by Stuart Woods
“As you requested,” Ted Cricket began, reading from a notebook like a good cop, “I positioned myself outside the United States Embassy at eight A.M. this morning and waited for the appearance of a gentleman of the description provided by you on Friday last. Such a gentleman appeared just after ten A.M. and went into the embassy. He emerged at twelve thirty-nine P.M. with another gentleman, who was American in his dress, and I followed them to a restaurant and pub called the Guinea, in a mews just off Berkeley Square. They remained there for nearly two hours, then returned to the embassy.
“At half past four, the first gentleman emerged from the embassy again and, on foot, proceeded to a house in Green Street, a short walk from the embassy. He let himself in with a key, and I surmised that the house is his residence in London. To check this, I knocked on the door of the basement flat, where a caretaker lives, and asked him questions regarding the occupants of the building. He was extremely reluctant to talk to me until I gave him to understand that I was a police officer; then he became marginally more cooperative.
“He divulged, in an oblique manner, that the house was owned by the American government, and that it consisted of four flats occupied by various transient government officials. He knew the gentleman I was following, who occupied the third-floor flat, only as Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray has occupied the third-floor flat for at least four years, though he is often away, and he keeps a considerable wardrobe in the flat. He is apparently unmarried, though he sometimes receives lady guests in the flat. He receives no mail there, and I am inclined to believe that Gray is not the gentleman’s real name.
“I am also inclined to believe that Mr. Gray is not, formally speaking, an accredited American representative to Her Majesty’s government. He has all the earmarks of a spook.” Cricket stopped talking.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Stone said. “I’m also inclined to think that it would be fruitless, not to mention dangerous, to attempt to bug Mr. Gray’s flat, because if he is a spook, his organization will have taken steps to prevent such an action.”
“Agreed,” Cricket replied.
“The question now is, how do we find out his real name?”
“I had a thought about that, Mr. Barrington,” Cricket said. “Why don’t I have his pocket picked?”
Stone smiled. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Can you get it done without his knowing?”
“I know a person who can,” Cricket replied confidently. “Mr. Gray might even enjoy the experience.”
“I take it your pickpocket is female.”
“Indeed, yes.”
“Go to it.”
Cricket turned to Jones. “Bobby, what do you have for Mr. Barrington?”
Jones produced his own notebook. “I began surveillance of the Farm Street house at seven A.M. this morning. By mid-morning, it became apparent to me that the house was not occupied, except by a cleaning lady who arrived at eight and departed at ten, so I had my man go in and wire the place for sound while I stood guard. He was out by one P.M., and now all the phones serve as taps for us, whether they are in use or not. The microphones are voice-activated and are recorded automatically by a machine in a garage about forty meters from the house. I’ll check it daily for anything of interest.
“I continued my surveillance of the house, and a little after three P.M. Mr. Cabot and Miss Burroughs returned and went into the house with some luggage. Less than an hour later, two men arrived outside in a car and knocked at the door. They were large gentlemen, and in spite of extensive tailoring and barbering, they struck me as right out of the East End. They rang the bell, and when Mr. Cabot emerged, they pulled him out of the house and began to rough him up, in the manner, I would say, of debt collectors for a loan shark or a bookmaker. Since I assumed you did not wish the man harmed, I approached, identified myself as a police officer, and asked Mr. Cabot if he required any assistance.
“He said he did not. I asked if he wished to make a charge against either or both of the gentlemen; he said he did not. I took the gentlemen aside and suggested that if I caught them in the neighborhood again I would have them in the nick very shortly. They got into their car and left. By this time, Mr. Cabot was already back inside the house.
“I then went to the garage and listened to the tape recording of what was said in the house. Miss Burroughs asked Mr. Cabot who had been at the door, and he replied, quite coolly, I thought, that some people had knocked at the wrong door. After that their conversation was of a mundane nature, and I reset the recorder. I waited within sight of the house until it was time to come here and see you.”
“Very good, Bobby,” Stone said. “Were you able to overhear any of the conversation between Cabot and the two men?”
“No, I’m afraid I was out of earshot. I expect they might be leery of returning to the house, but if they should telephone Cabot, we’ll have a recording of the conversation.”
“Do you have any further instructions for us, Mr. Barrington?” Cricket asked.
“You already know what to do about Mr. Gray; my main concern is to know his real identity. As for Mr. Cabot, Bobby, I’d like to maintain the surveillance on him for a few more days. I want to know who he sees during the days—I don’t think we need bother with his evenings. I’m particularly interested to know if he has any criminal contacts. After his encounter with the muscle, I wouldn’t be surprised. And, of course, I’d like a daily report on what your recorder picks up.”
“Of course,” Jones replied. “If anything that sounds remotely interesting is recorded, I’ll dub it off onto a portable so you can hear it.”
“Very good,” Stone said, rising. “I’ll look forward to hearing from both of you.”
“Mr. Barrington,” Cricket said, “may I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“I think it might be good for Bobby and me to swap targets every day. That way, the gentlemen are less likely to spot the tail.”
