The Short Forever

“What’s the problem?”

“She didn’t want them in the house, said Mr. James wouldn’t approve. I had to explain to her that she isn’t working for Mr. James anymore, she’s working for Miss Sarah, and she’d better get used to it in a hurry. I went over there yesterday to start cleaning out the place, and she behaved as if James were coming back momentarily, as if he’d been out of town on business. I’ve asked Julian Wainwright to write her a letter telling her that she’s now in my employ, but I suppose she hasn’t received it yet.”

“Relax,” Stone said. “All this will work itself out with time. I’m sure it won’t be hard to find another housekeeper, if Mrs. Rivers can’t accustom herself to her new circumstances.”

“I hope so,” Sarah replied.

Stone had a thought. “Monica, do you by any chance have a key to Lance and Erica’s house?”

“Why, yes,” Monica replied. “Why?”

“I think it might be a good idea for me to go over there and make sure everything is undisturbed.”

Monica went to her desk, opened a drawer, and handed Stone a set of keys. “There’s everything,” she said, “front door, garage across the road, even the wine cellar.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Stone said to them both, and he headed for the street to find a taxi. He couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass. He left the gallery and, in the pouring rain, started looking for a taxi.

Chapter 32

STONE GOT OUT OF THE CAB AT THE bottom of Farm Street; he might as well have walked, he reflected, it had taken him so long to get a cab. The rain was still falling steadily, and the sky was unnaturally dark for the time of day. Lights were coming on in the houses of Farm Street.

He moved slowly up the little street, looking for men on foot or in cars. He did not want to encounter the two large men in the black car again, if he could help it. The street was empty of people, and all the parked cars were empty. With a final look around, Stone ran up the steps of the house and let himself in.

Grateful to be inside again, he stuck his umbrella into a stand to drain and hung his wet raincoat on a peg inside the door. The house was quite dark, with only minimal light coming through the windows from outside. Stone drew the curtains on the street-side windows and switched on the hall light to get his bearings, then switched it off again.

He had a brief look at the drawing room, switching the lights on and off again, then turned to the study, where he figured anything of interest to him would most likely be. He switched on a lamp on the desk, and the beautiful old paneling glowed in the light. There were many books, most of them bound in leather, and the desk seemed quite old, probably Georgian. Stone tried the drawers and found them unlocked. He sat down at the desk and began to go methodically through the drawers.

The contents were what might be expected in any prosperous home—bills, credit card statements in Erica’s name, but none in Lance’s. In a bottom drawer he found several months of bank statements, this time in Lance’s name. They were from The Scottish Highlands Bank, of which Stone had never heard, and he learned from examining them that Lance wrote very few checks. There were no canceled checks in the statement, but the printout identified each payee, and they were mostly for rent and household expenses. Those that weren’t were in larger amounts—five to ten thousand pounds—and were made payable to cash. Lance seemed to walk around with a lot of money in his pockets. All the deposits into the account were from wire transfers from two banks—one in the Cayman Islands and one in Switzerland. Lance would transfer twenty-five thousand pounds at a time into the account. These were substantial amounts, but not those of a multimillionaire; Lance, apart from his high-end address, seemed to live rather simply. There was no evidence of car ownership, clubs, or expensive purchases.

Erica’s credit card statements revealed mostly purchases of clothing and small household items. Her deposits came from a New York bank and were more on the order of ten thousand dollars at a time, and less frequent than Lance’s. Stone returned everything carefully to the drawers, leaving them as he had found them. He looked around the study again. There were no filing cabinets, and a small closet held only some stationery and a fax machine.

Stone switched off the study light and went upstairs. There were two floors of bedrooms, and the ones on the top floor seemed unused. The second floor contained a large master suite only, with a king-sized bed, two baths, and two dressing rooms. Though Erica had accumulated a lot of clothes, Lance seemed to own no more than he could pack into two or three suitcases. He switched off the lights and went downstairs, disappointed.

He had expected to find something—he wasn’t sure what, but something that would tell him more about Lance’s business dealings. There was so little as to seem unnatural, not even a briefcase, and Lance had not been carrying one earlier in the day. Nobody could do any sort of business so lightly equipped, which made Stone think Lance must have an office somewhere else in London.

He checked the kitchen and had one final look around, preparing to leave. Then, looking at the keys Monica had given him, he found one labeled “wine cellar,” which she had mentioned. He looked around for a door and found one under the stairs. The light switch gave no joy, and he felt his way down the steps to the bottom, where he found another door. Feeling for the lock, he inserted the key and turned it. As he stepped into the cellar, something brushed against his cheek, and he grabbed it: a string. He pulled it, and a single light bulb came on. The wine cellar was about twelve by fifteen feet and quite full of bottles. He checked a few and found some lovely old clarets and burgundies; whoever owned the house had been laying them down for years; you couldn’t just walk into a shop and buy them anymore.

He stood in the middle of the cellar and looked at each of the four walls. Why was the cellar so small, when the house was so much larger? He examined the walls, which were covered by racking from floor to ceiling. Walking slowly around the room, he checked between each stack of racks, and finally he came to a pair that seemed somehow unlike the others. The racks were all fixed to the wall, except these two, which moved when he shook them. Pressing an eye to the crack between one rack and its immediate neighbor, he saw the dull glint of dim light on metal. A hinge, maybe?

He moved along one rack farther, peering into the small spaces between them, and he saw a flat piece of metal that seemed to connect two racks. It was recessed too far to reach with his fingers, and even his pen was too fat to fit between the racks. He looked around and saw a small table containing a decanter and a corkscrew.

He picked up the corkscrew, which was of the waiter’s type—small, flat, with a folded knife blade at one end. He opened the knife and poked it between the two racks, finding the strip of metal. It moved when poked, and he tried inserting the blade underneath the strip and pushing upward. Almost to his surprise, the metal strip moved easily. It had been holding the two racks together; now, with it out of the way, Stone pulled on the two racks and they quite easily swung into the cellar like double doors. He could now see that each rack had a solid wood back that was fixed to the wall by four heavy hinges.

Behind the two racks was another door that, surprisingly, seemed to have no lock. Stone turned the knob and pushed it open, revealing a small room of about eight by ten feet. He found a light switch, and a fluorescent fixture brightly illuminated the space. He had found Lance Cabot’s office. The room was equipped with everything a home office requires—office supplies, file cabinets, and a multipurpose printer/copier/fax machine, connected to a substantial-looking computer with a flat-screen monitor.

Stone tried the filing cabinets: locked. He switched on the computer and waited for it to boot up. Finally a screen appeared, demanding a password. Stone tried Lance, Cabot, Erica, Monica, Ali, Sheila—all the names he knew to be connected to Lance. None worked. Frustrating. He could do this all night and get nowhere. The steel desk on which the computer keyboard rested was locked, too, every drawer, and there was nothing visible or searchable in the office that could tell him anything. Indeed, except for the secret location of the room, it was like any other home office—well equipped, but utilitarian. Nothing exotic—no high-frequency radios, no mysterious equipment. Of course, with the Internet, who needed long-range radios these days?

