The Short Forever

“To your knowledge, did James Cutler tell anyone else?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Do you believe he might have told Sarah about the will?”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“How long did you represent James Cutler?”

“More than twenty years; we were at Eton together.”

“Were you good friends?”

“Very good friends.”

“Given your knowledge of your friend and client, do you think it is likely that he would have told Sarah of the contents of the will?”

Wainwright thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I do not. James was very closemouthed about that sort of thing.”

“That being the case, can we agree that, since Sarah was unlikely to know the contents of the will, there would be no motive for her to intentionally cause his death?”

“I . . . believe we can,” Wainwright replied.

“Then I think it would be appropriate for you to issue a public statement to that effect.”

Wainwright looked puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever issued a public statement about anything.”

“Do you know someone at one of the large newspapers?”

The solicitor brightened. “Why, yes, I was at school with a fellow at the Times.”

“Then I think a phone call to him and a brief interview on the subject would suffice, and your friend would be grateful to you for the story.”

“That’s rather a good idea,” Wainwright said, looking pleased.

Stone avoided chuckling. A largish percentage of the law firms in New York would have retained a publicist for such a chore. “Is there anything else that Sarah should know about the will?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I think she should see a list of James’s assets and liabilities,” Stone pointed out.

“Oh, of course.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk. “I had him prepare a financial statement in conjunction with signing the will.” He handed some papers to Stone. “And a copy of the will for Sarah.”

Stone looked quickly through the documents. “He didn’t have any debt to speak of.”

“None more than thirty days old.”

“And you are the executor?”

“At James’s request.”

“Sir Bernard suggested to me that his holdings might easily be sold to one of the wine and spirits conglomerates.”

“As a matter of fact, James had a rather rich offer from one of them less than three months ago, but he wasn’t inclined to accept it.”

“I very much doubt that Sarah will have any interest in running these businesses. Perhaps after the funeral, you might contact that company and see if they’re still interested.”

“I will certainly do that,” Wainwright replied.

“By the way, what was the offer?”

“Four hundred ninety million pounds sterling.”

Stone did the math. Around three-quarters of a billion dollars. “Did James build this business from scratch?”

“Oh, heavens, no. He was the fourth generation of Cutlers in the business, but he greatly enlarged the business during his tenure.”

“One other thing, Mr. Wainwright: Are there any disaffected siblings or maiden aunts who might challenge this will?”

“None. James was an only child, as was his father before him.”

“Any large charities to whom promises had been previously made?”

“None.”

“Then you see no reason why this will should not be promptly probated?”

“None at all. Tell me, is Sarah currently represented by a solicitor?”

“No, she’s not.” Stone stood up and shook Wainwright’s hand. “Thank you for being so frank with me. I’ll convey what you’ve told me to Sarah, who I’m sure will have some instructions for you, in due course.”

Wainwright looked pleased at the prospect.

Stone left the solicitor’s office and started looking for a cab in Sloane Street. Sarah Buckminster was going to be a very happy starving artist, he reckoned. He glanced at his watch. And now he had to get back to his own business.

Chapter 17

STONE WAS ON HIS SECOND CUP OF tea in the Connaught’s lounge when Ted Cricket and Bobby Jones appeared, exactly on time. When he had seated them and their tea had been served, he sat back and waited for their report.

“As you requested,” Ted Cricket began, reading from a notebook like a good cop, “I positioned myself outside the United States Embassy at eight A.M. this morning and waited for the appearance of a gentleman of the description provided by you on Friday last. Such a gentleman appeared just after ten A.M. and went into the embassy. He emerged at twelve thirty-nine P.M. with another gentleman, who was American in his dress, and I followed them to a restaurant and pub called the Guinea, in a mews just off Berkeley Square. They remained there for nearly two hours, then returned to the embassy.

“At half past four, the first gentleman emerged from the embassy again and, on foot, proceeded to a house in Green Street, a short walk from the embassy. He let himself in with a key, and I surmised that the house is his residence in London. To check this, I knocked on the door of the basement flat, where a caretaker lives, and asked him questions regarding the occupants of the building. He was extremely reluctant to talk to me until I gave him to understand that I was a police officer; then he became marginally more cooperative.

“He divulged, in an oblique manner, that the house was owned by the American government, and that it consisted of four flats occupied by various transient government officials. He knew the gentleman I was following, who occupied the third-floor flat, only as Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray has occupied the third-floor flat for at least four years, though he is often away, and he keeps a considerable wardrobe in the flat. He is apparently unmarried, though he sometimes receives lady guests in the flat. He receives no mail there, and I am inclined to believe that Gray is not the gentleman’s real name.

“I am also inclined to believe that Mr. Gray is not, formally speaking, an accredited American representative to Her Majesty’s government. He has all the earmarks of a spook.” Cricket stopped talking.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Stone said. “I’m also inclined to think that it would be fruitless, not to mention dangerous, to attempt to bug Mr. Gray’s flat, because if he is a spook, his organization will have taken steps to prevent such an action.”

“Agreed,” Cricket replied.

“The question now is, how do we find out his real name?”

“I had a thought about that, Mr. Barrington,” Cricket said. “Why don’t I have his pocket picked?”

Stone smiled. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Can you get it done without his knowing?”

“I know a person who can,” Cricket replied confidently. “Mr. Gray might even enjoy the experience.”

“I take it your pickpocket is female.”

“Indeed, yes.”

“Go to it.”

Cricket turned to Jones. “Bobby, what do you have for Mr. Barrington?”

Jones produced his own notebook. “I began surveillance of the Farm Street house at seven A.M. this morning. By mid-morning, it became apparent to me that the house was not occupied, except by a cleaning lady who arrived at eight and departed at ten, so I had my man go in and wire the place for sound while I stood guard. He was out by one P.M., and now all the phones serve as taps for us, whether they are in use or not. The microphones are voice-activated and are recorded automatically by a machine in a garage about forty meters from the house. I’ll check it daily for anything of interest.

“I continued my surveillance of the house, and a little after three P.M. Mr. Cabot and Miss Burroughs returned and went into the house with some luggage. Less than an hour later, two men arrived outside in a car and knocked at the door. They were large gentlemen, and in spite of extensive tailoring and barbering, they struck me as right out of the East End. They rang the bell, and when Mr. Cabot emerged, they pulled him out of the house and began to rough him up, in the manner, I would say, of debt collectors for a loan shark or a bookmaker. Since I assumed you did not wish the man harmed, I approached, identified myself as a police officer, and asked Mr. Cabot if he required any assistance.

