Lucid Intervals

30

Stone sat down, and a Knob Creek on the rocks was placed before him. “Evening, all,” he said, placing the envelope on the table. He turned to Felicity. “Where have you been?”

“Away,” she replied.

“I tried your cell phone and got a message that it was not in service.”

“It’s back in service,” she said. “Where have you been?” She took a sip of her Rob Roy.

“Meeting Stanley Whitestone,” he replied.

Felicity choked on her drink, and Stone had to pat her firmly on the back. “Start at the beginning,” she said, dabbing at her watering eyes with a napkin.

Stone started at the beginning and gave her a blow-by-blow account of his afternoon.

Dino spoke up. “Hackett let you fly his jet?”

Stone ignored him. He handed Felicity the envelope and watched as she opened it and peered at the photos.

“It could be Whitestone,” she said. “And he could have died as a result of a motorcar accident.” She looked at the death certificate and the fingerprint card.

“Run the prints,” Stone said. “That should settle it.”

“Was he cremated?” Felicity asked.

“Hackett didn’t mention cremation. I shouldn’t think he’d have bothered with buying a cemetery plot if the body had ended up in an urn. And it’s unlikely that there’s a crematorium anywhere near the island.”

Felicity put the photos and documents back into the envelope and stuffed it into her briefcase.

“That will be a hundred thousand pounds,” Stone said.

“You haven’t earned your fee yet,” she replied.

“Well, I’m not performing an autopsy. Hackett didn’t say if the body was embalmed, but if it wasn’t, it’s either mush or dust by now.”

“I want everyone involved in Maine to be talked to: the hospital doctors and nurses, the police, the undertaker, the lot.”

“My assignment was to locate Stanley Whitestone and report his whereabouts to you. I have done so. You said that after you knew where he was, others would deal with him.”

“I think Hackett is Whitestone,” Felicity said.

“I considered that. In fact, he brought it up himself. He invited me-or you-to investigate his background thoroughly.”

“I will certainly have that done,” she said. “I’d like you to handle the task on this side of the water.”

“I will be happy to accept a new assignment,” Stone said, “just as soon as I’ve been paid for the previous one.”

“Your fee was predicated on success,” she pointed out, “and we have not confirmed who, if anyone, is buried in that churchyard on Mount Desert Island.”

“I’ve given you photographs of the body, a death certificate and his fingerprints. What more could anyone ask? If the prints aren’t Whitestone’s, then we can talk,” Stone said. “You can open the grave and examine the corpse if you like, after having obtained the proper permissions, of course. But…” He leaned forward for effect. “… if the fingerprints fit, you must remit. Agreed?”

“Spare me the Johnny Cochranisms, please,” she said.

“Spare me a hundred thousand quid,” he replied.

“Give me your bill,” she said, “made out to the Foreign Office. If the prints are Whitestone’s, I’ll countersign it and submit it. You should have your check in a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” Stone asked. “I have incurred considerable out-of-pocket expenses, mainly surveillance, both electronic and manned.”

“I’ll need the tapes for our files,” she said.

“You may have them tomorrow,” he replied, “and I would be grateful if you would see that payment is expedited.” He took his checkbook from his pocket, tore out a check, voided it and handed it to Felicity. “You may wire-transfer the funds, in dollars, to this account, using the current exchange rate.”

She added his check to her briefcase. “I’m starved,” she said, and they ordered dinner.

“Hackett knew I was working for you,” Stone said, when the waiter had left.

She looked at him askance. “You told him?”

“No, Lord Wight told him of meeting us together, and he figured it out. When he asked me, I did not confirm it.”

“I don’t like someone like James Hackett knowing about this.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have taken me to that dinner party,” Stone replied. “By the way, did you ever figure out who the VIP was who deserved to be served the Krug?”

“I expect it must have been Wight,” she said. “No one else there was of much importance.”

“Bill Eggers tells me that Wight’s reputation is better here than at home.”

“At home, his past is no more than a smudge on his copybook,” she said. “He’s been back in business for a while, now.”

“Well, now we know that he was in touch with Whitestone right up until his death.”

“Yes. He lied about that, didn’t he? Said he thought Whitestone was in Cairo, when he had actually recommended him for a job with Hackett, and under an assumed name, too.”

“Is there a crime in there somewhere?” Stone asked.

“No, it’s not criminal to conceal the identity of a former member of the service, and we can’t prove that he did anything criminal in conjunction with Whitestone.”

“Hackett was curious about why the Foreign Office is still interested in Whitestone. I’m curious, too. Did the inquiry originate with them or with you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Stone smiled a little. “Well, Hackett offered to hire me to find out.”

She looked at him, shocked.

“I declined, of course,” he said quickly.

“I should certainly hope so,” she said. Then, looking thoughtful, she added, “I wonder why Hackett wonders why the F.O. is still interested in Whitestone.”

“Maybe Whitestone isn’t dead,” Stone said. “Maybe the photos were faked. Hackett said he wanted to hire Whitestone-though he said he didn’t know who he was at the time-to represent his company in the Middle East. Maybe Whitestone is, at this moment, representing his company in the Middle East.”

“I want to know more,” Felicity said.

“Look, Hackett is a very smart man. If he’s protecting Whitestone by faking his death, you may be sure that all the people you want talked to in Maine have been bought.”

“Or,” Felicity said, “perhaps, Hackett and/or Whitestone found a look-alike, murdered him, battered the body and buried him, first taking photographs and Whitestone’s fingerprints. In that case, he wouldn’t need to buy anybody, would he?”

“There are all sorts of possibilities.”

Felicity nodded. “And I don’t like it when there are all sorts of possibilities.”