6 Stone Barrington Novels (98 page)

THEY GOT OUT OF THE CAB IN FRONT of the Farm Street house, and Stone paid the driver while Lance unlocked the door. Stone followed Lance and Erica up the stairs.

Lights were switched on and everything looked quite normal, Stone thought. Coats were hung up, and he followed them into the kitchen.

“Another drink, anybody?”

Stone nodded.

“We've got bourbon,” she said, “or would you rather stick to the Laphroaig?”

“I'll stick with the Scotch, since I've started on it,” Stone replied.

There was a banquette in the kitchen, and Erica made Stone and Lance sit down there, while she began to put some dinner together.

“How about spaghetti Bolognese?” she asked.

“Fine,” Stone and Lance said together.

Erica put some ground steak on the stove to brown and a pot of water on to boil and began chopping an onion. After a few minutes she had all the ingredients in the pot; she covered it, poured herself a drink, and sat down next to Lance. “There,” she said, “we'll let it simmer for a while; by the time the
water has boiled and the pasta is done, it should be ready.”

Nobody seemed to have anything to say. If Erica had had any questions to ask Lance about why they had so suddenly abandoned the house, and just as suddenly returned to it, she didn't ask them now, and neither did Stone, though he was dying to know. In his experience, Lance did not answer questions to which Stone wanted answers.

“What are you working on these days?” Stone asked Lance. Might as well try.

“Oh, this and that; nothing startling.”

“Would you care to be more specific?”

Lance smiled a little smile. “Nope. What are you working on, Stone?”

“Zip,” Stone replied. “This is now strictly vacation time.”

“How long do you plan to stay in London?”

“Oh, I don't know, a few more days, to help Sarah get through James's estate stuff.”

“Doesn't she have Julian Wainwright for that?” Lance asked.

“Yes, but she seems to want my advice, too. Anyway, I'm cheaper—couple of weekends in the country, a few good dinners.”

The water began to boil, and Erica got up and put the pasta into the pot. “Six minutes for al dente,” she said. She pointed to an empty wine rack. “Looks like a trip to the cellar is in order.”

Stone gulped.

Lance sighed, reached into his pocket for the keys, and put them on the table. “Stone, will you bring up a few bottles? I have to go to the john.”

Stone was reluctant but tried not to show it. “Where is the cellar?”

“The door is under the stairs. I'm sorry, but the bulb just inside is burned out, and we don't have a spare; be careful going down the steps. The cellar light is just inside the door; you pull a string.”

Stone got up and took the keys. “Anything special you want?”

“There are two racks dead ahead. Those are my bottles; the rest belong to the house's owner. Bring a few bottles of the Italian stuff.”

Stone nodded and walked into the hallway, pretending to find his way. Lance walked past him into the hallway powder room and closed the door behind him.

It was easier this time, with some light from the hallway, and Stone found his way to the bottom of the cellar stairs. He got the key into the lock and took a deep breath; this was going to require a performance; he would have to run back up the stairs, breathless, and report the presence of two corpses in the cellar. He got the door open and, in the dark, felt for the string to turn on the cellar lights. He found it, hesitated for a moment; should he yell out something, or just run back up the stairs to report the bodies? He pulled the string.

The lights came on to reveal the wine cellar as he had first seen it. No bodies. No bloodstains. No sign that anyone had ever been there, let alone been murdered there. How long since he had left the cellar? An hour and a half? Two hours? He thought about it for a few moments, then did as he had been told: He went to the wine racks dead ahead, the ones covering the office door, and chose four bottles of wine. Then, with two tucked under an arm, he switched off the light, locked the cellar door, and went back upstairs.

“Find everything all right?” asked Lance, who was back seated at the banquette.

“Sure,” Stone replied, setting the bottles and the keys on the table. He sat down and resumed his drink.

Lance got up, found a corkscrew, and uncorked a bottle of Chianti Classico, then put the other three bottles into the kitchen wine rack. He got three glasses from a cupboard and set them on the table, then tasted the wine. “That should do the trick,” he said, and sat down again.

Erica tasted the sauce, then began setting the table. A moment later, she poured the pasta into a collander in the sink, then, while it drained, switched off the stove. She got a large platter from a cupboard, emptied the pasta into it, then poured the sauce on top of it and set it on the table. She brought some Parmesan cheese from the fridge, grated it over the pasta, sat down, and began serving them.

