“I see,” Stone said, but he didn’t see at all.
“Where are you staying?” Bernard asked.
“At the Connaught.”
“Let me see what I can learn,” he said, “and I’ll call you if I find out something.”
“Oh, I have a cellphone number,” Stone said. “It’s one of those satellite things that works in a lot of countries.” He gave Bernard the number.
“This may take a while,” Bernard said. “Good night.” He hung up.
Stone sat on the bed, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
Chapter 8
STONE WOKE REFRESHED, HAVING slept well, but all through breakfast he puzzled over Bartholomew, or whatever his name was, and his own assignment in London. Well, he thought finally, I’m an investigator, so maybe I’d better start investigating.
He dug out the phone number of Dino’s acquaintance at Scotland Yard and called him.
“Detective Inspector Throckmorton’s line,” a woman’s voice answered.
Stone tried not to laugh at the name. “Good morning, my name is Stone Barrington. Would you tell Detective Inspector Throckmorton that Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti suggested I call him?” He spelled Dino’s name for her.
“One moment, please.”
There was a brief pause, a click, and a crisp English voice said, “Throckmorton here; is that Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Bacchetti called the other day and said you might turn up. You free for lunch?”
“Yes; may I take you?”
“Name the spot.”
“How about the Connaught?”
“I can live with that,” he said. “The Restaurant or the Grill?”
“Which would you prefer?”
“Menu’s pretty much the same, but the Grill is nicer at lunch, I think.”
“Twelve-thirty?”
“See you then,” Throckmorton said, and hung up.
Stone booked the table, then showered and dressed and left the hotel. The sun shone brightly, though he was not sure for how long, and he immediately began to enjoy walking. Using his map, he strolled through Berkeley Square, then over to Piccadilly. He turned right at Fortnum & Mason’s, the renowned department store and food emporium, and finally came to Jermyn Street and Turnbull & Asser.
He entered the shop, which was filled with brightly colored shirts and ties, looked at both, bought some, bought a couple of the Sea Island cotton nightshirts he preferred, and was sure to get the tax refund forms. He then strolled back to the Connaught, doing a lot of window-shopping in Bond Street along the way.
Evelyn Throckmorton was a small, well-proportioned, handsome man in his forties, wearing a Savile Row suit and a military mustache. He greeted Stone, and they went into the Connaught Grill, which was painted a restful green, and were given a table in an alcove by a window.
“How is Dino?” Throckmorton asked.
“He’s very well; we see a lot of each other.”
“I’ve heard him speak of you,” Throckmorton said, perusing the menu. “Surprised we didn’t meet when I was in New York that time.”
“I’ve been off the force for several years, now,” Stone said.
“Oh yes, I remember your last case; Dino and I discussed it in some detail.”
Stone didn’t care to revisit the Sasha Nijinsky case. “What would you like for lunch?” he asked as a waiter approached.
“The potted shrimps and the Dover sole,” the policeman said to the waiter.
“I’ll have the same,” Stone said. “Would you like some wine?”
“Of course.”
Stone ordered a Sancerre, and they chatted a bit until the first course came.
“Now,” said Throckmorton, digging into his shrimp, “what can I do for you while you’re here?”
“I’ve been sent over here by a client to look into the activities of an American living in London, and I need the help of an investigator—no, two. I thought you might know of someone reliable.”
“I know a lorryload of retired coppers,” Throckmorton said. “I daresay I could find you a couple of good men. What will you pay?”
“You tell me.”
Throckmorton mentioned an hourly rate, and Stone agreed.
“Anything illegal about this?” Throckmorton asked.
“Not unless surveillance is illegal in Britain.”
“Certainly not.” Throckmorton chuckled.
“I don’t want anyone hit over the head or anything like that. I just want to find out what’s going on and report back to my client.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” He polished off his shrimp and whipped out an address book. “Let me go make a phone call,” he said. “I’ll be back before the sole arrives.”
Stone sat back and sipped his wine. As Throckmorton left, Sir Antony Shields entered the Grill with another man, and they were seated across the room. The man certainly eats well, Stone thought to himself.
Throckmorton returned as the waiter was boning the soles. “There’ll be two men here in an hour,” he said. “They’ll be waiting in the lounge when we’re done here. Their names are Ted Cricket and Bobby Jones, like the golfer. They both worked for me at one time or another; they’re smart, persistent, and discreet. You’ll get what you want from them.”
“Thank, you,” Stone said. The sole was excellent. “I believe that’s your Home Secretary over there.” He nodded at the table across the room.
“Yes, saw him when I came back to the table. I’ve shaken his hand, but I don’t really know the bugger, he’s too new. Came in with the Labour lot, the second man to hold the office. I’m told he’s reasonably bright; he made a name for himself as a barrister, prosecuting as often as defending. That’s how we do it over here, you know.”