STONE WAS AT his desk the following morning when Joan buzzed him.
“Yes?”
“Lance Cabot is here to see you.”
“Send him in.”
Lance came into Stone’s office carrying an envelope. “Good morning,” he said, his usual affable self.
“Good morning, Lance. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to talk to you about your contract.”
“All right.”
“Holly’s is fine. I’ve sent it on to Langley, where it will be countersigned, dated, and a copy returned to her. Your contract, however, has a problem: I can’t include words like ‘his usual hourly or daily rate.’ We must be specific.”
“All right, five hundred dollars an hour.”
“I think it would be to your advantage if we kept it at a daily rate, like Holly’s contract.”
“All right, four thousand dollars a day.”
“I was thinking two thousand.”
“Thirty-five hundred.”
“Three.”
“Done.”
Lance removed the contract from the envelope. “Do you think your secretary could retype this page?”
“Of course.” He buzzed for Joan.
Lance made the changes and handed the page to Joan, who disappeared.
“So, we have a deal?” Lance said.
“Yes, we do.”
“Good. I’d like you to go to London today.”
Stone managed not to look amazed. “Today?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“That will be explained to you when you arrive at the Connaught, which is where we’re putting you up.”
“How long will I be gone?”
“One, possibly two nights.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Why not?”
“I have a houseguest.”
Lance sighed. “Holly can’t go with you.”
“It’s only a Concorde ticket.”
“Not even if you pay for it yourself, and I was thinking business class.”
“My contract calls for deluxe travel.”
“Oh, all right.” Lance raised his hands in surrender.
“When and how will my expenses be paid?”
“Our travel agent will make your travel arrangements. You can bill us for anything other than your plane tickets, hotel, and airport transfers. My people will send you an expense form. It’s a pain in the ass, but your secretary can do it.”
“Do what?” Joan asked, entering the room. She handed a sheet of paper to Lance.
“My expenses,” Stone said.
“What expenses?”
“From my London trip.”
“What London trip?”
“The one that starts today.”
“Is this for the Woodsmoke Corporation?”
Lance spoke up. “Exactly.”
“What, exactly, is the Woodsmoke Corporation?”
“Thanks, Joan,” Lance said. “That’ll be all for the moment.” Lance spread the contract on Stone’s desk, and they both signed it.
“There,” Lance said. “All done. I’ll have your tickets and hotel confirmation sent over in an hour or so. You’d better start packing.” He turned to go.
“Wait a minute. What am I supposed to do when I get there?”
“Get a good night’s sleep, if that’s possible, then expect a phone call in the morning. Somebody will mention Woodsmoke. Have a good trip.” Lance walked out.
Stone went upstairs and found Holly. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappear for a couple of days,” he said.
“Why?”
“I have to go to London.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sounds like Lance.”
“It is. You’ll have a signed copy of your contract soon, he says.”
“Why don’t I go with you?”
“I asked. He says no, and it’s his party.”
“Party?”
“So to speak. Make yourself at home in the house.”
“Can I sleep in your bed?”
“By all means. I’d like to think of you sleeping in my bed.”
“And in London, whose bed will you be sleeping in?” she asked archly.
“The Connaught Hotel’s bed. I don’t believe they supply sleeping partners.”
“Good. You won’t tell me what you’re going to be doing there?”
“I told you, I don’t know what I’m going to be doing there, and I may not be able to tell you, even after I find out.”
“I love all this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” she said.
“No, you don’t. You’d rather know what’s happening.”
“Well, that’s true, I guess.”
“I have to pack,” he said, going to his closet and taking down a carry-on suitcase.
“Can I watch?”
“Watch?”
“I want to see what you take.”
“Whatever turns you on.” He packed three changes of underwear, socks, and shirts, a couple of nightshirts, and folded a suit on top of it.
“No toiletries?”
Stone took down a small duffel from a shelf. “Already packed.”
“That was pretty simple.”
“I can go just about anywhere with a blazer and a blue suit.”
“What if you get a black-tie invitation?”
“If I think that might happen, I’ll take a dinner jacket, but that’s for a longer trip. Worse comes to worst, I can wear a black bow tie with the blue suit, or I can rent.”
“What are you taking for shoes?”
“A pair of black alligator loafers. They’ll work with anything.”