“He said he did not. I asked if he wished to make a charge against either or both of the gentlemen; he said he did not. I took the gentlemen aside and suggested that if I caught them in the neighborhood again I would have them in the nick very shortly. They got into their car and left. By this time, Mr. Cabot was already back inside the house.

“I then went to the garage and listened to the tape recording of what was said in the house. Miss Burroughs asked Mr. Cabot who had been at the door, and he replied, quite coolly, I thought, that some people had knocked at the wrong door. After that their conversation was of a mundane nature, and I reset the recorder. I waited within sight of the house until it was time to come here and see you.”

“Very good, Bobby,” Stone said. “Were you able to overhear any of the conversation between Cabot and the two men?”

“No, I’m afraid I was out of earshot. I expect they might be leery of returning to the house, but if they should telephone Cabot, we’ll have a recording of the conversation.”

“Do you have any further instructions for us, Mr. Barrington?” Cricket asked.

“You already know what to do about Mr. Gray; my main concern is to know his real identity. As for Mr. Cabot, Bobby, I’d like to maintain the surveillance on him for a few more days. I want to know who he sees during the days—I don’t think we need bother with his evenings. I’m particularly interested to know if he has any criminal contacts. After his encounter with the muscle, I wouldn’t be surprised. And, of course, I’d like a daily report on what your recorder picks up.”

“Of course,” Jones replied. “If anything that sounds remotely interesting is recorded, I’ll dub it off onto a portable so you can hear it.”

“Very good,” Stone said, rising. “I’ll look forward to hearing from both of you.”

“Mr. Barrington,” Cricket said, “may I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“I think it might be good for Bobby and me to swap targets every day. That way, the gentlemen are less likely to spot the tail.”

“By all means,” Stone said. “Change whenever you wish.”

He shook hands with the men, and they left.

Stone returned to his room, and as he entered, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Sarah; I’m in London. Can we have dinner tonight?”

“All right. Where would you like to meet?”

“Where do you suggest?”

“It’s your town.”

“There are some press people hanging around outside my flat.”

“Then I don’t think you should be seen with me; that would just add fuel to the flame.”

“I can get out a back way, I think. Why don’t I come to the Connaught? I don’t think they would follow me inside, and if they did, they’d be thrown out.”

“All right.”

“What’s your suite number?”

“Ah, let’s meet in the restaurant.”

“Eight-thirty?”

“That should be all right. I’ll book the table now.”

“How did your meeting with James’s solicitor go?”

“It went well; I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

“Bye-bye.” She hung up.

Stone called downstairs and booked the table, then he soaked in a hot tub for a while and lay down for a nap. As he drifted off, he wondered who had sent the hoods to deal with Lance Cabot.

Chapter 18

SARAH WAS LATE. STONE SAT AT THE corner table in the handsome Connaught restaurant, with its glowing mahogany paneling, and sipped a vodka gimlet as slowly as he could manage. The restaurant quickly filled with people, and still Sarah did not arrive. He knew that if she phoned, the front desk would get a message to him, and he wondered why she had not.

Then she came into the dining room, looking flustered. Mr. Chevalier, the maître d’, showed her to the table, and Stone stood up to receive her, pecking her on the cheek.

“God, I need a drink,” she said, breathless. A waiter materialized at her elbow. “A large Johnnie Walker Black,” she said to him, “on ice.” The waiter vanished and returned with the drink.

“Take a few deep breaths,” Stone said.

“It didn’t work, going out the back way,” she said, pulling at the drink. “I had planned to get a taxi, but they were laying for me in the mews, and I had to duck into the garage and drive my car. I went twice around Belgrave Square at high speed, with them on my tail, and I finally lost them at Hyde Park Corner, when some traffic cut them off. God, these people are awful!”

“I’m glad you finally evaded them,” Stone said. Then, near the restaurant’s door, a flashgun went off. Some people in the restaurant turned and looked in the direction of the photographer, but Stone noted that others hid behind their menus or napkins. Apparently, not all the couples in the restaurant were married, at least, not to each other.

The flashgun went off again, but two waiters were grappling with the photographer, pushing him into the hallway. He was complaining loudly about freedom of the press and making as big a fuss as possible, but gradually his voice faded as they got him into the lobby, then out the door. Stone saw the man outside a window, jumping up and down, trying to spot his prey, then a police officer appeared and led him away by the collar.

“Apparently, I didn’t lose them,” Sarah said. “I hope to God his pictures don’t come out.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Stone said.

“Did you see the tabloids? They know your name. Apparently, there was a reporter at the inquest, though I didn’t see any photographers. Apparently, there aren’t any newsworthy rock stars or politicians anymore, so they’ve settled on me. I’ve never had an experience like this.” She signaled the waiter for another drink.

“Slow down,” he said. “You’ve still got to drive home, you know.” The waiter came and brought menus.

“I can’t deal with it; you order.”

Stone turned to the waiter. “Surprise us.” The waiter vanished.

“Just keep breathing deeply,” he said. “Don’t rely on the whiskey to calm you down.” He took the drink from her hand and placed it on the table. “Now, would you like to hear about my meeting with Julian Wainwright?”

“Yes, please; I’d like something else to think about.”

“Well, you’ve a lot to think about,” Stone said. “First, let me ask you some questions: Did James say anything to you about making you his beneficiary?”

“No. Well, he mentioned something in passing, like, ‘Of course I’ll have to make a new will,’ but I assumed he meant after we were married.”

“Were you aware of the day he went to sign the will?”

“Yes, because we had seen his solicitor the night before. I knew he was going there.”

“Did you discuss the will at all?”

“No, he just said he was going to see Julian; he implied that he had a number of things to discuss with him. There had been an offer for his companies some time back, and I think they were going to talk about that.”

“Yes, Julian mentioned that.” Stone patted his pocket. “I have the will and James’s financial statement, and I’ll give them to you later, but the thrust of it is that he left three hundred thousand pounds—”

“Good God! He left me three hundred thousand pounds?”

“No, he left that much to his schools and to charities. He left everything else to you.”

She stared at him blankly. “You mean his business?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes welled up a little. “I don’t know anything about running a business; I don’t want it. Tell Julian to take it back.”

“Take it easy, now, that’s not how it works. You don’t have to run the business.”

