“A week or so ago, I bought a lottery ticket, then forgot about it. Then I saw the winning number in the local paper, and I remembered I had one. I checked the numbers, and they matched. I called in at the lottery office in West Palm Beach, and this morning, after some days for them to investigate and see that I was who I said I was, I received the check. I also learned that, in Florida, there’s a state law against concealing the identity of the winner. I’ve quickly learned that a great many people have an untoward interest in lottery winners, thus the pursuit. They released my name early this morning, and when I left their office, I was surrounded by media people and others who had come to beg for money. I got out of there as quickly as I could, and when I turned on the car radio, I heard my name on the air. I drove to Palm Beach International Airport, where I had taken flying lessons, and somebody I know there found me a seat on an executive charter flight to Teterboro, for only five thousand dollars.”

“What kind of airplane?”

“A Gulfstream 450.”

“How did you do in the lottery?”

Laurence reached into a pocket and handed Stone a crumpled envelope. “There were two other winners, in Texas and Washington state, so I got only a third after they took out the taxes.”

Stone opened the envelope wide enough to read the sum. “Very nice,” he said. “What are you going to do with it?”

“There are some things I’d like to buy, and Dicky thought you might advise me on how to invest the rest of it.”

“What do you want to buy?”

“Well, I think I’ll need some clothes.”

“Good idea,” Stone said drily.

“Oh, I know I’m not appropriately dressed for the Upper East Side of New York. My good clothes are all in England and Palm Beach. I’ll need some suits and jackets, I think.”

“Anything else?”

“Perhaps a car?”

“What sort of car?”

“A Porsche, perhaps.”

“Good choice.”

“Oh, and I’d like to buy a New York apartment.”

“That seems within your means, depending on the neighborhood,” Stone observed. “What sort of apartment did you have in mind?”

Laurence produced a folded newspaper page and handed it to Stone. It was half a page from the real estate section of the previous Sunday’s New York Times. “This one,” he said.

“Oh, yes, I saw this. It’s the penthouse of an old hotel on Park Avenue that has been remodeled and gone condo. Problem is, Laurence, the asking price for the apartment is twenty-two million dollars, but your check is for six hundred and twelve thousand. Do you have other means I’m not aware of?”

“Perhaps you’d better have another look at the check.”