“Everything is so simple for men.”
“Yeah? Try shaving every day.”
“Stubble is in.”
“Along with bad haircuts and three-button suits, which are as ridiculous as stubble and bad haircuts.”
“Why?”
“They’re boxy and unflattering.”
“Have a good trip. Daisy and I are off to the park. Call me when you get there, just to let me know you’re still alive.”
“If I don’t call, I’m dead.”
“You’d better be.” She kissed him goodbye and left with Daisy.
AS THE CONCORDE began its takeoff roll, Stone started to think about Carpenter, whose real name was Felicity Devonshire. They had parted on not very good terms a few months before, and he wasn’t sure if she’d want to see him. Come to that, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see her.
He took a nap and woke up as a flight attendant announced their descent into Heathrow. He made short work of Immigration, and he had no checked luggage. He walked through customs without being stopped and began looking for his name among the drivers gathered outside customs, waving cards with their passengers’ names on them. His was not among them. So much for deluxe travel.
A man wearing a dark suit stepped up to him. “Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
The man relieved him of his case. “Please follow me.” His accent was American.
Stone followed the man outside, where a black Mercedes waited at the curb, a driver at the wheel. Stone got into the back, while the man stowed his luggage in the trunk, then got into the front seat beside the driver. The car moved swiftly away.
“I had expected an American car,” Stone said.
“Too much of a tip-off to the opposition,” the man said. “The Mercedes is more anonymous in London.”
“What opposition?”
“Whoever.”
“Any news on what I’m doing here?”
“Somebody will call you in the morning. I’m told you may be finished in time for an afternoon flight tomorrow. If so, we’ll pick you up at the Connaught.”
Nothing was said for the remainder of the drive into London.
Stone checked into the Connaught and was given a handsome suite on the top floor. He booked a dinner table downstairs, had a nap, showered and changed, and went down to dinner.
Something was wrong. He looked around the handsome, paneled room as he was shown to his table. The big chandelier was gone; there was an odd, contemporary carpet on the floor; there were strange new sconces on the walls; the waiters were not dressed in their usual tailcoats; Mr. Chevalier, the restaurant manager, was nowhere to be seen; the elaborate menu had been replaced by a much shorter one.
“Where is Mr. Chevalier?” he asked the captain.
“He has left the Connaught. I understand he’s at Harry’s Bar now.”
“What about the chef?”
“Gone, too. We have a new chef.”
Stone’s dinner was good but different. It wasn’t the Connaught dining room anymore. He felt as if he’d lost an old friend.
Stone was wakened at seven a.m. by the telephone.
“Hello?”
“It’s Carpenter.”
“Hello. How’d you know I was here?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t because you called me, was it? You needn’t have spent the evening alone.”
Stone didn’t know what to say.
“A car will pick you up at eight-thirty this morning,” she said. “Please be out front. And think carefully before you speak.”
“Speak about what?” But she had hung up.
Stone had a full English breakfast, then dressed and went downstairs at the appointed hour. The doorman opened the door to an anonymous black sedan, a Ford, Stone thought, and he got inside.
“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” one of the two men in the front seat said. His accent was Cockney.
“Good morning. Where are we going?”
“We have a twelve- or fifteen-minute drive, depending on traffic,” the man said.
“But where?”
“Please make yourself comfortable.”
Stone looked out the window as the car drove down to Berkeley Square, up Conduit Street to Regent Street, down to Piccadilly Circus, then Shaftsbury Avenue to Cambridge Circus. They turned off into a side street, then into an alley, and the car stopped.
The man got out, looked carefully up and down the alley, then opened Stone’s door. “Just here, Mr. Barrington,” he said, indicating an unmarked door.
Stone got out, and the door was opened for him just before he reached it.
“Please follow me,” a young man in a pin-striped suit said. His accent was upper-class. Stone followed the young man to an elevator with unmarked buttons, and they rode up a few stories and got out. He was shown into a small room containing a leather sofa and some chairs.
“Please be seated, Mr. Barrington. You’ll be called in a few minutes.”
“Called for what and by whom?” Stone asked, but the door had already been closed. He felt as if he were in the waiting room of a psychiatrist’s office.
