Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels

by Stuart Woods

  “I think it might be better if you had your own solicitor go.”

  “I don’t have one, and I hate Daddy’s. Just go and talk to him; I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

  “All right. Is there anything else?”

  “Let me give you his phone number and address.”

  Stone wrote it all down, and Sarah’s London number as well.

  “I’m coming up to London tomorrow, and I’ll call you then.”

  “All right. I’ll be around here. Oh, let me give you a portable phone number, too.” Stone retrieved the phone from its charging cradle and read off the number, which was taped to the telephone.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, “and I’ll call the solicitor now.”

  “All right; tell him I’ll wait to hear from him.” Stone hung up and went to retrieve the papers. The story was on the inside pages of both the Times and the Independent, and it was brief in each case. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary to Stone. The phone rang. The solicitor, he thought. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Barrington, it’s Ted Cricket; Bobby Jones and I would like to come and see you, if that’s all right.”

  “Yes, fine. When’s good for you?”

  “How about six o’clock this evening at your hotel?”

  “That’s good for me. I’ll see you both at six in the same place we met the first time.”

  “Good, sir.” He hung up.

  Stone hung up, too, and the phone rang immediately. “Hello?”

  “Is that Mr. Barrington?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Julian Wainwright; I am solicitor for the estate of James Cutler.”

  “Oh, yes, Sarah Buckminster said you’d call.”

  “Miss Buckminster tells me you’ll be representing her in the matter of the Cutler estate. I’m a bit confused; you’re an American, are you?”

  “That’s right, but I’m not representing her as an attorney, only as a friend. Sarah is very busy with making funeral arrangements at the moment, and she asked me to see you about the letter you sent her today.”

  “All right, then; will sometime this afternoon be good?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  “Say, four o’clock?”

  “That’s fine. I have your address.”

  “I’ll see you at four, then.” He hung up.

  Stone hung up, too, and sighed. How did he get roped into this?

  16

  THE SOLICITOR’S OFFICE WAS IN PONT Street, near Harrod’s, and Stone was on time. So was Julian Wainwright; Stone was shown immediately into his office.

  “Been over here long?” Wainwright asked, showing him to a chair.

  “Just a few days,” Stone said.

  “Known Sarah long?”

  “We knew each other when she lived in New York.”

  “Forgive me, I’m just trying to understand why she sent you to receive this news.”

  “I thought I explained that on the phone,” Stone said. “She’s busy making funeral arrangements, and, of course, she’s upset about the events of last weekend.”

  “Ah, yes,” Wainwright said, shuffling some papers on his desk. “Well, I expect you’ll want to know the contents of James Cutler’s will.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Stone reminded him.

  “It’s like this,” Wainwright said. “James left bequests to Eton College, Magdelan College at Oxford, to Oxfam—that’s a large charity over here—and to his club, the Athenaeum. The total of those was three hundred thousand pounds.” He paused, seeming to have a hard time reading the neatly typed document before him.

  “Go on,” Stone said.

  “The remainder of his estate, James left to Sarah Buckminster.” He took a deep breath and sighed.

  “You seem in some way unhappy about this,” Stone said.

  “I must tell you, I counseled James against it. He came in to make a will which would take effect on his marriage to Sarah. We went over everything very carefully, the full list of his assets. I was quite all right with it all, but when he came back to sign the will, after it had been typed, he noted that the will would take effect on their marriage, and, rather offhandedly, he asked that it be changed to have immediate effect. When I questioned this, he said, ‘Oh, hell, I’m marrying the girl in a few months’ time, just do as I ask.’ So I had the page retyped, and he signed it.”

  “Was the will properly attested to and witnessed?”

  “Of course,” Wainwright replied, sounding offended.

  “Are you satisfied that the will represents his true intentions at the time he made it?”

  “As unwise as his intentions may have been, yes.”

  “Then I don’t see any problem.”

  “You’ve read this morning’s papers?”

  “The Times and the Independent.”

  “Not the tabloids?”

  “They don’t have the tabloids at the Connaught.”

  “Well, they’ve as much as accused Sarah of murdering James for his money.”

  “Then I should think she’d have a very good libel suit against the tabloids,” Stone said.

  “Quite,” Wainwright replied.

