The Short Forever

THIS BOOK IS FOR

ROBERT TOWBIN

Chapter 1

ELAINE’S, LATE.

Stone Barrington sipped his third Wild Turkey and resisted the basket of hot sourdough bread that the waiter had just placed on the table. Callie was to have been there an hour and a half ago, and he was very, very hungry. She’d called from the airport to say that she was on the ground and on her way, but that had been an hour ago. It just didn’t take that long to get to Elaine’s from TeterboroAirport, where her boss’s jet landed. He glanced at his watch: He’d give her another three minutes, and then he was ordering.

He had been looking forward to seeing her. They’d spent some very pleasant time together in Palm Beach a few months before, on the yacht of his client Thad Shames. She was Shames’s majordomo—assistant, cook, social secretary, whatever he needed—and she moved when Shames moved, back and forth between Palm Beach and New York. In New York, she had been living with Stone, and he missed her when she was away.

“Give me a menu,” Stone said to Michael, the headwaiter.

“Giving up on her?” Michael asked.

“I am. If I drink any more without some food in my stomach, you’re going to have to send me home in a wheelbarrow.”

Michael laughed and placed a menu before him. “Dino’s not coming?”

“He should be here in a while; he said he had to work late.” He opened the menu, and Michael stood ready, pad in hand. When Stone was this hungry, everything looked good. He’d meant to have fish; he’d gained three pounds, and he needed to get it off, but now he was too hungry. “I’ll have a Caesar salad and the osso buco,” he said, “and a bottle of the Amerone.”

Michael jotted down the order, and as he reached for the menu, Stone looked up to see Callie breezing through the front door. He rose to meet her. She looked wonderful, as usual, in an Armani pantsuit. She gave him a short, dry kiss and sat down.

“I’d given up on you,” Stone said. “I just ordered.”

Michael handed her a menu, but she handed it back. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay for dinner,” she said.

Stone looked at her, stupefied. She had kept him waiting for an hour and a half, and now she wasn’t going to have dinner?

“Would you like a drink, Callie?” Michael asked.

She shook her head. “No time, Michael.”

“You still want dinner, Stone?”

“Yes, please,” Stone replied.

Michael retreated.

“So?” Stone asked.

“So what?” Callie replied.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” He wanted an apology and an explanation, but he got neither.

“Stone,” Callie said, looking at the tablecloth and playing with a matchbook. She didn’t continue.

“I’m right here,” he replied. “Have been, for an hour and a half.”

“God, this is hard,” she said.

“Maybe a drink would help.”

“No, I don’t have the time.”

“Where do you have to be at this hour?” he asked.

“Back in Palm Beach.”

Stone wasn’t terribly surprised. Thad Shames, a computer software billionaire, had a peripatetic life-style, and Callie was, after all, at his beck and call.

“First of all, I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had to go by the house and pick up some things.”

Stone looked around; she wasn’t carrying anything.

“They’re in the car,” she said.

“What did you have to pick up?” he asked.

“Some things. My things.”

Stone blinked. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Back to Palm Beach. I told you.”

Stone was baffled. “Callie . . .”

She took a deep breath and interrupted him. “Thad and I are getting married this weekend.”

Stone was drinking his bourbon, and he choked on it.

“I know you didn’t expect this,” she said. “For that matter, neither did I. It’s just happened the past couple of weeks.” She had been gone for two weeks on this last trip.

Stone recovered his voice. “Are you perfectly serious about this?”

“Perfectly, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to talk me out of it.”

That was exactly what he wanted to try. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s good, Stone. It isn’t like with you and me, but that could never last.”

“Why not?” Stone demanded, stung.

“Oh, it’s been great. I arrive in town, move in with you; we go to Elaine’s and the theater, and around. We fuck our brains out for a week or two, then I go back.”

That was exactly what they did, he reflected, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “I thought we had more than that going,” he said.

“Oh, men always think that,” she said, exasperated. “There are things Thad can give me, things I need, things you can’t . . .” She left it hanging.

“Can’t afford?” he asked. “I live pretty well. Of course, I’m not worth five billion dollars, but I didn’t think Thad was, anymore, not after his new stock offering collapsed, and with the way the market has been.”

“It’s true,” she said. “Thad was hurt badly. Now he’s only worth three billion.”

“What a blow,” Stone said.

“It’s not the money,” she said. “All right, maybe that’s part of it. God knows, I’ll never have to draw another anxious breath.”

“Not about money, anyway.”

“Won’t you try and understand?”

“What is there to understand? I’m out, Thad’s in. It’s your life; I can’t tell you how to live it.”

“If only you’d . . .” She stopped.

Stone didn’t want to hear the rest, anyway. “I think it’s a little late for ‘if only,’ ” he said. “Clearly, you’ve thought this out, I’m not going to try to talk you out of it.”

“Thank God for that,” she muttered, half to herself.

They sat silently for a moment, then, without another word, Callie got up and headed for the door, nearly knocking down Dino, who had chosen that moment to walk in.

Dino turned and watched her rush out the door, then he walked over to Stone’s table and sat down. Dino Bacchetti had been Stone’s partner when he was still on the NYPD; now he ran the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct. “So,” he said, “I see you managed to fuck up another relationship.”

“Jesus, Dino, I didn’t do anything,” Stone said.

Dino motioned to Michael for a drink. “That’s usually the problem,” he said. The drink was placed before him, and he sipped it.

“You want some dinner, Dino?” Michael asked.

“Whatever he’s having,” Dino replied.

“Caesar salad and the osso buco?”

“Good.” He turned to Stone. “After a while, women expect you to do something.”

“She’s marrying Thad Shames.”

Dino’s eyebrows shot up. “No shit? Well, I’ll admit, I didn’t see that one coming. I guess Thad isn’t broke yet.”

“Not yet, but he’s only worth three billion now.”

“Poor guy; couple months, he’ll be living on the street. Still, he got the girl.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“It’s what I do,” Dino explained.

Stone’s cellphone, clipped to his belt, began to vibrate. “Now what?” he said to nobody in particular. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Bill Eggers.” Bill was the managing partner of Woodman & Weld, the prestigious law firm for which Stone did unprestigious jobs.

“Yeah, Bill.”

“You sound down.”

“Just tired; what’s up?”

“You got anything heavy on your plate right now?”

“Nothing much.”

“Good; there’s a guy coming to see you tomorrow morning at nine, with some work. Do whatever he says.”