Stone rummaged through a stack of old
Country Life
magazines and chose the most recent, which was more than a year old. He sat down and leafed through it, reading about country houses for sale in Kent and the Cotswolds. Perhaps twenty minutes passed and then a door at one side of the room opened.
A middle-aged man in a good suit stood in the doorway, holding a file folder under one arm. The shrink? “Mr. Barrington, will you come in, please?” He stood back to let Stone pass.
Stone walked into a conference room. Four men, ranging in age from their early fifties to their early seventies, sat at the opposite end of a table that seated twelve. A chair was pulled out at Stone’s end, and he sat down.
“Good morning,” said a gray-haired man seated down the table from Stone.
“Good morning,” Stone said. He had the feeling that either he was present for a job interview or he had done something terribly wrong and was being called to account. Then the man who had shown him into the room handed him a Bible and a sheet of cardboard.
“Please take the Bible and read aloud from the card,” he said.
Stone took the Bible and read, “I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I am about to give in this proceeding is the truth.”
The man took back the Bible and the card.
Was this a court? A grand jury? He noticed for the first time that a woman sat in a corner before a stenographic machine.
The man at the other end of the table answered Stone’s unasked questions. “This is an inquiry,” he said, “into the events which occurred at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City earlier this year in your presence, Mr. Barrington. Also present were a Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti and a person you know as Carpenter. Do you recall the occasion?”
“Yes,” Stone said, “I believe so.”
“The three of you were in pursuit of a young woman named Marie-Thérèse du Bois?”
“Yes, we were.”
“We have heard testimony that Mademoiselle du Bois took refuge in a hotel room.”
“That is correct.”
“Please tell us what transpired after you and Lieutenant Bacchetti and Carpenter arrived at the room.”
“
Think carefully before you speak
,” Carpenter had said.
Stone took a breath; he would keep his account to a minimum. “Marie-Thérèse du Bois emerged from the room, riding on the back of a large man, using him as cover.”
“Was she armed?”
“Yes, she was pointing a semiautomatic pistol at the man’s head.”
“Were the three of you armed?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“What happened next?”
“The large man surprised us by slamming Mademoiselle du Bois against a wall, stunning her.”
“Go on.”
“She raised her pistol as if to fire at us, but Carpenter fired first.” This statement obscured the truth somewhat.
“Did Mademoiselle du Bois fire her weapon?”
“No, there was something wrong with it, I think.”
“Do you know what?”
“I suppose it jammed or misfired.”
“We have heard testimony that her weapon contained no ammunition. Do you know if that was the case?”
“I did not examine her weapon,” Stone said, avoiding a direct answer.
“Mr. Barrington, did you feel that your life was in danger during these events?”
“Yes,” Stone said.
“How many times did Carpenter fire?”
“Twice, I believe. I’m not entirely sure.”
“Did Lieutenant Bacchetti fire?”
“No.”
“Did you fire?”
“No.”
“If you felt your life was in danger, why did you not fire your weapon?”
“Carpenter was quicker than we were, and it was obvious that further firing was unnecessary. Mademoiselle du Bois had been shot in the head.”
“Do you feel that Carpenter was justified in shooting Mademoiselle du Bois?” the man asked.
Stone hesitated only a moment. “Yes,” he lied.
“Have you anything to add to this statement?” the man asked.
Stone looked down at the table for a moment, then at the man again. “No,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Barrington,” the man said, “that will be all. We are grateful for your testimony.”
Before Stone knew it, he was back in the alley, in the car. Fifteen minutes later, he was back at the Connaught. As he walked into the room, the phone was ringing. He picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Thank you,” Carpenter said.
“Did you get the job?”
“I’ve been acting in the job since returning to London,” she said. “This morning’s proceeding was part of an investigation to determine whether I shall keep it.”
“I lied,” Stone said. “You didn’t have to kill her.”
“Yes, I did,” Carpenter replied. “But thank you. I hope I’ll see you again before long.”
“Good luck.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.” She hung up.
Stone was back at home in Turtle Bay by late afternoon, New York time.
Holly greeted him warmly. “That was quick,” she said. “What was it about?”
“I have a feeling I’m not supposed to tell you,” he said. “You want to go to Elaine’s for dinner?”
“Dino called and suggested we meet there; so did Lance. I said yes to both of them.”