6 Stone Barrington Novels (100 page)

LATER THAT EVENING, MR. CHEVALIER, the maître d' in the Connaught restaurant, took note that Stone had arrived, for the second time that week, with a beautiful woman. He must have had a sense of humor, because he seated them at the same corner table that Stone had shared with Sarah.

Sarah had called that afternoon. “Why don't I cook you some dinner at my flat this evening?”

“I'm afraid I already have plans,” Stone said.

“Anyone I know?”

Strictly speaking, no, though she knew about Arrington. “No.”

“I'm not sure I like this.”

“It's business,” Stone said, falling back on the most convenient lie. He didn't like lying, but he was cornered.

“Oh.”

“How's it going with James's estate?” he asked, wanting to remind her that she should, strictly speaking, be in mourning.

“Splendidly,” she said. “Julian Wainwright has had a word with the conglomerate, and it looks as though they're still interested in buying the business.”

“That's good news.”

“Yes, it is.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Will I see you this week?”

“Of course. Oh, by the way, do you know if Monica spoke to Lance the other night, after she gave me the keys to the Farm Street house?”

“I don't think so; we had dinner together, and I dropped her off at her place later. She didn't call anyone while we were together. Why?”

“I decided not to go to Lance's house, since it really isn't any of my business, and I didn't want Lance to think I had been there.”

“I'm seeing Monica later today; I could mention that to her, if you like.”

“I'd appreciate that. I put the keys through her mail slot not long after she gave them to me.”

“All right, then, I'll see you later, I hope.”

“Of course,” Stone replied, and hung up feeling guilty.

 

Seated at the corner table, with Arrington beside him, in the warm glow of the Connaught restaurant, Stone no longer felt guilty. The difficult past he and Arrington shared had receded; all he could think about was here and now.

“It's so good to see you,” Arrington said.

“And you.”

“When I saw you in Palm Beach, you said you'd call me the next day. Why didn't you?”

He had called her in the morning and a man had answered, so he had hung up. “You'll recall the circumstances of the evening,” Stone said. “I had to make a stop at the local hospital, and they got me out of there early the next morning on Thad Shames's jet.” It had been from the jet that he had called her. “By the time I
got to New York and the drugs had worn off, you had left Palm Beach.” He was guessing that she had left.

“Yes, I left the next day,” she said. “Oh, by the way, here's that list you asked for.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her purse.

Stone looked at the list: the Swedish ambassador and his wife; the Belgian chargé d'affaires and wife; the Israeli cultural attaché and wife; the German military attaché and wife; the Australian head of chancery and wife. “There's no seating plan,” he said.

“Sorry, I couldn't get that; some secretary had apparently shredded it, or something.”

It was a start, Stone thought; he'd have to go over this with Hedger.

“Why did you want the list?”

“There was a man at the table I recognized, but I couldn't place him.”

“You know a lot of diplomats, do you?”

“No, he just looked very familiar. It'll come to me.”

“You're not losing brain cells, are you?”

He laughed. “Yes, but no more than usual.”

They had a drink and ordered dinner. Stone didn't really care what he ate; he was happy just to be with her, with no strain, no conflict. Every time they had met during the past couple of years there had always been some problem that made the situation difficult.

“It's so nice to be back in London,” Arrington said. “And I've always loved this room. Vance and I stayed here when we were in town, and we always had dinner here at least once.”

That didn't improve the atmosphere much for Stone, but he let it pass.

“You're looking very beautiful tonight,” he said, trying to get things back on track.

“You look pretty good yourself,” she said.

Mr. Chevalier suddenly appeared at the table and handed Stone a small envelope. “A message for you, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

“Thank you,” Stone replied. “Sorry about this,” he said to Arrington. He opened the envelope. On a sheet of the hotel's stationery was written,
I am in the hotel lounge; I must see you at once.
It was signed by Detective Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton.

“Oh, shit,” Stone muttered.

“What is it?”

“There's someone here I have to see for a moment. Please excuse me.”

“Not a woman, I hope,” Arrington said.

“Fear not.” He left the table and started toward the lounge. As he reached the central hallway, Monica appeared through the front doors.

“Hello, there,” she said, taking him by the shoulders and giving him a kiss on the lips.

Stone could see Throckmorton waiting impatiently in the lounge across the hallway. “Hello; I dropped Lance's keys through your mail slot; did you get them?”

“Yes. Did you check out his house?”

“No, I decided it was none of my business, so I dropped off the keys. Why are you at the Connaught?”

“I'm having dinner with some friends in the grill; I'd better run.” She repeated the warm kiss, then disappeared down the hall into the grill.

Stone walked into the lounge, wiping lipstick from his lips. Throckmorton and two men who were obviously detectives were waiting for him, seated in large chairs, still wearing their raincoats. The detective inspector looked grim. A raincoat was draped across his lap. “Sit down,” he said. “I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want truthful answers,” he said.

Stone sat down.

“Early this morning,” Throckmorton began, “a police constable in Hyde Park found a stolen car abandoned there.”

Stone tried to remain calm.

“In the boot were the bodies of two men who had been murdered, shot in the head with a handgun, obviously a professional job of work.”

“I believe I saw something about that in the papers,” Stone replied.

“They were of Mediterranean extraction, carrying Greek passports. Do you know anyone of that description?”

“No,” Stone lied.

“Think carefully, Mr. Barrington; you don't want to make any mistakes.”

“I do not think I am acquainted with them.”

Throckmorton took the raincoat from his lap and held it out to Stone. “Then why was one of them wearing your raincoat?” He opened the coat and turned out an inside pocket. A label bore the name of Doug Hayward's shop and neatly printed inside, Stone's own name.

Stone was stunned; he struggled to remain calm. “I don't understand,” Stone said. “My raincoat is upstairs.”

“Let's go and see it,” Throckmorton said, standing up.

Stone went to the concierge's desk, asked for his key, and led the way to the elevator. The four men filled it completely. Stone's mind was racing. When the two men had entered Lance's house, they must have hung their raincoats on the rack with Stone's: When he had left the house, he must have taken the wrong coat. Oh, shit, shit, shit! How was he going to explain this? And if he told Throckmorton everything, how would he explain not having told him earlier about the two corpses in the wine cellar?

The elevator stopped on Stone's floor, and he led them to his suite. He went to a closet, found the raincoat, and handed it to Throckmorton.

The two detectives peered over his shoulder at the two coats, comparing them. “They're nearly identical,” one of them said, helpfully. “The linings look the same, too.”

“Mmm, yes,” Throckmorton agreed. He turned to Stone. “That doesn't explain how the two coats got exchanged,” he said.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Stone replied. “Perhaps in a checkroom somewhere?”

“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.