Stone knew a little about picking locks, and he looked around for something he might use for a lock-pick. Nothing but a letter opener and some paper clips. He examined the desk lock and got a small surprise. He had expected standard office locks, the kind that anybody with some picking skills could open, but these were more substantial. Each was an inch or so in diameter, and when he examined the small space between each drawer and desk, the bolts were larger than usual. It would take a much greater expert than he to deal with these locks, which had no commercial names on them. It appeared that the old locks had been drilled out and replaced with the larger, more secure ones. The locks on the filing cabinets were identical.

As Stone sat staring at the desk, wondering what to do next, he heard a noise above his head. It occurred to him that he was sitting directly below the main foyer of the house, and what he had heard was a footstep, followed by the sound of the front door closing.

There was no way out of the cellar, except the way he had come, and that opened into the foyer. Quickly, Stone turned off the wine cellar light, then pulled the two rack/doors closed and secured the metal strip. Then he closed the office door, fearful that light might escape around the door, and switched off the lights. Nothing to do now but be quiet and wait.

Chapter 33

STONE LISTENED AS AN OCCASIONAL footstep struck the wooden floor above, instead of a rug, and it became apparent that more than one person was in the house, and, from the sound of the heavy steps, they were men. They moved in and out of rooms on the floor above, and then they stopped. Either they were standing still or walking on rugs.

Then Stone heard a noise in the wine cellar, and dim light appeared around the edges of the door to the little office. He could hear voices now, though they were muffled, and the men appeared to be speaking a foreign language. He put an ear to the door, trying to hear better, but it didn’t help much. Then there was a louder voice and two sharp reports, which Stone knew could only be gunshots. They were not very loud, but not silenced, either—probably a small-caliber handgun. A moment later, there were two further shots, and he knew what that meant. The light disappeared from around the door, and then there was nothing but silence, until he heard footsteps in the foyer, and the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Stone checked his watch, the hands of which glowed in the dark, and waited a full five minutes. Then he switched on the office light. Something made him look down, and he did not like what he saw. Blood was seeping under the door. He pulled it open slightly and listened; not a sound. He opened the door, raised the latch holding the wine racks shut, and pushed. They moved a couple of inches, then stopped against something soft.

Stone got as low as he could, put his shoulder against the racks, and pushed hard. Slowly, whatever was blocking the racks moved, and he was able to open them wide enough to step through. Light from the office fell on a man’s back. Stone stepped between the racks and over the body and found the ceiling light. Not one, but two bodies lay on the floor of the wine cellar; they were the two men who had abducted him, and each of them had two new orifices in his head.

Stone inspected the wounds; small caliber, he thought, probably a .22 pistol, maybe a .25. He checked the coat pockets of the two corpses and came up with two Greek passports. Greek? What the hell did that mean? Nobody was mad at the Greeks, were they? Who would shoot two Greeks in a wine cellar in Mayfair? And why would a bunch of Greeks abduct and interrogate him?

His first impulse was to go upstairs and call the police, in the person of Detective Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton, but then he had second thoughts. How could he explain his own presence in the house? If he tried, he’d have to explain everything he’d done since he’d arrived in the United Kingdom, including the identity of his client. Also, his client had not asked him to search this house; he’d done it on his own. He would make a terrible witness, too, having seen nothing and having heard only footsteps and gunshots.

Discretion, in this case, was definitely the better part of valor. He stepped over a body, back into the office, and wiped anything he might have touched. Then he closed the office door, wiped the knob, and secured the two wine racks in place. He wiped the knob of the wine cellar door and went upstairs, wiping anything else he might have touched in the house. Finally, he put on his raincoat, retrieved his umbrella from the stand, opened the door a crack, and peered up and down the mews. It was dark now, and streetlights were on, but the mews was empty. He let himself out, wiped the doorknob, inside and out, closed the door behind him, and walked down Farm Street in the direction of Berkeley Square.

He had reached the square before he saw anyone else, and he kept the umbrella low to keep anyone from remembering his face. Deciding against a taxi, he walked across Berkeley Square and up the little hill into Dover Street. The gallery was closed and dark. He dropped the keys to the Farm Street house through the mail slot.

What now? He wanted to talk to Lance. He walked up to New Bond Street, then to Conduit Street, found a cab at the Westbury Hotel, and gave the driver the Chester Street address that he’d heard Sarah give Lance. As the cab made its way through the West End, he thought about the two dead men on the wine cellar floor at Lance’s house. How long would it be before anyone found them? Lance clearly didn’t intend to go back to the house anytime soon. Was there a housekeeper or a cleaning lady? If so, would she go down to the wine cellar? He retraced his own steps, thought about the time line from a policeman’s perspective. He was without an alibi from the time he left the gallery until he got into the taxi at the Westbury. How long was that? An hour at the most. Where else could he have been for an hour? Monica and Sarah knew he had the keys to the house, including the wine cellar. But no one would have any reason to question them, would they?

He thought about the cases he had solved as a cop by interviewing people at the periphery of a case. Any thorough investigation would get to them soon enough. Should he get out of the country? No, that would be the worst thing he could do. The cab stopped in front of the Chester Street house; Stone paid the driver and rang the bell. Erica answered the door.

“Oh, Stone, come in,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Where have you been?”

Already, he needed an alibi. “I was at the gallery for a while, then I did some window-shopping.” In the pouring rain? That was weak; he’d have to do better than that if the police questioned him.

“Come on in; Lance is on the phone.” She showed him into the drawing room, which was empty. The place was handsome and spacious, but it looked as though it had been decorated by a bachelor with the help of a maiden aunt; the furniture was comfortable, but dowdy, and the curtains were too elaborate. “Awful, isn’t it?” Erica asked cheerfully.

“Fairly.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Yes, please; bourbon, if there’s any in the house; Scotch, if there isn’t.”

She went away and came back with a double old-fashioned glass filled with ice and a brown liquor. “No bourbon; try this.”

He sipped it—strong and dark and peaty. “It’s excellent, what is it?”

“Laphroaig—a single-malt Scotch whiskey from the island of Islay.” (She pronounced it “Islah.”)

“I’m not usually a Scotch drinker, but this will do just fine.” He thought she seemed oddly cheerful and unaffected for a young woman who had had to leave her home on a moment’s notice, for very odd reasons. “Are you doing all right?”

“Just fine. Lance will be off the phone in a minute, I’m sure; he’s already been on it since we arrived here. Ali and Sheila are upstairs napping—or something.” She smiled impishly.

Stone thought they must be napping, not something else, not after having seen their business explode before their eyes earlier in the day.

“Tell me about Ali and Sheila,” Stone said. He wanted to hear what Erica had to say about them before Lance returned.

“They’re just friends of Lance’s,” she said. “They have an antique shop in Chelsea.”

Had, Stone thought. “What nationality are they?”

“Ali is Syrian, Sheila Lebanese, I think.”

Syrian? Lebanese? Did they have something against the Greeks, or vice versa? He couldn’t make any sense of this. “How did Lance meet them?”

“Business—some importing or exporting thing, I think.”

“Does Lance have a lot of friends in London?”

“Just the ones you’ve met,” she said. “Monica, Sarah, Ali, and Sheila. He’s the sort of person who seems to have lots of acquaintances and few friends.”

I’ll bet, Stone thought. “Have you met a lot of his acquaintances?”

