6 Stone Barrington Novels (82 page)

STONE WOKE UP HUNGOVER. HE SHOULDN'T drink that much so close to bedtime, he reflected, and resolved, once again, not to do it again. It was half past eight, and this guy Bartholomew was coming at nine; no time for breakfast. He showered and shaved and got into a suit, then went down to his office on the ground floor.

The ground floor, except for the garage, had been a dentist's office when Stone's great-aunt had still owned the house. After Stone inherited the place and renovated it, mostly with the sweat of his own brow, he turned the dentist's office into his own. His secretary, Joan Robertson, worked at the front of the house, then came a couple of small rooms for supplies and the copying machine, then his own office, a pleasant room at the back of the house, looking out into the gardens of Turtle Bay, a collection of townhouses in the East Forties that opened onto a common garden. Only the burglar bars spoiled the view.

Stone heard the clicking of computer keys stop, and Joan came back to his office. “You're in early,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Stone asked, with mock offense. “It's nearly nine o'clock.”

“That's what I mean. I'll bet you didn't have time for breakfast.”

“You got some coffee on?”

“I'll get you a cup,” she said.

“There's some guy named John Bartholomew coming in at nine,” he said. “Bill Eggers sent him.”

“I'll show him in when he arrives,” she said.

Stone shuffled listlessly through the files on his desktop. He hadn't lied when he'd told Eggers that he wasn't busy.

Joan came back with the coffee. He was grateful that her taste in beans ran with his, that she liked the strong, dark stuff that usually got made into espresso. “Did Callie get in last night?” she asked.

“She got in, then she got out.”

“Out? You mean,
out
?”

“I do. She's marrying Thad Shames this weekend.”

“Good God! I'm shocked!”

“So was I, to tell the truth.”

“You let another one get away.”

“Joan . . .”

She threw her hands up defensively. “Sorry, it's none of my business. You want me to send a wedding gift?”

Stone brightened. “Good idea. Go find the ugliest piece of sterling that Tiffany's makes and send it to them in Palm Beach with a truly sincere card.”

The doorbell rang. “There's your appointment,” she said. She left and returned a moment later with a tall, heavyset man in his fifties who, in his youth, had probably played college football.

“I'm Stone Barrington,” Stone said, rising and offering his hand.

“John Bartholomew,” the man replied, shaking it.

Stone waved him to a chair. “Bill Eggers called last night.”

“Did he give you any details?”

“No.”

Joan brought in another cup of coffee on a silver tray and offered it to Bartholomew, who had, apparently, placed his order with her on arrival.

Bartholomew sipped it. “Damned fine coffee,” he said.

There was something vaguely British about him, Stone thought, perhaps more than just the hand-tailored suit. “Thank you. We drink it strong around here.”

“The way I like it,” the big man replied. “Never could understand that decaf crap. Like drinking nonalcoholic booze. Why bother?”

Stone nodded and sipped his own coffee.

“We don't have much time, Mr. Barrington, so I'll come to the point. I have a niece, my dead sister's only child, name of Erica Burroughs.” He spelled the name. “She's twenty, dropped out of Mount Holyoke, involved with a young man named Lance Cabot.”

“Of the Massachusetts Cabots?”

“He'd like people to think so, I'm sure, but no, no relation at all; doesn't even know them; I checked. Young Mr. Cabot, I'm reliably informed, earns his living by smuggling quantities of cocaine across international borders. Quantities small enough to conceal on his person or in his luggage, but large enough to bring him an income, you follow?”

“I follow.”

“I'm very much afraid that Erica, besotted as she is, may be assisting him in his endeavors, and I don't want to see her end up in a British prison.”

“She's in Britain?”

Bartholomew nodded. “London, living with Mr. Cabot, quite fancily, in a rented mews house in Mayfair.” He opened a briefcase and handed Stone a file
with a few sheets of paper inside. “Don't bother reading this now, there isn't time, but it contains everything I've been able to learn about Cabot, and something about Erica, as well. What I'd like you to do is to go to London, persuade Erica to come back to New York with you, and, if it's possible without implicating Erica, get young Mr. Cabot arrested. I'd like him in a place where he can't get to Erica. For as long as possible, it goes without saying.”