“Suppose he wants me to kill somebody.”

“If this guy wanted somebody killed, he’d do it himself. His name is John Bartholomew, and he’s major, in his way.”

“I’ll be glad to see him.”

“You got a passport?”

“Yes.” Not that he’d used it for a long time.

“Good. You’re going to need it.” Eggers hung up.

Elaine came over and pulled up a chair. “Callie left in a hurry,” she said. “I guess you fucked it up again.”

“Don’t you start,” Stone said.

Chapter 2

STONE WOKE UP HUNGOVER. HE SHOULDN’T drink that much so close to bedtime, he reflected, and resolved, once again, not to do it again. It was half past eight, and this guy Bartholomew was coming at nine; no time for breakfast. He showered and shaved and got into a suit, then went down to his office on the ground floor.

The ground floor, except for the garage, had been a dentist’s office when Stone’s great-aunt had still owned the house. After Stone inherited the place and renovated it, mostly with the sweat of his own brow, he turned the dentist’s office into his own. His secretary, Joan Robertson, worked at the front of the house, then came a couple of small rooms for supplies and the copying machine, then his own office, a pleasant room at the back of the house, looking out into the gardens of Turtle Bay, a collection of townhouses in the East Forties that opened onto a common garden. Only the burglar bars spoiled the view.

Stone heard the clicking of computer keys stop, and Joan came back to his office. “You’re in early,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Stone asked, with mock offense. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

“That’s what I mean. I’ll bet you didn’t have time for breakfast.”

“You got some coffee on?”

“I’ll get you a cup,” she said.

“There’s some guy named John Bartholomew coming in at nine,” he said. “Bill Eggers sent him.”

“I’ll show him in when he arrives,” she said.

Stone shuffled listlessly through the files on his desktop. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Eggers that he wasn’t busy.

Joan came back with the coffee. He was grateful that her taste in beans ran with his, that she liked the strong, dark stuff that usually got made into espresso. “Did Callie get in last night?” she asked.

“She got in, then she got out.”

“Out? You mean, out?”

“I do. She’s marrying Thad Shames this weekend.”

“Good God! I’m shocked!”

“So was I, to tell the truth.”

“You let another one get away.”

“Joan . . .”

She threw her hands up defensively. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. You want me to send a wedding gift?”

Stone brightened. “Good idea. Go find the ugliest piece of sterling that Tiffany’s makes and send it to them in Palm Beach with a truly sincere card.”

The doorbell rang. “There’s your appointment,” she said. She left and returned a moment later with a tall, heavyset man in his fifties who, in his youth, had probably played college football.

“I’m Stone Barrington,” Stone said, rising and offering his hand.

“John Bartholomew,” the man replied, shaking it.

Stone waved him to a chair. “Bill Eggers called last night.”

“Did he give you any details?”

“No.”

Joan brought in another cup of coffee on a silver tray and offered it to Bartholomew, who had, apparently, placed his order with her on arrival.

Bartholomew sipped it. “Damned fine coffee,” he said.

There was something vaguely British about him, Stone thought, perhaps more than just the hand-tailored suit. “Thank you. We drink it strong around here.”

“The way I like it,” the big man replied. “Never could understand that decaf crap. Like drinking nonalcoholic booze. Why bother?”

Stone nodded and sipped his own coffee.

“We don’t have much time, Mr. Barrington, so I’ll come to the point. I have a niece, my dead sister’s only child, name of Erica Burroughs.” He spelled the name. “She’s twenty, dropped out of MountHolyoke, involved with a young man named Lance Cabot.”

“Of the MassachusettsCabots?”

“He’d like people to think so, I’m sure, but no, no relation at all; doesn’t even know them; I checked. Young Mr. Cabot, I’m reliably informed, earns his living by smuggling quantities of cocaine across international borders. Quantities small enough to conceal on his person or in his luggage, but large enough to bring him an income, you follow?”

“I follow.”

“I’m very much afraid that Erica, besotted as she is, may be assisting him in his endeavors, and I don’t want to see her end up in a British prison.”

“She’s in Britain?”

Bartholomew nodded. “London, living with Mr. Cabot, quite fancily, in a rented mews house in Mayfair.” He opened a briefcase and handed Stone a file with a few sheets of paper inside. “Don’t bother reading this now, there isn’t time, but it contains everything I’ve been able to learn about Cabot, and something about Erica, as well. What I’d like you to do is to go to London, persuade Erica to come back to New York with you, and, if it’s possible without implicating Erica, get young Mr. Cabot arrested. I’d like him in a place where he can’t get to Erica. For as long as possible, it goes without saying.”

“I see.”

“Will you undertake this task? You’ll be very well paid, I assure you, and you will lack for no comfort while traveling.”

Stone didn’t have to think long, and mostly what he thought about was Sarah Buckminster, another relationship he’d managed to fuck up, though it wasn’t really his fault. “I will, Mr. Bartholomew, but you must understand that I will be pretty much limited to whatever persuasion I can muster, within the law, and whatever influence with the authorities I can scrape up. I won’t kidnap your niece, and I won’t harm Cabot, beyond whatever justice I can seek for him, based on crimes that are real and not imagined.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Barrington. I’m well aware that you are a respectable attorney and not a thug for hire. I’m also informed, by a number of people, Samuel Bernard among them, that you are a resourceful man and that your background as a police detective gives you entrée to certain places.”

“Sometimes,” Stone admitted, “but not always. There are limits to what an ex-policeman can do.”

“I understand. I simply want you to do whatever you can.”

“On that basis, I’ll go,” Stone said. “I’ll ask my secretary to book me on a flight this evening.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Bartholomew said, digging into his briefcase and coming up with an envelope secured with a rubber band. He tossed it onto Stone’s desk. “You’re booked on a two P.M. flight to London, and I’ve reserved accommodation for you at the Connaught hotel. There’s five thousand pounds sterling in the envelope and the name of a man at Coutts Bank in The Strand who will provide you with more, should you need it. Please enjoy whatever food, drink, and guests you may wish to have at the Connaught; the bill will come to me, and you need not keep track of your expenses.”

“That’s very generous,” Stone replied.