“I don’t?”

“Remember the offer that James was discussing with Julian?”

“Yes.”

“I asked Julian to investigate whether discussions might be reopened.”

“So you think Julian can sell it?”

“Yes.”

“What a relief!”

“Do you want to know how much it’s worth?”

“Yes, please.”

“The offer was for four hundred and ninety million pounds.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Surely you mean thousand.”

“No, million.”

“But that’s . . .”

“A lot of money.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Of course, there will be taxes to pay and other fees, but you should come out of this with a substantial amount of cash or stock.”

“I think I’d prefer cash,” she said absently, as if her mind were elsewhere.

“And there were other things—James’s house in London and a country house, investments. He was a very wealthy man.”

“I knew he was well off,” she said, “but I had no idea, really. He never talked about it much, the way a lot of businessmen do. I thought he was in it because he loved wine so much, and because his father before him was.”

“And his grandfather and great-grandfather, apparently.”

“He didn’t even mention that.”

“Do you know the two houses?”

“Of course. They’re both in wonderful locations, but they need a complete redoing.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”

Their dinner arrived, and they talked less as they dined. Stone thought the food was sublime, as was the wine Mr. Chevalier had chosen for them. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at a menu here again,” Stone said.

“Stone, I never had a chance to ask you: Why are you in London?”

“A client asked me to come and look into something for him.”

“Something? What thing?”

“I can’t tell you that; client confidentiality.”

“Of course, I should have known. Is it one of those wonky investigation things you get into?”

“Sort of. Tell me, how do you know Monica and Erica Burroughs?”

“I’ve known Monica for years; she sells my work.”

“Of course, I knew that.”

“But I met Erica only recently, when she and Lance came over.”

“Do you know Lance well?”

“Not really, but he’s very nice.”

“What does he do?”

“Something mysterious; I could never figure it out.”

“Neither could I.”

They ate on, finishing with dessert and coffee.

“I think I’d like a brandy,” she said.

“Careful, you’re driving, and I hear they’re tough about that in this country. I want you to get home in one piece, and without getting arrested.”

“I can’t go home,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for me.”

“Can you go to a friend’s?”

“I can’t even leave the hotel; they’re bound to be waiting outside. I’ll stay with you.” Her foot rubbed against his leg under the table.

“No, you won’t,” Stone said. “First of all, you’re supposed to be in mourning.”

“I’m not a widow!”

“Near enough. Second, they have a photograph of us together; if you don’t leave the hotel, they’ll make a very big thing of that. What you have to do is, walk out of the hotel like a citizen, get into your car, and drive home. Ignore any questions or photographers, and lock your doors. Live your normal life, except stay out of men’s hotel suites. You can’t become a fugitive; they’ll go away eventually. Once the funeral is behind you, they’ll lose interest.”

“I hate this,” she said.

“It won’t last forever.”

“I mean, I hate not being able to sleep with you.”

“You’ve already done that, remember?”

She giggled. “I’ll bet you thought I was Monica.”

“No comment.” He pushed back from the table and walked her to the lobby. “Now, shake my hand,” he said. “They could be anywhere.”

She shook his hand, then stole a peck on his cheek.

“Oh, you should have these.” He handed her the will and the financial statement, and she tucked them into her bag. “Bye,” she said, then walked out.

As soon as she was out the door, flashguns began popping.

Chapter 19

BOBBY JONES STOOD ON GREEN STREET, half a block from the house where John Bartholomew resided. He wore a suit and a cloth cap and, in spite of the warm weather, a raincoat. Bobby had learned, after years of surveillance, how to stand for long periods of time without becoming too tired. He wore thick-soled black shoes, and inside were sponge pads to cradle his feet. He had been there since eight a.m. It was now nearly half past nine.

Bartholomew came through the front door and down the steps, then turned toward Grosvenor Square and the American Embassy.

Bobby crossed the street and followed, keeping the half-block distance. He had expected Bartholomew to go straight to the embassy, but instead, the man crossed the street and began walking east along the little park at the center of the square. Well, blimey, Bobby thought, he’s on to me already. Bobby didn’t follow; instead, he walked to a bench that offered a good view of the square, checked to be sure Bartholomew wasn’t looking at him, shucked off the raincoat, turned it inside out, and it became tweed. He stuffed his cloth cap into a pocket, sat down, opened his newspaper, and set his half-glasses on the tip of his nose, so he could look over them. In a practiced fashion, he would glance at Bartholomew, then down at his paper, turning a page occasionally, then look back at his quarry.

Bartholomew proceeded around the square at a march, swinging an umbrella and taking in the sunny morning like a tourist. He crossed the street again, but instead of walking into the embassy through the front door, he continued straight along the street toward the entrance of the passport office, disappearing around the corner of the building.

Bobby sat his ground, resisting the urge to run to the corner to see if he had gone inside. Bartholomew would go inside, Bobby was sure; the man worked there, didn’t he? What he would do now was go upstairs, then peer out the window to see if his tail was still here. Bobby, accordingly, got up, crossed the street, and went into the little chemist’s shop on South Audley Street, where he browsed for a few minutes, then bought a small tin of aspirin. Finally, he returned to Grosvenor Square, walked to the farthest point from the embassy, and took a seat on another bench to wait for lunchtime.

Bartholomew looked from his window down into Grosvenor Square. “He’s gone,” he said to his companion. “But I’m sure he was tailing me.”

“You’re getting paranoid in your old age, Stan,” the man said. “Who would want to follow you anymore? The Cold War is over.”

“Maybe for you,” Bartholomew replied.

At twelve o’clock sharp a handsome blonde woman in a black silk raincoat approached Bobby’s park bench. “Mr. Jones?” she asked.

Bobby stood. “Yes, indeed,” he replied.

“I’m Moira Bailey, Ted Cricket’s friend.”

“Glad to meet you,” Bobby said, shaking her hand. “Let’s take a stroll around the park, shall we?”

“Love to.” She took his arm.

They walked up and down the little park, always keeping the front door of the embassy in sight. “I’ll point him out when he leaves,” Bobby said, “then he’s all yours.”

“Right,” Moira replied.

They had to wait for three-quarters of an hour before Bartholomew appeared, walking with another man, no doubt the American that Ted Cricket had spotted him with the day before.

“He’s the taller of the two,” Bobby said. He handed her a card. “Here’s my cellphone number; let me know when you’re done.”

