by Stuart Woods
“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 came.
“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.
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 c
ouldn’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.
“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.
“Beautiful country,” Stone said. “Why don’t we slow down and see it?”
“Oh, all right,” she said, taking an exit. “We’ll go the back roads; it’s more fun that way anyhow.” Shortly they were on a winding country road that was perfect for sports-car driving, and Monica was driving it very well.
Stone was happier at sixty than at a hundred.
“Do you like art?” Monica asked. “I mean, apart from Sarah’s pictures?”
“Yes, I do; my mother was a painter.”
“What was her name?”
“Matilda Stone.”
“You’re kidding! I know her work very well; she did those marvelous cityscapes of New York, especially Greenwich Village.”
“Yes, she did.”
“I sold one last year for a very nice price. Do you have any of her work?”
“I have four pictures,” he said. “And I think they are among her best.”
“I don’t suppose you want to sell them?”
“No. They’re in my house in New York—well, one is in the Connecticut house—and I like them there. I’ll never sell them.”
“I understand. Are you interested in buying more of her work, if I should come across some things?”
“Yes, of course, if I can afford them.”
“I’ll let you know.” She stopped talking and concentrated on her driving.
Stone was relieved.
An hour and a half later, after a confusion of back roads and odd turns, they drove through an impressive gate and followed a winding road planted with trees that formed a tunnel. They emerged in a large circle of gravel before a limestone Georgian mansion that had been cleaned to within an inch of its existence.
“Wow,” Stone said.
“Yes, it’s like that, isn’t it?”
He was barely out of the car before Sarah came bounding down the stairs to give him a hug and a kiss, holding the hug longer than Stone thought an engaged woman should. She held him at arm’s length and looked at him. “You look wonderful,” she said. “Hello, Monica.” This over her shoulder. Sarah took Stone’s arm and led him through the front door, leaving Monica to follow.
10
THEY ENTERED A GRAND HALLWAY containing a broad staircase to the second floor. The walls all the way to the ceiling were hung with paintings, portraits—no doubt of ancestors—and English landscapes.
“This is glorious,” Stone said.
“Wait until you see the rest of the house,” Sarah said; “it’s taken years for Mummy and Daddy to restore it.”
A houseman appeared, loaded with luggage.
“Miss Burroughs is in Willow, and Mr. Barrington is in Oak,” she said to the man. She turned back to Stone. “The guest rooms are all named for trees; there are twelve of them. There had been fifteen, but we used three of them to make room for private baths for all the guests.” She led him to their right. “The drawing room is here.” She pushed open a door to reveal a huge room furnished with many sofas and chairs. “It’s perfect for entertaining.” She led him across the hall and opened another door. “This is the library,” she said. “We have the books of seven generations collected here, and most of them have been rebound.”
Stone stood and stared. The room was paneled in walnut, and a spiral staircase led to an upper level that bordered the huge room. It smelled of leather and old cigar smoke. “Very beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.
“Come, I’ll show you your rooms.” Sarah led the way upstairs and down a hallway to the end. “You have the corner room, overlooking the Solent,” she said. “Monica, you’re there,” she said, pointing to a door across the hall. She opened the door to Oak, and Stone stepped into a large bedroom furnished with a four-poster bed, a chesterfield sofa, and a couple of commodious reading chairs, all very masculine. She led him to the window. “There is the Solent, in all its glory,” she said, “and that land on the other side is the Isle of Wight. Well, I expect you’d like to freshen up. Drinks are in the drawing room at six, and dinner will be at eight. We’re not dressing tonight; a lounge suit will do.” She gave him a big kiss on the lips and disappeared.
Stone watched her go, then stepped across the hall and knocked on the door of Willow.
“Come in.”
He opened the door and walked into a feminine counterpart of his own room, all chintz and lace. Monica was unpacking.
“We seem to have separate rooms,” he said.
“Oh, that’s how it’s done at English house parties,” she said. “They consider it more fun to tiptoe up and down the halls after lights out. Do you like your room?”
“Very much. You must see it.”
She came and put her arms around his neck. “I expect to, late tonight,” she said. “I’ll do the tiptoeing.” She kissed him.
When Stone got back to his room, his clothes had been upacked and put away by some invisible servant. He sat in an armchair by the window, picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the table next to it, and began to read.
At a quarter past six, Stone rapped on Monica’s door and walked her down to the drawing room. There were at least twenty people in the room, ranging from their twenties to their fifties. He was surprised to see, among them, Erica and Lance, who waved from across the room. “You didn’t tell me they were coming,” he said to Monica.
“Didn’t I? I meant to, I think.”
Sarah came over, leading a tall man in the most severely cut English suit Stone had ever seen. “Stone, this is James Cutler,” she said. “James, I’ve told you
about Stone.”
“Yes, you have,” James said through a clenched smile.
“I’m very glad to meet you, James,” Stone said.
Sarah’s parents appeared, her father portly, with a complexion that suggested the regular and copious imbibing of port, and her mother a faded blonde with what Stone thought was an exaggerated accent. They were both gracious and moved on when they had done their social duty.
A butler inquired of Stone’s and Monica’s wishes in drinks, then brought them. Stone had asked for Scotch, thinking they probably wouldn’t have bourbon, and he found it dark and smoky, obviously a single malt. Monica took him through the room, introducing him to everybody. Apparently, the Burroughs sisters, Lance, and Stone were the only Americans present.
At dinner, Stone was seated between Sarah and her mother, while Monica was relegated to the other end of the very long table. Stone counted thirty diners. The dining room had a high ceiling and much gilt. They had hardly sat down, when someone’s cellphone rang, and a brief hush fell over the table. Lance stood up, blushing, and left the room. A moment later Stone saw him outside the window on the back lawn, pacing up and down in the long English twilight, gesticulating. He wondered what had so upset Lance. When he returned to the table he looked unhappy for a moment, then managed a smile as he resumed his seat.
“I hate those damned things,” Lady Wight said, stabbing at something on her plate. “Only an American would bring one in to dinner.”
“Mother, not all Americans are so gauche,” Sarah said, nodding at Stone.
“Oh, of course not, Stone,” her mother said. “So very sorry.”
She didn’t sound sorry, Stone thought.
After dinner, the men left the women at the table and repaired to the library for port and cigars. Stone passed on the cigar but accepted the port with pleasure. He had not drunk enough vintage port in his life to suit him.
Lance wandered over. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Very well,” Stone replied. “Business call at dinner?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Lance said, flushing, apparently still angry with whoever had called him. “You know about Wight, of course.”