“All the relevant addresses and phone numbers are in the file, as is my card. Call me should you need advice or assistance of any sort. I understand that this may take a week or two, or even longer, so don’t feel pressed for time. I want this done in the best way possible, regardless of time or cost.” He reached into his briefcase, came up with a box, and placed it on Stone’s desk. “This is a satellite telephone that will work anywhere in Britain. Please use it to contact me when necessary; my number is programmed into the first digit. All you do is press one and hold it, and I’ll be on the other end. Please keep it with you at all times, in case I should wish to contact you.”

“All right.”

Bartholomew stood up. “Now, I must hurry to an appointment, and you have a flight to catch.” He shook hands with Stone, closed his briefcase, and marched out of the office, a man in a hurry.

Chapter 3

STONE WENT UPSTAIRS AND STARTED packing. He had no real idea what clothes he might need, so he overpacked, as he often did, taking three cases. He was gathering his toiletries when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dino. You all right? You got pretty snockered last night.”

“Yes, I did, but I’m bearing up. In fact, I’m off to London in a couple of hours.”

“For what?”

“Some client of Woodman and Weld has a niece who’s about to get herself in trouble in London, and I’m supposed to bring her back.”

“Who’s the client?”

“A man named John Bartholomew.” Stone dug in the file for Bartholomew’s card. It bore only a phone number and a cellphone number. “Sorry, I thought I had a business card, but it’s only a number.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Yes, you can see if a man named Lance Cabot has a sheet.”

“Just a minute,” Dino said.

Stone could hear computer keys clicking.

“Nope, nothing on him, either in our computer or the federal database.”

“Too bad, I was hoping for some ammunition. You know anybody at Scotland Yard?”

“Yeah, I think so; let me check the Rolodex.” Another pause. “Here we go: Evelyn, with a long E, Throckmorton.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I swear to God, that’s his name, and don’t forget the long E, otherwise it’s a girl’s name. He’s in that Special Branch thing, with a rank of detective inspector. He was over here last year, looking for an Irish terrorist, and he needed an Italian cop for some help, since the Irish cops wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

“Is that what he does? Chase terrorists?”

“Beats me; I didn’t get to know him that well, but he owes me a favor, so I’ll call him for you.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

“How you feeling about Callie this morning?”

“Okay, though you and Elaine were no help at all.”

“I seem to recall there’s a lady in London called Sarah Buckminster.”

“That crossed my mind.”

“She might be just the thing to help you get over Callie.”

“I’m already over Callie, but what the hell?”

“Okay, pal, have a good trip. Call me if you get in over your head.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m always having to pull you out of the shit, you know. What makes you think this trip will be any different?”

“I’ll try to get through it without needing rescuing.”

“Oh, it’s never any bother; you always get into such interesting shit. Makes my humdrum life just a little more exciting. See ya.” Dino hung up.

Stone drove himself to KennedyAirport while Joan sat in the passenger seat, taking notes on what to do while he was gone. She dropped him at the first-class entrance at British Airways, gave him a peck on the cheek, and drove off in his car. A porter took his luggage into the terminal and left him at the check-in counter.

A young woman looked at his ticket. “I’m sorry, sir, this is the wrong counter.”

Stone was annoyed. After Bartholomew’s seeming generosity, he’d expected to be in first class.

“You’re just down there,” she said, pointing to the Concorde check-in.

What a nice man Bartholomew was, Stone thought.

The cabin was tubelike, much smaller than he’d expected, and the seats were no larger than business class, but since the flight was only three hours, it hardly mattered. By the time he’d had a late lunch and read a couple of magazines, they were at Heathrow. He stood in line for immigration, then presented his passport.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington. Welcome to Britain,” the young female officer said. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” Stone said. “A little vacation.”

“And how long do you plan to stay?”

“Somewhere between a few days and a couple of weeks, I suppose.”

“And are you aware that your passport expires the day after tomorrow?”

He was not. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice.”

She handed it back to him. “You can renew it at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Enjoy your stay.”

Stone pocketed his passport. “Thank you.” He followed the signs toward baggage claim and retrieved his cases.

Stone made a point of dressing well when traveling; it seemed to smooth the way, somehow, and British customs was no exception. While a slovenly young man ahead of him had his bags searched, Stone walked through the “nothing to declare” gate and found himself staring at a man in a uniform holding up a sign with his name on it.

“I’m Mr. Barrington,” he said to the man.

The man took Stone’s luggage cart. “Please follow me, sir.”

Stone followed him to a large Mercedes, and a moment later they were on their way into central London. Stone reset his watch, noting that it was nearly eleven P.M., London time, and he was not at all tired or sleepy.

The Connaught was small by hotel standards, discreet, and elegant. At the front desk, he merely signed a check-in form; there were no other formalities.

“I believe the concierge has a message for you, Mr. Barrington,” the young man at the desk said. “Just behind you.”

“Mr. Barrington?” the concierge said, before Stone had barely turned. “Mr. Bartholomew rang and said that he had arranged privileges for you at these places.” He handed Stone a sheet of paper.

Annabel’s, Harry’s Bar, and the Garrick Club, Stone read. “Thank you,” he said to the concierge. “Where would you suggest I go for some dinner at this hour?”

“Well, sir, our restaurant has already closed, and room service would only have sandwiches this late. I’d suggest Annabel’s; it’s a short walk, and they go on quite late there.” He gave Stone directions. “If you’d like to go straightaway, the porter will be glad to unpack for you.”

“Thank you, I will,” Stone said. Following the directions, he left the hotel and walked down Mount Street toward Berkeley Square, then turned right. The night was cool and clear, belying what he’d heard about London weather. He crossed a street and followed an iron railing to an awning over a basement entrance, then walked downstairs. He was greeted by a doorman who clearly didn’t recognize him, but as soon as he gave his name he was ushered down a hallway.

“Would you like to go straight into the dining room, sir, or would you prefer to have a drink first?” the man asked.

They had entered a beautifully decorated lounge and bar area. “I’d like a drink first,” Stone said. He was shown to a comfortable sofa under a very good oil of a dog and her puppies, and he ordered a glass of champagne. He looked around. There were many good pictures and an extremely well-dressed crowd. The women were beautiful in London, he reflected.

As he sipped his champagne, a very handsome couple entered the bar, both obviously a little drunk. They were seated on the opposite wall, and they were both quite beautiful. The girl was tall and willowy, wearing a very short dress, and the young man wore a rakishly cut suit that had obviously not come off the rack. They nuzzled and giggled, and they attracted the attention of other patrons with their behavior.

