“I then went to the garage and listened to the tape recording of what was said in the house. Miss Burroughs asked Mr. Cabot who had been at the door, and he replied, quite coolly, I thought, that some people had knocked at the wrong door. After that their conversation was of a mundane nature, and I reset the recorder. I waited within sight of the house until it was time to come here and see you.”
“Very good, Bobby,” Stone said. “Were you able to overhear any of the conversation between Cabot and the two men?”
“No, I’m afraid I was out of earshot. I expect they might be leery of returning to the house, but if they should telephone Cabot, we’ll have a recording of the conversation.”
“Do you have any further instructions for us, Mr. Barrington?” Cricket asked.
“You already know what to do about Mr. Gray; my main concern is to know his real identity. As for Mr. Cabot, Bobby, I’d like to maintain the surveillance on him for a few more days. I want to know who he sees during the days—I don’t think we need bother with his evenings. I’m particularly interested to know if he has any criminal contacts. After his encounter with the muscle, I wouldn’t be surprised. And, of course, I’d like a daily report on what your recorder picks up.”
“Of course,” Jones replied. “If anything that sounds remotely interesting is recorded, I’ll dub it off onto a portable so you can hear it.”
“Very good,” Stone said, rising. “I’ll look forward to hearing from both of you.”
“Mr. Barrington,” Cricket said, “may I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“I think it might be good for Bobby and me to swap targets every day. That way, the gentlemen are less likely to spot the tail.”
“By all means,” Stone said. “Change whenever you wish.”
He shook hands with the men, and they left.
Stone returned to his room, and as he entered, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Sarah; I’m in London. Can we have dinner tonight?”
“All right. Where would you like to meet?”
“Where do you suggest?”
“It’s your town.”
“There are some press people hanging around outside my flat.”
“Then I don’t think you should be seen with me; that would just add fuel to the flame.”
“I can get out a back way, I think. Why don’t I come to the Connaught? I don’t think they would follow me inside, and if they did, they’d be thrown out.”
“All right.”
“What’s your suite number?”
“Ah, let’s meet in the restaurant.”
“Eight-thirty?”
“That should be all right. I’ll book the table now.”
“How did your meeting with James’s solicitor go?”
“It went well; I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
“Bye-bye.” She hung up.
Stone called downstairs and booked the table, then he soaked in a hot tub for a while and lay down for a nap. As he drifted off, he wondered who had sent the hoods to deal with Lance Cabot.
Chapter 18
SARAH WAS LATE. STONE SAT AT THE corner table in the handsome Connaught restaurant, with its glowing mahogany paneling, and sipped a vodka gimlet as slowly as he could manage. The restaurant quickly filled with people, and still Sarah did not arrive. He knew that if she phoned, the front desk would get a message to him, and he wondered why she had not.
Then she came into the dining room, looking flustered. Mr. Chevalier, the maître d’, showed her to the table, and Stone stood up to receive her, pecking her on the cheek.
“God, I need a drink,” she said, breathless. A waiter materialized at her elbow. “A large Johnnie Walker Black,” she said to him, “on ice.” The waiter vanished and returned with the drink.
“Take a few deep breaths,” Stone said.
“It didn’t work, going out the back way,” she said, pulling at the drink. “I had planned to get a taxi, but they were laying for me in the mews, and I had to duck into the garage and drive my car. I went twice around Belgrave Square at high speed, with them on my tail, and I finally lost them at Hyde Park Corner, when some traffic cut them off. God, these people are awful!”
“I’m glad you finally evaded them,” Stone said. Then, near the restaurant’s door, a flashgun went off. Some people in the restaurant turned and looked in the direction of the photographer, but Stone noted that others hid behind their menus or napkins. Apparently, not all the couples in the restaurant were married, at least, not to each other.
The flashgun went off again, but two waiters were grappling with the photographer, pushing him into the hallway. He was complaining loudly about freedom of the press and making as big a fuss as possible, but gradually his voice faded as they got him into the lobby, then out the door. Stone saw the man outside a window, jumping up and down, trying to spot his prey, then a police officer appeared and led him away by the collar.
“Apparently, I didn’t lose them,” Sarah said. “I hope to God his pictures don’t come out.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Stone said.
“Did you see the tabloids? They know your name. Apparently, there was a reporter at the inquest, though I didn’t see any photographers. Apparently, there aren’t any newsworthy rock stars or politicians anymore, so they’ve settled on me. I’ve never had an experience like this.” She signaled the waiter for another drink.
“Slow down,” he said. “You’ve still got to drive home, you know.” The waiter came and brought menus.
“I can’t deal with it; you order.”
Stone turned to the waiter. “Surprise us.” The waiter vanished.
“Just keep breathing deeply,” he said. “Don’t rely on the whiskey to calm you down.” He took the drink from her hand and placed it on the table. “Now, would you like to hear about my meeting with Julian Wainwright?”