“How are you feeling, old boy?” the policeman asked.
“Drained,” Stone replied. “Is Fife-Simpson in custody?”
“All in good time,” Holmes said. “I wanted to tell you about the results of the testing of your very fine Château Palmer ’61.”
“It was poisoned, wasn’t it?”
“No... well, yes. That is to say that the initial testing revealed nothing but wine in the bottle.”
“But the broken needle in the cork?”
“I said they detected nothing in the initial test, but then, just when someone at the morgue had produced glasses, for drinking it, someone else had the idea of giving a drop or two to a lab rat.”
“And?”
“He pronounced it a fine, full-bodied claret with an excellent nose and a clean finish. Then he rolled over and died.”
“Of what?”
“Of poisoning, but we still have no idea what poison. The Soviets — pardon, the Russians — have skills in that department that, momentarily anyway, exceed our ability to detect them.”
“You didn’t answer my question about Fife-Simpson; is he in custody?”
Holmes frowned. “Not exactly. He was taken to our local shop and when his pockets were emptied, one of them produced a Russian diplomatic passport with his photograph affixed, and the name Sergei Ivanovich Ostrovsky on it. After consultation with Foreign Office officials, two Russian gentlemen appeared and walked him out of the building, not to be seen again, so far. We believe him to be at the Russian embassy, up to his arse in Beluga and Stoli.”
“That’s very disappointing.”
“Oh, I expect that MI-5 will be watching the place like hawks. If he leaves they will scoop him up.”
“What about Wilfred Thomas?”
“You have another visitor who can tell you more about that. I’ll see you when I have other news.” He patted Stone on the knee and left the room.
Lance Cabot quickly replaced Holmes. He dragged a chair up to Stone’s bed and sat down. “Congratulations on still being alive,” he said, “though not for want of the Russians trying to kill you.”
“I hear Roger skated because of the diplomatic passport we saw on your video of the party at the Russian embassy.”
“Not just Roger, but also his wife, Jennifer Sands, but I think you may regard their escape as temporary.”
“What about Wilfred Thomas, whose dictionaries are so nicely bound?”
“Vanished,” Lance replied. “Minutes, perhaps seconds, before our people reached his shop. They did find a treasure trove of bomb-making equipment, along with a fountain pen and an umbrella that shoot poison, and an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid that we suspect might be what was in the wine. It’s being tested as we speak, and the search is on for the earl. His diplomatic passport might work with the police, but not with MI-5.”
“Isn’t he at the embassy with his colleagues?”
“Oddly, no. At least, we haven’t detected his image or voice at the embassy with our equipment, which is still operating. Apparently, from what we’ve gleaned from their conversations, they are waiting for the earl, known in spy circles as Alex, to accomplish some deed or other, then shelter with them until transport out of the country has been arranged.”
“What sort of deed?”
“I’m afraid we have no clue, though we’re not ruling out another go at your person. Not to worry, measures have been taken.”
“When did you arrive in England?”
“Yesterday. They told me you were still alive, but I wanted to see for myself.”
“I promise not to die without telling you first,” Stone said.
“You’re still looking a bit peaked,” Lance said, “so I’ll leave you to a nap or two. As soon as you’re out we’ll have a good lunch somewhere and chat about some things.”
“Thanks, Lance, I’ll see you then.” Stone closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
63
Stone awoke the following day feeling much more himself, which condition, he felt, was mostly due to the ministrations of Rose and Felicity late in the previous evening.
A nurse came in with a breakfast tray of scrambled eggs, toast, and sage sausages, which he wolfed down. She came back for the tray.
“Looks like you’re getting the boot this morning,” she said. “One of the ladies brought you some clothes, and I’ve hung them in your closet. The doctor will be in shortly to approve your discharge, and someone from administration will have your release documents to sign, then you’re out of here.”
“I’ll miss you,” Stone said.
“I doubt that,” she said, “given the attentions you got from others overnight.”
“You’re a Peeping Tom,” he said.
“No, there just happens to be a camera over there,” she said, pointing to a high corner of the room. “Dame Felicity had someone in this morning to erase the tape.”
“Oh, I would have liked to see it,” Stone said sadly.
“Why? You weren’t doing anything but lying there.” She left the room.
There was a knock on the door, and a man carrying a clipboard entered and closed the door behind him. He was dressed in a necktie and shirtsleeves and wore a pocket protector that sported an array of writing instruments. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Assistant Administrator Willis. I have some forms for you to sign, so that we can discharge you.” He had an owlish look because of his heavy black spectacles, and he also sported a Vandyke — mustache and goatee — as if to make up for his receding hairline. “I hope you’re feeling up to it.”
“I’m feeling very well, thank you,” Stone said. “Where do I sign?”
Willis walked over and set his clipboard on Stone’s rolling hospital tray. “There are four,” he said, extracting a fat Mont Blanc fountain pen from his shirt pocket and handing it to Stone.
“This is the first actual fountain pen I’ve seen for years,” Stone said. “Very handsome.”
“I’m a bit old-fashioned,” Willis said. “I like the old ways.”
Stone unscrewed the cap and pushed it onto the other end of the pen. Then he thought of something Lance had said. They had found a fountain pen in Wilfred Thomas’s workshop, one that administered a poison, much like one the CIA has developed. It also occurred to him that there was something, he wasn’t sure what, familiar about Mr. Willis. “Oops!” he said, allowing the pen to slip from his fingers and bounce off his tray table to the floor. “I’m sorry, that was clumsy of me.”
“Not to worry,” Willis said, taking some tissues from Stone’s bedside and walking around to the other side of the bed to retrieve the pen.
Then Stone remembered something he had forgotten: he had seen Wilfred Thomas in the video that Lance’s people had made of the party at the Russian embassy, and without the glasses and the Vandyke, Willis could be Thomas. It was the hairline that pegged it for him. Stone slipped out of bed and stood facing the man. “Your mustache is slipping,” he lied.
The man reflexively raised a hand to stick it back on.
“Only joking, Mr. Thomas,” Stone said, looking about him for a weapon. “By the way, my compliments on the handsome bindings on The Short OED.” The only weapons Stone could use were the rolling tray table and a visitor’s chair, and he wasn’t sure he could lift the table, since one arm was out of action. “I’m glad your bomb-making talent doesn’t match your binding skills.”
Thomas picked up the pen, holding it between two fingers with tissues.
Was he going to shoot poison at him? Bullets? Would it explode? Stone looked for the button to call the nurse, but it was on Thomas’s side of the bed.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Thomas said, seemingly uncertain of his next move.
Stone got hold of his visitor’s chair at the end of the bed and was pleased that it weighed much less than the table. He placed it on the bed, between him and Thomas, and held it, lion-tamer style. “I think your best bet is to make a run for it,” Stone said, hoping the man would take his advice.