Stone watched as a barman approached them, and his voice was mildly disapproving. “Good evening, Mr. Cabot,” Stone heard him say.

Chapter 4

STONE WAS SEATED IN A DIMLY LIT dining room with a glassed-off dance floor at one end, and Lance Cabot and Erica Burroughs were seated a few tables away. Although they were drinking champagne with their dinner, they didn’t seem to get any drunker.

It was five hours earlier in New York, and Stone’s stomach had not caught up with the time change, so he wanted something light. He handed the menu back to the waiter. “May I just have some scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and half a bottle of champagne? You choose the wine.”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington,” the man said.

Stone finished his dinner before Cabot and Burroughs did. He thought of following them when they left, but he knew where to find them, and, in spite of the time change, he was beginning to believe his wristwatch. He left Annabel’s and walked back to the Connaught through the beautiful clear night. A moon had risen, and Berkeley Square was almost theatrically lit, its tall plane trees casting sharp shadows on the grass.

At the hotel, the night clerk insisted on showing him to his room. He found himself in a very pleasant suite, and his clothes had been put away. He soaked in a hot tub for a while until he felt sleepy, then he got into a nightshirt and fell into bed.

It was nearly ten A.M. when he woke, and as he reached for the telephone to order breakfast, he noticed a small electrical box on the side table, displaying buttons for a maid, a valet, and a waiter. He pressed the waiter button, and a moment later, there was a sharp, metallic rap on his door.

“Come in.”

A waiter let himself into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington. May I get you some breakfast?”

“Yes, please.”

“What would you like?”

There was apparently no menu. “Scrambled eggs, toast, a kipper, orange juice, and coffee, please.” He hadn’t had a kipper in many years, but he remembered the smoked-fish flavor.

“Right away, sir.” The waiter disappeared, to return a few minutes later, rolling a beautifully set tray table.

I’m going to like this hotel, Stone thought, as he dug into his breakfast.

Showered, shaved, and dressed, he presented himself at the concierge’s desk. “Can you direct me to the American Embassy?” he asked.

The concierge produced a map. “We’re here, and the embassy is just there,” he said, “in Grosvenor Square. A three-minute walk.”

“And I have to get a passport photo taken.”

The concierge pointed to a corner across from the embassy. “There’s a chemist’s shop there, and they do American passport photographs, which are a different size from the British ones.”

“Good. Now, can you tell me how to find Farm Street?” he asked the man.

The concierge pointed to a spot on the map. “It’s quite near, Mr. Barrington; a five-minute walk. Would you like to borrow an umbrella?”

Stone looked toward the door. “It’s raining?”

“Happens often in London, sir.”

Stone accepted the umbrella and walked outside. A steady rain was falling.

A top-hatted doorman greeted him. “Good morning, sir; taxi?”

“Yes, please.” The hell with the walk, in this weather.

The doorman summoned a taxi from a rank across the street, and Stone got into it. “Farm Street,” he said.

“Any particular number, sir?” the cabbie asked.

“I want to take a look at a house called Merryvale, but don’t stop, just drive slowly past.”

“Righto, sir.” The cabbie drove off, made a couple of turns, and two minutes later they were in Farm Street, which turned out to be a mews behind Annabel’s.

“Here we are, sir,” the cabbie said, as he drove slowly past a beautiful little house with flowers growing from window boxes on each of its three floors. “Merryvale.”

A small sign on the front door proclaimed as much. Mr. Cabot has elegant tastes, Stone thought. “What would you think it would cost to rent that house?” Stone asked the driver.

“Thousand quid a week, easy,” the cabbie replied. “You want me to take you to an estate agent’s in the neighborhood?”

Stone thought. He wasn’t going to stand conspicuously in the rain in this little mews, waiting for Cabot or Burroughs to emerge. He’d go renew his passport and return later. “Make a U-turn at the end of the street, and let’s drive past again,” he said.

“Righto,” the cabbie said. He drove to the end of the mews and made an amazingly tight U-turn.

As he did, Stone saw a taxi pull up to Merryvale and honk its horn. “Stop here for a minute,” he said. A moment later, Erica Burroughs came out of the house, locked the door behind her, and, holding an umbrella over her head, got into the waiting taxi, which immediately drove away. “Follow that cab,” Stone said.

The driver laughed. “Twenty-one years I’ve been driving a cab,” he said, “and it’s the first time anybody ever said that to me.” He drove off in pursuit of Erica’s taxi.

Stone watched the city go past his cab window. Shortly, they were in Park Lane, then they turned into Hyde Park. By what seemed to be a rather convoluted route, Erica’s taxi took her to Harrod’s. She got out of the cab, paid the driver, and ran inside.

Stone was not far behind her. He followed as she went on what seemed to be an extensive but unplanned shopping trip. She wandered through department after department of the huge store, looking at this and that, but the only thing she bought was a pen, in Stationery.

He followed her up the escalator into the book department, where she browsed and bought a novel, then back downstairs into the food halls, which were the most spectacular supermarket Stone had ever seen. She bought a few pieces of fruit, then, suddenly, she turned and came back toward Stone, who was pretending to look at the smoked fish.

She stopped next to him and looked at the fish, too, then turned to him and spoke. “Are you following me?” she asked.

Stone was startled, but there was a small smile on her face. “Of course,” he said. “And nobody would blame me.”

She laughed. “You were at Annabel’s last night, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“Were you following me then, too?”

“You’ll recall I got there ahead of you.”

“And how long have you been following me this morning?”

“Since you left the taxi,” he said. “I happened to be right behind you, in another cab.”

“Coming from where?”

“The Connaught.”

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Erica Burroughs,” she said.

Stone took her hand; it was cool and dry. “I’m Stone Barrington.”

“What a nice name; it sounds like an investment bank.”

“You’re not the first to tell me that.”

“Since you’re at the Connaught, I assume you don’t live in London.”

“No, New York. I’m just visiting.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure, at the moment.”

She laughed. “You’re very flattering, but I must tell you, I’m spoken for.”

“I’m desolated.”

“However, I’m hungry, standing amidst all this food, and if you’re hungry, too, you can buy me lunch.”

“I’d be delighted,” Stone said, and he was, more than she knew. She was making his job all too easy.

“Follow me,” she said. She marched off toward a door, and a moment later they were in another taxi. “The Grenadier, in Wilton Row,” she told the driver.

