Scandalous Behavior

47

Stone stopped into the estate office to use the copying machine, and Major Bugg spoke up. “I’m glad to see you. The housekeeper has told me we need two additional housemaids to accommodate all the guests and for their offices. We can hire part-timers until things return to normal.”

“All right, go ahead,” Stone said, then returned to his desk.

Bugg waited until he had left. “You ran the ad, didn’t you?” he asked his assistant.

“I’ve got four applicants coming in this morning,” she said.

“Good. Hire the first two who seem acceptable. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

“Certainly.”

The following morning Calhoun got out of bed feeling exhausted. The phone rang. “Hello?”

A man with a British accent said, “Dr. Don, this is Edgar Furrow, in Beaulieu.”

It took Calhoun a moment. “Oh, yes.” Furrow was a follower, a local builder who had done an inspection on Curtis House when he was trying to buy it. “Edgar, how are you?”

“Just fine. I read about your troubles with this Barrington fellow, and I’m sorry for it.”

“Thank you.”

“My daughter, Sadie, has just gotten a job at Windward Hall as a housemaid. She’ll be working there for the next three months, at least.”

“That’s very interesting, Edgar.”

“I’d hoped you would think so. If you like, I can get her to give you written reports on what goes on there.”

“I’d like that very much, Edgar. Have Sadie e-mail them directly to me.” He gave the man his e-mail address, then hung up.

He went in to breakfast, and Cheree set down his bacon and eggs. “It’s time for us to go to Rio,” he said to her.

She sat down and stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Can’t you see? Everything is going to hell. I’ve been arrested three times, we’ve been thrown out of England, this apartment has been searched, and it’s all because of Barrington. I suspect that thing yesterday with the car had something to do with him, too, though I don’t know what.”

“But Rio?”

“We may not have to stay long, but that’s why I bought the apartment there, in case we had to get out in a hurry. It’s completely furnished, and the freezer is full of food.”

“When had you thought of going?”

“Immediately. Well, almost immediately. Don’t worry about packing a lot, you can shop for new clothes there.”

“All right,” she said, “as long as it’s temporary. After all, they’re not after me.”

“You’re next,” he said. He finished breakfast, went into his study, and found a phone number on his computer. He hesitated before making the call, because the man scared him: he was so bland and nondescript-looking but he was lethal, and Calhoun always had the feeling that he could turn on him at any moment.

“This is Al Junior,” he said.

“This is Dr. Don. I need you for a special job.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You’ll need to leave the country. It could take a few days or a few weeks.”

“How many weeks?”

“Two should be enough. I need you in New York tonight, and bring your passport. How early can you get here?”

“I can get a flight this morning,” he said. “I should be there by eight o’clock.”

“Then I’ll meet you at Kennedy. Book yourself on a night flight to London. They usually have one around ten o’clock, and your luggage will go straight through. Don’t bring any tools with you — those will be provided at the other end.”

“I see. I’m going to need fifty thousand in cash up front and another fifty when I’m done. More, if it takes longer than two weeks.”

“I’ll meet your flight from L.A. and give you the first payment. Be sure you declare the cash with customs. I know from experience: forgetting that can be expensive. E-mail me your flight times, and take your cell phone with you, it will work there.”

“Will do.”

They both hung up.

Calhoun dreaded meeting the man.

They met at the gate, went to a nearby bar, and found a corner table out of earshot of other travelers.

“Details, please,” Al Jr. said.

Calhoun took a deep breath. He had used Al Jr. only once before, for the job on the magazine writer’s car. He ran a pawnshop that had a big gun business in L.A.; word was he had inherited both the business and his sideline from his father, Al Sr. “The last name Barrington: Stone, the father, Peter the son.”

“Got it.”

“When you arrive in London rent a car and drive to a village called Beaulieu.” Calhoun pronounced it for him, then gave him a page ripped from a driving atlas of Britain. “There are two houses south of the village, here and here. The properties are next door to each other. The Barringtons live in the one to the north, Windward Hall. The son is making a film at the one to the south, Curtis House. It’s been mentioned in the entertainment pages.

“From the airport, call a man named Edgar Furrow, who lives in Beaulieu. He will make a hotel reservation for you. His daughter, Sadie, works at Windward Hall, and she can give you the layout. Edgar also has sources for weapons. You can call me on my cell phone if absolutely necessary, or you can e-mail me.” He gave the man a card with the number and the address.

“Anything special to tell me?”

Calhoun thought about that. “Yes. Do the son first. I want the father to know he’s dead.”

“As you wish.”

“Good luck,” Calhoun said, then walked away, feeling better, relieved.