“Not really; once in a while someone will come to the house for a business meeting.”

“To the house? Doesn’t Lance have an office?”

“Not really; if he needs space for a meeting, he uses a club or a hotel meeting room.”

“I guess Lance travels pretty light, then.”

“Pretty light,” Lance said from the doorway.

“Oh, you’re finally off the phone,” Erica said. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, some Scotch, please.”

“Try the Laphroaig,” Stone said, raising his glass. Stone opened his mouth to tell Lance what he’d experienced in his wine cellar, then changed his mind. So far, nobody knew he’d actually been at the house; perhaps it was better to keep it that way, at least, for the moment.

The three of them chatted idly for a while.

“Anybody hungry?” Erica asked.

“Now that you mention it,” Stone replied.

“There’s no food here; I guess we’d better go out somewhere.”

“There’s plenty of food back at Farm Street,” Lance said. “Let’s go back there and fix something. I’ve been on the phone with some people, and I think it’s safe to go back now.”

Stone wondered what kind of people could tell Lance that.

“Great!” Erica said. “I feel like cooking. Shall we wake Ali and Sheila?”

“Oh, I think they’re down for the night,” Lance said. “Let’s leave them until morning.” He drained his glass and got up.

Stone got up, too. He thought of begging off, but he was curious. “I’ll see if I can find us a cab.”

The rain had stopped. He found a cab almost immediately.

Chapter 34

THEY GOT OUT OF THE CAB IN FRONT of the Farm Street house, and Stone paid the driver while Lance unlocked the door. Stone followed Lance and Erica up the stairs.

Lights were switched on and everything looked quite normal, Stone thought. Coats were hung up, and he followed them into the kitchen.

“Another drink, anybody?”

Stone nodded.

“We’ve got bourbon,” she said, “or would you rather stick to the Laphroaig?”

“I’ll stick with the Scotch, since I’ve started on it,” Stone replied.

There was a banquette in the kitchen, and Erica made Stone and Lance sit down there, while she began to put some dinner together.

“How about spaghetti Bolognese?” she asked.

“Fine,” Stone and Lance said together.

Erica put some ground steak on the stove to brown and a pot of water on to boil and began chopping an onion. After a few minutes she had all the ingredients in the pot; she covered it, poured herself a drink, and sat down next to Lance. “There,” she said, “we’ll let it simmer for a while; by the time the water has boiled and the pasta is done, it should be ready.”

Nobody seemed to have anything to say. If Erica had had any questions to ask Lance about why they had so suddenly abandoned the house, and just as suddenly returned to it, she didn’t ask them now, and neither did Stone, though he was dying to know. In his experience, Lance did not answer questions to which Stone wanted answers.

“What are you working on these days?” Stone asked Lance. Might as well try.

“Oh, this and that; nothing startling.”

“Would you care to be more specific?”

Lance smiled a little smile. “Nope. What are you working on, Stone?”

“Zip,” Stone replied. “This is now strictly vacation time.”

“How long do you plan to stay in London?”

“Oh, I don’t know, a few more days, to help Sarah get through James’s estate stuff.”

“Doesn’t she have Julian Wainwright for that?” Lance asked.

“Yes, but she seems to want my advice, too. Anyway, I’m cheaper—couple of weekends in the country, a few good dinners.”

The water began to boil, and Erica got up and put the pasta into the pot. “Six minutes for al dente,” she said. She pointed to an empty wine rack. “Looks like a trip to the cellar is in order.”

Stone gulped.

Lance sighed, reached into his pocket for the keys, and put them on the table. “Stone, will you bring up a few bottles? I have to go to the john.”

Stone was reluctant but tried not to show it. “Where is the cellar?”

“The door is under the stairs. I’m sorry, but the bulb just inside is burned out, and we don’t have a spare; be careful going down the steps. The cellar light is just inside the door; you pull a string.”

Stone got up and took the keys. “Anything special you want?”

“There are two racks dead ahead. Those are my bottles; the rest belong to the house’s owner. Bring a few bottles of the Italian stuff.”

Stone nodded and walked into the hallway, pretending to find his way. Lance walked past him into the hallway powder room and closed the door behind him.

It was easier this time, with some light from the hallway, and Stone found his way to the bottom of the cellar stairs. He got the key into the lock and took a deep breath; this was going to require a performance; he would have to run back up the stairs, breathless, and report the presence of two corpses in the cellar. He got the door open and, in the dark, felt for the string to turn on the cellar lights. He found it, hesitated for a moment; should he yell out something, or just run back up the stairs to report the bodies? He pulled the string.

The lights came on to reveal the wine cellar as he had first seen it. No bodies. No bloodstains. No sign that anyone had ever been there, let alone been murdered there. How long since he had left the cellar? An hour and a half? Two hours? He thought about it for a few moments, then did as he had been told: He went to the wine racks dead ahead, the ones covering the office door, and chose four bottles of wine. Then, with two tucked under an arm, he switched off the light, locked the cellar door, and went back upstairs.

“Find everything all right?” asked Lance, who was back seated at the banquette.

“Sure,” Stone replied, setting the bottles and the keys on the table. He sat down and resumed his drink.

Lance got up, found a corkscrew, and uncorked a bottle of Chianti Classico, then put the other three bottles into the kitchen wine rack. He got three glasses from a cupboard and set them on the table, then tasted the wine. “That should do the trick,” he said, and sat down again.

Erica tasted the sauce, then began setting the table. A moment later, she poured the pasta into a collander in the sink, then, while it drained, switched off the stove. She got a large platter from a cupboard, emptied the pasta into it, then poured the sauce on top of it and set it on the table. She brought some Parmesan cheese from the fridge, grated it over the pasta, sat down, and began serving them.

“Buon appetito,” Lance said, raising his glass.

They dug into the pasta.

Stone ate the food, which was very good, and wondered if Lance was the coolest person he’d ever met, or if he just had no idea what had occurred in his house a couple of hours before. “Who did you say owned the house?” he asked.

“A fellow in the Foreign Office, name of Richard Creighton; he’s out in the East somewhere, I believe; I pay the rent directly into his bank account. It’s quite a nice house, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is. It’s fairly lived in, for a house owned by someone who’s never here.”

“Well, I guess these diplomats have got to have some sort of home to come back to. Anyway, I’m living in it, and I suppose he rented it to others before me.”

“I’ve done a few things to make it better,” Erica said. “The living room curtains are mine, and I’ve replaced all the bedding in the master suite.”

“Mmmm,” Stone said. “Wonderful sauce.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What plans do the two of you have for the next few days?” Stone asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

“We’re in London,” Lance said. “Unless something comes up.”

“What might come up?”

“Oh, you never know, sometimes a deal requires travel.”

“What are Ali and Sheila going to do about their shop?”

Lance shrugged. “I suppose it’s insured.”

“The police are going to want to talk to them.”

Lance stopped eating and looked as if he hadn’t thought of that.

“I suppose you’re right; Ali can call them in the morning. After all, they weren’t in the shop at the time, so they can hardly be of much help.”

“I can tell you from experience that the police are looking for them at this moment,” Stone said. “They don’t ignore bombings, and they’ll want to hear who Ali and Sheila think might have done this.”