“Right,” Moira replied, then set off down the square, keeping Bartholomew in sight.

Bartholomew and his friend walked down into Berkeley Square, then down an adjoining mews and into a restaurant. Moira waited two minutes, then followed them in.

The two men were standing near the end of a crowded bar, each with a pint of bitter. Bartholomew was leaning on the bar, pulling his suit tight against his body. Nothing in the hip pocket, she thought. Then he fished his wallet from an inside coat pocket and took out a five-pound note to pay. Oh, thanks, she thought, taking it all in. She saw the ladies’ room door past them, up a couple of steps, and she walked toward it, catching Bartholomew’s eye and interest along the way, offering him a little smile. She went into the ladies’, freshened her makeup, and went out again. Bartholomew had stationed himself where he could watch her come out. She smiled at him again, then put a foot out, missed the first step, and began to fall forward.

Bartholomew took a step forward, his pint in his left hand, stuck out an arm, and, grazing a breast, caught her in his right arm.

She deliberately did not regain her feet right away, leaning into him, staggering him a couple of steps away from the bar.

“There,” he said, lifting and setting her on her feet again.

“I’m so sorry,” she said breathlessly. “My heel caught on the step.”

“It’s quite all right,” Bartholomew said. He still had his arm around her. “I think you should have a drink with us and regain your composure.”

“Oh, I wish I could,” she said. “You seem very nice, but I’m on my way to a rather important appointment. I just came in here to use the ladies’.”

“Oh, come on,” Bartholomew said. “What’ll it be? Harry?” he called to the bartender.

“No, really, I can’t,” Moira said. “I’d love to another time, though.” She didn’t want to be there when he discovered his wallet was missing.

“Give me your number, then.”

She fished in her handbag and came up with a card, identifying her as Ruth Hedger. “You’ll most likely catch me in the early evenings,” she said. “Do you have a card?”

“Name’s Bill,” he said. “You can remember that, can’t you?”

“Surely,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from a nasty fall.” She turned her large eyes on his like headlights, making him smile. “Bye-bye.” She continued down the bar, knowing his eyes were on her ass, and out into the mews.

Once outside, she walked back to the square and turned a corner, making sure Bartholomew had not followed her, then she took a tiny cellphone from her pocket, checked Jones’s card, and punched in the number.

“Yes?” Jones said.

“I’ve got it.”

“Where are you?”

“In Berkeley Square.”

“You know Jack Barclay’s?”

“Yes.”

“Go and look at a Rolls; I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She hung up and walked along the east side of the square toward the Rolls-Royce dealer. She walked inside, immediately attracting a young salesman, who looked her up and down rather indiscreetly, she thought.

“May I help you?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting my husband here; we wanted to look at a Bentley.”

“Right over here,” the young man said, taking her elbow and steering her toward a gleaming white automobile. “This is the Arnage, in our Magnolia color,” he said. “Eye-catching, don’t you think?”

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, catching sight of Bobby Jones over his shoulder. “Oh, there he is!” She waved and smiled brightly.

Bobby approached them. “Hello dear,” she said, pecking him on a cheek. “Isn’t this a beautiful Bentley?”

Bobby looked at the car sourly. “You’ll have to be content with your Mercedes,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” He took her arm and guided her toward the door, with never a glance at the salesman.

Chapter 20

AFTER BREAKFAST STONE LEFT THE Connaught and began to wander aimlessly around Mayfair, window-shopping and thinking. He was making precious little progress in his investigation of Lance Cabot, and even less in his investigation of his client, John Bartholomew, or whoever he was. Still, he had been in England for only a few days; perhaps he was being impatient.

Finally, his impatience led him into Farm Street, where he saw Ted Cricket standing at the far end. He did not approach the house, but he motioned for Cricket to go to the next mews, and they met there.

“Anything to report?” Stone asked.

“Not yet, Mr. Barrington,” Cricket replied, “but then I didn’t expect for anything to happen. They haven’t left the house yet, and when I checked the tape, there had only been a couple of phone calls, both for Miss Burroughs, both innocuous.”

“Heard anything from Bobby?”

“Not yet, but I expect we’ll have some results before the day’s out. We have your cellphone number, if anything of note occurs.”

“Thanks, Ted; I’ll talk to you later.” Stone walked back up the mews and slowly back toward the Connaught. He passed the Hayward tailor shop, but didn’t go in; it was too soon for fittings on the jackets he had ordered. His pocket phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington, it’s Bobby Jones.”

“Yes, Bobby?”

“I have what you wanted; can we meet?”

“I’ll be at the Connaught in two minutes.”

“So will I, sir.”

Stone encountered Bobby at the front door, and they went in together and sat down in the lounge. Bobby reached into his raincoat pocket and presented Stone with a large wallet.

Stone received it in a handkerchief and lightly turned it over. It was of alligator, and it must have cost a bundle, Stone thought. He looked inside and found more than five hundred pounds, mostly in fifty-pound notes. One side of the wallet held three credit cards, an ATM card from Barclays bank, an international health insurance card, and half a dozen calling cards, all in the name of Stanford Hedger, Mayfair House, Green Street. The credit cards were in the same name. “Well,” he said, “at least we have his name, now.”

“The lady pickpocket said he introduced himself as Bill, so Hedger could be a false name, too.”

“If it is, he’s gone to a great deal of trouble to establish that identity. Since we know he lives at the Green Street address, I’m inclined to think that Hedger is his real name.”

“Maybe so, but these buggers have a thousand names, if they want them.”

“Bobby, can you dust this for fingerprints and have them checked with the international database?”

“I have a friend who can,” Bobby replied. “Of course, my prints are on it, as are the pickpocket’s.”

“How long will it take?”

“A day or two, depending on how busy my friend is.”

“All right.”

“What do you want me to do with the wallet after that?”

“Wipe all the prints off it and stick it through the mail slot of Hedger’s building. Maybe he’ll think someone found and returned it.”

“All right, sir; I’ll be on my way then.” Bobby took the wallet back in a handkerchief of his own, tucked it into a raincoat pocket, and left.

Stone went upstairs. It was just coming onto nine o’clock, New York time, and he called Bill Eggers, who he knew came in early.

“Eggers.”

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”

“Sounds familiar,” Eggers said, “but I can’t place it. Who is he?”

“That’s what I want to know. I think it may be Bartholomew’s real name. By the way, he works for the government, probably in intelligence.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, based on who sent him to me, but I can’t elaborate on that.”