“I see.”

“Will you undertake this task? You'll be very well paid, I assure you, and you will lack for no comfort while traveling.”

Stone didn't have to think long, and mostly what he thought about was Sarah Buckminster, another relationship he'd managed to fuck up, though it wasn't really his fault. “I will, Mr. Bartholomew, but you must understand that I will be pretty much limited to whatever persuasion I can muster, within the law, and whatever influence with the authorities I can scrape up. I won't kidnap your niece, and I won't harm Cabot, beyond whatever justice I can seek for him, based on crimes that are real and not imagined.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Barrington. I'm well aware that you are a respectable attorney and not a thug for hire. I'm also informed, by a number of people, Samuel Bernard among them, that you are a resourceful man and that your background as a police detective gives you entrée to certain places.”

“Sometimes,” Stone admitted, “but not always. There are limits to what an ex-policeman can do.”

“I understand. I simply want you to do whatever you can.”

“On that basis, I'll go,” Stone said. “I'll ask my secretary to book me on a flight this evening.”

“That won't be necessary,” Bartholomew said, digging into his briefcase and coming up with an envelope secured with a rubber band. He tossed it onto Stone's desk. “You're booked on a two
P
.
M
. flight to London, and I've reserved accommodation for you at the Connaught hotel. There's five thousand pounds sterling in the envelope and the name of a man at Coutts Bank in The Strand who will provide you with more, should you need it. Please enjoy whatever food, drink, and guests you may wish to have at the Connaught; the bill will come to me, and you need not keep track of your expenses.”

“That's very generous,” Stone replied.

“All the relevant addresses and phone numbers are in the file, as is my card. Call me should you need advice or assistance of any sort. I understand that this may take a week or two, or even longer, so don't feel pressed for time. I want this done in the best way possible, regardless of time or cost.” He reached into his briefcase, came up with a box, and placed it on Stone's desk. “This is a satellite telephone that will work anywhere in Britain. Please use it to contact me when necessary; my number is programmed into the first digit. All you do is press one and hold it, and I'll be on the other end. Please keep it with you at all times, in case I should wish to contact you.”

“All right.”

Bartholomew stood up. “Now, I must hurry to an appointment, and you have a flight to catch.” He shook hands with Stone, closed his briefcase, and marched out of the office, a man in a hurry.

STONE WENT UPSTAIRS AND STARTED packing. He had no real idea what clothes he might need, so he overpacked, as he often did, taking three cases. He was gathering his toiletries when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It's Dino. You all right? You got pretty snockered last night.”

“Yes, I did, but I'm bearing up. In fact, I'm off to London in a couple of hours.”

“For what?”

“Some client of Woodman and Weld has a niece who's about to get herself in trouble in London, and I'm supposed to bring her back.”

“Who's the client?”

“A man named John Bartholomew.” Stone dug in the file for Bartholomew's card. It bore only a phone number and a cellphone number. “Sorry, I thought I had a business card, but it's only a number.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Yes, you can see if a man named Lance Cabot has a sheet.”

“Just a minute,” Dino said.

Stone could hear computer keys clicking.

“Nope, nothing on him, either in our computer or the federal database.”

“Too bad, I was hoping for some ammunition. You know anybody at Scotland Yard?”

“Yeah, I think so; let me check the Rolodex.” Another pause. “Here we go: Evelyn, with a long
E,
Throckmorton.”

“You're kidding.”

“I swear to God, that's his name, and don't forget the long
E
, otherwise it's a girl's name. He's in that Special Branch thing, with a rank of detective inspector. He was over here last year, looking for an Irish terrorist, and he needed an Italian cop for some help, since the Irish cops wouldn't have anything to do with him.”

“Is that what he does? Chase terrorists?”

“Beats me; I didn't get to know him that well, but he owes me a favor, so I'll call him for you.”

“Thanks, I'd appreciate that.”

“How you feeling about Callie this morning?”

“Okay, though you and Elaine were no help at all.”

“I seem to recall there's a lady in London called Sarah Buckminster.”

“That crossed my mind.”

“She might be just the thing to help you get over Callie.”

“I'm already over Callie, but what the hell?”

