“I’m Stone Barrington,” Stone said, rising and offering his hand.
“John Bartholomew,” the man replied, shaking it.
Stone waved him to a chair. “Bill Eggers called last night.”
“Did he give you any details?”
“No.”
Joan brought in another cup of coffee on a silver tray and offered it to Bartholomew, who had, apparently, placed his order with her on arrival.
Bartholomew sipped it. “Damned fine coffee,” he said.
There was something vaguely British about him, Stone thought, perhaps more than just the hand-tailored suit. “Thank you. We drink it strong around here.”
“The way I like it,” the big man replied. “Never could understand that decaf crap. Like drinking nonalcoholic booze. Why bother?”
Stone nodded and sipped his own coffee.
“We don’t have much time, Mr. Barrington, so I’ll come to the point. I have a niece, my dead sister’s only child, name of Erica Burroughs.” He spelled the name. “She’s twenty, dropped out of MountHolyoke, involved with a young man named Lance Cabot.”
“Of the MassachusettsCabots?”
“He’d like people to think so, I’m sure, but no, no relation at all; doesn’t even know them; I checked. Young Mr. Cabot, I’m reliably informed, earns his living by smuggling quantities of cocaine across international borders. Quantities small enough to conceal on his person or in his luggage, but large enough to bring him an income, you follow?”
“I follow.”
“I’m very much afraid that Erica, besotted as she is, may be assisting him in his endeavors, and I don’t want to see her end up in a British prison.”
“She’s in Britain?”
Bartholomew nodded. “London, living with Mr. Cabot, quite fancily, in a rented mews house in Mayfair.” He opened a briefcase and handed Stone a file with a few sheets of paper inside. “Don’t bother reading this now, there isn’t time, but it contains everything I’ve been able to learn about Cabot, and something about Erica, as well. What I’d like you to do is to go to London, persuade Erica to come back to New York with you, and, if it’s possible without implicating Erica, get young Mr. Cabot arrested. I’d like him in a place where he can’t get to Erica. For as long as possible, it goes without saying.”
“I see.”
“Will you undertake this task? You’ll be very well paid, I assure you, and you will lack for no comfort while traveling.”
Stone didn’t have to think long, and mostly what he thought about was Sarah Buckminster, another relationship he’d managed to fuck up, though it wasn’t really his fault. “I will, Mr. Bartholomew, but you must understand that I will be pretty much limited to whatever persuasion I can muster, within the law, and whatever influence with the authorities I can scrape up. I won’t kidnap your niece, and I won’t harm Cabot, beyond whatever justice I can seek for him, based on crimes that are real and not imagined.”
“I understand perfectly, Mr. Barrington. I’m well aware that you are a respectable attorney and not a thug for hire. I’m also informed, by a number of people, Samuel Bernard among them, that you are a resourceful man and that your background as a police detective gives you entrée to certain places.”
“Sometimes,” Stone admitted, “but not always. There are limits to what an ex-policeman can do.”
“I understand. I simply want you to do whatever you can.”
“On that basis, I’ll go,” Stone said. “I’ll ask my secretary to book me on a flight this evening.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Bartholomew said, digging into his briefcase and coming up with an envelope secured with a rubber band. He tossed it onto Stone’s desk. “You’re booked on a two P.M. flight to London, and I’ve reserved accommodation for you at the Connaught hotel. There’s five thousand pounds sterling in the envelope and the name of a man at Coutts Bank in The Strand who will provide you with more, should you need it. Please enjoy whatever food, drink, and guests you may wish to have at the Connaught; the bill will come to me, and you need not keep track of your expenses.”
“That’s very generous,” Stone replied.
“All the relevant addresses and phone numbers are in the file, as is my card. Call me should you need advice or assistance of any sort. I understand that this may take a week or two, or even longer, so don’t feel pressed for time. I want this done in the best way possible, regardless of time or cost.” He reached into his briefcase, came up with a box, and placed it on Stone’s desk. “This is a satellite telephone that will work anywhere in Britain. Please use it to contact me when necessary; my number is programmed into the first digit. All you do is press one and hold it, and I’ll be on the other end. Please keep it with you at all times, in case I should wish to contact you.”
“All right.”
Bartholomew stood up. “Now, I must hurry to an appointment, and you have a flight to catch.” He shook hands with Stone, closed his briefcase, and marched out of the office, a man in a hurry.
Chapter 3
STONE WENT UPSTAIRS AND STARTED packing. He had no real idea what clothes he might need, so he overpacked, as he often did, taking three cases. He was gathering his toiletries when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Dino. You all right? You got pretty snockered last night.”
“Yes, I did, but I’m bearing up. In fact, I’m off to London in a couple of hours.”
“For what?”
“Some client of Woodman and Weld has a niece who’s about to get herself in trouble in London, and I’m supposed to bring her back.”
“Who’s the client?”
“A man named John Bartholomew.” Stone dug in the file for Bartholomew’s card. It bore only a phone number and a cellphone number. “Sorry, I thought I had a business card, but it’s only a number.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Yes, you can see if a man named Lance Cabot has a sheet.”
“Just a minute,” Dino said.