“I take it you live in London?” Stone asked.

“Yes, but only for a few weeks.”

“Do you work?”

“Not at the moment; how about you?”

“I’m an attorney.”

“With a New York firm?”

“I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld.”

“I know that name; someone there handled my father’s estate.”

They drove through winding back streets, across Sloane Street, and into Wilton Crescent, a beautiful half-circle of handsome houses, all made of the same stone, then they turned into a mews. At the end, the cab stopped, and they got out. The rain had abated, though it was still cloudy. Stone paid the taxi, then followed Erica up a short flight of stairs and into an atmospheric little pub.

“We’ll sit at the bar,” she said, grabbing stools for them. “The bar food’s the best.”

They helped themselves to sausages, Cornish pasties, and cole slaw from a little buffet, then sat down again.

“I’ll have a pint of bitter,” she said to the bartender.

“Two,” Stone said.

They sipped the ale and ate, not talking much. When they had finished their food, Erica took a sip of her bitter.

“Now,” she said, “tell me all about you.”

“Born and bred in New York, to parents who were both from western Massachusetts; attended the public schools, NYU, then NYULawSchool. The summer before my senior year I spent riding around the city in police cars, part of a law school program to give us a look at real life, and I found I liked it, so I joined the NYPD. I spent fourteen years there, finishing up as a homicide detective, then at the invitation of an old law school friend at Woodman and Weld, I finally took the bar exam and went to work for them.”

“You were a little old to be an associate, weren’t you?”

“I wasn’t an associate; I’ve never even had an office there. I keep an office in my home, and I work on whatever cases Woodman and Weld don’t want to handle themselves. It’s interesting work. Now, what about you?”

“Born and raised in Greenwich, Connecticut, went to school there, then MountHolyoke, graduated last spring. Worked at Sotheby’s for a while, learning to appraise art and helping with the auctions, then I got a better offer.”

This didn’t quite jibe with the file on Erica, he thought. “From whom?”

“From my fella. You saw him last night; his name is Lance Cabot.”

“One of the BostonCabots?”

She shook her head. “Denies all knowledge of them. He’s from California, but his family came from Canada, not over on the Mayflower.”

“And what kind of offer did Lance make you?”

“A thoroughly indecent one, thank you, and I accepted with alacrity. I’ve been living with him for the better part of a year.”

“What does Lance do?”

“He’s an independent business consultant, on both sides of the Atlantic.”

Yeah, I’ll bet, Stone thought. “Wait a minute,” he said, “Burroughs, Greenwich; do you have an uncle named John Bartholomew?”

She shook her head. “Nope. No uncles at all; both my parents were only children. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, forget it; someone I know said he had a niece from Greenwich, and I thought the name was Burroughs.”

“Not this Burroughs,” she said.

Very strange, he thought. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Do you always ask women their age?”

“Always. Their age isn’t important; it’s whether they’ll tell you that’s important.”

“I’m twenty-two and a half,” she said. “And now, shall I tell you why I picked you up at Harrod’s?”

“Is that what you did?”

“Didn’t you notice? Your following me made it very easy.”

“All right, tell me.”

“As I told you, I’m spoken for, but I have a very nice girlfriend who’s not, and she’s on the other side of thirty, which I should think would appeal to you more than a twenty-two-and-a-half-year-old.”

“Is she as beautiful as you?”

“Though it pains me to say it, she is more beautiful than I.”

“I would like very much to meet her.”

“You free this evening?”

“I am, as it happens.”

“Suppose we meet you in the Connaught bar at eight o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Wear a suit.”

“Will do.”

“And now,” she said, gathering her packages together, “I must run. You stay and finish your bitter; I’m walking from here; it’s quite nearby.” She hopped off the stool and pecked Stone on the cheek. “Bye-bye.” And she was gone.

Stone sipped the now-warm ale and wondered what the hell was going on with John Bartholomew and his “niece.”

Chapter 5

STONE LEFT THE GRENADIER AND walked back up the mews to Wilton Crescent. No cabs. He walked a bit farther and found himself at the Berkeley Hotel, where the doorman found him a taxi.

“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.

“There’s a chemist’s shop across from the American Embassy. You know it?”

“I do.” He drove away. Ten minutes later, Stone was having his photograph taken by a man with a large studio Polaroid camera, which took four shots simultaneously. He paid for the photos and walked across the street to the embassy. As he climbed the steps outside, he saw a familiar-looking form perhaps twenty yards ahead of him. The man went into the embassy, and Stone quickly followed.

As he entered the main door, he saw the man get onto an elevator. Although he got only a glimpse, it seemed to be John Bartholomew. He started for the elevator, but a uniformed U.S. marine stepped in front of him.

“You’ll have to check in at the desk,” the marine said, pointing to a window surrounded by what appeared to be armored glass.

“Do you know the man who just passed?” Stone asked. “He got onto the elevator.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t notice.”

“Can you tell me where to get my passport renewed?”

“Yes, sir. You go out the main door, turn left, walk around the corner to your left, and the passport office is right there.”

Stone went to the window first. “Can you tell me if there’s a Mr. John Bartholomew in the building?” he said to the woman behind the glass. “I think I just saw him go up in an elevator.”

The woman looked at a computer screen that Stone couldn’t see, typed something, and turned back to him. “I’m afraid we don’t have a Bartholomew working here,” she said. She consulted what appeared to be a sign-in sheet. “And no one by that name has entered the building this morning.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He wished he could have read the sign-in sheet. He followed the marine’s instructions and found the passport office. He filled out a form, gave it and two photos to the clerk, and was told to wait.

“How long should it take?” he asked.

“We’re not very busy; perhaps twenty minutes,” the clerk replied.

He took a seat and found a magazine.

In a room several floors higher in the embassy, two men studied a television monitor set into a wall with many other monitors.

“Is that he?” one asked.

“Yes, but I think it’s all right,” the other replied. “I think he’s just here to renew his passport.”

Stone heard his name called. He was given a form to take to the cashier, where he paid the fee, then returned and collected his new passport. He reflected that what had taken less than half an hour in London would have taken most of a day in New York.

Outside, he couldn’t find a cab, so he began to walk back toward the Connaught. He walked down South Audley Street and turned left onto Mount Street. He had gone only a few steps when he saw a familiar name on a shop window across the street. HAYWARD, the gilt lettering said. He crossed the street and entered the shop, shaking his wet umbrella behind him at the door.

