6 Stone Barrington Novels (83 page)

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 NYU Law School. 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 Mount Holyoke, 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 Boston Cabots?”

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.”

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.”