“I see.”

“I hope you do.”

“Of course I do, Bill, but should you get some information that doesn’t compromise your relationship with a client, will you pass it on to me?”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Talk to you later.”

Stone thought it might not be too early to call his old professor, Samuel Bernard.

“Yes?” The voice was surprisingly weak.

“It’s Stone Barrington, sir; how are you?”

“Oh, I’ve had a bad couple of days, but I’m better now.”

“Is this not a good time to talk?”

“No, no, go right ahead. What can I do for you?”

“Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”

“Indeed it does,” Bernard replied without hesitation.

“Who is he?”

“When I knew him, and later, when I only knew of him, he was considered one of the agency’s brightest young men.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He was a bit impulsive, perhaps even wild, but that doesn’t hurt one’s reputation in the Company, if the results are good. Of course, if one makes a mistake . . .”

“Did Hedger make a mistake?”

“He did, and I can’t tell you about it, except to say that it cost the lives of half a dozen operatives in a Middle Eastern country. Fortunately for Hedger, none of them was American, or he would have been in real trouble.”

Stone wasn’t sure what else to ask. “Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

“There was a wife, in his youth, but she died in an automobile accident. Hedger was driving, and he was said to have been broken up by the event, though I never knew him to be broken up by anything. He had a level of self-confidence that is usually only found in maniacs, and that seemed to make him impervious to most disastrous events, like his Middle Eastern debacle. I shouldn’t think it took him long to get over his wife’s death.”

“Anything else?”

“He was extraordinarily brave, in the physical sense, which, I suppose, comes with his level of self-confidence. I doubt if he believed that anyone could ever do him harm. He garnered a couple of medals for valor, and that stood him in good stead in the agency. Still, careful people never trusted him, and there are always a lot of careful people in the Company.”

“What about those who were not so careful?”

“There are always those in the Company, too, and they always found uses for Hedger. Later, when he rose to supervisory levels, he attracted younger men who seemed to share his attitudes. He was kept busy keeping them out of trouble, which some saw as his just reward.”

“Do you have any idea what he might be involved with now?”

“I shouldn’t think he’s involved with anything. He’s dead.”

That brought Stone up short. “Are you sure?”

“He died in an explosion in Cairo about two years ago—one caused by an Islamic fundamentalist suicide bomber.”

“Was his body identified?”

“Some body parts were, I believe. If you’ll forgive me, Stone, I have a visitor, who’s on the way upstairs now. I’ll call you if I think of anything else. You’re still at the Connaught?”

“Yes, sir, and thank you.”

Stone hung up the phone, baffled more than before.

Chapter 21

THE FUNERAL SERVICE FOR JAMES CUTLER took place at the Catholic church in Farm Street, which Stone remembered being mentioned in the novels of Evelyn Waugh. All the people present at the house party the weekend before attended, plus a great many others, many of whom Stone surmised were business acquaintances of the deceased. Julian Wainwright was prominent among them, looking suitably sorrowful. When the service was over, many of those present adjourned to the house occupied by Lance Cabot and Erica Burroughs, which was conveniently nearby.

A light lunch was served, and Stone had a glass of wine. He wandered idly through the house looking at pictures and taking in the place. It was handsomely decorated, and Stone wondered if Lance had had it done or if the house came that way when it was rented. As he strolled down a hallway, he heard Lance’s voice through an ajar door, apparently to the study.

“Let me make this as clear for you as I possibly can,” Lance was saying, “if you persist in this, if you send anyone else for me, I’ll kill them, then I’ll find you and I’ll kill you. That is a solemn promise.” Then he slammed the handset down onto the receiver.

Stone ducked into a powder room and closed the door. He wanted to hear all of that conversation, and fortunately, he had the means to do so quite nearby. He ducked out of the house and found Bobby Jones down the street.

“Good day,” Jones said.

“I want to hear what’s on the recorder,” Stone said.

“Of course; I’ll take you there.”

Stone followed the little man to a garage nearby. Jones unlocked a small door in the larger one and closed it behind them. He went to a cupboard at the rear of the garage, unlocked a padlock, and opened the door to reveal a small tape machine. “How far back today do you want me to go?”

“The last conversation,” Stone replied.

Jones rewound the tape, and the sound of voices backward and at speed could be heard, then stopped. He punched a button and the recorder began to play.

“Hello?” Lance’s voice.

“I want it,” another male voice said. “You’re all out of time.” The quality of the connection was poor, as if the call were coming from some Third World country.

“Let me make this as clear for you as I possibly can,” Lance said, and the rest was as Stone had heard a moment before.

“Let me hear it again,” Stone said.

Jones rewound the machine, and Stone listened carefully. The voice was American, he thought, but he could not be sure, and it didn’t sound like Bartholomew. “Once more,” Stone said, and listened.

“Sounds like he’s got somebody on his back,” Jones said, resetting the machine.

“Yes, it does.”

“Sounds like money to me.”

“Could be. Could be almost anything of value—even information.”

“I suppose so, but I’m a copper right to the bone, and I tend to think in the simplest terms, especially where a threat to kill is involved.”

“You could be right,” Stone admitted. “By the way, I checked with a knowledgeable friend in New York, and Stanford Hedger has been dead for two years.”

“You could have fooled me,” Jones said, letting them out of the garage and locking the door behind him. “What do you make of that?”

“Well, one of two things, I guess: either Hedger isn’t dead, or he’s dead and Bartholomew is using his identity for some purpose.”

“This is far too thick for me,” Jones said. “Give me a nice homicide any day; I never know what to make of these spooks.”

“You’ve had experience with them before?”

“Yes, but only with the blokes on our side—MI6. The trouble with trying to figure them out is you never know what they want, and if they explained it to you, you probably wouldn’t understand it.”

Stone laughed. “I see your point. I have a feeling, though, that whatever is going on here is taking place outside the bounds of any official action. It sounds awfully personal to me.”

Stone said goodbye to Jones and returned to the party. As he entered the house, he encountered Lance, who had an empty glass in his hand.

“Where did you go?” Lance asked, motioning him to follow toward the bar.

“Just for a stroll; I felt like some air.”

“I know the feeling,” Lance replied. “These wakes can be oppressive.”

“It was good of you to have it here.”

“I’m happy to help out Sarah at a difficult time.” He got a drink from the barman and led Stone out into a small garden. They sat down on a teak bench.

