Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels

by Stuart Woods

  “Why don’t you get Erica to bed?” Stone asked Sarah. “I’m pretty bushed myself.”

  By the time Sarah crawled into bed with him, he was out.

  59

  STONE AND DINO WERE HAVING BREAKFAST when the doorbell rang. Stone answered it, to find Detective Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton standing there with another officer, looking grim.

  “Good morning,” Stone said.

  “No, it isn’t,” Throckmorton replied, brushing past him and walking into the drawing room. “Come in here and sit down.”

  “I was about to call you; how on earth did you find me here?” Stone asked.

  “I had Miss Burroughs followed,” Throckmorton replied, “and my people weren’t the only ones doing so. Where is she?”

  “Upstairs, asleep,” Stone replied.

  “No, I’m not,” Erica said from the doorway.

  Stone introduced her to the two men.

  “I have only a few questions for you, Miss Burroughs,” Throckmorton said, and he proceeded to ask them. Ten minutes of grilling her produced nothing, and he told her she could go.

  “Get some breakfast,” Stone said to her. “I’ll be a few minutes.”

  “Well, Barrington,” Throckmorton said, “you’ve certainly managed to mix in a number of things, haven’t you?”

  “I suppose I have,” Stone replied.

  “How about Stanford Hedger’s death; did you mix in that?”

  Stone had no trouble looking surprised. “He’s dead?”

  “Knifed outside a Mayfair restaurant late last evening.”

  “I saw him at Heathrow earlier in the evening,” Stone said, “and he was perfectly fine.”

  “He was looking for Lance Cabot?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so were you, I suppose.”

  “No.”

  “Look, I know very well that you’re up to your ears in the Eastover matter, and I’m not in the least convinced that you had nothing to do with Hedger’s death.”

  “May I speak to you alone for a moment?” Stone asked.

  Throckmorton motioned for the detective to leave them.

  “I think we both have a pretty good idea who might have dispatched Hedger, don’t we?” Stone asked when they were alone.

  Throckmorton sighed. “Yes, I suppose I do. He had all the skills; he was ex–Special Air Services, you know.”

  “I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised. I don’t suppose there’s anything but suspicion to link him to Hedger’s death?”

  “He has half a dozen witnesses, all retired policemen, who swear he was in a card game at the time.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll have to leave it.”

  “I wish I could; the Americans are very upset.”

  “Then let them solve it; they don’t seem to have any compunctions about operating on your soil.”

  “No, they don’t, do they?”

  Stone didn’t say anything for a moment. “May I have my passport back, please?”

  “Oh, yes.” Throckmorton stood up, took it from his pocket and handed it to Stone.

  “And my raincoat?”

  “No. That’s evidence. You’ll be returning to New York, then?”

  “Yes, today.”

  “Thank God,” Throckmorton said. “I hope you never come back.” He walked out of the room and the house without another word, followed by his detective, bumping into Mason as he entered the house. The two men exchanged a long glance, but said nothing to each other.

  “Good morning,” Stone said to Mason. “Any news?”

  “None I can give you,” Mason replied. “I’ve come for your car, your pen, and your button.”

  “Oh, yes.” He had forgotten. He went into the kitchen, found a knife, and cut the button from his sleeve.

  “What are you doing?” Dino asked.

  “I’ll tell you later.” He went back into the drawing room and handed Mason the button, pen, and car keys.

  “Thank you,” Mason said, then turned to go.

  “There’s nothing you can tell me?” Stone asked.

  “It’s not my place,” Mason replied. “Thank you for your assistance; you got your passport back?”

  “Yes.”

  “I shouldn’t delay leaving the country, if I were you.”

  “I’ll be gone before sundown,” Stone replied.

  “Yes, sundown; that’s when you Americans get out of town, isn’t it?”

  “Only in Westerns.”

  “Well, I suppose this has been a sort of Western, hasn’t it? Except we didn’t get the bad guy in the end.”

  “Will you?”

  “A personal opinion?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll get Morgan one of these days. As for Cabot, I doubt if Morgan can identify him, so we don’t actually have anything concrete on which to base a prosecution. And to tell you the truth, I doubt if my management would prosecute him if we did. This whole business has been terribly embarrassing for them, as well as for Carpenter and me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stone said.

  Mason shook his hand. “Don’t be; in a week or two, the whole thing will have blown over for us. Take care.”

  “You, too.” Stone showed him out.

  Stone went into the kitchen, where Sarah had joined everybody. “I want everybody ready to leave for Heathrow in an hour,” he said, checking his watch.

  Sarah drove them, and walked Stone as far as the security checkpoint. “I had hoped you might stay for a long time,” she said.

  “I’m an American and a New Yorker. As much as I like it here, I know where home is.”

  “And after I went to all that trouble,” she said.

  Stone frowned. “Trouble?”

  “Well, I had to, didn’t I? Daddy is nearly broke, and if he’d lost any of the lawsuits, he’d lose everything, even the house. I had to do something; then you turned up, and it became even more imperative.”

  Stone stared at her. “Jesus, Sarah, you didn’t . . .”

  “Didn’t I?” she asked. She kissed him and walked away.

  Dino and Erica joined Stone. “You don’t look so hot,” Dino said.

  “Just a little shaken,” Stone said.

  “What, she told you the truth?”

  “Yes, in a way; nothing that I could testify to, though.”

  “Jesus, Stone, I knew all that; why didn’t you?”

  “I guess I didn’t want to know.”

  “Yeah, you’re good at that. Come on, we’ve got a rocket ship to catch.”

