by Stuart Woods
“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.
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?”
“Throckmorton doesn’t believe it?”
“Of course not; who would?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly tell him everything.”
“I figured. You want to tell me?”
The waiter arrived with the drinks, and they sat down.
Dino raised his glass. “To your eventual freedom,” he said, and took a long pull on his Scotch.
“I’m not under arrest,” Stone said.
“No? Stick around. Now, you want to tell me what the fuck happened?”
“All right, but Throckmorton never hears this, okay?”
“Are you kidding? I came over here to get you out of this, not to send you to Wormy Scrubbers.”
“Wormwood Scrubs.”
“Whatever.”
“All right, here’s how it went,” Stone said.
“You better start at the beginning, so we don’t have to go backwards.”
“All right; this guy showed up in my office, sent by Woodman and Weld.” Stone began to take Dino, blow by blow, through what had happened since he’d arrived in London. He got as far as the explosion at the antiques market when dinner arrived. The waiter served it and left.
When he had gone, Stone continued with the events at the Farm Street house. When he got to the dinner of the night before, he stopped, not wanting to talk about Sarah or Arrington.
“So,” Dino said, “how’s Sarah? How’s Arrington?”
“How did you know Arrington was here?”
“She called me a few days ago, said she was headed to London and how were you?”
“Why didn’t she call me?”
“I guess she did, and you weren’t there, so she called me. She’s buying an apartment in New York.”
“I heard.”
“So tell me about Sarah and Arrington, and how you’re keeping them both happy.”
Stone did the best he could.
“So Arrington is on her way to New York?”
“Right.”
“And Sarah is filthy rich, having knocked off her boyfriend?”
“She didn’t knock him off, it was an accident; I was there.”
“Sure, like Arrington didn’t knock off Vance Calder.”
“You don’t really think she did that, do you?”
“Nobody’s proved to me that she didn’t.”
“Dino, you’re a very suspicious person, do you know that?”
“It’s useful in my work; and if I weren’t a suspicious person, somebody would have knocked you off by now.”
“You’re probably right,” Stone admitted. Dino had gotten him out of the soup more than once.
“You know what I think?” Dino said, pushing back from the table.
“What?”
“I think I’m going to bed. I hear jet lag is a bitch if you don’t get any sleep.”
“So, you’re going to bed without having solved any of my problems?”
“You betcha.” He got up, went to the door of his room, and opened it. “I’ll do that tomorrow.” He closed the door.
“Christ, I wish somebody would,” Stone said.
41
DINO WALKED INTO STONE’S ROOM AT 6:30 A.M., in his pajamas, whistling loudly. “Up and at ’em!” he shouted.
Stone groaned, rolled over, and pulled a pillow over his head.
“Don’t you want to brush your teeth before breakfast?” Dino asked, ripping the covers off Stone.
“No,” Stone replied, trying vainly to get the covers back.
“That’s disgusting,” Dino said. “You can’t eat breakfast without brushing your teeth; it’s unsanitary.”
Stone peeped out from under the pillow. “What breakfast? I haven’t ordered breakfast.”
There was a sharp rap on the door.
“That breakfast,” Dino said, opening the door and admitting the waiter.
Stone went and brushed his teeth; when he returned, an elaborate breakfast had been laid out.
Dino handed him a large glass of orange juice. “Come on, wake up.”
Stone took the orange juice. “This must be what it’s like to be married.”
“Are you kidding?” Dino asked. “The day you get married is the last day you’ll ever get breakfast in bed.”
“I’m not in bed,” Stone said, sipping the orange juice.
“Close enough. What’s your plan for the day?”
“I’m planning for you to solve all my problems,” Stone said.
“Okay, I can do that. Not Arrington, of course, or Sarah; you’ll have to handle those yourself, though of course, I’ll be there with lots of advice.”
“I’d rather not hear it,” Stone said, digging into his scrambled eggs.
“Man, these are really terrific eggs,” Dino said. “How do they get them like this?”
“I asked about that,” Stone replied. “Seems they cook them very slowly, with a lot of butter, in a saucepan
, not a skillet, and they serve them on a hot plate, very soft, since they continue to cook on the plate.”
“No kidding? I’ll have to get Mary Ann to do them that way.”
“Lots of luck. Your wife doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would spend the early moments of her morning making you English scrambled eggs.”
“Who would have thought the English could cook?”
“Someone, I think it was George Bernard Shaw, once said that you could eat very well in England, as long as you have breakfast three times a day.” Stone was waking up now.
Dino laughed. “I gotta remember that one.”
“Don’t bother; it isn’t true anymore; the Brits cook very well indeed these days. Okay, how are you going to solve all my problems?”
“I slept on your problems,” Dino said, “and I think you can best solve them by leaving London and going back to New York. That would remove you from the evil influence of the people around you in this town.”
“They aren’t all evil,” Stone replied.
“No? Name me one person you know in London that you can prove not to be evil.”
“They’re innocent until proven guilty,” Stone said.
“Only in a court of law; in the court of my law, every fucking one of them is guilty of something.”
“Demonstrate, please.”
“Okay, let’s take Bartholomew: Do you have any doubt that he’s an evil son of a bitch?”
Stone thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said, “none.”
“And you’re working for him. How about Lance?”
“Well, I think he may be mixed up in those two murders; and maybe a lot more, as well.”
“Same for Sarah, except it’s just one murder,” Dino said. “Who’s left?”
“Well, there’s Erica and Monica, the sisters.”
“Okay, I guess there have to be some innocent bystanders, but I’m not going to count on it.”
“And there’s Arrington.”
“Arrington doesn’t count; she’s not in London.”
“And Throckmorton.”
“Throckmorton wants you to spend the rest of your life in an English prison, where they don’t have toilets. How evil is that?”