“I expect so,” Lance said, resuming his dinner. “Well, that’s Ali’s problem, not mine. I expect he’ll handle it in the morning.”

“The sooner, the better,” Stone said. “Tell me, do you have a theory about who did it?”

“Not a clue, old bean,” Lance said, looking perfectly innocent. “I hope Ali will leave me out of it when he talks to the cops.”

“Do Ali and Sheila belong to some group that another group might be angry with?”

“What sort of group did you have in mind?”

“Well, they’re Middle Easterners, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“I should think that would give you a variety of groups to choose from—Palestinian, Israeli, Osmin ben whatshisname?”

“I suppose so, but as far as I know, they’re not into politics.”

“What are they into?”

“Making money,” Lance replied. “At least, until today. They may want to rethink their business after this; I’m sure they must have lost most, perhaps all, of their inventory.”

“I expect so,” Stone said. They continued eating their dinner, and Stone stopped asking questions; there seemed to be no point, what with the answers he was getting.

Chapter 35

STONE SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY IN the most relaxed fashion possible. He was stuck in his investigation, he had no theories, and he had always found that was a good time to do nothing, to let the brain work on its own.

He had breakfast in his room, then did the museums: He started at the National Gallery, where he particularly enjoyed the Italian masters, went on to the National Portrait Gallery, which was fun but didn’t take long, then continued to the Tate, where he had lunch in the excellent restaurant before taking in the exhibitions. He walked slowly back to the Connaught—the rain had cleared and the day was lovely—and he was back in his suite when the satellite telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Stan Hedger; do you possess a dinner jacket?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, did you bring it with you? I can send over something, if necessary.”

“Yes, I brought it with me; where am I wearing a dinner jacket?”

“To dinner at the American ambassador’s residence; I want you to look at some faces.”

“All right; what time?”

“A car will pick you up at seven o’clock; when you get to the residence, don’t recognize me; we’ll talk later.” He hung up before Stone could speak again. Stone shrugged and rang for the valet to press his tuxedo.

He was standing in front of the Connaught when a car pulled up to the entrance. Stone was startled because it was the car in which he had been abducted. The doorman went to the car window and briefly conversed with the driver.

“Mr. Barrington?” he said. “Your car, sir.” He opened the rear door wide.

Stone inspected the interior before getting into the car.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the uniformed driver said.

“Good evening.” The car pulled away from the curb. “What kind of car is this?”

“It’s a Daimler limousine, sir; made by Jaguar.”

“And to whom does it belong?”

“It belongs to the embassy, sir; they have a small fleet of them; this particular one is assigned to the ambassador, but since he’s entertaining at home this evening, he didn’t need it.”

“Are these cars common in London?”

“Oh, yes; many of the foreign embassies use them, as does the Royal Family.”

Stone relaxed a little; he wasn’t being abducted again. “Where is the ambassador’s residence?”

“In RegentsPark, sir; do you know it?”

“No, this is my first trip to London in many years, and I never got to RegentsPark the first time.”

“It’s about a twenty-five-minute drive this time of day, sir.”

“You’re English?”

“Welsh, sir; the embassy employs quite a lot of locals. Cheaper than bringing over Yanks, I expect.”

“I’m afraid I don’t even know the ambassador’s name.”

“It’s Sumner Wellington, sir; I’m told the name went down rather well with the Queen.”

“Oh, yes, of course; he owns a big communications company,” Stone said.

“That’s correct, sir; it’s said that American presidents always appoint very rich men to the Court of St. James, because they can afford to do all the necessary entertaining out of their own pockets. Ambassador Wellington has paid for a complete renovation of the residence, as well.”

“Sounds like an expensive job.”

“I expect so, sir.”

“But Ambassador Wellington can afford it.”

“Quite so, sir. You said you were in London once before?”

“Yes, as a student; I did a hitchhiking tour of Europe one summer, and I spent a week of it in London.”

“I expect your accommodations this time are somewhat better than on your last trip.”

“Oh, yes. I spent most nights at a youth hostel, and, on one occasion, I got back after curfew and was locked out, so I slept under a railway arch somewhere.”

“So the Connaught is a big step upwards.”

“You could say that.” The man was awfully chatty for a Brit, Stone thought, especially for a chauffeur. “Are you the ambassador’s regular driver?”

“No, sir, I’m just a staff driver; I’ve driven the ambassador on a few occasions, when his regular driver wasn’t available.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yes, sir, I do; I find self-made Americans are much nicer to staff than the upper-class British. Oh, we’re in RegentsPark, now.”

They were driving along a wide crescent of identical buildings, with the park on their left. After a turn or two, the car glided to a stop before the residence, a very large Georgian house.

A U.S. marine opened the rear door of the car.

“Mr. Barrington?” the driver said.

Stone stopped getting out of the car.

“I was asked to give you a message.”

“Yes?”

“If you recognize someone, be careful.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, sir; I’ll be waiting when you’re ready to leave; just give your name to the marine on duty.”

“See you later, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stone got out of the car and entered the house. In the huge foyer, there was a reception line that was moving slowly. Stone got into it, behind a very American-looking couple. He was short and pudgy; she was taller, very blonde, and expensive-looking.

“Hey,” the woman said.

“Good evening,” Stone replied.

“That’s what I should have said, I guess; good evening.”

“Hey works for me,” Stone laughed.

She held out her hand. “I’m Tiffany Butts; this is my husband, Marvin.”

Stone shook their hands.

“We’re from Fort Worth, Texas,” she said. “Are you an American?”

“Oh, yes; I’m from New York.”

“I wasn’t sure about your accent.”

“I’ve been here a few days; maybe I’m picking up an English accent.”

“Oh, shoot, no, it’s just me.”

“What business are you in, Mr. Barrington?” Marvin Butts asked.

“I’m an attorney.”

“I’m in the scrap metal business,” Butts said. “In a fairly big way.”

I’ll bet you are, Stone thought, or you wouldn’t be at this party. “Sounds good.”

“Good, and getting better,” Butts replied.

They had been moving along the line, and suddenly they were before the ambassador and his wife. The ambassador was sixtyish, slim, and handsomely tailored. His wife was twenty-five years his junior, very beautiful and elegant. The ambassador greeted Marvin and Tiffany Butts warmly, then turned toward Stone.

“Good evening,” he said. “Welcome to the residence.”

“Good evening, Mr. Ambassador,” Stone replied. “I’m Stone Barrington.”

“Ah,” the ambassador said, looking him up and down.

His wife gave Stone a broad smile. “We have a mutual friend, Stone,” she said.

“And who would that be, Madame Ambassador?”

“Oh, please, I’m Barbara, among friends.”

Friends? What was she talking about? An aide ushered Stone farther along before he could ask.

Stone found himself a few steps above a large hall, looking down on a very elegant crowd. Before he had moved a step, he recognized two people. The sight of either would have made his heart beat a little faster, but for very different reasons.

Arrington Carter Calder saw him almost at the same moment and held his gaze, expressionless. And just beyond her, Stone saw a short, bald, bullet-headed man he had met before.