A large, well-dressed man got up from a couch. “I recognize the suit, but not the man in it,” he said. “I’m Doug Hayward.” He offered his hand.

“My name is Stone Barrington, and you’re quite right; the suit belonged to Vance Calder. After his death, his wife, who is an old friend, sent all his suits to me. There were twenty of them.”

“The cost of alterations must have been fierce,” Hayward said.

“They didn’t need altering; his clothes fit me perfectly.”

“Then I don’t suppose I can sell you a suit,” Hayward said, laughing.

“I could use a couple of tweed jackets,” Stone replied, “and a raincoat. I foolishly didn’t bring one.”

“Have a look at the rack of raincoats over there, and I’ll get some swatches.” Hayward departed toward the rear of the shop, where men were cutting cloth from bolts of fabric.

Stone found a handsome raincoat and an umbrella, then he sat down and went through the swatches. A few minutes later, he had been measured.

“How is Arrington?” Hayward asked.

“I saw her in Palm Beach this past winter, and she was well; I haven’t spoken to her since then.”

“I was very sorry to hear of Vance’s death. Did they ever convict anyone of the murder?”

“A woman friend of his was charged and tried, but acquitted. If she really was innocent, then I think it will remain unsolved.”

“Very strange. I liked Vance, and, of course, he was a very good customer.” Hayward handed him his receipt. “But I suppose he’s bequeathed you to me.”

Stone laughed. “First time I’ve ever been a bequest.” He shook hands with Hayward, put on his new raincoat, picked up his new umbrella and the Connaught’s as well, and walked outside into a bright, sunshiny day. “Not a cloud in the sky,” he said aloud, looking around him. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. Jet lag had crept up on him, and all he wanted was a bed. He turned and walked the half-block to the Connaught, went upstairs, undressed, and, leaving a wake-up call for seven, climbed into bed and slept.

The two men in the embassy sat across a desk from each other.

“You really think this can work?” one asked.

“I checked him out very carefully,” the other replied. “He’s perfect for us.”

“If he can make it work.”

“Let’s give him some time and see. If he can do it, he’ll save us a great deal of time and effort and, possibly, ah, embarrassment.”

The first man sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

Chapter 6

STONE ARRIVED AT THE CONNAUGHT bar downstairs promptly at eight o’clock, showered, shaved, and dressed in a freshly pressed, chalk-striped blue suit. The nap had cleared his head, and he was sure that, with one more good night’s sleep, he would be over the jet lag. The bar consisted of two oak-paneled rooms filled with comfortable sofas and chairs, one room with a small bar at one end. He had only just sat down when his dining companions arrived.

Erica had not lied; her friend was even more beautiful than she. “Stone,” Erica said, “may I introduce my sister, Monica? And this is Lance Cabot.”

Stone shook hands all around. Monica Burroughs was perhaps five-ten, nearly as slim as Erica, and had deep auburn hair and green eyes. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said, and he was not lying.

“Shall we have some champagne?” Lance asked. His voice was deep, and he seemed to have a mid-Atlantic accent. A waiter appeared and took the order. A moment later, they were sipping Krug ’66.

“I’m astonished to see this on a wine list,” Stone said.

“It isn’t on the list,” Lance replied. “It’s a secret, and I’m sure they have only a few bottles left. Erica tells me you’re a lawyer.”

“That’s correct.”

“And with Woodman and Weld?”

“I’m of counsel to the firm.”

“Not a partner?”

“No, most of my work for them is done outside the firm.”

Lance regarded him gravely. “It sounds as though you’re as much of a secret at Woodman and Weld as this wine is at the Connaught.”

“I’m not quite a secret,” Stone said. “Like the champagne, I’m available on request.”

“Tell me, Stone,” Lance continued, “have you ever done government work of any kind?”

“I worked for the government of New York City as a police officer for many years.”

“Did you? Erica didn’t mention that. What sort of police officer?”

“Every sort, at one time or another. I began as a patrolman and finished as a homicide detective.”

“Finished rather young, didn’t you?”

“I was retired for medical reasons.”

“You look reasonably fit.”

“I took a bullet in the knee.”

“That’s very romantic.”

“I can assure you that, at the time, it was not in the least romantic, only painful.” Lance was grilling him, and Stone was determined to be polite about it.

“Lance,” Erica said, “you’re hogging Stone; we’d like to talk to him, too.”

Monica spoke up, and her accent was more than mid-Atlantic; it was quite English. “How does one recover from a bullet in the knee?” she asked, and she seemed fascinated.

“With surgery and therapy,” Stone said. “It doesn’t bother me much anymore. If it becomes troublesome again, I can have it replaced.”

“Ah, yes,” Monica said, “the modular approach to human anatomy. I suppose Lance will be having a new liver soon.”

Stone and Erica laughed; Lance pretended to.

“And what do you do, Monica?” Stone asked.

“I have an art gallery, in Bruton Street.”

“Did you study art somewhere?”

“At MountHolyoke, like Erica, only a few years ahead of her. I got a master’s in art history there, then went to work for Sotheby’s. Erica followed in my footsteps, but she lasted only until Lance spirited her away.”

“I heard that story at lunch,” Stone said. “How long have you lived in London?”

“Nearly ten years.”

Lance spoke up. “Long enough to acquire a pretentious accent.”

Monica and Erica both shot him searing glances. “Do you really find my accent pretentious, Lance?” Monica asked.

“Oh, very.”

“It seems that every time I speak to you, your accent has traveled a hundred miles farther to the east,” she said dryly.

Lance flushed a little.

Stone began to feel that all was not entirely well between Monica and Lance, or maybe, between Lance and anybody. “Lance, what made you ask if I’d done government work?”

“Just a hunch,” Lance said. “Perhaps there’s something a little bureaucratic about you.”

Stone laughed. “When I was on the public payroll, hardly anybody thought I was bureaucratic enough. I wasn’t thought of as a team player by the NYPD.”

“And why ever not?” Lance drawled.

“Because I wasn’t, I suppose. I tended to go my own way, something that’s never appreciated in large organizations.”

“I know what you mean,” Lance said.

“Oh? Are you employed by a large organization?”

“No, but I’ve had a taste of it,” Lance replied.

“And, I take it, you didn’t like the taste?”

“You might say that.”

“What, exactly, do you do?” Stone asked.

“I consult,” Lance replied.