“Lovely house,” Stone said.

“I had nothing to do with that,” Lance said. “It came as you see it, right from the agency. The owner is with the Foreign Office; he’s in India or someplace.”

“Good break for you.”

“The rent isn’t a good break. Tell me, is what I’ve been reading in the papers true?”

“I don’t know; what have you been reading?”

“That Sarah is going to inherit James’s estate.”

“That much is true,” Stone said. “I’ve seen the will.”

“How much?”

“Hard to say; difficult to put a value on the business.” So far, he hadn’t told Lance anything that wasn’t public knowledge.

“I suppose Sarah will sell it.”

“I don’t know if she’s had time to think about it. I imagine there’ll be quite a lot of legal work to be done before it’s settled.”

“This turn of events brings me back to what I initially said to you about the boating accident.”

“You still think it wasn’t an accident?”

“I have a suspicious mind.”

“Well, I’ve looked into it a bit, and so has Sir Bernard Pickering, and to my knowledge, no information has arisen to indicate that Sarah even knew about the contents of James’s will.”

“But you can’t say definitively that she did or didn’t know.”

“I don’t think anyone can, but it’s my best judgment, based on what Sarah has told me and on my knowledge of her character, that she did not know.”

“You sound as if you’re testifying at a trial.”

“You sound as if you’re conducting one.”

Lance laughed. “Fair enough.”

“How well did you know James?”

“I’d met him two or three times.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I thought that, like a lot of men, he was very smart about business and very stupid about almost everything else.”

“You mean about Sarah?”

“Yes. She obviously didn’t love him.”

Stone nodded. “I think you’re right; she was under a lot of pressure from her parents to marry him. I don’t think she would have gone through with it.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because Sarah impressed me as someone who would not have let an opportunity like James get past her.”

“That’s a pretty cynical view. How well do you know Sarah?”

“Not all that well, but I’m a pretty good judge of character.”

This conversation was going nowhere, Stone thought. He decided to change the subject. “Do you know someone named Stanford Hedger?”

Lance turned and looked at him for a moment. “No, I don’t,” he said. Then he got up and walked back into the house, leaving Stone on the garden bench.

Chapter 22

STONE RETURNED TO THE CONNAUGHT, and as he entered, he caught sight of Ted Cricket sitting in the lounge, having a cup of tea. Stone joined him.

Cricket looked grim. He reached into a pocket and handed Stone a single sheet of paper.

Stone unfolded it.

The fingerprints on the wallet were checked against all available databases. Only in the United States was there an apparent match, but no identity was provided. Instead, a message appeared onscreen, stating: “This record is unavailable, for reasons of national security.” I have returned the wallet to the Green Street house, as per your instructions.This letter constitutes my resignation from the assignment. Mr. Cricket will present you with my bill. Please do not contact me again. It was signed by Bobby Jones.

“I understand about the fingerprints,” Stone said to Cricket, “but what’s wrong with Bobby?”

Cricket handed him another sheet of paper, outlining Jones’s fee and expenses. “He’d be grateful for cash,” Cricket said.

“Of course,” Stone replied, reaching for the envelope containing Bartholomew’s expense money. He handed Cricket the cash, including a generous bonus. “Thank him for his help, will you?”

“Of course.”

“Now tell me what’s going on with Bobby.”

“When Bobby returned the wallet, he was apparently followed from the house by two men. They dragged him into an alley and beat him badly.”

“Jesus, is he all right?”

“He will be, eventually. He’s in hospital at the moment.”

“I want to go and see him.”

“He doesn’t want to see you, Mr. Barrington. He regards the beating as a message from Mr. Bartholomew to stay away from him and from you.”

“I’d like to pay any medical bills.”

“We have a National Health Service in this country.”

Stone peeled off another thousand pounds from Bartholomew’s money and handed it to Cricket. “Then please give him this; if he needs more, let me know.”

Cricket pocketed the money. “I’m sure he’ll be grateful.”

“What about you, Ted? Do you want out of this?”

“No, sir; I’d like to stay on it in the hope of meeting the two gentlemen who did this to Bobby.”

“I understand, but I can’t promise that will happen.”

“It will, if I continue to follow Bartholomew.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt, too, Ted.”

“Believe me, Mr. Barrington, it is not I who will be hurt.”

“Ted . . .”

“Let me deal with this, please. I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t want anyone killed.”

“I’ve no intention of doing that.”

“I don’t want Bartholomew touched.”

“I won’t promise you that.”

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”

“I understand that, but it went that way.”

“I’ll continue to pay you to watch Lance Cabot,” Stone said. “But I don’t want you near Bartholomew. Don’t follow him again.”

“In that case, I’ll have to leave your employ, Mr. Barrington.” He handed over another sheet of paper. “Here’s my bill.”

Stone paid it.

Cricket stood up and offered his hand. “I’m sorry it turned out this way, Mr. Barrington; I know you’re a gentleman and that you didn’t intend for anything like this to happen.”

“Thank you, Ted, and I wish you luck.”

“And the very best to you, Mr. Barrington. Oh, by the way, I’ll leave the tape recorder going in the garage for the time being.”

Stone shook his head. “Don’t bother; I’ll be returning to New York, as soon as I take care of a couple of loose ends.”

“Then I’ll have the equipment removed,” Cricket said. He turned and left the hotel.

Stone went to the concierge’s desk and asked to be booked on a flight to New York the following day, then he went to his suite. He took out the little satellite phone, positioned himself near the window, and from the phone’s memory, dialed Bartholomew’s number.

It was answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“It’s Stone Barrington.”

“What do you have to report?”

“You and I have to meet right away.”

“I’m in New York.”

“We both know that’s a lie; you’re staying at a house in Green Street and visiting the American Embassy every day.”

There was a grinding silence for a moment, then Bartholomew said, “The Green Street house in an hour.”

“No; someplace public.”

“All right, the Garrick Club, at six o’clock, in the bar; I’ll leave your name at the door.”

“I’ll be there.” Stone hung up. He stretched out on the bed and tried to nap. Jet lag took a long time to completely go away.

The Garrick Club porter directed Stone up the stairs, which were hung with portraits of dead actors, costumed for their greatest roles. The whole clubhouse seemed to be a museum of the theater. Stone found the bar at the top of the stairs, and in this room, the portraits were of actors more recently dead—Noel Coward and Laurence Olivier and their contemporaries. The bar was not crowded, and Bartholomew stood at the far end.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Nothing, thank you.”

