“I was very sorry to hear of Vance’s death. Did they ever convict anyone of the murder?”
“A woman friend of his was charged and tried, but acquitted. If she really was innocent, then I think it will remain unsolved.”
“Very strange. I liked Vance, and, of course, he was a very good customer.” Hayward handed him his receipt. “But I suppose he’s bequeathed you to me.”
Stone laughed. “First time I’ve ever been a bequest.” He shook hands with Hayward, put on his new raincoat, picked up his new umbrella and the Connaught’s as well, and walked outside into a bright, sunshiny day. “Not a cloud in the sky,” he said aloud, looking around him. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. Jet lag had crept up on him, and all he wanted was a bed. He turned and walked the half-block to the Connaught, went upstairs, undressed, and, leaving a wake-up call for seven, climbed into bed and slept.
The two men in the embassy sat across a desk from each other.
“You really think this can work?” one asked.
“I checked him out very carefully,” the other replied. “He’s perfect for us.”
“If he can make it work.”
“Let’s give him some time and see. If he can do it, he’ll save us a great deal of time and effort and, possibly, ah, embarrassment.”
The first man sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
Chapter 6
STONE ARRIVED AT THE CONNAUGHT bar downstairs promptly at eight o’clock, showered, shaved, and dressed in a freshly pressed, chalk-striped blue suit. The nap had cleared his head, and he was sure that, with one more good night’s sleep, he would be over the jet lag. The bar consisted of two oak-paneled rooms filled with comfortable sofas and chairs, one room with a small bar at one end. He had only just sat down when his dining companions arrived.
Erica had not lied; her friend was even more beautiful than she. “Stone,” Erica said, “may I introduce my sister, Monica? And this is Lance Cabot.”
Stone shook hands all around. Monica Burroughs was perhaps five-ten, nearly as slim as Erica, and had deep auburn hair and green eyes. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said, and he was not lying.
“Shall we have some champagne?” Lance asked. His voice was deep, and he seemed to have a mid-Atlantic accent. A waiter appeared and took the order. A moment later, they were sipping Krug ’66.
“I’m astonished to see this on a wine list,” Stone said.
“It isn’t on the list,” Lance replied. “It’s a secret, and I’m sure they have only a few bottles left. Erica tells me you’re a lawyer.”
“That’s correct.”
“And with Woodman and Weld?”
“I’m of counsel to the firm.”
“Not a partner?”
“No, most of my work for them is done outside the firm.”
Lance regarded him gravely. “It sounds as though you’re as much of a secret at Woodman and Weld as this wine is at the Connaught.”
“I’m not quite a secret,” Stone said. “Like the champagne, I’m available on request.”
“Tell me, Stone,” Lance continued, “have you ever done government work of any kind?”
“I worked for the government of New York City as a police officer for many years.”
“Did you? Erica didn’t mention that. What sort of police officer?”
“Every sort, at one time or another. I began as a patrolman and finished as a homicide detective.”
“Finished rather young, didn’t you?”
“I was retired for medical reasons.”
“You look reasonably fit.”
“I took a bullet in the knee.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“I can assure you that, at the time, it was not in the least romantic, only painful.” Lance was grilling him, and Stone was determined to be polite about it.
“Lance,” Erica said, “you’re hogging Stone; we’d like to talk to him, too.”
Monica spoke up, and her accent was more than mid-Atlantic; it was quite English. “How does one recover from a bullet in the knee?” she asked, and she seemed fascinated.
“With surgery and therapy,” Stone said. “It doesn’t bother me much anymore. If it becomes troublesome again, I can have it replaced.”
“Ah, yes,” Monica said, “the modular approach to human anatomy. I suppose Lance will be having a new liver soon.”
Stone and Erica laughed; Lance pretended to.
“And what do you do, Monica?” Stone asked.
“I have an art gallery, in Bruton Street.”
“Did you study art somewhere?”
“At MountHolyoke, like Erica, only a few years ahead of her. I got a master’s in art history there, then went to work for Sotheby’s. Erica followed in my footsteps, but she lasted only until Lance spirited her away.”
“I heard that story at lunch,” Stone said. “How long have you lived in London?”
“Nearly ten years.”
Lance spoke up. “Long enough to acquire a pretentious accent.”
Monica and Erica both shot him searing glances. “Do you really find my accent pretentious, Lance?” Monica asked.
“Oh, very.”
“It seems that every time I speak to you, your accent has traveled a hundred miles farther to the east,” she said dryly.
Lance flushed a little.
Stone began to feel that all was not entirely well between Monica and Lance, or maybe, between Lance and anybody. “Lance, what made you ask if I’d done government work?”
“Just a hunch,” Lance said. “Perhaps there’s something a little bureaucratic about you.”