“With whom do you consult, and about what?” Stone asked, glad to be the griller instead of the grillee.

“With a number of people about a number of things,” Lance replied. “Monica, will you pass the crisps, please?” Monica slid the little bowl of homemade potato chips toward him. He turned to Erica. “So, how was shopping today? Find anything?”

“Only a pen and some fruit,” Erica replied.

Stone was about to ignore the swift change of subject and return to the grilling when Lance looked at his watch.

“I think we’d better go along to dinner,” he said.

Everyone began to move toward the door, and Stone gave the waiter his room number for the check. He wondered if Bartholomew would bridle at the appearance of a Krug ‘66 on the bill.

Outside, they turned right into Mount Street, and Stone fell into step with Monica, behind Lance and Erica.

“We’re going to Harry’s Bar,” she said. “It’s just around the corner.” She dropped back a few paces behind her sister and Lance. “It’s nice to see somebody turning the tables on Lance,” she said. “He can be awful.”

“It’s all right; I don’t have anything to hide,” Stone said.

“Really? How boring.”

Stone laughed. “I’m afraid I’m an open book, as boring as that may be. How about you?”

“I have a great many secrets,” Monica replied, “and you will have to ply me with a great deal of champagne and work very hard to learn what they are.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Stone said, taking her arm.

They walked past the Hayward shop, turned left, and walked another few yards until they came to an unmarked door. Lance rang a bell, and a moment later a woman in what appeared to be a maid’s uniform let them in.

“Have you been here?” Monica asked Stone.

“No, in fact it’s been many years since I’ve been in London, so there are a lot of places I haven’t been. Just about everywhere, in fact.”

“You’ll like it; the food is marvelous.”

They were led into a dining room hung with many original Peter Arno cartoons, mostly from The New Yorker and Esquire, Stone thought. The headwaiter seated them at a corner table, and Stone drew the gunfighter’s seat, in the corner, which allowed him to view the other diners. He immediately spotted a well-known actor and a man whose photograph he was sure he’d seen in The New York Times—something to do with British politics, he thought.

Then he glanced toward the door in time to see two men enter: One was sixtyish, white-haired, very English-looking. The other was John Bartholomew. They were handing their coats to the woman in the maid’s uniform.

Stone leaned over and whispered to Erica, who was sitting on his right, “A man just came in who looks very familiar, but I can’t place him.”

Erica turned and looked toward the door. “The white-haired one? That’s Sir Antony Shields,” she said. “He’s in the cabinet, I think, but I don’t remember which portfolio.”

“No, it’s the other man who looks familiar.”

She looked again. “I’ve never seen him before,” she said. The two men disappeared around a corner to a table out of sight.

So much for Uncle John, Stone thought. He wondered if Lance, whose back was to the door, would recognize him.

Chapter 7

STONE HAD THE BRESAOLA, THINLY sliced, air-cured beef, and a pasta dish with seafood. Lance ordered the wine, and when it came, it was a Le Montrachet ’78. Stone reflected that the cost of the wines they were drinking on this occasion would pay for a dozen dinners at Elaine’s. Having gotten to know Lance just a little, he fully expected to end up with the check.

They dined in a leisurely manner, and with the wine, Lance became a bit more bearable, even charming, at times. They were on dessert when Stone saw Bartholomew and Sir Antony Shields leave the restaurant. Bartholomew had never looked in his direction. He was tempted to ask Lance if he recognized the man, but the men were too quickly gone. Stone waved at the headwaiter.

The man was there in a flash. “Tell me,” Stone said, “the two gentlemen who just left; one was Sir Antony Shields; do you know the other man’s name?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t. The reservation was Sir Antony’s, and although I’ve seen the other gentleman here before, I never learned his name.”

“Thank you,” Stone said, and the headwaiter went away.

The bill arrived, and as Stone started to reach for it, Erica pushed it toward Lance. “You’re our guest,” she said.

Lance hardly noticed. He signed the bill with a flourish, and they got up to go.

“We’re going this way, to Farm Street,” Erica said as they went out the door.

“I’ll get a taxi for Monica,” Stone said, grateful to be alone with her. He shook hands with both Lance and Erica and said good night.

“No cabs in sight,” Stone said. “Let’s walk down to the Connaught; there’s usually a taxi parked out front.” Monica agreed, and they strolled down Mount Street, which was shiny from a rain that had come and gone while they were at dinner.

“I think Lance liked you,” Monica said.

“I’d be surprised if that were true,” Stone replied.

“No, he turned out to be quite friendly toward you, for someone he has nothing to gain from.”

“Is he friendlier when he has something to gain?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

Stone laughed. “I suppose so.”

“And I thought you showed great forbearance, especially early in the evening.”

“The remainder of the company was good.”

They were nearly to the hotel. “Would you like to . . .” he began.

“Oh, I hardly think the Connaught is the proper place for that,” she said, reading his mind. “However, if you’re free this weekend, there’s a promising house party down in the country. Would you like to go?”

“I’d like that very much,” Stone replied.

“Grand. I’ll pick you up at, say, three tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll miss the worst of the rush-hour traffic.”

“Fine. What clothes shall I bring?”

“It’s for two nights, so I’d bring some tweeds, a dark suit, and a dinner jacket. That should cover just about anything, except tennis or sailing. The house is on the coast.”

They stopped in front of the hotel, and Stone indicated to the doorman that they would like a taxi. “I’ll be right here at three o’clock,” he said, aiming a kiss at her cheek.

She turned slightly, and he caught the corner of her mouth, and there was just a flick of her tongue.

“Wilton Crescent,” she said to the doorman. “I’ll point out the house.” The doorman told the driver.

Stone put her into the cab and went into the hotel. On the way up in the elevator he thought about John Bartholomew and who he might be. He glanced at his watch. It was only seven o’clock in New York, so he went to his room, undressed, and picked up the telephone. He called Bill Eggers’s home, and a maid answered.

“Oh, Mr. Barrington,” she said, “they’ve gone skiing in Chile.”

“Chile in South America?” Stone asked.

“Yes, there’s apparently snow there this time of the year. They’ll be back on Monday.”

“Thank you,” Stone said, and hung up. He thought some more. Bartholomew had mentioned Samuel Bernard, an old professor of his at NYULawSchool. Bernard had been in the OSS during World War II, and he had remained in intelligence when the CIA was founded, serving during the agency’s formative years. He had left at the time of the Bay of Pigs disaster, along with a lot of others, including Alan Dulles. Stone found his address book and dialed the number.

