“But where could you have taken this dead man’s coat?”
“I don’t know, it seems likely that he took mine and left his, doesn’t it?”
Throckmorton turned to the two detectives. “Wait downstairs,” he said. The two men left the room. “Sit down,” he said to Stone. Both men took chairs.
“Evelyn . . .”
“It is only because of Lieutenant Bacchetti’s recommendation of you that we are not having this conversation in an interrogation room, and that the interrogation is not being conducted by the two men who just left, who would be doing the job far less gently than I.”
“I appreciate the consideration,” Stone said, “but I have absolutely no idea when and where this exchange of raincoats happened.”
“Let me tell you a bit more,” Throckmorton said. “The passports found on the men were counterfeits. Does that help jog your memory?”
“I know nothing of false passports,” Stone said.
“Let me see yours.”
Stone went to his briefcase, got his passport, and handed it over.
Throckmorton examined it closely, then he took two passports from his pocket and compared them. “It says here that this passport was issued only a few days ago at the American Embassy in London.”
“That’s correct; when I arrived in this country, an immigration officer told me that my passport was expiring the following day.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“No. I hadn’t used the passport for several months; it didn’t occur to me to look at the expiration date. I went to the embassy, as the officer suggested, and got a new one.”
“And where is your old one?”
“The passport office kept it.”
“And I’m keeping yours,” Throckmorton said, tucking all three passports into his pocket.
“Suppose I have to leave the country?”
“You will not leave the country until I say so,” Throckmorton said, rising. “One last time, Stone; is there anything you wish to tell me?”
“No.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Throckmorton said. He walked out of the room, taking both raincoats with him.
Stone sat down heavily and loosened his necktie. “Jesus Christ,” he said aloud, “how could I have made such a stupid mistake?” He laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself.
What seemed only a moment later, Stone jerked awake. Had he dozed off? Then he remembered that Arrington was downstairs in the restaurant. He ran to the elevator, buttoning his shirt and fixing his necktie; when he reached the ground floor, he tried not to run to the restaurant. From the door he could see that the table was empty.
“Mr. Barrington?” Mister Chevalier said.
“Yes? Where is Mrs. Calder?”
“I’m afraid she left a few minutes ago; she went to the lounge to look for you but could not find you, so she got her coat and left.” Chevalier looked at his watch. “You were gone for nearly an hour,” he said, with barely noticeable reproach.
“Oh, God,” Stone moaned.
“We have kept your dinner warm,” Chevalier said. “Would you still like to have it, or would you prefer to order something else?”
Stone stared at the paneling ahead of him, wondering how he was ever going to fix this.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Oh. Will you send it to my suite, please?”
“Of course; and Mrs. Calder’s dinner?”
“Give it to the cat,” Stone said. He turned and trudged disconsolately to the elevator.
Upstairs, he got out the London telephone directory and looked for the ambassador’s residence; he found it under U.S. Government and dialed the number.
“Good evening,” a young male voice said, “this is the residence of the United States Ambassador.” Probably a marine.
“My name is Barrington,” Stone said. “May I speak with Mrs. Arrington Calder? She’s a guest of the ambassador.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrington, Mrs. Calder has asked me not to put any calls through.”
“Would you tell her I called, please?” He gave the Connaught’s number.
“Of course, sir; good night.”
There was a sharp rap on his door, and he went to answer it. His dinner had arrived, and he didn’t feel like eating it.
Chapter 39
STONE, HAVING LAIN AWAKE UNTIL the middle of the night, slept as if drugged. It was mid-morning before he woke up, and his first move was to call the embassy residence again and ask for Arrington. There was a long delay, then a woman came on the line.
“Stone?”
“Arrington, I’m so sorry, I—”
“Stone, it’s Barbara Wellington.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were Arrington. I’ve been trying to reach her; she wasn’t taking calls last night.”
“I know; she came home very hurt and angry last night; she said you had abandoned her in the middle of dinner at the Connaught. What happened?”
“Some people showed up that I absolutely had to see, and—”
“She also said that when she got up to go to the ladies’ she saw you kissing another woman in the Connaught lobby, so when you reach her, I don’t think you ought to try and pass that off as business.”
“It was business—not the woman—but three men I had to see, and—”
“And when she came back from the ladies’ you had disappeared, and the concierge said you had gone up to your suite with a guest.”
“With three guests—they insisted. You see—”