  As the Concorde roared down the runway, Stone looked at Erica sitting beside him, reading a magazine. “You don’t seem terribly upset about Lance,” he said.

  She shrugged. “He told me something like this might happen someday. I’ll hear from him, eventually.”

  Stone reflected that he was finally doing what “John Bartholomew” had hired him to do: bring home Erica Burroughs. He settled into his seat. What with the time change, they’d arrive in New York before they left London.

  60

  STONE WAS AWAKENED EARLY THE following morning by the telephone. For a moment he was disoriented, thinking he was at the Connaught or in the late James Cutler’s bed. He glanced at the clock; he had slept for twelve hours. “Hello?” he croaked into the phone.

  “It’s Carpenter,” she said. “You sound awful.”

  “I was asleep,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, the time difference; it’s lunchtime here.”

  “Right.”

  “Mason said you wanted an update?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “There’s good news and bad news; which do you want first?”

  Stone groaned. “The bad news.”

  “My management have categorically refused to reimburse you for your monetary loss. They feel no responsibility.”

  “That’s sweet of them. Tell me the good news.”

  “It comes in two parts: first, we caught Morgan in Hawaii.”

  Stone sat up in
bed. “Did he have my money with him?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Stone fell back into the bed. “Why are you torturing me?”

  “I said the good news came in two parts.”

  “All right, what’s part two?”

  “Morgan checked in for his flight only shortly before it departed, so his luggage didn’t make it aboard the aircraft.”

  Stone sat up in bed again. “The valise?”

  “Heathrow security found it, waiting patiently to be put aboard the next flight. There was nearly half a million dollars in it.”

  “Yeeessss!” Stone shouted, punching the air.

  “It will take a little sorting out, but I imagine that, in a few days, I can transfer it to your New York bank. Do you have the account number?”

  Stone gave her his brokerage account number. “Send it there,” he said, “back where it came from.”

  “Well, I suppose you’ll be able to buy me dinner the next time I’m in New York.”

  “Yes, I suppose I will be able to afford that. Soon, I hope.”

  “You never know.”

  “What about Lance Cabot? Any word on him?”

  “He was too slick for us. The motorcycle turned out to be his; we picked up his pilot when he returned for the machine; Cabot had given it to him, apparently.”

  “What did the pilot tell you?”

  “He delivered Cabot to a farmer’s field in France, he isn’t sure where, since Cabot erased the coordinates from his GPS computer before leaving the airplane. He was met by two people, one of them answering to the description of Ali. We haven’t been able to trace him from there, so we have to assume that both he and, ah, his luggage reached their destination. We don’t know where that was.”

  “Mason said he probably wouldn’t be prosecuted.”

  “That’s right, but we would certainly make it difficult for him if he ever returned to Britain. I expect that he won’t; he’ll enjoy his ill-gotten gains in a more hospitable climate.” She paused. “Well, I must run.”

  “May I know your name, now?”

  She laughed. “All in good time. You take care of yourself.”

  “Listen, when do you think . . .” But she had gone.

  Stone got out of bed, and by the time he had dressed and breakfasted, his secretary was at her desk, working away.

  “Good morning!” she said. “And welcome back!”

  “Thank you, Joan,” he said. “Will you let my broker know to expect the return of some funds I took out of my account? In a few days, I think.”

  “Of course,” she said. She handed him a stack of message slips. “Here are your phone calls, and this was in the fax machine when I came in yesterday.”

  Stone looked at the paper. It was from his Swiss banker.

  Sir, it read, I take pleasure in reporting the receipt of the following funds into your account. Stone looked at the bottom of the form. The amount was one million dollars.

  “Good God!” Stone said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing; Lance kept his word.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.” Stone stood and thought about the ramifications of receiving this money. Should he return it? If so, to whom?

  “You look puzzled,” Joan said.

  Stone nodded. “I think you’d better get my accountant on the phone.”

  “That doesn’t really mean what it says, does it?” she asked, nodding at the document in his hand.

  “I’m afraid it does.”

  She picked up the phone. “I’ll get your accountant,” she said.

  “You know,” Stone said to her, “it’s amazing what can happen in a short forever.”

  She stopped dialing. “What?”

  “Never mind,” Stone said. He was trying to figure out how he was going to explain all this to his accountant.

  He’d had worse problems.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to express my thanks to my editor, David Highfill, for making this the first manuscript in my career where an editor asked for no revisions whatever. It takes a highly discerning editor to know when something doesn’t need fixing.

  I am very grateful to my publisher, the remarkable Phyllis Grann, now gone on to other things, for her interest in my career and for her efforts to do the best for each of my titles that she published. I wish her well in whatever she undertakes.

  My agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, and all the people at Janklow & Nesbit, continue to manage my career with care and thoughtfulness, and always produce excellent results. I am very appreciative of all their efforts.

  I thank Maldwin and Gilly Drummond for lending me the site of their wonderful house, if not the house itself, to use for the Wight home.

  And I am always grateful to my wife, Chris, for her acute observations when reading my manuscripts and for her affection.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

  However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

  If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

  Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.

  When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

  Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

  Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

  Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

  Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 90212-1825.

  Those who wish to conduct business of a more literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022.

  If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Putnam representative or the G. P. Putnam’s Sons Publicity Department with the request.

  If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to David Highfill at Putnam, address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

  A list of all my published works appears in the front of this book. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the on-line bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incid
ents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguin.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dirty Work

  A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2003 by Stuart Woods

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguin.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0984-4

  A SIGNET BOOK®

  Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: September, 2003

  Contents

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