Bartholomew shrugged. “As you wish. Let’s go in the other room.” He led the way to an adjoining reading room and settled into one of a pair of leather chairs. “Now, what’s so important?”

Stone fished an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. “This is the remainder of the money you gave me, and an accounting of what I spent. I’m returning to New York tomorrow.”

“But you can’t do that,” Bartholomew said, alarmed.

“Watch me. I’ve had enough of your lies, Mr. Hedger, if that’s your real name.”

“You stole my wallet?”

“I had it done. And you’re responsible for putting a retired policeman in the hospital.”

“He was working for you? I had no way of knowing that.”

“I should warn you that there’s another retired policeman, a much larger one, looking for you right now, and I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when he finds you.”

“Oh, Christ,” Bartholomew said, tugging at his whiskey. “What the hell were you doing having me followed and my pocket picked?”

“I like to know the truth about the work I do, and I wasn’t getting it from you.”

Bartholomew rubbed his face with his hands.

“What is your real name?”

“That’s not important,” Bartholomew said. “You’re better off not knowing, believe me.”

“As you wish. Since Stanford Hedger is dead, I’ll assume that’s just another alias.” His eyes narrowed. “Or maybe not. You are Hedger, aren’t you? And you just want someone to think you’re dead.”

“How the hell do you know about that?”

“I have my resources, Mr. Hedger.” Stone decided to fire a guess. “Tell me, was Lance Cabot one of your bright young men at the Company?”

Hedger shot him a sharp glance. “You’re wandering into an area where you shouldn’t be.”

“I’ve been in that area since I arrived in London,” Stone replied. “Thanks to you. What was it you really wanted to accomplish when you put me onto Lance Cabot’s back?”

“You’re better off not knowing.”

Stone guessed again. “It wasn’t exactly official Company business, was it?”

Hedger shook his head slowly.

“What was it about?”

“All right, I’ll tell you; I guess I owe you that. But you breathe a word of this, and you’ll be in more trouble than you can imagine.”

For a moment, Stone thought he probably shouldn’t know this; then he changed his mind. “Tell me,” he said.

Chapter 23

HEDGER, IF THAT WAS HIS NAME, leaned back in his chair and sipped his whiskey. “It was a Middle Eastern operation,” he said, “and those are always a mess. We had—still have—a shortage of Arabic-speaking operatives, locals who blend in—and that always makes things difficult. Even when you recruit them, you can never really put any trust in them; you never know if they’re doubling for Hamas, or some other radical organization.

“Cabot fit in really well out there; his Arabic was outstanding—so good that he could impersonate an Arab on the phone, if not in person; he wore the region like an old shoe. So much so that I began to suspect him.”

“Of what? Of being an Arab?”

“Of course not; the man looks like a California surfer, doesn’t he?”

No, Stone thought, but he understood what Hedger meant. “If you say so.”

“I began to feel that he was too much taking the part of the people who were supposed to be the opposition. He didn’t like the Israelis we dealt with—thought they were too smart and too devious—and he seemed charmed by Arab custom and even by their fanaticism. He said that’s the way he would be if he were a Palestinian. That sort of comment doesn’t go down well with one’s colleagues, you know?”

“I can imagine.”

“Lance developed some Palestinian contacts—a man and a woman—whom he trusted, but I didn’t. He kept making the case that we should take them inside, tell them more. I wouldn’t do it. I always felt that, the moment we turned our backs, they’d be on the phone to Yasser Arafat or somebody, and that we’d end up paying the price. Well, we did.”

“Did trust them?”

“To an extent. And we paid the price. We put together an operation—I can’t tell you exactly what, but it was supposed to disrupt the leadership of a particularly virulent organization. Lance and I went to Cairo, where our people there put together two explosive devices that were to be carried into buildings by our two operatives, concealed somewhere, then left with timers set. We arranged a meeting in a safe house, and both operatives showed up, but Lance didn’t. He called and said he’d be late. I explained to these two people how the devices worked, and showed them how to set the timers. I waited as long as I could for Lance, then I sent them on their way. Five minutes later, the safe house exploded. The operatives had brought something with them. Lance was, apparently, watching from across the street, and he was on the scene very quickly.

“I was unconscious and was taken to a safe hospital. When I woke up and figured out what had happened, I told my people to tell Lance I had died. That’s how Stan Hedger came to be dead.”

“Does Lance still believe you’re dead?”

“No, certainly not. We ran into each other in Paris last year, so that was that. Lance left the Company shortly after the Cairo debacle and went private.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he used the contacts he’d made in the Middle East while serving the Company to serve himself. He began trading in arms, drugs, Japanese automobiles, whatever he could get his hands on, buy or sell. He’s still dealing with the two operatives who nearly killed me.”

“I can see how your people might be unhappy with him.”

“Unhappy, yes, but officially, he can’t be touched.”

“Why not?”

“Because he can’t be proved to have committed a crime, or even to have sold me out. Contrary to popular belief, the Company no longer blithely assassinates people who have annoyed it. Never did, really.”

“But you still want to hurt him.”

“I want him out of circulation. He’s a danger to people he once served with, like me, and he’s not exactly working in his country’s best interests.”

“So you’re doing this privately, without Company cooperation?”

“Why do you think I hired you?”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ve thrown a monkey wrench into my investigation of Lance.”

“How so?”

“There were two retired cops working for me, remember? They were taking turns surveilling you and Lance. Now one’s in the hospital, and the other has quit. He’s the one who wants to meet up with you in a dark alley.”

“I’m really very sorry about the whole thing with the man being hurt,” Hedger said, sounding sincere. “In my business, you do not deal kindly with strangers who follow you and pick your pocket.”

Stone felt a pang of guilt. That was something he should have considered. “In any case, I don’t see how I can be helpful to you after all that’s happened. Lance knows who I am; we’ve socialized. I can hardly sneak up on him. And I’ve used my only police contact to hire these two men, one of whom is now badly hurt. I don’t feel I can go back to my contact and ask him for more help.”

Hedger looked thoughtful. “You say you and Lance have become friendly?”

“ ‘Friendly’ may be too strong a word. We know each other; I like his girl and her sister.”

“Oh, yes, Monica took you down to Lord Wight’s place, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew Wight’s daughter from New York?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Rather well.”

