by Stuart Woods
“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 Kennedy Airport 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.
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 mome
nt 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 m
y 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.”