Chapter 36

THEN ARRINGTON SMILED WARMLY, and Stone’s knees went a little weak. He experienced a series of vivid flashbacks: meeting her at a New York dinner party some years before, she in the company of America’s biggest movie star, Vance Calder; taking her away from Calder, making love to her in his house and hers, falling desperately in love with her; then setting off on a sailing trip to the Caribbean, planning to meet her there; her not showing up, but writing to say she’d married Calder. Then there was the child, of course, Peter; born slightly less than nine months later: Calder’s son, she said, and the tests had backed her up. Then, after Calder was dead, murdered, learning that the tests might have been rigged. She’d refused further testing. He’d seen her a few months before in Palm Beach, for a single evening, then he had been in the hospital with a bullet wound, then whisked back to New York. They had not spoken since.

Stone snapped back to the present and made his way down the steps toward her. She was tall, a little blonder than before, dressed in a long, emerald-green gown. Ravishing. To his surprise she met him halfway, embraced him warmly, and gave him a light kiss on the lips.

“Hello, Stone,” she said, nearly laughing. “Are you surprised to see me?”

“I certainly am,” he replied; “what brings you to London?”

“Barbara Wellington and I were roommates at MountHolyoke; she invited me over to see what she’s done with the residence. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, it is.” But he wasn’t looking at the residence. “And you are more beautiful than I’ve ever seen you.”

“Aren’t you sweet! I saw your name on the guest list this afternoon, and I jiggled the place cards around so we’re seated together.” She stopped and looked at him. “I’m alone in London.”

Stone was beginning to sweat a little, and he was grateful when a waiter showed up with a tray of champagne flutes. He took one and replaced hers with a full one. “I’ll look forward to catching up,” he said.

Then he remembered the other face he had recognized and looked for it. Gone. Lost in the crowd.

“Looking for someone?” Arrington asked.

“I thought I saw a familiar face, but no more.”

She took his arm and led him across the room and out some French doors to a garden. “And what brings you to London?”

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

“Sounds mysterious.”

“It is.”

“It’s always mysterious when you’re involved, Stone. Tell me about it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. Maybe when it’s over.”

“Oh.”

“How is Peter?”

“Growing,” she said. “You must come and see him sometime.”

“I’d like that very much,” he said. “Where are you spending most of your time?”

“I’ve been dividing it between LA and Mother’s house in Virginia. Peter is there for the summer with her, while I’ve been apartment hunting.”

“In London?”

“In New York.”

Stone began to sweat again and sipped the cold champagne. From inside the house a chime was being struck repeatedly.

“Sounds like dinner,” Arrington said. “Shall we?”

“Let’s do.” The thought of Arrington living in New York again thrilled and frightened him. Immediately, his life seemed in turmoil.

They sat at round tables for ten, and there were at least twenty of them. Arrington knew some of the other guests, having “jiggled the place cards,” and she chatted animatedly with them all, leaving Stone with a thousand questions and no opportunity to ask any of them. Dinner was good, for banquet food, and when dessert came, Stone excused himself and went to look for a men’s room. A staffer showed him the way, and he went inside and stepped up to a urinal. A moment later, the door opened and someone walked behind Stone and around the room, then stepped up to the neighboring urinal.

“See anyone you know?” Hedger asked.

“Yes, Arrington Calder,” Stone said.

“The movie star’s widow? I think she killed him, don’t you?”

“No.”

“How do you know her?”

“We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Oh, wait a minute, I remember now; you were involved with her trial, weren’t you?”

“She was never tried,” Stone replied. “Her lawyer and I got it quashed at a hearing. She was plainly innocent.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hedger said.

Stone zipped up and went to wash his hands. Hedger was right behind him.

“I saw someone else,” Stone said.

“Who?”

“The man who interrogated me. At least, I think it was he; I only got a glimpse of him, and he wasn’t very well lighted the last time I saw him.”

“Where is he sitting?”

“I don’t know; when I looked for him again, he was gone.”

“You mean, he left?”

“I don’t know; he may have just moved elsewhere in the room.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try and spot him again, and find a way to let me know where he is. I’m at table sixteen.”

“All right. There’s something else we have to talk about, but we can’t do it now.”

“How about lunch tomorrow in the Connaught grill? One o’clock?”

“Fine, see you then.”

Stone left first and went back to his table. He took the scenic route, wandering among the tables, and then, over near the doors to the garden, he saw the man, who was raptly listening to an elderly woman seated next to him. Table twelve, he noted. He looked at the man as closely as he dared. Was it his inquisitor, or was he simply a bald, bullet-headed man? Stone wished he could hear his voice; that would complete the identification. The man never looked at him, and he made his way back to his table and Arrington.

She was gone. Dancing had begun, and he spotted her on the floor with a man from their table. He took a cocktail napkin, drew a circle, and wrote on it, Table Twelve. He marked the bald man’s position and gave it to a waiter. “Please take this to Mr. Hedger, at table sixteen; he’s the one with the mustache.”

The waiter departed, and Stone followed him with his gaze to Hedger’s table. He saw Hedger read the note, then tuck it into a pocket. He didn’t immediately look at table twelve, but a moment later he let his gaze run in that direction. Then he looked toward Stone and shrugged.

Stone looked back at table twelve, but the man was no longer there. He noticed a door to the garden open, near the table. Stone looked back at Hedger and shrugged.

Arrington came back to the table and took Stone’s hand. “Come dance with me,” she said. She led him to the floor, and the band was playing something romantic.

Stone held her in his arms, something he had always loved doing, and moved them around the floor.

“You were always a wonderful dancer,” she said. “Vertically or horizontally.” She kissed him on the neck.

“Let’s get out of here,” Stone said.

“I can’t; I’m a guest of the ambassador, and it would be rude.”

“Dinner tomorrow night?”

“Where?”

“The Connaught restaurant, at nine?”

“You’re on.”

She put her head on his shoulder, and he whirled her happily around the floor.

Stone looked back at table twelve; the man was still not there. “If you jiggled the place cards, you must have access to tonight’s guest list,” he said to Arrington.

“I suppose,” she replied.

“Do you think you could get me a list of the people at table twelve, with their positions marked?”

“I suppose so, but not tonight.”

“Will you bring it with you tomorrow evening? It’s important.”

“Anything for you,” she said, and let her tongue play lightly over his ear.

Stone didn’t complain.

Chapter 37

STONE WAS ALREADY AT AN ALCOVE table in the Connaught grill when Stanford Hedger arrived for lunch. Hedger sat down and ordered a pink gin, something Stone had never heard an American do.

“What is a pink gin, anyway?”

“Gin with a dash of Angostura bitters,” Hedger replied. “I doubt if you’d like it.”

“I doubt it, too,” Stone replied, sipping his Chardonnay.

“Did you enjoy your evening?” Hedger asked. “I saw you and Mrs. Carter dancing.”

“Yes, thank you, and thank you, too, for the use of the ambassador’s car.”

“Any time,” Hedger replied. “When the ambassador’s not using it, I use it myself, sometimes. Tell me, is it hard to dance with someone’s tongue in your ear?”

“On the contrary,” Stone replied. “It helps.”

Hedger laughed. “I never saw your little bald man, you know; are you sure he wasn’t a figment of your imagination?”

“Isn’t his presence why you had me invited?”