“By all means,” Stone said. “Change whenever you wish.”
He shook hands with the men, and they left.
Stone returned to his room, and as he entered, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Sarah; I’m in London. Can we have dinner tonight?”
“All right. Where would you like to meet?”
“Where do you suggest?”
“It’s your town.”
“There are some press people hanging around outside my flat.”
“Then I don’t think you should be seen with me; that would just add fuel to the flame.”
“I can get out a back way, I think. Why don’t I come to the Connaught? I don’t think they would follow me inside, and if they did, they’d be thrown out.”
“All right.”
“What’s your suite number?”
“Ah, let’s meet in the restaurant.”
“Eight-thirty?”
“That should be all right. I’ll book the table now.”
“How did your meeting with James’s solicitor go?”
“It went well; I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
“Bye-bye.” She hung up.
Stone called downstairs and booked the table, then he soaked in a hot tub for a while and lay down for a nap. As he drifted off, he wondered who had sent the hoods to deal with Lance Cabot.
18
SARAH WAS LATE. STONE SAT AT THE corner table in the handsome Connaught restaurant, with its glowing mahogany paneling, and sipped a vodka gimlet as slowly as he could manage. The restaurant quickly filled with people, and still Sarah did not arrive. He knew that if she phoned, the front desk would get a message to him, and he wondered why she had not.
Then she came into the dining room, looking flustered. Mr. Chevalier, the maître d’, showed her to the table, and Stone stood up to receive her, pecking her on the cheek.
“God, I need a drink,” she said, breathless. A waiter materialized at her elbow. “A large Johnnie Walker Black,” she said to him, “on ice.” The waiter vanish
ed and returned with the drink.
“Take a few deep breaths,” Stone said.
“It didn’t work, going out the back way,” she said, pulling at the drink. “I had planned to get a taxi, but they were laying for me in the mews, and I had to duck into the garage and drive my car. I went twice around Belgrave Square at high speed, with them on my tail, and I finally lost them at Hyde Park Corner, when some traffic cut them off. God, these people are awful!”
“I’m glad you finally evaded them,” Stone said. Then, near the restaurant’s door, a flashgun went off. Some people in the restaurant turned and looked in the direction of the photographer, but Stone noted that others hid behind their menus or napkins. Apparently, not all the couples in the restaurant were married, at least, not to each other.
The flashgun went off again, but two waiters were grappling with the photographer, pushing him into the hallway. He was complaining loudly about freedom of the press and making as big a fuss as possible, but gradually his voice faded as they got him into the lobby, then out the door. Stone saw the man outside a window, jumping up and down, trying to spot his prey, then a police officer appeared and led him away by the collar.
“Apparently, I didn’t lose them,” Sarah said. “I hope to God his pictures don’t come out.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Stone said.
“Did you see the tabloids? They know your name. Apparently, there was a reporter at the inquest, though I didn’t see any photographers. Apparently, there aren’t any newsworthy rock stars or politicians anymore, so they’ve settled on me. I’ve never had an experience like this.” She signaled the waiter for another drink.
“Slow down,” he said. “You’ve still got to drive home, you know.” The waiter came and brought menus.
“I can’t deal with it; you order.”
Stone turned to the waiter. “Surprise us.” The waiter vanished.
“Just keep breathing deeply,” he said. “Don’t rely on the whiskey to calm you down.” He took the drink from her hand and placed it on the table. “Now, would you like to hear about my meeting with Julian Wainwright?”
“Yes, please; I’d like something else to think about.”
“Well, you’ve a lot to think about,” Stone said. “First, let me ask you some questions: Did James say anything to you about making you his beneficiary?”
“No. Well, he mentioned something in passing, like, ‘Of course I’ll have to make a new will,’ but I assumed he meant after we were married.”
“Were you aware of the day he went to sign the will?”
“Yes, because we had seen his solicitor the night before. I knew he was going there.”
“Did you discuss the will at all?”
“No, he just said he was going to see Julian; he implied that he had a number of things to discuss with him. There had been an offer for his companies some time back, and I think they were going to talk about that.”
“Yes, Julian mentioned that.” Stone patted his pocket. “I have the will and James’s financial statement, and I’ll give them to you later, but the thrust of it is that he left three hundred thousand pounds—”
“Good God! He left me three hundred thousand pounds?”
“No, he left that much to his schools and to charities. He left everything else to you.”
She stared at him blankly. “You mean his business?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes welled up a little. “I don’t know anything about running a business; I don’t want it. Tell Julian to take it back.”
“Take it easy, now, that’s not how it works. You don’t have to run the business.”
“I don’t?”
“Remember the offer that James was discussing with Julian?”
“Yes.”
“I asked Julian to investigate whether discussions might be reopened.”
“So you think Julian can sell it?”
“Yes.”
“What a relief!”
“Do you want to know how much it’s worth?”
“Yes, please.”
