by Stuart Woods
“Where? Where have you checked this coat?”
“Everywhere I’ve been,” Stone replied. “Downstairs in the cloak room, in restaurants; I’ve also hung it on racks in pubs, set it down in shops.”
“But where could you have taken this dead man’s coat?”
“I don’t know, it seems likely that he took mine and left his, doesn’t it?”
Throckmorton turned to the two detectives. “Wait downstairs,” he said. The two men left the room. “Sit down,” he said to Stone. Both men took chairs.
“Evelyn . . .”
“It is only because of Lieutenant Bacchetti’s recommendation of you that we are not having this conversation in an interrogation room, and that the interrogation is not being conducted by the two men who just left, who would be doing the job far less gently than I.”
“I appreciate the consideration,” Stone said, “but I have absolutely no idea when and where this exchange of raincoats happened.”
“Let me tell you a bit more,” Throckmorton said. “The passports found on the men were counterfeits. Does that help jog your memory?”
“I know nothing of false passports,” Stone said.
“Let me see yours.”
Stone went to his briefcase, got his passport, and handed it over.
Throckmorton examined it closely, then he took two passports from his pocket and compared them. “It says here that this passport was issued only a few days ago at the American Embassy in London.”
“That’s correct; when I arrived in this country, an immigration officer told me that my passport was expiring the following day.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“No. I hadn’t used the passport for several months; it didn’t occur to me to look at the expiration date. I went to the embassy, as the officer suggested, and got a new one.”
“And where is your old one?”
“The passport office kept it.”
“And I’m keeping yours,” Throckmorton said, tucking all three passports into his pocket.
“Suppose I have to leave the country?”
“You will not leave the country until I say so,” Throckmorton said, rising. “One last time, Stone; is there anything you wish to tell me?”
“No.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Throckmorton said. He walked out of the room, taking both raincoats with him.
Stone sat down heavily and loosened his necktie. “Jesus Christ,” he said aloud, “how could I have made such a stupid mistake?” He laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself.
What seemed only a moment later, Stone jerked awake. Had he dozed off? Then he remembered that Arrington was downstairs in the restaurant. He ran to the elevator, buttoning his shirt and fixing his necktie; when he reached the ground floor, he tried not to run to the restaurant. From the door he could see that the table was empty.
“Mr. Barrington?” Mister Chevalier said.
“Yes? Where is Mrs. Calder?”
“I’m afraid she left a few minutes ago; she went to the lounge to look for you but could not find you, so she got her coat and left.” Chevalier looked at his watch. “You were gone for nearly an hour,” he said, with barely noticeable reproach.
“Oh, God,” Stone moaned.
“We have kept your dinner warm,” Chevalier said. “Would you still like to have it, or would you prefer to order something else?”
Stone stared at the paneling ahead of him, wondering how he was ever going to fix this.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Oh. Will you send it to my suite, please?”
“Of course; and Mrs. Calder’s dinner?”
“Give it to the cat,” Stone said. He turned and trudged disconsolately to the elevator.
Upstairs, he got out the London telephone directory and looked for the ambassador’s residence; he found it under U.S. Government and dialed the number.
“Good evening,” a young male voice said, “this is the residence of the United States Ambassador.” Probably a marine.
“My name is Barrington,” Stone said. “May I speak with Mrs. Arrington Calder? She’s a guest of the ambassador.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrington, Mrs. Calder has asked me not to put any calls through.”
“Would you tell her I called, please?” He gave the Connaught’s number.
“Of course, sir; good night.”
There was a sharp rap on his door, and he went to answer it. His dinner had arrived, and he didn’t feel like eating it.
Chapter 39
STONE, HAVING LAIN AWAKE UNTIL the middle of the night, slept as if drugged. It was mid-morning before he woke up, and his first move was to call the embassy residence again and ask for Arrington. There was a long delay, then a woman came on the line.
“Stone?”
“Arrington, I’m so sorry, I—”
“Stone, it’s Barbara Wellington.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were Arrington. I’ve been trying to reach her; she wasn’t taking calls last night.”
“I know; she came home very hurt and angry last night; she said you had abandoned her in the middle of dinner at the Connaught. What happened?”
“Some people showed up that I absolutely had to see, and—”
“She also said that when she got up to go to the ladies’ she saw you kissing another woman in the Connaught lobby, so when you reach her, I don’t think you ought to try and pass that off as business.”
“It was business—not the woman—but three men I had to see, and—”
“And when she came back from the ladies’ you had disappeared, and the concierge said you had gone up to your suite with a guest.”
“With three guests—they insisted. You see—”
“Stone, it’s not I you have to convince, so save your strength.”
“May I speak to Arrington, please?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Barbara, please just tell her there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for—”
“Stone, Arrington has gone.”
“Gone where? Where can I reach her?”