“Well, yes; but I fully expected to see him, if you did.”

“Why did you think he’d be there?”

“Just a hunch. Last night’s dinner, if you didn’t know, was for the foreign diplomatic corps. I reckoned if he was anybody important in an embassy, he’d be there.”

“Good guess,” Stone replied. “And why did you think he’d be somebody important in an embassy?”

“His accents, as you described them, one overlaid on the other. Eton is a very exclusive school, you know, and everybody who spends his youth there comes out with that accent, even the foreigners. Remember Abba Eban, the Israeli ambassador to the UN?”

“Yes.”

“Same accent.”

“Now that you mention it.”

Hedger looked at the menu. “I’ll have half a dozen oysters and the Dover sole,” he said to the waiter, “off the bone, and I’d prefer a female, if there’s one available.”

“I’ll have the cold soup and the sole,” Stone said. “Should I order the female, too?”

“If you enjoy roe,” Hedger replied.

Stone nodded to the waiter.

“And bring us a bottle of that lovely Sancerre,” Hedger said. He turned to Stone. “Now, what’s up? Why did you want to see me?”

“Things have taken a rather ominous turn,” Stone said, “and I thought you might have some advice on how I should proceed.”

“Tell me.”

“I followed Lance Cabot yesterday from his house to an antiques market in Chelsea. Do you know his friends Ali and Sheila?”

“Oh, yes; he met them when we were in Cairo. I believe they were complicit in the bombing of my safe house there.”

“Turns out they had a shop in the market. Also turns out that I wasn’t the only one following Lance; so were the two men who abducted me and took me to the interrogation. They were in the same Daimler limousine.”

“Did you make a note of the number plate?”

“No,” Stone replied, a little embarrassed that he had not thought of that.

“Next time you get the chance,” Hedger said. “It would help.”

“Certainly. Anyway, the two men followed Lance into the building. I went inside and found Ali and Sheila’s shop, phoned Lance there, and told them to get out. I got them into a cab, and as we drove around the building, a bomb destroyed the shop.”

Hedger’s considerable eyebrows went up. “Sounds like these people are getting serious.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Stone said. “Lance called Erica and told her to get out of the house; then they went to the home of a friend, and I had a look around Lance’s house; got the keys from Monica, Erica’s sister.”

“Oh, good,” Hedger said, obviously pleased. “I assumed you searched it thoroughly.”

“I did. There was absolutely nothing that revealed anything about Lance or whatever business he’s conducting.”

“I’m not really surprised,” Hedger said. “Lance is too smart to leave sensitive materials lying around.”

“Then I had a look in the wine cellar, where I found a small office, concealed behind a couple of wine racks.” He gave Hedger a description of how he got in. “There was a desk, a computer, and filing cabinets, all secured. As I was trying to get into the computer, I heard someone entering the house; more than one person. I shut myself up in the office and waited for them to leave. After a few minutes, two men came into the wine cellar; a moment later, another person came in and shot them both.” He had Hedger’s undivided attention now.

Their first courses arrived, and Stone waited for the waiter to depart before continuing. “When I got out of the office, they were both dead—two small-caliber shots to the head, in both cases.”

“I hope to God you didn’t call the police.”

“No, I got the hell out of there, after removing any fingerprints I might have left on various surfaces.”

“Good,” Hedger said, relieved.

“The two men were my former abductors.”

Hedger looked surprised. “Oh, really?”

“They were carrying Greek passports.”

“Greek?” Hedger grunted. “Probably false.”

“They looked good to me.”

“Would you recognize a false passport?”

“I’ve seen a few, but to answer your question, probably not a good one.”

“Well, let’s sum up,” Hedger said.

“Not yet, there’s more.”

“More?”

“I went to find Lance and Erica; we had a drink, and then we returned to the Farm Street house. Erica cooked, and Lance asked me to go to the cellar and bring up some wine. I did, and the bodies were gone, everything cleaned up.”

Hedger looked really interested. “How long were you out of the house?”

“An hour and a half, maybe two hours.”

“Long enough for Lance to visit the house, clean up, and return to the other house?”

“If he hurried, and if he was very efficient. He was on the phone when I arrived at the other house, but I’ve no idea how long he had been there.”

“Could Lance have had any idea you’d been to the Farm Street house?”

“Possibly, since I got the keys from Monica. Maybe she told him.”

“So he sent you down to the cellar so you could see for yourself that everything had been cleaned up.”

“Perhaps. I’ll have to find out if Monica told him I had the keys.”

“Do that. Now, as I said, to sum up, what does this tell us about Lance?”

“You tell me.”

“It tells us that Lance is a part of something bigger than himself.”

“How does it tell us that?”

“You obviously didn’t read the papers this morning.”

“Not thoroughly.”

“Your two ‘Greeks’ were found in Hyde Park, in the trunk of a stolen car. The police are quite excited about it.”

“Oh.”

“I very much doubt if Lance had time to steal a car, load the bodies into it, and clean up the wine cellar, all on his own.”

“You have a point. But what if it wasn’t Lance?”

“Who else might it be?”

“The bald man?”

“They were his men; why would he shoot them in Lance’s wine cellar, then clean up after himself? I could understand that he might wish to pin the murders on Lance, but in that case, he’d have left them where they lay, for somebody to find, wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose so.”

“The parties we know are involved in this are Lance, the bald man and his two companions, and the two ‘Greeks,’ and they’re dead. If there’s another party, I don’t know about it, and neither do you.”

“Lance would,” Stone said. “If he knows anything. It’s possible that another party murdered the two men, and Lance knows nothing about it.”

“If you were the investigating officer, and you are, in a way, would you believe that?”

“It wouldn’t be my first theory,” Stone admitted.

“Now, back to the bald gentleman. I think he’s a diplomat; how do we find out who he is?”

“Tonight, I’ll have a list of the people at table twelve,” Stone said. “We can begin there.”

“Very good,” Hedger said. The waiter arrived with their sole, and they tucked into it.

Stone liked the roe.

Chapter 38

LATER THAT EVENING, MR. CHEVALIER, the maître d’ in the Connaught restaurant, took note that Stone had arrived, for the second time that week, with a beautiful woman. He must have had a sense of humor, because he seated them at the same corner table that Stone had shared with Sarah.

Sarah had called that afternoon. “Why don’t I cook you some dinner at my flat this evening?”

“I’m afraid I already have plans,” Stone said.

“Anyone I know?”

Strictly speaking, no, though she knew about Arrington. “No.”

“I’m not sure I like this.”

“It’s business,” Stone said, falling back on the most convenient lie. He didn’t like lying, but he was cornered.

“Oh.”

“How’s it going with James’s estate?” he asked, wanting to remind her that she should, strictly speaking, be in mourning.

“Splendidly,” she said. “Julian Wainwright has had a word with the conglomerate, and it looks as though they’re still interested in buying the business.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yes, it is.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Will I see you this week?”

“Of course. Oh, by the way, do you know if Monica spoke to Lance the other night, after she gave me the keys to the Farm Street house?”

“I don’t think so; we had dinner together, and I dropped her off at her place later. She didn’t call anyone while we were together. Why?”

“I decided not to go to Lance’s house, since it really isn’t any of my business, and I didn’t want Lance to think I had been there.”