“Buon appetito,” Lance said, raising his glass.

They dug into the pasta.

Stone ate the food, which was very good, and wondered if Lance was the coolest person he'd ever met, or if he just had no idea what had occurred in his house a couple of hours before. “Who did you say owned the house?” he asked.

“A fellow in the Foreign Office, name of Richard Creighton; he's out in the East somewhere, I believe; I pay the rent directly into his bank account. It's quite a nice house, isn't it?”

“It certainly is. It's fairly lived in, for a house owned by someone who's never here.”

“Well, I guess these diplomats have got to have some sort of home to come back to. Anyway,
I'm
living in it, and I suppose he rented it to others before me.”

“I've done a few things to make it better,” Erica said. “The living room curtains are mine, and I've replaced all the bedding in the master suite.”

“Mmmm,” Stone said. “Wonderful sauce.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What plans do the two of you have for the next few days?” Stone asked, because he couldn't think of anything else.

“We're in London,” Lance said. “Unless something comes up.”

“What might come up?”

“Oh, you never know, sometimes a deal requires travel.”

“What are Ali and Sheila going to do about their shop?”

Lance shrugged. “I suppose it's insured.”

“The police are going to want to talk to them.”

Lance stopped eating and looked as if he hadn't thought of that.

“I suppose you're right; Ali can call them in the morning. After all, they weren't in the shop at the time, so they can hardly be of much help.”

“I can tell you from experience that the police are looking for them at this moment,” Stone said. “They don't ignore bombings, and they'll want to hear who Ali and Sheila think might have done this.”

“I expect so,” Lance said, resuming his dinner. “Well, that's Ali's problem, not mine. I expect he'll handle it in the morning.”

“The sooner, the better,” Stone said. “Tell me, do you have a theory about who did it?”

“Not a clue, old bean,” Lance said, looking perfectly innocent. “I hope Ali will leave me out of it when he talks to the cops.”

“Do Ali and Sheila belong to some group that another group might be angry with?”

“What sort of group did you have in mind?”

“Well, they're Middle Easterners, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

“I should think that would give you a variety of groups to choose from—Palestinian, Israeli, Osmin ben whatshisname?”

“I suppose so, but as far as I know, they're not into politics.”

“What are they into?”

“Making money,” Lance replied. “At least, until today. They may want to rethink their business after this; I'm sure they must have lost most, perhaps all, of their inventory.”

“I expect so,” Stone said. They continued eating their dinner, and Stone stopped asking questions; there seemed to be no point, what with the answers he was getting.

STONE SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY IN the most relaxed fashion possible. He was stuck in his investigation, he had no theories, and he had always found that was a good time to do nothing, to let the brain work on its own.

He had breakfast in his room, then did the museums: He started at the National Gallery, where he particularly enjoyed the Italian masters, went on to the National Portrait Gallery, which was fun but didn't take long, then continued to the Tate, where he had lunch in the excellent restaurant before taking in the exhibitions. He walked slowly back to the Connaught—the rain had cleared and the day was lovely—and he was back in his suite when the satellite telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“It's Stan Hedger; do you possess a dinner jacket?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, did you bring it with you? I can send over something, if necessary.”

“Yes, I brought it with me; where am I wearing a dinner jacket?”

“To dinner at the American ambassador's residence; I want you to look at some faces.”

“All right; what time?”

“A car will pick you up at seven o'clock; when you get to the residence, don't recognize me; we'll talk later.” He hung up before Stone could speak again. Stone shrugged and rang for the valet to press his tuxedo.

 

He was standing in front of the Connaught when a car pulled up to the entrance. Stone was startled because it was the car in which he had been abducted. The doorman went to the car window and briefly conversed with the driver.

“Mr. Barrington?” he said. “Your car, sir.” He opened the rear door wide.

Stone inspected the interior before getting into the car.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the uniformed driver said.

“Good evening.” The car pulled away from the curb. “What kind of car is this?”

“It's a Daimler limousine, sir; made by Jaguar.”

“And to whom does it belong?”

“It belongs to the embassy, sir; they have a small fleet of them; this particular one is assigned to the ambassador, but since he's entertaining at home this evening, he didn't need it.”

“Are these cars common in London?”

“Oh, yes; many of the foreign embassies use them, as does the Royal Family.”