“To New York; she left here about twenty minutes ago for Heathrow. I think she’ll be staying at the Carlyle. If I were you, I’d go after her, get the next plane.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that—”
“You’re going to have to resolve this face-to-face.”
“How long did you say she’d been gone?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“What airline?”
“British Airways.”
“Do you know the flight number?”
“No, but it leaves around noon, I think. You have to be there early these days, because of all the security stuff.”
“Thank you, Barbara.” Stone hung up, then picked up the phone again. “Please ask the doorman to get me a cab for Heathrow immediately,” he said to the operator. “I’ll be right down.”
He threw on some clothes and, unshaven and unshowered, ran for the elevator. The doorman had the cab door open as he came through the revolving door, and he dove into the rear seat.
“Heathrow, is it, sir?” the cabbie asked.
“Right, and hurry.”
The driver pulled away and turned up Mount Street, headed for Park Lane. “Shouldn’t be too bad this time of day; what airline?”
“British Airways, first-class entrance.”
“Righto.”
Stone sat back and stared out the window, frequently glancing at his watch. Traffic wasn’t bad, and after the Chiswick Roundabout, it became even better.
“Excuse me, sir,” the driver said, “I don’t want you to think I’ve come over all paranoid, but I’m quite sure there’s a car following us.”
Stone spun around and looked at the traffic behind them. “Which one?”
“It’s a black Ford, the big one; at least two men in it, about four cars back.”
“Are they
staying back, or are they trying to overtake us?” Stone asked.
“They were closer before; now they’re just lying back there, keeping us in sight.” What now? he thought. Have the two big “Greeks” been replaced in the lineup?
“Is there any way you can shake them?”
“Not on this road; they’re faster than I am. I could get off the motorway and try and lose them in Hammersmith.”
He had no time for that. “Never mind, just get me to Heathrow as fast as you can.”
“Righto.”
The driver stayed in the center of three lanes, driving fast; the black Ford held its position, and when the cab left the motorway at the Heathrow turnoff, Stone saw the Ford’s turn signal go on.
The driver followed the signs to the British Airways terminal, still driving fast. Stone reached into a pocket for money, and discovered he had none. He had nothing in his pockets.
The cab screeched to a halt. “Wait for me here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“I don’t know if . . .”
But Stone was gone at a run. He did not see the black Ford stop fifty yards back and two men get out. He dashed into the terminal and ran for the first-class ticket counter. There were three people in line; he ignored them and went to the desk. “Excuse me, this is an emergency; can you tell me if Mrs. Arrington Calder has checked in yet?”
“Yes,” the young woman said. “I checked her in no more than five minutes ago; she was headed for the security checkpoint when I last saw her.”
“Thank you,” Stone said, and hurried off, following signs to the checkpoint. The area was a zoo, with dozens of passengers lining up for the security check and X-ray machines. Stone jumped up and down, trying to see over their heads, and he saw Arrington pick up her hand luggage on the other side and start toward the gates. He didn’t want to start shouting at her, and there was no way to break into the line, so he went to an exit, where a uniformed policeman was on guard.
“Excuse me,” he said to the bobby, “I’m trying to catch up with a friend who has just gone through security; may I get in this way?”
“Do you have any luggage, sir?”
“No.”
“May I see your ticket?”
“I don’t have a ticket; I’m not flying today, she is.”
“May I see your passport?”
The police had his passport. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring it.”
“Some other identification?”
Stone dove into a pocket, then remembered it was empty. “Oh, God, I didn’t bring my wallet.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“This really is a sort of personal emergency.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t let you through without a ticket or any identification.”
Then Stone heard a voice behind him. “It’s all right, mate, we’ll deal with this.”
Two men seized his arms and marched him back through the terminal. Stone looked at them and recognized the two detectives who had accompanied Evelyn Throckmorton the night before.
“Trying to catch a flight, were we, Mr. Barrington?” one of them said.
“No, I was trying to catch up with a friend who’s leaving on a noon flight.”
“Well, he’ll have plenty of time to make it,” the cop said.
“Do you think it might be possible for me to go after her? Can you vouch for me with the officer at the security gate? It’s very important that I speak to her.”
“I believe Detective Inspector Throckmorton told you last night that you were not to leave the country,” the cop said.
“But I wasn’t trying to leave.”
“You wouldn’t have made it without your passport, anyway.”
“Honestly, I was just trying to catch up with my friend.”
They were out the door, where Stone’s taxi was still waiting for him.
“That cab is waiting for me to go back to the Connaught,” he said.
“Never mind, we’ll give you a lift,” the cop replied.
“But I have to pay him.”
The cop stopped. “All right, pay him.”
“I don’t have any money with me; it’s back in my room at the Connaught.”
The cop sighed wearily. “I suppose you expect me to pay him.”
“Look, I’m not trying to leave the country; you can follow me back to the hotel.”
