this for more than twenty years. I’m a very good woodworker, myself, and I employ two other men who are more highly skilled than I. My greatest value is my eye.”
“Do you sell your pieces as reproductions or as originals?” Stone asked mildly, as if the question were not an insult.
“Depends,” Barton said. “The reproductions we make are from woods of the period and are made with tools, glues and stain formulas of the period. If they stood side by side, it would take a very great expert to pick the original. Viewed singly, hardly anyone alive could authoritatively call one of my pieces anything but an original.”
“Then your pieces must be very valuable,” Stone said.
“You have no idea,” Barton replied. He walked the length of the room and opened another door. “My garage,” he said, looking through the door. “My van is gone.”
“Should it be there?”
“Will you drive me to Danbury? I must buy a new van.”
“Has your van been stolen?” Stone asked.
“I can think of no other reason why it would not be locked in the garage,” Barton replied.
“Then why don’t we report it to the police? Perhaps it will be recovered; then you won’t have to buy a new one.”
“Two reasons,” Barton said. “One: If the van was stolen, I don’t want word to get out, particularly not to the police; two: If the van was stolen, it is probably at the bottom of the East River and, thus, useless to me.”
“I see,” Stone said. “Or I think I see.” He threw up his hands. “Or maybe I don’t see.”
“If the van was stolen, something very valuable was inside,” Barton said.
“What was it?” Stone asked.