by Stuart Woods
“Wilton Crescent,” she said to the doorman. “I’ll point out the house.” The doorman told the driver.
Stone put her into the cab and went into the hotel. On the way up in the elevator he thought about John Bartholomew and who he might be. He glanced at his watch. It was only seven o’clock in New York, so he went to his room, undressed, and picked up the telephone. He called Bill Eggers’s home, and a maid answered.
“Oh, Mr. Barrington,” she said, “they’ve gone skiing in Chile.”
“Chile in South America?” Stone asked.
“Yes, there’s apparently snow there this time of the year. They’ll be back on Monday.”
“Thank you,” Stone said, and hung up. He thought some more. Bartholomew had mentioned Samuel Bernard, an old professor of his at NYULawSchool. Bernard had been in the OSS during World War II, and he had remained in intelligence when the CIA was founded, serving during the agency’s formative years. He had left at the time of the Bay of Pigs disaster, along with a lot of others, including Alan Dulles. Stone found his address book and dialed the number.
“Yes?” The voice was the same, but older.
“Good evening Dr. Bernard,” he said. “It’s Stone Barrington.”
Bernard’s voice brightened. “Oh, Stone, how are you?”
“I’m fine, and I hope you’re well.”
“I’m better than I could justifiably expect to be at my age,” Bernard replied, chuckling. “I haven’t seen you for a while. What have you been up to?”
“Life has been fairly boring until recently, when it got more interesting.”
“Oh? How interesting?”
“That remains to be seen. A man came to see me a few days ago, sent by Woodman and Weld, but he also mentioned your name; said you had more or less recommended me to him.”
“Strange,” Bernard said. “I don’t recall discussing you with anyone recently. What is the man’s name?”
“John Bartholomew.”
There was total silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Bernard spoke. “John Bartholomew,” he said tonelessly. “How very interesting. Can you describe him?”
“Mid-fifties, tall—six-two or -three, athletically built, salt-and-pepper hair, beaked nose, fierce eyebrows. Do you know him?” Stone asked.
“No one knows him,” Bernard replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“Stone, do you remember an Alfred Hitchcock film called North by Northwest?”
“Of course; it’s a favorite of mine.”
“Then you’ll recall that, early in the film, Cary Grant is abducted from the Plaza Hotel by foreign agents who have mistaken him for a guest at the hotel. I believe the guest’s name was George Kaplan, or something like that.”
“Yes, I remember. The Grant character goes across the country, chasing after Kaplan, but he turns out not to exist. He’s a fiction contrived by some American intelligence agency.”
“Exactly. Well, in the early fifties there actually was an operation that resembled the one in the film; in fact, I’ve often wondered if Hitchcock had heard about it. A fictional character was created, given an identity, and checked in and out of various hotels. It was very similar to the film.”
“That’s very interesting,” Stone said, but he couldn’t think why.
“May I ask, what did this man want you to do?”
“Well, of course, I must observe client confidentiality, but suffice it to say, as a result of our conversation, I’m now in London. I’m not quite sure what I’m involved in. I saw him earlier today at the American Embassy—at least I think I caught a glimpse of him—and again tonight, at a restaurant, with a man named Sir Antony Shields.”
“The Home Secretary,” Bernard said. “Something like our Attorney General. He supervises, among other departments, MI5, the British domestic security department, which is analogous to our FBI.”
“Well, he’s certainly well connected. But why did you tell me about the Hitchcock film?”
“As I said, we ran an operation something like that. Our fictional agent was called John Bartholomew.”
Stone felt as if someone had rapped him sharply on the skull.
“The name became, over the years, something of an inside joke, generally referring to a hoax of some sort.”
“I see,” Stone said, but he didn’t see at all.
“Where are you staying?” Bernard asked.
“At the Connaught.”
“Let me see what I can learn,” he said, “and I’ll call you if I find out something.”
“Oh, I have a cellphone number,” Stone said. “It’s one of those satellite things that works in a lot of countries.” He gave Bernard the number.
“This may take a while,” Bernard said. “Good night.” He hung up.
Stone sat on the bed, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
Chapter 8
STONE WOKE REFRESHED, HAVING slept well, but all through breakfast he puzzled over Bartholomew, or whatever his name was, and his own assignment in London. Well, he thought finally, I’m an investigator, so maybe I’d better start investigating.
He dug out the phone number of Dino’s acquaintance at Scotland Yard and called him.
“Detective Inspector Throckmorton’s line,” a woman’s voice answered.
Stone tried not to laugh at the name. “Good morning, my name is Stone Barrington. Would you tell Detective Inspector Throckmorton that Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti suggested I call him?” He spelled Dino’s name for her.
“One moment, please.”
There was a brief pause, a click, and a crisp English voice said, “Throckmorton here; is that Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Bacchetti called the other day and said you might turn up. You free for lunch?”
“Yes; may I take you?”
“Name the spot.”
“How about the Connaught?”
“I can live with that,” he said. “The Restaurant or the Grill?”
“Which would you prefer?”
“Menu’s pretty much the same, but the Grill is nicer at lunch, I think.”
“Twelve-thirty?”