  “Tell me,” Stone said, “when James made this sudden decision to have his will take effect immediately, did he in any way intimate that Sarah was aware of this decision?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “And his decision seemed to you to be made on the spur of the moment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you aware that Sarah was unaware of the will until I told her about it this morning?”

  Wainwright’s considerable eyebrows shot up. “No, I was not. And, may I ask, how did you become aware of the contents of the will?”

  “I was told by Sir Bernard Pickering,” Stone replied, watching for a reaction, and he got it.

  Wainwright gulped but seemed unable to speak.

  “Are you and Sir Bernard acquainted?” Stone asked.

  “We are next-door neighbors in the country,” Wainwright replied.

  “And when did you convey the intent of the will to Sir Bernard?”

  Wainwright was perspiring now. “I was having dinner at his home on Saturday evening, when he got the call from Lord Wight, requesting his services. I thought it my duty to make him aware of the circumstances.”

  “For which I’m sure he was grateful,” Stone said. “What is the date on the will?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “And during that time, did you divulge the contents to any other person, apart from Sir Bernard?”

  “I did not.”

  “To your knowledge, did James Cutler tell anyone else?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Do you believe he might have told Sarah about the will?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “How long did you represent James Cutler?”

  “More than twenty years; we were at Eton together.”

  “Were you good friends?”

  “Very good friends.”

  “Given your knowledge of your friend and client, do you think it is likely that he would have told Sarah of the contents of the will?”

  Wainwright thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I do not. James was very closemouthed about that sort of thing.”

  “That being the case, can we agree that, since Sarah was unlikely to know the contents of the will, there would be no motive for her to intentionally cause his death?”

  “I . . . believe we can,” Wainwright replied.

  “Then I think it would be appropriate for you to issue a public statement to that effect.”

  Wainwright looked puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever issued a public statement about anything.”

  “Do you know someone at one of the large newspapers?”

  The solicitor brightened. “Why, yes, I was at school with a fellow at the Times.”

  “Then I think a phone call to him and a brief interview on the subject would suffice, and your
friend would be grateful to you for the story.”

  “That’s rather a good idea,” Wainwright said, looking pleased.

  Stone avoided chuckling. A largish percentage of the law firms in New York would have retained a publicist for such a chore. “Is there anything else that Sarah should know about the will?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I think she should see a list of James’s assets and liabilities,” Stone pointed out.

  “Oh, of course.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk. “I had him prepare a financial statement in conjunction with signing the will.” He handed some papers to Stone. “And a copy of the will for Sarah.”

  Stone looked quickly through the documents. “He didn’t have any debt to speak of.”

  “None more than thirty days old.”

  “And you are the executor?”

  “At James’s request.”

  “Sir Bernard suggested to me that his holdings might easily be sold to one of the wine and spirits conglomerates.”

  “As a matter of fact, James had a rather rich offer from one of them less than three months ago, but he wasn’t inclined to accept it.”

  “I very much doubt that Sarah will have any interest in running these businesses. Perhaps after the funeral, you might contact that company and see if they’re still interested.”

  “I will certainly do that,” Wainwright replied.

  “By the way, what was the offer?”

  “Four hundred ninety million pounds sterling.”

  Stone did the math. Around three-quarters of a billion dollars. “Did James build this business from scratch?”

  “Oh, heavens, no. He was the fourth generation of Cutlers in the business, but he greatly enlarged the business during his tenure.”

  “One other thing, Mr. Wainwright: Are there any disaffected siblings or maiden aunts who might challenge this will?”

  “None. James was an only child, as was his father before him.”

  “Any large charities to whom promises had been previously made?”

  “None.”

  “Then you see no reason why this will should not be promptly probated?”

  “None at all. Tell me, is Sarah currently represented by a solicitor?”

  “No, she’s not.” Stone stood up and shook Wainwright’s hand. “Thank you for being so frank with me. I’ll convey what you’ve told me to Sarah, who I’m sure will have some instructions for you, in due course.”

  Wainwright looked pleased at the prospect.

  Stone left the solicitor’s office and started looking for a cab in Sloane Street. Sarah Buckminster was going to be a very happy starving artist, he reckoned. He glanced at his watch. And now he had to get back to his own business.

  17

  STONE WAS ON HIS SECOND CUP OF tea in the Connaught’s lounge when Ted Cricket and Bobby Jones appeared, exactly on time. When he had seated them and their tea had been served, he sat back and waited for their report.

  “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 wh
at 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.