Stone relaxed a little; he wasn't being abducted again. “Where is the ambassador's residence?”

“In Regents Park, sir; do you know it?”

“No, this is my first trip to London in many years, and I never got to Regents Park the first time.”

“It's about a twenty-five-minute drive this time of day, sir.”

“You're English?”

“Welsh, sir; the embassy employs quite a lot of locals. Cheaper than bringing over Yanks, I expect.”

“I'm afraid I don't even know the ambassador's name.”

“It's Sumner Wellington, sir; I'm told the name went down rather well with the Queen.”

“Oh, yes, of course; he owns a big communications company,” Stone said.

“That's correct, sir; it's said that American presidents always appoint very rich men to the Court of St. James, because they can afford to do all the necessary entertaining out of their own pockets. Ambassador Wellington has paid for a complete renovation of the residence, as well.”

“Sounds like an expensive job.”

“I expect so, sir.”

“But Ambassador Wellington can afford it.”

“Quite so, sir. You said you were in London once before?”

“Yes, as a student; I did a hitchhiking tour of Europe one summer, and I spent a week of it in London.”

“I expect your accommodations this time are somewhat better than on your last trip.”

“Oh, yes. I spent most nights at a youth hostel, and, on one occasion, I got back after curfew and was locked out, so I slept under a railway arch somewhere.”

“So the Connaught is a big step upwards.”

“You could say that.” The man was awfully chatty for a Brit, Stone thought, especially for a chauffeur. “Are you the ambassador's regular driver?”

“No, sir, I'm just a staff driver; I've driven the ambassador on a few occasions, when his regular driver wasn't available.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yes, sir, I do; I find self-made Americans are much nicer to staff than the upper-class British. Oh, we're in Regents Park, now.”

They were driving along a wide crescent of identical buildings, with the park on their left. After a turn or two, the car glided to a stop before the residence, a very large Georgian house.

A U.S. marine opened the rear door of the car.

“Mr. Barrington?” the driver said.

Stone stopped getting out of the car.

“I was asked to give you a message.”

“Yes?”

“If you recognize someone, be careful.”

“That's it?”

“Yes, sir; I'll be waiting when you're ready to leave; just give your name to the marine on duty.”

“See you later, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stone got out of the car and entered the house. In the huge foyer, there was a reception line that was moving slowly. Stone got into it, behind a very American-looking couple. He was short and pudgy; she was taller, very blonde, and expensive-looking.

“Hey,” the woman said.

“Good evening,” Stone replied.

“That's what I should have said, I guess; good evening.”

“Hey works for me,” Stone laughed.

She held out her hand. “I'm Tiffany Butts; this is my husband, Marvin.”

Stone shook their hands.

“We're from Fort Worth, Texas,” she said. “Are you an American?”

“Oh, yes; I'm from New York.”

“I wasn't sure about your accent.”

“I've been here a few days; maybe I'm picking up an English accent.”

“Oh, shoot, no, it's just me.”

“What business are you in, Mr. Barrington?” Marvin Butts asked.

“I'm an attorney.”

“I'm in the scrap metal business,” Butts said. “In a fairly big way.”

I'll bet you are, Stone thought, or you wouldn't be at this party. “Sounds good.”

“Good, and getting better,” Butts replied.

They had been moving along the line, and suddenly they were before the ambassador and his wife. The ambassador was sixtyish, slim, and handsomely tailored. His wife was twenty-five years his junior, very beautiful and elegant. The ambassador greeted Marvin and Tiffany Butts warmly, then turned toward Stone.

“Good evening,” he said. “Welcome to the residence.”

“Good evening, Mr. Ambassador,” Stone replied. “I'm Stone Barrington.”

“Ah,” the ambassador said, looking him up and down.

His wife gave Stone a broad smile. “We have a mutual friend, Stone,” she said.

“And who would that be, Madame Ambassador?”

“Oh, please, I'm Barbara, among friends.”

Friends? What was she talking about? An aide ushered Stone farther along before he could ask.

Stone found himself a few steps above a large hall, looking down on a very elegant crowd. Before he had moved a step, he recognized two people. The sight of either would have made his heart beat a little faster, but for very different reasons.

Arrington Carter Calder saw him almost at the same moment and held his gaze, expressionless. And just beyond her, Stone saw a short, bald, bullet-headed man he had met before.