“See you then,” Throckmorton said, and hung up.
Stone booked the table, then showered and dressed and left the hotel. The sun shone brightly, though he was not sure for how long, and he immediately began to enjoy walking. Using his map, he strolled through Berkeley Square, then over to Piccadilly. He turned right at Fortnum & Mason’s, the renowned department store and food emporium, and finally came to Jermyn Street and Turnbull & Asser.
He entered the shop, which was filled with brightly colored shirts and ties, looked at both, bought some, bought a couple of the Sea Island cotton nightshirts he preferred, and was sure to get the tax refund forms. He then strolled back to the Connaught, doing a lot of window-shopping in Bond Street along the way.
Evelyn Throckmorton was a small, well-proportioned, handsome man in his forties, wearing a Savile Row suit and a military mustache. He greeted Stone, and they went into the Connaught Grill, which was painted a restful green, and were given a table in an alcove by a window.
“How is Dino?” Throckmorton asked.
“He’s very well; we see a lot of each other.”
“I’ve heard him speak of you,” Throckmorton said, perusing the menu. “Surprised we didn’t meet when I was in New York that time.”
“I’ve been off the force for several years, now,” Stone said.
“Oh yes, I remember your last case; Dino and I discussed it in some detail.”
Stone didn’t care to revisit the Sasha Nijinsky case. “What would you like for lunch?” he asked as a waiter approached.
“The potted shrimps and the Dover sole,” the policeman said to the waiter.
“I’ll have the same,” Stone said. “Would you like some wine?”
“Of course.”
Stone ordered a Sancerre, and they chatted a bit until the first course cam
e.
“Now,” said Throckmorton, digging into his shrimp, “what can I do for you while you’re here?”
“I’ve been sent over here by a client to look into the activities of an American living in London, and I need the help of an investigator—no, two. I thought you might know of someone reliable.”
“I know a lorryload of retired coppers,” Throckmorton said. “I daresay I could find you a couple of good men. What will you pay?”
“You tell me.”
Throckmorton mentioned an hourly rate, and Stone agreed.
“Anything illegal about this?” Throckmorton asked.
“Not unless surveillance is illegal in Britain.”
“Certainly not.” Throckmorton chuckled.
“I don’t want anyone hit over the head or anything like that. I just want to find out what’s going on and report back to my client.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” He polished off his shrimp and whipped out an address book. “Let me go make a phone call,” he said. “I’ll be back before the sole arrives.”
Stone sat back and sipped his wine. As Throckmorton left, Sir Antony Shields entered the Grill with another man, and they were seated across the room. The man certainly eats well, Stone thought to himself.
Throckmorton returned as the waiter was boning the soles. “There’ll be two men here in an hour,” he said. “They’ll be waiting in the lounge when we’re done here. Their names are Ted Cricket and Bobby Jones, like the golfer. They both worked for me at one time or another; they’re smart, persistent, and discreet. You’ll get what you want from them.”
“Thank, you,” Stone said. The sole was excellent. “I believe that’s your Home Secretary over there.” He nodded at the table across the room.
“Yes, saw him when I came back to the table. I’ve shaken his hand, but I don’t really know the bugger, he’s too new. Came in with the Labour lot, the second man to hold the office. I’m told he’s reasonably bright; he made a name for himself as a barrister, prosecuting as often as defending. That’s how we do it over here, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Likes to see his name in the papers, always has, I’m told, as long as it’s favorable. He’s gotten a good press so far.”
They had dessert and coffee, and Stone signed the bill. They left the Grill and walked out into the main hall of the hotel.
Throckmorton stopped and shook Stone’s hand. “Splendid lunch,” he said, “many thanks. The two chaps you want are around the corner, there,” he said, nodding toward the sitting room. “I don’t want to be seen introducing you.” He walked through the revolving doors and left the hotel.
Stone walked into the sitting room, and it was immediately obvious whom he was meeting. Cops were cops. They were dressed in anonymous suits, and both wore thick-soled, black shoes. Stone went over and introduced himself.
Ted Cricket was the taller, more muscular man, and Bobby Jones was short, thin, and wiry. They were both near sixty, Stone reckoned, but they looked fit.
“How can we help you, Mr. Barrington?”
“There are two men I want surveilled,” Stone said. “The first is named Lance Cabot, and he lives at a house called Merryvale, in Farm Street. He’s American, in his mid-thirties, tall, well built, longish light brown hair, well dressed. He lives with a young woman named Erica Burroughs, and she is not to be followed, unless she’s with Cabot.”
Both men were taking notes.
“The second,” Stone continued, “is more problematical, because I don’t know his name. He’s American, too, somewhere in his mid-fifties, six-two or -three, heavy, maybe two-ten, looks like a former athlete. He has a hawkish nose, thick, salt-and-pepper hair, and bushy eyebrows.”
“And where does he live?” Cricket asked.
“That’s one of the things I want to know,” Stone said. “He’s in and out of the American Embassy, through the front door, and that’s where you’re going to have to pick him up. I want to know where he’s staying, who he sees, and where he goes. I don’t know if he lives in London or New York, but my guess is, he’s in a hotel not far from the embassy.”
