“As a matter of fact, James had a rather rich offer from one of them less than three months ago, but he wasn’t inclined to accept it.”
“I very much doubt that Sarah will have any interest in running these businesses. Perhaps after the funeral, you might contact that company and see if they’re still interested.”
“I will certainly do that,” Wainwright replied.
“By the way, what was the offer?”
“Four hundred ninety million pounds sterling.”
Stone did the math. Around three-quarters of a billion dollars. “Did James build this business from scratch?”
“Oh, heavens, no. He was the fourth generation of Cutlers in the business, but he greatly enlarged the business during his tenure.”
“One other thing, Mr. Wainwright: Are there any disaffected siblings or maiden aunts who might challenge this will?”
“None. James was an only child, as was his father before him.”
“Any large charities to whom promises had been previously made?”
“None.”
“Then you see no reason why this will should not be promptly probated?”
“None at all. Tell me, is Sarah currently represented by a solicitor?”
“No, she’s not.” Stone stood up and shook Wainwright’s hand. “Thank you for being so frank with me. I’ll convey what you’ve told me to Sarah, who I’m sure will have some instructions for you, in due course.”
Wainwright looked pleased at the prospect.
Stone left the solicitor’s office and started looking for a cab in Sloane Street. Sarah Buckminster was going to be a very happy starving artist, he reckoned. He glanced at his watch. And now he had to get back to his own business.
Chapter 17
STONE WAS ON HIS SECOND CUP OF tea in the Connaught’s lounge when Ted Cricket and Bobby Jones appeared, exactly on time. When he had seated them and their tea had been served, he sat back and waited for their report.
“As you requested,” Ted Cricket began, reading from a notebook like a good cop, “I positioned myself outside the United States Embassy at eight A.M. this morning and waited for the appearance of a gentleman of the description provided by you on Friday last. Such a gentleman appeared just after ten A.M. and went into the embassy. He emerged at twelve thirty-nine P.M. with another gentleman, who was American in his dress, and I followed them to a restaurant and pub called the Guinea, in a mews just off Berkeley Square. They remained there for nearly two hours, then returned to the embassy.
“At half past four, the first gentleman emerged from the embassy again and, on foot, proceeded to a house in Green Street, a short walk from the embassy. He let himself in with a key, and I surmised that the house is his residence in London. To check this, I knocked on the door of the basement flat, where a caretaker lives, and asked him questions regarding the occupants of the building. He was extremely reluctant to talk to me until I gave him to understand that I was a police officer; then he became marginally more cooperative.
“He divulged, in an oblique manner, that the house was owned by the American government, and that it consisted of four flats occupied by various transient government officials. He knew the gentleman I was following, who occupied the third-floor flat, only as Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray has occupied the third-floor flat for at least four years, though he is often away, and he keeps a considerable wardrobe in the flat. He is apparently unmarried, though he sometimes receives lady guests in the flat. He receives no mail there, and I am inclined to believe that Gray is not the gentleman’s real name.
“I am also inclined to believe that Mr. Gray is not, formally speaking, an accredited American representative to Her Majesty’s government. He has all the earmarks of a spook.” Cricket stopped talking.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Stone said. “I’m also inclined to think that it would be fruitless, not to mention dangerous, to attempt to bug Mr. Gray’s flat, because if he is a spook, his organization will have taken steps to prevent such an action.”
“Agreed,” Cricket replied.
“The question now is, how do we find out his real name?”
“I had a thought about that, Mr. Barrington,” Cricket said. “Why don’t I have his pocket picked?”
Stone smiled. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Can you get it done without his knowing?”
“I know a person who can,” Cricket replied confidently. “Mr. Gray might even enjoy the experience.”
“I take it your pickpocket is female.”
“Indeed, yes.”
“Go to it.”
Cricket turned to Jones. “Bobby, what do you have for Mr. Barrington?”
Jones produced his own notebook. “I began surveillance of the Farm Street house at seven A.M. this morning. By mid-morning, it became apparent to me that the house was not occupied, except by a cleaning lady who arrived at eight and departed at ten, so I had my man go in and wire the place for sound while I stood guard. He was out by one P.M., and now all the phones serve as taps for us, whether they are in use or not. The microphones are voice-activated and are recorded automatically by a machine in a garage about forty meters from the house. I’ll check it daily for anything of interest.
“I continued my surveillance of the house, and a little after three P.M. Mr. Cabot and Miss Burroughs returned and went into the house with some luggage. Less than an hour later, two men arrived outside in a car and knocked at the door. They were large gentlemen, and in spite of extensive tailoring and barbering, they struck me as right out of the East End. They rang the bell, and when Mr. Cabot emerged, they pulled him out of the house and began to rough him up, in the manner, I would say, of debt collectors for a loan shark or a bookmaker. Since I assumed you did not wish the man harmed, I approached, identified myself as a police officer, and asked Mr. Cabot if he required any assistance.
“He said he did not. I asked if he wished to make a charge against either or both of the gentlemen; he said he did not. I took the gentlemen aside and suggested that if I caught them in the neighborhood again I would have them in the nick very shortly. They got into their car and left. By this time, Mr. Cabot was already back inside the house.