Stone Barrington: The Short Forever Part 15

"That Sarah is going to inherit James's estate."

"That much is true," Stone said. "I've seen the will."

"How much?"

"Hard to say; difficult to put a value on the business." So far, he hadn't told Lance anything that wasn't public knowledge.

"I suppose Sarah will sell it."

"I don't know if she's had time to think about it. I imagine there'll be quite a lot of legal work to be done before it's settled."

"This turn of events brings me back to what I initially said to you about the boating accident."

"You still think it wasn't an accident?"

"I have a suspicious mind."

"Well, I've looked into it a bit, and so has Sir Bernard Pickering, and to my knowledge, no information has arisen to indicate that Sarah even knew about the contents of James's will."

"But you can't say definitively that she did or didn't know."

"I don't think anyone can, but it's my best judgment, based on what Sarah has told me and on my knowledge of her character, that she did not know."

"You sound as if you're testifying at a trial."

"You sound as if you're conducting one."

Lance laughed. "Fair enough."

"How well did you know James?"

"I'd met him two or three times."

"What did you think of him?"

"I thought that, like a lot of men, he was very smart about business and very stupid about almost everything else."

"You mean about Sarah?"

"Yes. She obviously didn't love him."

Stone nodded. "I think you're right; she was under a lot of pressure from her parents to marry him. I don't think she would have gone through with it."

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because Sarah impressed me as someone who would not have let an opportunity like James get past her."

"That's a pretty cynical view. How well do you know Sarah?"

"Not all that well, but I'm a pretty good judge of character."

This conversation was going nowhere, Stone thought. He decided to change the subject. "Do you know someone named Stanford Hedger?"

Lance turned and looked at him for a moment. "No, I don't," he said. Then he got up and walked back into the house, leaving Stone on the garden bench.

22.

STONE RETURNED TO THE CONNAUGHT, and as he entered, he caught sight of Ted Cricket sitting in the lounge, having a cup of tea. Stone joined him.

Cricket looked grim. He reached into a pocket and handed Stone a single sheet of paper.

Stone unfolded it.

The fingerprints on the wallet were checked against all available databases. Only in the United States was there an apparent match, but no ident.i.ty was provided. Instead, a message appeared onscreen, stating: "This record is unavailable, for reasons of national security." I have returned the wallet to the Green Street house, as per your instructions.

This letter const.i.tutes my resignation from the a.s.signment. Mr. Cricket will present you with my bill. Please do not contact me again.

It was signed by Bobby Jones.

"I understand about the fingerprints," Stone said to Cricket, "but what's wrong with Bobby?"

Cricket handed him another sheet of paper, outlining Jones's fee and expenses. "He'd be grateful for cash," Cricket said.

"Of course," Stone replied, reaching for the envelope containing Bartholomew's expense money. He handed Cricket the cash, including a generous bonus. "Thank him for his help, will you?"

"Of course."

"Now tell me what's going on with Bobby."

"When Bobby returned the wallet, he was apparently followed from the house by two men. They dragged him into an alley and beat him badly."

"Jesus, is he all right?"

"He will be, eventually. He's in hospital at the moment."

"I want to go and see him."

"He doesn't want to see you, Mr. Barrington. He regards the beating as a message from Mr. Bartholomew to stay away from him and from you."

"I'd like to pay any medical bills."

"We have a National Health Service in this country."

Stone peeled off another thousand pounds from Bartholomew's money and handed it to Cricket. "Then please give him this; if he needs more, let me know."

Cricket pocketed the money. "I'm sure he'll be grateful."

"What about you, Ted? Do you want out of this?"

"No, sir; I'd like to stay on it in the hope of meeting the two gentlemen who did this to Bobby."

"I understand, but I can't promise that will happen."

"It will, if I continue to follow Bartholomew."

"I don't want you to get hurt, too, Ted."

"Believe me, Mr. Barrington, it is not I who will be hurt."

"Ted . . ."

"Let me deal with this, please. I know what I'm doing."

"I don't want anyone killed."

"I've no intention of doing that."

"I don't want Bartholomew touched."

"I won't promise you that."

"This isn't how this was supposed to go."

"I understand that, but it went that way."

"I'll continue to pay you to watch Lance Cabot," Stone said. "But I don't want you near Bartholomew. Don't follow him again."

"In that case, I'll have to leave your employ, Mr. Barrington." He handed over another sheet of paper. "Here's my bill."

Stone paid it.

Cricket stood up and offered his hand. "I'm sorry it turned out this way, Mr. Barrington; I know you're a gentleman and that you didn't intend for anything like this to happen."

"Thank you, Ted, and I wish you luck."

"And the very best to you, Mr. Barrington. Oh, by the way, I'll leave the tape recorder going in the garage for the time being."

Stone shook his head. "Don't bother; I'll be returning to New York, as soon as I take care of a couple of loose ends."

"Then I'll have the equipment removed," Cricket said. He turned and left the hotel.

Stone went to the concierge's desk and asked to be booked on a flight to New York the following day, then he went to his suite. He took out the little satellite phone, positioned himself near the window, and from the phone's memory, dialed Bartholomew's number.

It was answered on the second ring. "Yes?"

"It's Stone Barrington."

"What do you have to report?"

"You and I have to meet right away."

"I'm in New York."

"We both know that's a lie; you're staying at a house in Green Street and visiting the American Emba.s.sy every day."

There was a grinding silence for a moment, then Bartholomew said, "The Green Street house in an hour."

"No; someplace public."

"All right, the Garrick Club, at six o'clock, in the bar; I'll leave your name at the door."

"I'll be there." Stone hung up. He stretched out on the bed and tried to nap. Jet lag took a long time to completely go away.

The Garrick Club porter directed Stone up the stairs, which were hung with portraits of dead actors, costumed for their greatest roles. The whole clubhouse seemed to be a museum of the theater. Stone found the bar at the top of the stairs, and in this room, the portraits were of actors more recently dead-Noel Coward and Laurence Olivier and their contemporaries. The bar was not crowded, and Bartholomew stood at the far end.

"What are you drinking?" he asked.

"Nothing, thank you."

Bartholomew shrugged. "As you wish. Let's go in the other room." He led the way to an adjoining reading room and settled into one of a pair of leather chairs. "Now, what's so important?"

Stone fished an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. "This is the remainder of the money you gave me, and an accounting of what I spent. I'm returning to New York tomorrow."

"But you can't do that," Bartholomew said, alarmed.

"Watch me. I've had enough of your lies, Mr. Hedger, if that's your real name."

"You stole my wallet?"

"I had it done. And you're responsible for putting a retired policeman in the hospital."

"He was working for you? I had no way of knowing that."

"I should warn you that there's another retired policeman, a much larger one, looking for you right now, and I wouldn't want to be in your shoes when he finds you."

"Oh, Christ," Bartholomew said, tugging at his whiskey. "What the h.e.l.l were you doing having me followed and my pocket picked?"

"I like to know the truth about the work I do, and I wasn't getting it from you."

Bartholomew rubbed his face with his hands.