The Short Forever

                        “As you requested,” Ted Cricket began, reading from a notebook like a good cop, “I positioned myself outside the United States Embassy at eight A.M. this morning and waited for the appearance of a gentleman of the description provided by you on Friday last. Such a gentleman appeared just after ten A.M. and went into the embassy. He emerged at twelve thirty-nine P.M. with another gentleman, who was American in his dress, and I followed them to a restaurant and pub called the Guinea, in a mews just off Berkeley Square. They remained there for nearly two hours, then returned to the embassy.

                        “At half past four, the first gentleman emerged from the embassy again and, on foot, proceeded to a house in Green Street, a short walk from the embassy. He let himself in with a key, and I surmised that the house is his residence in London. To check this, I knocked on the door of the basement flat, where a caretaker lives, and asked him questions regarding the occupants of the building. He was extremely reluctant to talk to me until I gave him to understand that I was a police officer; then he became marginally more cooperative.

                        “He divulged, in an oblique manner, that the house was owned by the American government, and that it consisted of four flats occupied by various transient government officials. He knew the gentleman I was following, who occupied the third-floor flat, only as Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray has occupied the third-floor flat for at least four years, though he is often away, and he keeps a considerable wardrobe in the flat. He is apparently unmarried, though he sometimes receives lady guests in the flat. He receives no mail there, and I am inclined to believe that Gray is not the gentleman’s real name.

                        “I am also inclined to believe that Mr. Gray is not, formally speaking, an accredited American representative to Her Majesty’s government. He has all the earmarks of a spook.” Cricket stopped talking.

                        “I’m inclined to agree,” Stone said. “I’m also inclined to think that it would be fruitless, not to mention dangerous, to attempt to bug Mr. Gray’s flat, because if he is a spook, his organization will have taken steps to prevent such an action.”

                        “Agreed,” Cricket replied.

                        “The question now is, how do we find out his real name?”

                        “I had a thought about that, Mr. Barrington,” Cricket said. “Why don’t I have his pocket picked?”

                        Stone smiled. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Can you get it done without his knowing?”

                        “I know a person who can,” Cricket replied confidently. “Mr. Gray might even enjoy the experience.”

                        “I take it your pickpocket is female.”

                        “Indeed, yes.”

                        “Go to it.”

                        Cricket turned to Jones. “Bobby, what do you have for Mr. Barrington?”

                        Jones produced his own notebook. “I began surveillance of the Farm Street house at seven A.M. this morning. By mid-morning, it became apparent to me that the house was not occupied, except by a cleaning lady who arrived at eight and departed at ten, so I had my man go in and wire the place for sound while I stood guard. He was out by one P.M., and now all the phones serve as taps for us, whether they are in use or not. The microphones are voice-activated and are recorded automatically by a machine in a garage about forty meters from the house. I’ll check it daily for anything of interest.

                        “I continued my surveillance of the house, and a little after three P.M. Mr. Cabot and Miss Burroughs returned and went into the house with some luggage. Less than an hour later, two men arrived outside in a car and knocked at the door. They were large gentlemen, and in spite of extensive tailoring and barbering, they struck me as right out of the East End. They rang the bell, and when Mr. Cabot emerged, they pulled him out of the house and began to rough him up, in the manner, I would say, of debt collectors for a loan shark or a bookmaker. Since I assumed you did not wish the man harmed, I approached, identified myself as a police officer, and asked Mr. Cabot if he required any assistance.

                        “He said he did not. I asked if he wished to make a charge against either or both of the gentlemen; he said he did not. I took the gentlemen aside and suggested that if I caught them in the neighborhood again I would have them in the nick very shortly. They got into their car and left. By this time, Mr. Cabot was already back inside the house.

                        “I then went to the garage and listened to the tape recording of what was said in the house. Miss Burroughs asked Mr. Cabot who had been at the door, and he replied, quite coolly, I thought, that some people had knocked at the wrong door. After that their conversation was of a mundane nature, and I reset the recorder. I waited within sight of the house until it was time to come here and see you.”

                        “Very good, Bobby,” Stone said. “Were you able to overhear any of the conversation between Cabot and the two men?”

                        “No, I’m afraid I was out of earshot. I expect they might be leery of returning to the house, but if they should telephone Cabot, we’ll have a recording of the conversation.”

                        “Do you have any further instructions for us, Mr. Barrington?” Cricket asked.

                        “You already know what to do about Mr. Gray; my main concern is to know his real identity. As for Mr. Cabot, Bobby, I’d like to maintain the surveillance on him for a few more days. I want to know who he sees during the days—I don’t think we need bother with his evenings. I’m particularly interested to know if he has any criminal contacts. After his encounter with the muscle, I wouldn’t be surprised. And, of course, I’d like a daily report on what your recorder picks up.”

                        “Of course,” Jones replied. “If anything that sounds remotely interesting is recorded, I’ll dub it off onto a portable so you can hear it.”

                        “Very good,” Stone said, rising. “I’ll look forward to hearing from both of you.”

                        “Mr. Barrington,” Cricket said, “may I make a suggestion?”

                        “Of course.”

                        “I think it might be good for Bobby and me to swap targets every day. That way, the gentlemen are less likely to spot the tail.”

                        “By all means,” Stone said. “Change whenever you wish.”

                        He shook hands with the men, and they left.

                        Stone returned to his room, and as he entered, the phone rang.

                        “Hello?”

                        “It’s Sarah; I’m in London. Can we have dinner tonight?”

                        “All right. Where would you like to meet?”

                        “Where do you suggest?”

                        “It’s your town.”

                        “There are some press people hanging around outside my flat.”

                        “Then I don’t think you should be seen with me; that would just add fuel to the flame.”

                        “I can get out a back way, I think. Why don’t I come to the Connaught? I don’t think they would follow me inside, and if they did, they’d be thrown out.”

                        “All right.”

                        “What’s your suite number?”

                        “Ah, let’s meet in the restaurant.”

                        “Eight-thirty?”

                        “That should be all right. I’ll book the table now.”

                        “How did your meeting with James’s solicitor go?”

                        “It went well; I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

                        “Bye-bye.” She hung up.

                        Stone called downstairs and booked the table, then he soaked in a hot tub for a while and lay down for a nap. As he drifted off, he wondered who had sent the hoods to deal with Lance Cabot.

                 Chapter  18