“Just a moment.” The cop produced a cellphone and stepped a few paces away. A moment later, he returned. “All right, Mr. Barrington, the detective inspector says you can return to the Connaught.”
“Thank you.”
“But don’t give us any more chases, all right?”
“Thank you again.” Stone got into the cab.
“Catch her, sir?”
“Not quite,” Stone replied. “Take me back to the Connaught.”
The black Ford followed them all the way back.
Chapter 40
STONE GOT BACK TO THE CONNAUGHT, went upstairs, got money, and paid the driver, tipping him extravagantly. As he passed the concierge’s desk, he heard his name called.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Barrington,” the concierge said, “but this message arrived for you last evening, and it was somehow misplaced.” He handed Stone a yellow envelope.
Stone opened it and extracted the message. I’m on my way, it said, and that was all. “Who is it from?” he asked the concierge.
“I’m afraid that’s just how it came, sir; there was no name. We thought you’d know who it was from.”
“Man or woman?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t on duty last evening, so I don’t know.”
Stone stuffed it into his pocket and went upstairs. He didn’t care who the fuck it was from, he was too pissed off. He let himself into the suite, hung up his jacket, and picked up the London papers. He went quickly through the Times and the Independent, looking for further mention of the two dead “Greeks” but saw nothing. There was a small piece about the explosion at the antiques market, but it had, apparently, been attributed to a gas leak.
He soaked in a hot tub for nearly an hour, grateful for the solitude, then ordered some sandwiches from room service and turned on the TV. He watched CNN for a while and, after he began seeing the same stories for the third time, began channel surfing. There was an Italian soap opera, a bad 1930s movie, a children’s show, and a soccer match. Stone had always thought that soccer would be a better spectator sport if the field were half as long and the goals twice as wide. Finally, he settled on a cricket match and for an hour tried to make some sense of it. He finally concluded that cricket was an elaborate joke that the Brits played on American tourists; that they probably played the same taped match over and over. He dozed.
He was awakened by a heavy knock on the door. Still in a stupor, he gathered the terrycloth robe around him and went to the door. Nobody there. The hammering came again, and it seemed to be coming from his right, where there was a door, always locked, apparently leading to a second bedroom adjoining his suite. He listened at that door and jumped back when the hammering started again. Very weird. Gingerly, he unlocked his side of the door and opened it. Behind it was another door, and someone hammered on it again. “It’s locked on your side!” he yelled.
The latch turned, and the door opened. Dino Bacchetti stood in the adjoining room.
“Jesus,” Dino said, “are you deaf? I’ve been knocking for ten minutes.”
Stone was completely nonplussed. “What the hell are you doing here, Dino?”
“I’m hungry; get me a room-service menu.”
“Press the button over there that says ‘waiter,’ ” Stone instructed. Dino pressed it.
“Dino, what are you doing in London?”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
“No. Well, yes, I guess so, but there was no name on it.”
The waiter knocked on the door, and Stone opened it.
“Yes, sir; may I get you something?”
“What time is
it in this country?” Dino asked.
“Nine-thirty P.M., sir,” the waiter said, glancing at his watch.
“You want some dinner?” Dino asked Stone.
“Whatever you’re having,” Stone replied.
“Bring us a couple Caesar salads and a couple steaks, medium-rare, and a decent bottle of red wine,” Dino said to the waiter.
“Of course, sir. Would you like some potatoes?”
“Sure, sure, whatever you’ve got,” Dino said. “And bring him a double Wild Turkey on the rocks, and me a Johnnie Walker Black, fixed the same, right away, please.” He closed the door behind the departing waiter.
“Dino, just once more, what are you doing here?”
Dino shucked off his coat, loosened his tie, and sank into an armchair. “What the fuck are they doing?” he asked, pointing at the TV.
“They’re playing cricket,” Stone replied. “It’s been going on for at least six hours.”
“What are the rules?”
“Nobody knows. What are you doing here?”
“Well, you’re in trouble; somebody had to come over here and pull your ass out of the shit.”
“I’m not in trouble.”
“Oh? I hear you’re looking good for a double murder.”
“Oh, that; Throckmorton called you.”
“Yep.” He was still gazing, rapt, at the TV. “What kind of pitching is that?” he asked.
“They call it bowling.”
“That’s not what they call bowling in my neighborhood,” Dino said.
“What did Throckmorton tell you?”
“Just that they found a couple of stiffs in a car trunk, and one of them was wearing your raincoat.”
“That was an accident,” Stone said.
“An accident? With two pops each in the head?”
“I mean the raincoat.”
“An accidental raincoat? Hey, look at that; they don’t run to first, they run to the pitcher’s mound and back again. This is completely nuts!”
“I grabbed somebody’s raincoat, and he apparently grabbed mine. Or rather, whoever shot him grabbed it and put it on him.”
“Didn’t want him to get rained on, I guess,” Dino said. “Do you really expect anybody to believe a story like that?”