“Yes?” The voice was the same, but older.

“Good evening Dr. Bernard,” he said. “It’s Stone Barrington.”

Bernard’s voice brightened. “Oh, Stone, how are you?”

“I’m fine, and I hope you’re well.”

“I’m better than I could justifiably expect to be at my age,” Bernard replied, chuckling. “I haven’t seen you for a while. What have you been up to?”

“Life has been fairly boring until recently, when it got more interesting.”

“Oh? How interesting?”

“That remains to be seen. A man came to see me a few days ago, sent by Woodman and Weld, but he also mentioned your name; said you had more or less recommended me to him.”

“Strange,” Bernard said. “I don’t recall discussing you with anyone recently. What is the man’s name?”

“John Bartholomew.”

There was total silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Bernard spoke. “John Bartholomew,” he said tonelessly. “How very interesting. Can you describe him?”

“Mid-fifties, tall—six-two or -three, athletically built, salt-and-pepper hair, beaked nose, fierce eyebrows. Do you know him?” Stone asked.

“No one knows him,” Bernard replied.

“I don’t understand.”

“Stone, do you remember an Alfred Hitchcock film called North by Northwest?”

“Of course; it’s a favorite of mine.”

“Then you’ll recall that, early in the film, Cary Grant is abducted from the Plaza Hotel by foreign agents who have mistaken him for a guest at the hotel. I believe the guest’s name was George Kaplan, or something like that.”

“Yes, I remember. The Grant character goes across the country, chasing after Kaplan, but he turns out not to exist. He’s a fiction contrived by some American intelligence agency.”

“Exactly. Well, in the early fifties there actually was an operation that resembled the one in the film; in fact, I’ve often wondered if Hitchcock had heard about it. A fictional character was created, given an identity, and checked in and out of various hotels. It was very similar to the film.”

“That’s very interesting,” Stone said, but he couldn’t think why.

“May I ask, what did this man want you to do?”

“Well, of course, I must observe client confidentiality, but suffice it to say, as a result of our conversation, I’m now in London. I’m not quite sure what I’m involved in. I saw him earlier today at the American Embassy—at least I think I caught a glimpse of him—and again tonight, at a restaurant, with a man named Sir Antony Shields.”

“The Home Secretary,” Bernard said. “Something like our Attorney General. He supervises, among other departments, MI5, the British domestic security department, which is analogous to our FBI.”

“Well, he’s certainly well connected. But why did you tell me about the Hitchcock film?”

“As I said, we ran an operation something like that. Our fictional agent was called John Bartholomew.”

Stone felt as if someone had rapped him sharply on the skull.

“The name became, over the years, something of an inside joke, generally referring to a hoax of some sort.”

“I see,” Stone said, but he didn’t see at all.

“Where are you staying?” Bernard asked.

“At the Connaught.”

“Let me see what I can learn,” he said, “and I’ll call you if I find out something.”

“Oh, I have a cellphone number,” Stone said. “It’s one of those satellite things that works in a lot of countries.” He gave Bernard the number.

“This may take a while,” Bernard said. “Good night.” He hung up.

Stone sat on the bed, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

Chapter 8

STONE WOKE REFRESHED, HAVING slept well, but all through breakfast he puzzled over Bartholomew, or whatever his name was, and his own assignment in London. Well, he thought finally, I’m an investigator, so maybe I’d better start investigating.

He dug out the phone number of Dino’s acquaintance at Scotland Yard and called him.

“Detective Inspector Throckmorton’s line,” a woman’s voice answered.

Stone tried not to laugh at the name. “Good morning, my name is Stone Barrington. Would you tell Detective Inspector Throckmorton that Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti suggested I call him?” He spelled Dino’s name for her.

“One moment, please.”

There was a brief pause, a click, and a crisp English voice said, “Throckmorton here; is that Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Bacchetti called the other day and said you might turn up. You free for lunch?”

“Yes; may I take you?”

“Name the spot.”

“How about the Connaught?”

“I can live with that,” he said. “The Restaurant or the Grill?”

“Which would you prefer?”

“Menu’s pretty much the same, but the Grill is nicer at lunch, I think.”

“Twelve-thirty?”

“See you then,” Throckmorton said, and hung up.

Stone booked the table, then showered and dressed and left the hotel. The sun shone brightly, though he was not sure for how long, and he immediately began to enjoy walking. Using his map, he strolled through Berkeley Square, then over to Piccadilly. He turned right at Fortnum & Mason’s, the renowned department store and food emporium, and finally came to Jermyn Street and Turnbull & Asser.

He entered the shop, which was filled with brightly colored shirts and ties, looked at both, bought some, bought a couple of the Sea Island cotton nightshirts he preferred, and was sure to get the tax refund forms. He then strolled back to the Connaught, doing a lot of window-shopping in Bond Street along the way.

Evelyn Throckmorton was a small, well-proportioned, handsome man in his forties, wearing a Savile Row suit and a military mustache. He greeted Stone, and they went into the Connaught Grill, which was painted a restful green, and were given a table in an alcove by a window.

“How is Dino?” Throckmorton asked.

“He’s very well; we see a lot of each other.”

“I’ve heard him speak of you,” Throckmorton said, perusing the menu. “Surprised we didn’t meet when I was in New York that time.”

“I’ve been off the force for several years, now,” Stone said.

“Oh yes, I remember your last case; Dino and I discussed it in some detail.”

Stone didn’t care to revisit the Sasha Nijinsky case. “What would you like for lunch?” he asked as a waiter approached.

“The potted shrimps and the Dover sole,” the policeman said to the waiter.

“I’ll have the same,” Stone said. “Would you like some wine?”

“Of course.”

Stone ordered a Sancerre, and they chatted a bit until the first course came.

“Now,” said Throckmorton, digging into his shrimp, “what can I do for you while you’re here?”

“I’ve been sent over here by a client to look into the activities of an American living in London, and I need the help of an investigator—no, two. I thought you might know of someone reliable.”

“I know a lorryload of retired coppers,” Throckmorton said. “I daresay I could find you a couple of good men. What will you pay?”

“You tell me.”

Throckmorton mentioned an hourly rate, and Stone agreed.

“Anything illegal about this?” Throckmorton asked.

“Not unless surveillance is illegal in Britain.”