“I’m seeing Monica later today; I could mention that to her, if you like.”

“I’d appreciate that. I put the keys through her mail slot not long after she gave them to me.”

“All right, then, I’ll see you later, I hope.”

“Of course,” Stone replied, and hung up feeling guilty.

Seated at the corner table, with Arrington beside him, in the warm glow of the Connaught restaurant, Stone no longer felt guilty. The difficult past he and Arrington shared had receded; all he could think about was here and now.

“It’s so good to see you,” Arrington said.

“And you.”

“When I saw you in Palm Beach, you said you’d call me the next day. Why didn’t you?”

He had called her in the morning and a man had answered, so he had hung up. “You’ll recall the circumstances of the evening,” Stone said. “I had to make a stop at the local hospital, and they got me out of there early the next morning on Thad Shames’s jet.” It had been from the jet that he had called her. “By the time I got to New York and the drugs had worn off, you had left Palm Beach.” He was guessing that she had left.

“Yes, I left the next day,” she said. “Oh, by the way, here’s that list you asked for.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her purse.

Stone looked at the list: the Swedish ambassador and his wife; the Belgian chargé d’affaires and wife; the Israeli cultural attaché and wife; the German military attaché and wife; the Australian head of chancery and wife. “There’s no seating plan,” he said.

“Sorry, I couldn’t get that; some secretary had apparently shredded it, or something.”

It was a start, Stone thought; he’d have to go over this with Hedger.

“Why did you want the list?”

“There was a man at the table I recognized, but I couldn’t place him.”

“You know a lot of diplomats, do you?”

“No, he just looked very familiar. It’ll come to me.”

“You’re not losing brain cells, are you?”

He laughed. “Yes, but no more than usual.”

They had a drink and ordered dinner. Stone didn’t really care what he ate; he was happy just to be with her, with no strain, no conflict. Every time they had met during the past couple of years there had always been some problem that made the situation difficult.

“It’s so nice to be back in London,” Arrington said. “And I’ve always loved this room. Vance and I stayed here when we were in town, and we always had dinner here at least once.”

That didn’t improve the atmosphere much for Stone, but he let it pass.

“You’re looking very beautiful tonight,” he said, trying to get things back on track.

“You look pretty good yourself,” she said.

Mr. Chevalier suddenly appeared at the table and handed Stone a small envelope. “A message for you, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

“Thank you,” Stone replied. “Sorry about this,” he said to Arrington. He opened the envelope. On a sheet of the hotel’s stationery was written, I am in the hotel lounge; I must see you at once. It was signed by Detective Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton.

“Oh, shit,” Stone muttered.

“What is it?”

“There’s someone here I have to see for a moment. Please excuse me.”

“Not a woman, I hope,” Arrington said.

“Fear not.” He left the table and started toward the lounge. As he reached the central hallway, Monica appeared through the front doors.

“Hello, there,” she said, taking him by the shoulders and giving him a kiss on the lips.

Stone could see Throckmorton waiting impatiently in the lounge across the hallway. “Hello; I dropped Lance’s keys through your mail slot; did you get them?”

“Yes. Did you check out his house?”

“No, I decided it was none of my business, so I dropped off the keys. Why are you at the Connaught?”

“I’m having dinner with some friends in the grill; I’d better run.” She repeated the warm kiss, then disappeared down the hall into the grill.

Stone walked into the lounge, wiping lipstick from his lips. Throckmorton and two men who were obviously detectives were waiting for him, seated in large chairs, still wearing their raincoats. The detective inspector looked grim. A raincoat was draped across his lap. “Sit down,” he said. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want truthful answers,” he said.

Stone sat down.

“Early this morning,” Throckmorton began, “a police constable in Hyde Park found a stolen car abandoned there.”

Stone tried to remain calm.

“In the boot were the bodies of two men who had been murdered, shot in the head with a handgun, obviously a professional job of work.”

“I believe I saw something about that in the papers,” Stone replied.

“They were of Mediterranean extraction, carrying Greek passports. Do you know anyone of that description?”

“No,” Stone lied.

“Think carefully, Mr. Barrington; you don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“I do not think I am acquainted with them.”

Throckmorton took the raincoat from his lap and held it out to Stone. “Then why was one of them wearing your raincoat?” He opened the coat and turned out an inside pocket. A label bore the name of Doug Hayward’s shop and neatly printed inside, Stone’s own name.

Stone was stunned; he struggled to remain calm. “I don’t understand,” Stone said. “My raincoat is upstairs.”

“Let’s go and see it,” Throckmorton said, standing up.

Stone went to the concierge’s desk, asked for his key, and led the way to the elevator. The four men filled it completely. Stone’s mind was racing. When the two men had entered Lance’s house, they must have hung their raincoats on the rack with Stone’s: When he had left the house, he must have taken the wrong coat. Oh, shit, shit, shit! How was he going to explain this? And if he told Throckmorton everything, how would he explain not having told him earlier about the two corpses in the wine cellar?

The elevator stopped on Stone’s floor, and he led them to his suite. He went to a closet, found the raincoat, and handed it to Throckmorton.

The two detectives peered over his shoulder at the two coats, comparing them. “They’re nearly identical,” one of them said, helpfully. “The linings look the same, too.”

“Mmm, yes,” Throckmorton agreed. He turned to Stone. “That doesn’t explain how the two coats got exchanged,” he said.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Stone replied. “Perhaps in a checkroom somewhere?”

“Where? Where have you checked this coat?”

“Everywhere I’ve been,” Stone replied. “Downstairs in the cloak room, in restaurants; I’ve also hung it on racks in pubs, set it down in shops.”

“But where could you have taken this dead man’s coat?”

“I don’t know, it seems likely that he took mine and left his, doesn’t it?”

Throckmorton turned to the two detectives. “Wait downstairs,” he said. The two men left the room. “Sit down,” he said to Stone. Both men took chairs.

“Evelyn . . .”

“It is only because of Lieutenant Bacchetti’s recommendation of you that we are not having this conversation in an interrogation room, and that the interrogation is not being conducted by the two men who just left, who would be doing the job far less gently than I.”

“I appreciate the consideration,” Stone said, “but I have absolutely no idea when and where this exchange of raincoats happened.”

“Let me tell you a bit more,” Throckmorton said. “The passports found on the men were counterfeits. Does that help jog your memory?”

“I know nothing of false passports,” Stone said.

“Let me see yours.”

Stone went to his briefcase, got his passport, and handed it over.

Throckmorton examined it closely, then he took two passports from his pocket and compared them. “It says here that this passport was issued only a few days ago at the American Embassy in London.”

“That’s correct; when I arrived in this country, an immigration officer told me that my passport was expiring the following day.”

“You didn’t know that?”

“No. I hadn’t used the passport for several months; it didn’t occur to me to look at the expiration date. I went to the embassy, as the officer suggested, and got a new one.”

“And where is your old one?”

“The passport office kept it.”

“And I’m keeping yours,” Throckmorton said, tucking all three passports into his pocket.

“Suppose I have to leave the country?”

“You will not leave the country until I say so,” Throckmorton said, rising. “One last time, Stone; is there anything you wish to tell me?”

