“Do you think it might be possible for me to go after her? Can you vouch for me with the officer at the security gate? It’s very important that I speak to her.”
“I believe Detective Inspector Throckmorton told you last night that you were not to leave the country,” the cop said.
“But I wasn’t trying to leave.”
“You wouldn’t have made it without your passport, anyway.”
“Honestly, I was just trying to catch up with my friend.”
They were out the door, where Stone’s taxi was still waiting for him.
“That cab is waiting for me to go back to the Connaught,” he said.
“Never mind, we’ll give you a lift,” the cop replied.
“But I have to pay him.”
The cop stopped. “All right, pay him.”
“I don’t have any money with me; it’s back in my room at the Connaught.”
The cop sighed wearily. “I suppose you expect me to pay him.”
“Look, I’m not trying to leave the country; you can follow me back to the hotel.”
“Just a moment.” The cop produced a cellphone and stepped a few paces away. A moment later, he returned. “All right, Mr. Barrington, the detective inspector says you can return to the Connaught.”
“Thank you.”
“But don’t give us any more chases, all right?”
“Thank you again.” Stone got into the cab.
“Catch her, sir?”
“Not quite,” Stone replied. “Take me back to the Connaught.”
The black Ford followed them all the way back.
Chapter 40
STONE GOT BACK TO THE CONNAUGHT, went upstairs, got money, and paid the driver, tipping him extravagantly. As he passed the concierge’s desk, he heard his name called.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Barrington,” the concierge said, “but this message arrived for you last evening, and it was somehow misplaced.” He handed Stone a yellow envelope.
Stone opened it and extracted the message. I’m on my way, it said, and that was all. “Who is it from?” he asked the concierge.
“I’m afraid that’s just how it came, sir; there was no name. We thought you’d know who it was from.”
“Man or woman?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t on duty last evening, so I don’t know.”
Stone stuffed it into his pocket and went upstairs. He didn’t care who the fuck it was from, he was too pissed off. He let himself into the suite, hung up his jacket, and picked up the London papers. He went quickly through the Times and the Independent, looking for further mention of the two dead “Greeks” but saw nothing. There was a small piece about the explosion at the antiques market, but it had, apparently, been attributed to a gas leak.
He soaked in a hot tub for nearly an hour, grateful for the solitude, then ordered some sandwiches from room service and turned on the TV. He watched CNN for a while and, after he began seeing the same stories for the third time, began channel surfing. There was an Italian soap opera, a bad 1930s movie, a children’s show, and a soccer match. Stone had always thought that soccer would be a better spectator sport if the field were half as long and the goals twice as wide. Finally, he settled on a cricket match and for an hour tried to make some sense of it. He finally concluded that cricket was an elaborate joke that the Brits played on American tourists; that they probably played the same taped match over and over. He dozed.
He was awakened by a heavy knock on the door. Still in a stupor, he gathered the terrycloth robe around him and went to the door. Nobody there. The hammering came again, and it seemed to be coming from his right, where there was a door, always locked, apparently leading to a second bedroom adjoining his suite. He listened at that door and jumped back when the hammering started again. Very weird. Gingerly, he unlocked his side of the door and opened it. Behind it was another door, and someone hammered on it again. “It’s locked on your side!” he yelled.
The latch turned, and the door opened. Dino Bacchetti stood in the adjoining room.
“Jesus,” Dino said, “are you deaf? I’ve been knocking for ten minutes.”
Stone was completely nonplussed. “What the hell are you doing here, Dino?”
“I’m hungry; get me a room-service menu.”
“Press the button over there that says ‘waiter,’ ” Stone instructed. Dino pressed it.
“Dino, what are you doing in London?”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
“No. Well, yes, I guess so, but there was no name on it.”
The waiter knocked on the door, and Stone opened it.
“Yes, sir; may I get you something?”
“What time is it in this country?” Dino asked.
“Nine-thirty P.M., sir,” the waiter said, glancing at his watch.
“You want some dinner?” Dino asked Stone.
“Whatever you’re having,” Stone replied.
“Bring us a couple Caesar salads and a couple steaks, medium-rare, and a decent bottle of red wine,” Dino said to the waiter.
“Of course, sir. Would you like some potatoes?”
“Sure, sure, whatever you’ve got,” Dino said. “And bring him a double Wild Turkey on the rocks, and me a Johnnie Walker Black, fixed the same, right away, please.” He closed the door behind the departing waiter.
“Dino, just once more, what are you doing here?”
Dino shucked off his coat, loosened his tie, and sank into an armchair. “What the fuck are they doing?” he asked, pointing at the TV.
“They’re playing cricket,” Stone replied. “It’s been going on for at least six hours.”