“Right,” Cricket said. “Anything else?”
“I don’t know whether the weekend would be productive; why don’t you start first thing Monday morning?”
The two men nodded. “And we can reach you here, Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes, and I have a cellphone.” He gave them the number.
“We’ll report to you daily,” Cricket said.
“By the way,” he said, “I didn’t mention this to Throckmorton, but is it possible to tap Cabot’s phone and record all his conversations?”
“Not legally,” Cricket said.
“I understand that. Can you do it, or have it done?”
Both men looked wary. Finally, Jones spoke. “I know someone who can do it. But for how long?”
“Let’s start with a week,” Stone said.
“Could be pricey; I mean, there is a risk.”
“I don’t mind paying, but I want someone who can do it without risk to himself, you, or me. And I don’t want him to know who I am.”
“Understood,” Jones said. “I’ll get onto my man today.”
Cricket spoke up. “You understand, I didn’t hear any of that.”
“Understood,” Stone said. “Bobby, why don’t you take Cabot, and Ted, you can have the other man.”
Both men nodded. They shook hands all around, and the two men left.
Stone looked at his watch; he had half an hour to pack for the weekend.
Chapter 9
MONICA BURROUGHS ARRIVED AT THE Connaught in an Aston Martin, and the combination of the car and the beautiful woman at the wheel impressed the doorman. Stone’s luggage was loaded, and Monica drove up Mount Street to Park Lane and accelerated into the traffic, driving faster than Stone would have under the circumstances.
“Did you sleep well?” Monica asked.
“Very well, thank you.”
“I’m sorry to hear it; I thought you’d have lain awake, thinking of me.”
“I dreamed of you.”
“Something erotic, I hope.”
“Of course.”
She cut across two lanes of traffic and turned into Hyde Park. Shortly, they were in the Cromwell Road, heading west, as Monica constantly shifted up and down and changed lanes.
Stone tried to relax. “Who are our hosts for the weekend?” he asked.
“Lord and Lady Wight,” Monica replied. “He recently inherited the title from an uncle, although he managed the estates for many years while the old man was in a nursing home. The house is a nice old Georgian pile that has just undergone a five-year renovation that cost millions. I can’t wait to see it. His lordship made lots and lots of money in property development, so he can afford the title.” She glanced at him slyly. “Before he inherited, his name was Sir Robert Buckminster.”
Stone sat up straight. “Is he related to a woman named Sarah Buckminster?”
“She’s his daughter; know her?”
“Yes.” He had known her all too well in New York. They had practically lived together until someone had started trying to kill him, and when a bomb was placed in a gallery showing her paintings, she abruptly left New York, swearing never to return. “I knew her rather well. How do you know her?”
“My gallery represents her work in this country. We had a very successful show last month, sold out the lot.”
“Tell me, Monica, did you know that Sarah and I knew each other?”
She smiled a little. “I’d heard your name from her.”
“And does Sarah know I’m coming to her father’s house for the weekend?”
“No. I wasn’t going to tell you about Sarah, either; I wanted to see the look on both your faces, but I couldn’t stand the suspense. Now, I suppose, I’ll have to be content with the look on her face.”
This was all too catty for Stone. “Take me back to the Connaught,” he said.
&
nbsp; “What?”
“I think it would be extremely rude for me to turn up there unannounced, so take me back.”
“Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud, Stone; this will be fun!”
“Not for me, and very probably not for Sarah.”
“I won’t take you back.”
“Then let me out of the car, and I’ll find my own way back.”
“Oh, really, Stone; can’t you just go along with this?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, picking up the car phone and dialing a number. “Hello, Sarah? It’s Monica. Yes, sweetie. I have to tell you the funniest thing. Last night, I had a blind date with someone you know, Stone Barrington.” She listened for a moment. “No, I’m not kidding; he’s over here on business and he met Erica and Lance, and they invited him to dinner.” She listened again. “He’s very well indeed, and I thought that, if it’s all right with you, I’d bring him down for the weekend.” She listened. “Wonderful! I’ll go get him, and we’ll be down in a couple of hours. See you then.” She hung up the phone. “There, she said she’d be delighted to see you. Satisfied?”
“I suppose I am,” Stone said, but he was still feeling uncomfortable about it.
“I may as well tell you this, too.”
“What?”
“Dinner tomorrow night is to celebrate her engagement.”
“Swell,” Stone said. “Are you sure she said it was all right for me to come?”
“She did, said she’d be delighted. She’s marrying a man named James Cutler, who’s something big in the wine trade. Sweet man, very handsome.”
“Monica, if, when we arrive at the house, Sarah is surprised to see me, I’m going straight back to London.”
“Stone, you heard me speak to her. Please relax, it will be all right.” They had reached the Chiswick Roundabout, and she turned toward Southampton, flooring the Aston Martin and passing three cars that were going too slowly for her taste.
“How often do you get arrested?” Stone asked.
“Hardly ever.”
“Do you still have a driver’s license?”
“Of course I do.”
Soon they were on the M3 motorway, and Monica was doing a little over a hundred miles an hour.