“The offer was for four hundred and ninety million pounds.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Surely you mean thousand.”
“No, million.”
“But that’s . . .”
“A lot of money.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Of course, there will be taxes to pay and other fees, but you should come out of this with a substantial amount of cash or stock.”
“I think I’d prefer cash,” she said absently, as if her mind were elsewhere.
“And there were other things—James’s house in London and a country house, investments. He was a very wealthy man.”
“I knew he was well off,” she said, “but I had no idea, really. He never talked about it much, the way a lot of businessmen do. I thought he was in it because he loved wine so much, and because his father before him was.”
“And his grandfather and great-grandfather, apparently.”
“He didn’t even mention that.”
“Do you know the two houses?”
“Of course. They’re both in wonderful locations, but they need a complete redoing.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”
Their dinner arrived, and they talked less as they dined. Stone thought the food was sublime, as was the wine Mr. Chevalier had chosen for them. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at a menu here again,” Stone said.
“Stone, I never had a chance to ask you: Why are you in London?”
“A client asked me to come and look into something for him.”
“Something? What thing?”
“I can’t tell you that; client confidentiality.”
“Of course, I should have known. Is it one of those wonky investigation things you get into?”
“Sort of. Tell me, how do you know Monica and Erica Burroughs?”
“I’ve known Monica for years; she sells my work.”
“Of course, I knew that.”
“But I met Erica only recently, when she and Lance came over.”
“Do you know Lance well?”
“Not really, but he’s very nice.”
“What does he do?”
“Something mysterious; I could never figure it out.”
“Neither could I.”
They ate on, finishing with dessert and coffee.
“I think I’d like a brandy,” she said.
“Careful, you’re driving, and I hear they’re tough about that in this country. I want you to get home in one piece, and without getting arrested.”
“I can’t go home,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for me.”
“Can you go to a friend’s?”
“I can’t even leave the hotel; they’re bound to be waiting outside. I’ll stay with you.” Her foot rubbed against his leg under the table.
“No, you won’t,” Stone said. “First of all, you’re supposed to be in mourning.”
“I’m not a widow!”
“Near enough. Second, they have a photograph of us together; if you don’t leave the hotel, they’ll make a very big thing of that. What you have to do is, walk out of the hotel like a citizen, get into your car, and drive home. Ignore any questions or photographers, and lock your doors. Live your normal life, except stay out of men’s hotel suites. You can’t become a fugitive; they’ll go away eventually. Once the funeral is behind you, they’ll lose interest.”
“I hate this,” she said.
“It won’t last forever.”
“I mean, I hate not being able to sleep with you.”
“You’ve already done that, remember?”
She giggled. “I’ll bet you thought I was Monica.”
“No comment.” He pushed back from the table and walked her to the lobby. “Now, shake my hand,” he said. “They could be anywhere.”
She shook his hand, then stole a peck on his cheek.
“Oh, you should have these.” He handed her the will and the fina
ncial statement, and she tucked them into her bag. “Bye,” she said, then walked out.
As soon as she was out the door, flashguns began popping.
19
BOBBY JONES STOOD ON GREEN STREET, half a block from the house where John Bartholomew resided. He wore a suit and a cloth cap and, in spite of the warm weather, a raincoat. Bobby had learned, after years of surveillance, how to stand for long periods of time without becoming too tired. He wore thick-soled black shoes, and inside were sponge pads to cradle his feet. He had been there since eight a.m. It was now nearly half past nine.
Bartholomew came through the front door and down the steps, then turned toward Grosvenor Square and the American Embassy.
Bobby crossed the street and followed, keeping the half-block distance. He had expected Bartholomew to go straight to the embassy, but instead, the man crossed the street and began walking east along the little park at the center of the square. Well, blimey, Bobby thought, he’s on to me already. Bobby didn’t follow; instead, he walked to a bench that offered a good view of the square, checked to be sure Bartholomew wasn’t looking at him, shucked off the raincoat, turned it inside out, and it became tweed. He stuffed his cloth cap into a pocket, sat down, opened his newspaper, and set his half-glasses on the tip of his nose, so he could look over them. In a practiced fashion, he would glance at Bartholomew, then down at his paper, turning a page occasionally, then look back at his quarry.
Bartholomew proceeded around the square at a march, swinging an umbrella and taking in the sunny morning like a tourist. He crossed the street again, but instead of walking into the embassy through the front door, he continued straight along the street toward the entrance of the passport office, disappearing around the corner of the building.
Bobby sat his ground, resisting the urge to run to the corner to see if he had gone inside. Bartholomew would go inside, Bobby was sure; the man worked there, didn’t he? What he would do now was go upstairs, then peer out the window to see if his tail was still here. Bobby, accordingly, got up, crossed the street, and went into the little chemist’s shop on South Audley Street, where he browsed for a few minutes, then bought a small tin of aspirin. Finally, he returned to Grosvenor Square, walked to the farthest point from the embassy, and took a seat on another bench to wait for lunchtime.
