As he sipped his champagne, a very handsome couple entered the bar, both obviously a little drunk. They were seated on the opposite wall, and they were both quite beautiful. The girl was tall and willowy, wearing a very short dress, and the young man wore a rakishly cut suit that had obviously not come off the rack. They nuzzled and giggled, and they attracted the attention of other patrons with their behavior.
Stone watched as a barman approached them, and his voice was mildly disapproving. “Good evening, Mr. Cabot,” Stone heard him say.
Chapter 4
STONE WAS SEATED IN A DIMLY LIT dining room with a glassed-off dance floor at one end, and Lance Cabot and Erica Burroughs were seated a few tables away. Although they were drinking champagne with their dinner, they didn’t seem to get any drunker.
It was five hours earlier in New York, and Stone’s stomach had not caught up with the time change, so he wanted something light. He handed the menu back to the waiter. “May I just have some scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and half a bottle of champagne? You choose the wine.”
“Of course, Mr. Barrington,” the man said.
Stone finished his dinner before Cabot and Burroughs did. He thought of following them when they left, but he knew where to find them, and, in spite of the time change, he was beginning to believe his wristwatch. He left Annabel’s and walked back to the Connaught through the beautiful clear night. A moon had risen, and Berkeley Square was almost theatrically lit, its tall plane trees casting sharp shadows on the grass.
At the hotel, the night clerk insisted on showing him to his room. He found himself in a very pleasant suite, and his clothes had been put away. He soaked in a hot tub for a while until he felt sleepy, then he got into a nightshirt and fell into bed.
It was nearly ten A.M. when he woke, and as he reached for the telephone to order breakfast, he noticed a small electrical box on the side table, displaying buttons for a maid, a valet, and a waiter. He pressed the waiter button, and a moment later, there was a sharp, metallic rap on his door.
“Come in.”
A waiter let himself into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington. May I get you some breakfast?”
“Yes, please.”
“What would you like?”
There was apparently no menu. “Scrambled eggs, toast, a kipper, orange juice, and coffee, please.” He hadn’t had a kipper in many years, but he remembered the smoked-fish flavor.
“Right away, sir.” The waiter disappeared, to return a few minutes later, rolling a beautifully set tray table.
I’m going to like this hotel, Stone thought, as he dug into his breakfast.
Showered, shaved, and dressed, he presented himself at the concierge’s desk. “Can you direct me to the American Embassy?” he asked.
The concierge produced a map. “We’re here, and the embassy is just there,” he said, “in Grosvenor Square. A three-minute walk.”
“And I have to get a passport photo taken.”
The concierge pointed to a corner across from the embassy. “There’s a chemist’s shop there, and they do American passport photographs, which are a different size from the British ones.”
“Good. Now, can you tell me how to find Farm Street?” he asked the man.
The concierge pointed to a spot on the map. “It’s quite near, Mr. Barrington; a five-minute walk. Would you like to borrow an umbrella?”
Stone looked toward the door. “It’s raining?”
“Happens often in London, sir.”
Stone accepted the umbrella and walked outside. A steady rain was falling.
A top-hatted doorman greeted him. “Good morning, sir; taxi?”
“Yes, please.” The hell with the walk, in this weather.
The doorman summoned a taxi from a rank across the street, and Stone got into it. “Farm Street,” he said.
“Any particular number, sir?” the cabbie asked.
“I want to take a look at a house called Merryvale, but don’t stop, just drive slowly past.”
“Righto, sir.” The cabbie drove off, made a couple of turns, and two minutes later they were in Farm Street, which turned out to be a mews behind Annabel’s.
“Here we are, sir,” the cabbie said, as he drove slowly past a beautiful little house with flowers growing from window boxes on each of its three floors. “Merryvale.”
A small sign on the front door proclaimed as much. Mr. Cabot has elegant tastes, Stone thought. “What would you think it would cost to rent that house?” Stone asked the driver.
“Thousand quid a week, easy,” the cabbie replied. “You want me to take you to an estate agent’s in the neighborhood?”
Stone thought. He wasn’t going to stand conspicuously in the rain in this little mews, waiting for Cabot or Burroughs to emerge. He’d go renew his passport and return later. “Make a U-turn at the end of the street, and let’s drive past again,” he said.
“Righto,” the cabbie said. He drove to the end of the mews and made an amazingly tight U-turn.
As he did, Stone saw a taxi pull up to Merryvale and honk its horn. “Stop here for a minute,” he said. A moment later, Erica Burroughs came out of the house, locked the door behind her, and, holding an umbrella over her head, got into the waiting taxi, which immediately drove away. “Follow that cab,” Stone said.
The driver laughed. “Twenty-one years I’ve been driving a cab,” he said, “and it’s the first time anybody ever said that to me.” He drove off in pursuit of Erica’s taxi.
Stone watched the city go past his cab window. Shortly, they were in Park Lane, then they turned into Hyde Park. By what seemed to be a rather convoluted route, Erica’s taxi took her to Harrod’s. She got out of the cab, paid the driver, and ran inside.
Stone was not far behind her. He followed as she went on what seemed to be an extensive but unplanned shopping trip. She wandered through department after department of the huge store, looking at this and that, but the only thing she bought was a pen, in Stationery.