“I think you should take out Susan Blackburn,” she said as she whipped around a truck. “She’s unattached, at the moment, I think, and you’ll need to be entertained when I’m not around.”
“I’ll consider that,” Stone replied.
“What do you have to do in London?”
“I’m lunching with my new attorney at the Reform Club to sign some documents that we discussed on the phone yesterday. I’ll see my tailor and shirtmaker, and I suppose I’ll need some transport, so I’ll take a look at cars.”
“Sounds like you have a full day.”
“When will you return to Beaulieu?” he asked.
“Maybe this weekend — depends on work. The Middle East is a mess these days. We should call it the Muddle East. I gave you a key, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
She dropped him at the Connaught, but his suite had not yet been vacated, and he was asked to come back after lunch. He walked up Mount Street to his tailor, Hayward, and ordered some suits, a tuxedo, and a reefer suit, which was a double-breasted blue suit with yacht club buttons. He also ordered an overcoat, in case he was at the house in winter. He would need clothes to fill his new dressing room at Windward Hall.
—
The Reform Club was a grand edifice in Pall Mall, whence Phileas Fogg had departed on his eighty-day wager around the world, both in the novel and in the film, which shot the opening scenes on-site. His attorney, whose name was Julian Whately, met him in the dining room. “Let’s lunch first, then take our business to the library,” Whately said. “We’re not supposed to flash papers at table.” They passed a pleasant lunch with Whately trying to explain cricket to him, and even after dessert, Stone still hadn’t grasped either the rules or the point.
Ensconced in a corner of the magnificent library with coffee and papers, Whately produced a contract sent over by Sir Charles Bourne’s solicitors. “This is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, handing it to Stone, “concerning a sale agreed at a first meeting. Virtually everything in the house included in the sale is listed — six or seven pages of it. They must have been working on it for weeks.”
“Charles Bourne has known for weeks that he is dying,” Stone said.
“Ah, that explains it. The only thing of note in the contract is that two paintings, a Constable and a Turner, are held out, but offered for separate purchase for two hundred thousand pounds. Are they worth it, do you know?”
“I’ll find out at dinner,” Stone said, signing both contracts, “and let you know in the morning. If not, you can burn that piece of paper.”
“Do you have the funds ready?” Whately asked on the sidewalk while hailing a taxi.
“Yes, they’re in the bank, and I’ve already given Bourne my personal check.”
“Extraordinary,” Whately said. “We can close whenever you and Sir Charles agree.”
“Call his solicitor and tell him that. I’m headed back to Hampshire tomorrow, but I can stay, if he wants to close in London. Try for nine AM at the Connaught, in my suite.”
“I’ll let you know,” Whately said. He got into the taxi and drove away.
Stone strolled up to Jermyn Street to his shirtmakers’, Turnbull & Asser. He ordered two dozen shirts to be delivered to Windward Hall in four weeks, picked out a dozen neckties, and a couple of pairs of gloves, bought a dozen pairs of boxer shorts, half a dozen nightshirts, and a silk dressing gown, ordered them all sent to his hotel, then headed back to the Connaught on foot. He walked through the Burlington Arcade and found Anderson & Sheppard in Saville Row. He ordered two tweed jackets and some complementary trousers, then went on his way.
Then, in Berkeley Square, he came to the Bentley showroom and walked in.
A gleaming Flying Spur greeted him from a turntable, dark green metallic paint and Saffron leather. He watched it for two revolutions before a salesman materialized at his elbow.
“Shall I wrap it, sir, or will you drive it away?”
“How much?” Stone asked.
“I’m very much afraid this one has been sold. I’ve been waiting for ten days for the buyer to pay for it.”
“Do you have anything else ready to go?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. It will take about three months to fill an order.”
“Ah,” Stone said, disappointed.
“Suppose my buyer backed out?” he asked. “Are you prepared to buy it now?”
Stone looked at the sticker on the window and came up with a figure fifteen percent less.
The salesman countered with ten percent.
“Done,” Stone said.
“Will that be for export, sir?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll have to add Value Added Tax and car tax.”
“Of course.”
“One moment, sir.” The man went to his desk and dialed a phone number. Stone caught snatches of his conversation. “Well, then, sir, we will refund your deposit immediately. Thank you for your custom.” He hung up and returned to Stone’s side. “I’m afraid the gentleman got caught a bit short,” he said. “The car is yours.”
They spent half an hour wading through the paperwork, then Stone wrote the man a check. “I’ll pick it up at midday tomorrow,” he said.
“Of course, Mr. Barrington. We will be ready for you.”
Stone crossed Berkeley Square, passed Annabel’s, and then, at the end of the square, he spotted the Porsche showroom across the street. He went in and found a Carrera 4S, painted umber, with cognac leather, beckoning him. He checked the window sticker, but as a salesman detached himself from his chair and began coming toward him, Stone waved him away, then walked out and turned toward the Connaught.
“No,” he said aloud to himself. “I can’t buy a country estate, a Bentley, and a Porsche all in the same day.” He arrived at the hotel and was led to his suite by a young assistant manager. The hotel had been sold and redecorated since he had last stayed there, and he didn’t see a single familiar face among the staff. Still, he liked his suite.
He unpacked and turned on the TV, looking for some news, but he was distracted and could not concentrate on current events. Finally, he went downstairs, crossed the street, walked fifty meters, and bought the Porsche. He signed the documents, wrote a check, and asked the salesman to have it at the front door of the Connaught at ten AM the following morning, then he called the Bentley salesman and asked him to have the Flying Spur delivered to Windward Hall the following afternoon.
He walked back to the Connaught feeling a little light-headed, but pleased with himself.
6
Stone was halfway through the potato chips on the bar by the time Susan walked in. He offered her a peck on the cheek, which was accepted, then sat her down at a table.
“I hope it wasn’t inconvenient for us to meet here,” he said, after he had ordered her a martini and himself a Knob Creek.
“Not in the least,” she said. “I live in Farm Street, which is a stone’s throw away and is reached from here by a very convenient footpath. How was your day?”
“Very good. I got quite a lot done.”
“And what did you get done?”
“I lunched with my solicitor, then visited two tailors and my shirtmakers and made them all very happy, then I set about cheering up two automobile salesmen.”
She laughed. “All these things for the new house, I assume.”
“I’m starting from scratch.”
“When do you complete the sale of the house?”
“Tomorrow morning at nine, here, in my suite.”
“Which suite?”
He told her.
“I designed it.”
“I rather thought you might have. It looks like you — cool, but with concealed warmth, and elegant. By the way, I have a question for you.”