“Okay, pal, have a good trip. Call me if you get in over your head.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I'm always having to pull you out of the shit, you know. What makes you think this trip will be any different?”

“I'll try to get through it without needing rescuing.”

“Oh, it's never any bother; you always get into such
interesting shit. Makes my humdrum life just a little more exciting. See ya.” Dino hung up.

 

Stone drove himself to Kennedy Airport while Joan sat in the passenger seat, taking notes on what to do while he was gone. She dropped him at the first-class entrance at British Airways, gave him a peck on the cheek, and drove off in his car. A porter took his luggage into the terminal and left him at the check-in counter.

A young woman looked at his ticket. “I'm sorry, sir, this is the wrong counter.”

Stone was annoyed. After Bartholomew's seeming generosity, he'd expected to be in first class.

“You're just down there,” she said, pointing to the Concorde check-in.

What a nice man Bartholomew was, Stone thought.

 

The cabin was tubelike, much smaller than he'd expected, and the seats were no larger than business class, but since the flight was only three hours, it hardly mattered. By the time he'd had a late lunch and read a couple of magazines, they were at Heathrow. He stood in line for immigration, then presented his passport.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington. Welcome to Britain,” the young female officer said. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” Stone said. “A little vacation.”

“And how long do you plan to stay?”

“Somewhere between a few days and a couple of weeks, I suppose.”

“And are you aware that your passport expires the day after tomorrow?”

He was not. “I'm sorry, I didn't notice.”

She handed it back to him. “You can renew it at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Enjoy your stay.”

Stone pocketed his passport. “Thank you.” He followed the signs toward baggage claim and retrieved his cases.

Stone made a point of dressing well when traveling; it seemed to smooth the way, somehow, and British customs was no exception. While a slovenly young man ahead of him had his bags searched, Stone walked through the “nothing to declare” gate and found himself staring at a man in a uniform holding up a sign with his name on it.

“I'm Mr. Barrington,” he said to the man.

The man took Stone's luggage cart. “Please follow me, sir.”

Stone followed him to a large Mercedes, and a moment later they were on their way into central London. Stone reset his watch, noting that it was nearly eleven
P
.
M
., London time, and he was not at all tired or sleepy.

The Connaught was small by hotel standards, discreet, and elegant. At the front desk, he merely signed a check-in form; there were no other formalities.

“I believe the concierge has a message for you, Mr. Barrington,” the young man at the desk said. “Just behind you.”

“Mr. Barrington?” the concierge said, before Stone had barely turned. “Mr. Bartholomew rang and said that he had arranged privileges for you at these places.” He handed Stone a sheet of paper.

Annabel's, Harry's Bar, and the Garrick Club, Stone read. “Thank you,” he said to the concierge. “Where would you suggest I go for some dinner at this hour?”

“Well, sir, our restaurant has already closed, and
room service would only have sandwiches this late. I'd suggest Annabel's; it's a short walk, and they go on quite late there.” He gave Stone directions. “If you'd like to go straightaway, the porter will be glad to unpack for you.”

“Thank you, I will,” Stone said. Following the directions, he left the hotel and walked down Mount Street toward Berkeley Square, then turned right. The night was cool and clear, belying what he'd heard about London weather. He crossed a street and followed an iron railing to an awning over a basement entrance, then walked downstairs. He was greeted by a doorman who clearly didn't recognize him, but as soon as he gave his name he was ushered down a hallway.

“Would you like to go straight into the dining room, sir, or would you prefer to have a drink first?” the man asked.

They had entered a beautifully decorated lounge and bar area. “I'd like a drink first,” Stone said. He was shown to a comfortable sofa under a very good oil of a dog and her puppies, and he ordered a glass of champagne. He looked around. There were many good pictures and an extremely well-dressed crowd. The women were beautiful in London, he reflected.

As he sipped his champagne, a very handsome couple entered the bar, both obviously a little drunk. They were seated on the opposite wall, and they were both quite beautiful. The girl was tall and willowy, wearing a very short dress, and the young man wore a rakishly cut suit that had obviously not come off the rack. They nuzzled and giggled, and they attracted the attention of other patrons with their behavior.

Stone watched as a barman approached them, and his voice was mildly disapproving. “Good evening, Mr. Cabot,” Stone heard him say.