“No.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Throckmorton said. He walked out of the room, taking both raincoats with him.

Stone sat down heavily and loosened his necktie. “Jesus Christ,” he said aloud, “how could I have made such a stupid mistake?” He laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself.

What seemed only a moment later, Stone jerked awake. Had he dozed off? Then he remembered that Arrington was downstairs in the restaurant. He ran to the elevator, buttoning his shirt and fixing his necktie; when he reached the ground floor, he tried not to run to the restaurant. From the door he could see that the table was empty.

“Mr. Barrington?” Mister Chevalier said.

“Yes? Where is Mrs. Calder?”

“I’m afraid she left a few minutes ago; she went to the lounge to look for you but could not find you, so she got her coat and left.” Chevalier looked at his watch. “You were gone for nearly an hour,” he said, with barely noticeable reproach.

“Oh, God,” Stone moaned.

“We have kept your dinner warm,” Chevalier said. “Would you still like to have it, or would you prefer to order something else?”

Stone stared at the paneling ahead of him, wondering how he was ever going to fix this.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Oh. Will you send it to my suite, please?”

“Of course; and Mrs. Calder’s dinner?”

“Give it to the cat,” Stone said. He turned and trudged disconsolately to the elevator.

Upstairs, he got out the London telephone directory and looked for the ambassador’s residence; he found it under U.S. Government and dialed the number.

“Good evening,” a young male voice said, “this is the residence of the United States Ambassador.” Probably a marine.

“My name is Barrington,” Stone said. “May I speak with Mrs. Arrington Calder? She’s a guest of the ambassador.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrington, Mrs. Calder has asked me not to put any calls through.”

“Would you tell her I called, please?” He gave the Connaught’s number.

“Of course, sir; good night.”

There was a sharp rap on his door, and he went to answer it. His dinner had arrived, and he didn’t feel like eating it.

Chapter 39

STONE, HAVING LAIN AWAKE UNTIL the middle of the night, slept as if drugged. It was mid-morning before he woke up, and his first move was to call the embassy residence again and ask for Arrington. There was a long delay, then a woman came on the line.

“Stone?”

“Arrington, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Stone, it’s Barbara Wellington.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were Arrington. I’ve been trying to reach her; she wasn’t taking calls last night.”

“I know; she came home very hurt and angry last night; she said you had abandoned her in the middle of dinner at the Connaught. What happened?”

“Some people showed up that I absolutely had to see, and—”

“She also said that when she got up to go to the ladies’ she saw you kissing another woman in the Connaught lobby, so when you reach her, I don’t think you ought to try and pass that off as business.”

“It was business—not the woman—but three men I had to see, and—”

“And when she came back from the ladies’ you had disappeared, and the concierge said you had gone up to your suite with a guest.”

“With three guests—they insisted. You see—”

“Stone, it’s not I you have to convince, so save your strength.”

“May I speak to Arrington, please?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Barbara, please just tell her there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for—”

“Stone, Arrington has gone.”

“Gone where? Where can I reach her?”

“To New York; she left here about twenty minutes ago for Heathrow. I think she’ll be staying at the Carlyle. If I were you, I’d go after her, get the next plane.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that—”

“You’re going to have to resolve this face-to-face.”

“How long did you say she’d been gone?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“What airline?”

“British Airways.”

“Do you know the flight number?”

“No, but it leaves around noon, I think. You have to be there early these days, because of all the security stuff.”

“Thank you, Barbara.” Stone hung up, then picked up the phone again. “Please ask the doorman to get me a cab for Heathrow immediately,” he said to the operator. “I’ll be right down.”

He threw on some clothes and, unshaven and unshowered, ran for the elevator. The doorman had the cab door open as he came through the revolving door, and he dove into the rear seat.

“Heathrow, is it, sir?” the cabbie asked.

“Right, and hurry.”

The driver pulled away and turned up Mount Street, headed for Park Lane. “Shouldn’t be too bad this time of day; what airline?”

“British Airways, first-class entrance.”

“Righto.”

Stone sat back and stared out the window, frequently glancing at his watch. Traffic wasn’t bad, and after the Chiswick Roundabout, it became even better.

“Excuse me, sir,” the driver said, “I don’t want you to think I’ve come over all paranoid, but I’m quite sure there’s a car following us.”

Stone spun around and looked at the traffic behind them. “Which one?”

“It’s a black Ford, the big one; at least two men in it, about four cars back.”

“Are they staying back, or are they trying to overtake us?” Stone asked.

“They were closer before; now they’re just lying back there, keeping us in sight.” What now? he thought. Have the two big “Greeks” been replaced in the lineup?

“Is there any way you can shake them?”

“Not on this road; they’re faster than I am. I could get off the motorway and try and lose them in Hammersmith.”

He had no time for that. “Never mind, just get me to Heathrow as fast as you can.”

“Righto.”

The driver stayed in the center of three lanes, driving fast; the black Ford held its position, and when the cab left the motorway at the Heathrow turnoff, Stone saw the Ford’s turn signal go on.

The driver followed the signs to the British Airways terminal, still driving fast. Stone reached into a pocket for money, and discovered he had none. He had nothing in his pockets.

The cab screeched to a halt. “Wait for me here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t know if . . .”

But Stone was gone at a run. He did not see the black Ford stop fifty yards back and two men get out. He dashed into the terminal and ran for the first-class ticket counter. There were three people in line; he ignored them and went to the desk. “Excuse me, this is an emergency; can you tell me if Mrs. Arrington Calder has checked in yet?”

“Yes,” the young woman said. “I checked her in no more than five minutes ago; she was headed for the security checkpoint when I last saw her.”

“Thank you,” Stone said, and hurried off, following signs to the checkpoint. The area was a zoo, with dozens of passengers lining up for the security check and X-ray machines. Stone jumped up and down, trying to see over their heads, and he saw Arrington pick up her hand luggage on the other side and start toward the gates. He didn’t want to start shouting at her, and there was no way to break into the line, so he went to an exit, where a uniformed policeman was on guard.

“Excuse me,” he said to the bobby, “I’m trying to catch up with a friend who has just gone through security; may I get in this way?”

“Do you have any luggage, sir?”

“No.”

“May I see your ticket?”

“I don’t have a ticket; I’m not flying today, she is.”

“May I see your passport?”

The police had his passport. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring it.”

“Some other identification?”

Stone dove into a pocket, then remembered it was empty. “Oh, God, I didn’t bring my wallet.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“This really is a sort of personal emergency.”

“I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t let you through without a ticket or any identification.”

Then Stone heard a voice behind him. “It’s all right, mate, we’ll deal with this.”

Two men seized his arms and marched him back through the terminal. Stone looked at them and recognized the two detectives who had accompanied Evelyn Throckmorton the night before.

“Trying to catch a flight, were we, Mr. Barrington?” one of them said.

“No, I was trying to catch up with a friend who’s leaving on a noon flight.”

“Well, he’ll have plenty of time to make it,” the cop said.

“Do you think it might be possible for me to go after her? Can you vouch for me with the officer at the security gate? It’s very important that I speak to her.”

“I believe Detective Inspector Throckmorton told you last night that you were not to leave the country,” the cop said.