“Thanks,” Dino said. “I’ll return this to you. Let’s go, Stone.”
Downstairs, in the Café Carlyle, Marie-Thérèse was deep in conversation with a man at the bar.
Musicians began taking their places at the opposite side of the room, and a voice came over the sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Café Carlyle is proud to present, in his thirtieth season at the Carlyle, Mr. Bobby Short!”
The music began, and Marie-Thérèse and her new acquaintance turned toward the stage.
53
Carpenter dialed Mason’s cell phone and he answered immediately. “Speak,” he said.
“It’s Carpenter. Where are you?”
“At a restaurant called La Goulue, on Madison Avenue, at Sixty-fifth Street.”
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
“I have news, but don’t react.”
“Go.”
“Architect is dead.”
“Really?” he drawled, in his Etonian accent. “Anyone we know involved?”
“La Biche shot him in the men’s room at the Four Seasons.”
“Goodness gracious. Who’s next in line?”
“You and I.”
“Well, I wouldn’t like that much.”
“I didn’t think so. I think she followed him from the firm offices, so don’t go back there.”
“Makes sense. Any suggestions?”
“Don’t go back to your hotel, either.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to seek shelter elsewhere,” Mason said, sighing.
“Good idea.”
“Do you have any plans?”
“I think we should get an RAF airplane over here and get out. I’d feel more comfortable at home.”
“Would you? I’m not sure I agree. After all, our, ah, friend is here, isn’t she? I should think we’d have more luck making a connection with her right here in the Big Apple.”
“You might not like the connection.”
“Leave that to me.”
“I’ll be on my cell phone. Let’s stay in touch.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Waldorf Towers, in the director’s company flat.”
“How cozy.”
“Don’t make bad jokes. Stay in touch.”
“Righto.”
Mason hung up and gazed at the young FBI agent sitting across the table from him. “There’s been a spot of bother. My governor is deceased.”
“Well, at his age . . .”
“It wasn’t a coronary.”
The young man dug out a cell phone.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Mason said. “They’ll just put you to work. They’ll get in touch if they need you.”
The agent smiled and pocketed his cell phone.
Mason leaned forward. “It’s been suggested that I shouldn’t go home. Mind if I bunk with you tonight?”
The agent smiled. “I’d be delighted.”
Carpenter went back into the suite’s living room, where the director and his deputy were on separate phones.
“I’m getting zero cooperation from the New York police and the local administration,” the director was saying. “It might help if you called the mayor, sir.” He took the phone away from his ear when the reaction came. “Sir, I think you should consider the reaction in the press when they find out that a high figure in British intelligence has been murdered while in the company of a high American official. . . . Well, you have a point. The press will never have heard of Sir Edward, unless, of course, the NYPD decides to tell them who he is. I think that if you called the mayor, we might be able to keep this as the murder of a foreigner in a restaurant, nothing more. . . . Thank you, sir.” He hung up and sighed.
“Problems, Director?”
“Call me Jim, Felicity.” He patted the sofa next to him. Carpenter took a nearby chair, instead. “Jim it is.”
“The attorney general doesn’t want to get involved,” the director said.
“One can hardly blame him,” Carpenter replied. “I don’t think you need be concerned about the press’s treatment of this event. We go to some lengths to see that our own management’s names are never published, and the only member of the NYPD who knows who he is is Lieutenant Bacchetti, at the Nineteenth Precinct. I don’t think he’ll be loose-lipped.”
“Bacchetti, yes. I’ve heard of him. Somebody recommended that I recruit him in a management position. What do you think?”
“He’s a good man.”
“Maybe this would be a good time to broach the subject with him.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
The director stood up, an empty glass in his hand. “Can I get you a Scotch?”
“No, thank you, sir. Officially, I’m still on duty.”
“What has London had to say about all this?”
“I have a call in to the home secretary, but he hasn’t gotten back to me. It’s the middle of the night there, and I doubt if his duty officer has the nerve to wake him. There’s not much he can do, anyway, and I’d rather be free to act without his orders inhibiting me.”
“Are you planning something?”
“I’m planning to react, if I get the opportunity. I don’t know if I will.”
“Well, you’re safe here with me,” the director said, pouring himself another Scotch.
“Thank you, sir, that’s very reassuring.”
“How well did you know Sir Edward?”
“I’ve known him all my life. He and my father served together.”
“Then I suppose my personal condolences are in order.”
“Not really, sir. Sir Edward was a shit, and I won’t miss him.”
Stone and Dino stood outside the door of Suite 1917.
“Ready?” Dino asked.
“Whenever you are,” Stone replied, gripping the gun in his pocket.
Dino rang the bell. No answer. He rang it again. “What the hell,” he said, slipping the passkey into the lock.
54
Stone followed Dino into the suite, gun in hand.
“Hello?” Dino called. “Hotel maintenance. Anybody home?” He walked quickly to the bedroom door, flattened himself against the wall, and nodded to Stone.
Stone pushed the door open with his foot and stepped tentatively into the room. “Hotel maintenance. Anybody there?”
Dino put a foot against his backside and pushed him into the bedroom.
“Just like old times,” Stone said. “First through the door again.”
“You have a lousy memory,” Dino said, following him into the room.
They looked around. Everything seemed perfectly normal.
“Check the closet,” Dino said.
“You think she’s in there? You check it.”
Dino opened the closet door, and the light came on. Inside hung half a dozen outfits. “She travels pretty light, for a woman.”
Stone pointed at the upper shelf, where three wigs rested on plastic forms. “Not every woman travels with that much hair.”
“Okay,” Dino said, “let’s turn it over, but leave everything exactly as it is.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Evidence. I’d love to find the weapon she’s been using.”
“It’s probably tucked into her bra.”
“I’m willing to look there.”
They went to work.
Downstairs in the Café Carlyle, Bobby Short’s performance was drawing to a close. The applause was long and warm.
“Well,” the man next to her at the bar said. “Can I buy you a nightcap?”
“I’m staying here,” she said. “Why don’t you let me buy you one upstairs? There’s a bar in my suite.”