“So you have a plausible social history, as far as Cabot is concerned?”

“Yes.”

“Then I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t continue to investigate him, but more from the inside.”

“For one thing, I mentioned your name to him yesterday.”

“What?”

“I asked him if he knew someone called Stanford Hedger; he said no, then walked away.”

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“I was still trying to figure out who you were, remember? If you had told me the truth—”

“Does he know why you asked about me?”

“No.”

“All right, here’s what you do: At the first opportunity, tell Lance everything that’s happened—about my hiring you, and all that, right up to this meeting. But you tell him you quit, that you were disgusted with my lying to you.”

“What would that accomplish?”

“It would disarm his suspicions. Don’t tell him that you know anything about Cairo or his having been in the agency; just tell him our conversation stopped at the point where you handed me back my money and quit.”

Stone thought about this. It was an intriguing situation, and he did not like Lance for doing the kind of business he was doing.

“You’d be doing a good turn for your country, if that means anything to you,” Hedger said, pushing the hook in a little deeper.

“I don’t know.”

“Give it another week,” Hedger said. He removed another, fatter envelope from his pocket and tossed it into Stone’s lap. “Live it up a bit; see more of London and Monica, Erica, and, above all, Lance. I just want to know what he’s up to, so I can stop him doing it.”

“Tell me the truth; do you intend to kill him?”

“Stone, if I’d intended that, he’d have been dead two years ago.”

“All right,” Stone said finally. “Another week, and that’s it.”

“It’s all I ask. How about a drink, now, and some dinner downstairs? Have you ever visited this club? Know anything about it?”

Then Bartholomew/Hedger, who was suddenly not such a bad guy after all, launched into a history of the Garrick Club and a list of its famous members.

Stone was charmed, a little, and he accepted Hedger’s dinner invitation.

Chapter 24

STONE WOKE THE FOLLOWING MORNING with a hangover, the result, he was sure, of the great quantity of port that he and Hedger had shared at the Garrick Club. They had dined in the club’s main dining room, a long, tall hall with acres of walls filled with fine portraits, the room’s red paint browned by decades of tobacco smoke. Stone had spotted a former American secretary of state and half a dozen well-known actors, and Hedger had pointed out government officials, barristers, and journalists among the crowd. Stone had been impressed.

Now he was depressed. He made a constant effort not to overindulge; he had failed, and the result was worse than jet lag. The phone rang—more loudly than usual, he thought. “Hello?”

“Good morning, it’s Sarah,” she said brightly. It was the first time they had spoken since the funeral.

“Good morning,” Stone struggled to say.

“You sound hungover.”

“It’s jet lag.”

“No, you’re hungover, I can tell. You always sounded this way when you were hungover.” She had him at the disadvantage of knowing him well.

“All right, I’m hungover.”

“And how did this happen?”

“How do you think it happened? The usual way.”

“And in whose company?”

“A business associate’s—not a woman—and at the Garrick Club. And don’t start coming over all jealous.”

“I am jealous, but the Garrick is my favorite London men’s club, so I’ll forgive you.”

Stone, in his condition, couldn’t make any sense of that. “Thank you.”

“Now, you and Erica and Lance are coming down to the country for a few days. I have a meeting with Julian Wainwright this morning, then I’ll pick you up at the Connaught. Please be standing out front with a bag in your hand at twelve o’clock sharp.”

Stone struggled to think. He needed an opportunity to get closer to Lance, and here it was. “Are the tabloids still following you?”

“They vanished immediately after the wake at Lance’s house.”

“Do I need a dinner jacket?”

“Always a good idea at an English country house.”

“All right, I’ll be ready at twelve.”

“Of course you will.” She hung up.

Stone took some aspirin, had breakfast, and soaked in a hot tub for half an hour. Feeling more human, he read the papers, then the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?” A female voice.

“Yes.”

“It’s Audie, at Doug Hayward’s. Your jackets are ready for a fitting; when would you like to come in?”

Stone glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes?”

“Perfect; see you then.”

Stone threw some things in a bag, told the concierge to cancel his flight to New York, left his bag with the doorman, and walked up the block to Hayward’s shop. The tailor got him into a collection of loosely stitched pieces of cloth that only slightly resembled a jacket, made some marks, then ripped out the sleeves and made some more marks—twice, once for each jacket.

“Good,” Hayward said. “How long are you staying in London?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I can probably have these ready for your last fitting in a week, if you’re still around.”

“I suppose I will be. Doug, do you know a man named Lance Cabot?”

“I’ve made a lot of clothes for him.”

“Know much about him?”

“He pays my bills; that’s about it.”

“Oh.”

“You hungover this morning?” Hayward asked.

Stone nodded.

“Have a pint of bitter at lunch; that’ll set you right.”

Stone nodded again. He left the shop and walked back to the Connaught. Sarah was sitting out front in what appeared to be a toy car. It was little more than a bright orange box, with a tiny wheel at each corner. She stuck her head out the window.

“You’re late, and your bag’s in the boot.”

“What boot?” Stone asked, walking around the car.

“Get in!”

The doorman held the door open for him.

“Now I know how the clowns at the circus feel,” he said, folding his body and getting awkwardly into the vehicle. Surprisingly, he fit and was not uncomfortable.

Sarah threw the car into gear, revved the engine, and drove away up Mount Street at a great rate, the car making a noise like an adolescent Ferrari. A moment later, they were in busy Park Lane, whizzing through traffic.

Stone looked out the window and saw the pavement rushing past, and it seemed closer than he had ever been to it. He had the feeling that, if they hit a bump, he would scrape his ass on the tarmac.

“Ever been in one of these?” Sarah asked.

“A Mini? I’ve seen them around London.”

“A Mini Cooper,” she said. “Very special, from the sixties. I had this one restored, and it’s very fast.” She changed down, accelerated across two lanes, and careened into Hyde Park.

Stone winced. Why was it his lot in this country to ride with women who drove as if they had just stolen the car? “Try not to kill me,” he said.

“Frankly, you look as though death would come as a relief,” she replied. “What were you drinking?”

“Port.”

“Ahhhhh. Goes down easily, doesn’t it?”

“All too easily.”

“And who was your host?”

“A man named . . . Bartholomew.” He still didn’t feel comfortable calling him Hedger.

“English or American?”

“American, but an anglophile.”

“Thus, the port.”

“Yes.”

“How did you like the Garrick?”