The Short Forever

                        “It’s quite all right,” Bartholomew said. He still had his arm around her. “I think you should have a drink with us and regain your composure.”

                        “Oh, I wish I could,” she said. “You seem very nice, but I’m on my way to a rather important appointment. I just came in here to use the ladies’.”

                        “Oh, come on,” Bartholomew said. “What’ll it be? Harry?” he called to the bartender.

                        “No, really, I can’t,” Moira said. “I’d love to another time, though.” She didn’t want to be there when he discovered his wallet was missing.

                        “Give me your number, then.”

                        She fished in her handbag and came up with a card, identifying her as Ruth Hedger. “You’ll most likely catch me in the early evenings,” she said. “Do you have a card?”

                        “Name’s Bill,” he said. “You can remember that, can’t you?”

                        “Surely,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from a nasty fall.” She turned her large eyes on his like headlights, making him smile. “Bye-bye.” She continued down the bar, knowing his eyes were on her ass, and out into the mews.

                        Once outside, she walked back to the square and turned a corner, making sure Bartholomew had not followed her, then she took a tiny cellphone from her pocket, checked Jones’s card, and punched in the number.

                        “Yes?” Jones said.

                        “I’ve got it.”

                        “Where are you?”

                        “In Berkeley Square.”

                        “You know Jack Barclay’s?”

                        “Yes.”

                        “Go and look at a Rolls; I’ll be there in five minutes.”

                        She hung up and walked along the east side of the square toward the Rolls-Royce dealer. She walked inside, immediately attracting a young salesman, who looked her up and down rather indiscreetly, she thought.

                        “May I help you?” he asked.

                        She glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting my husband here; we wanted to look at a Bentley.”

                        “Right over here,” the young man said, taking her elbow and steering her toward a gleaming white automobile. “This is the Arnage, in our Magnolia color,” he said. “Eye-catching, don’t you think?”

                        “It’s gorgeous,” she said, catching sight of Bobby Jones over his shoulder. “Oh, there he is!” She waved and smiled brightly.

                        Bobby approached them. “Hello dear,” she said, pecking him on a cheek. “Isn’t this a beautiful Bentley?”

                        Bobby looked at the car sourly. “You’ll have to be content with your Mercedes,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” He took her arm and guided her toward the door, with never a glance at the salesman.

                 Chapter 20

                        AFTER BREAKFAST STONE LEFT THE Connaught and began to wander aimlessly around Mayfair, window-shopping and thinking. He was making precious little progress in his investigation of Lance Cabot, and even less in his investigation of his client, John Bartholomew, or whoever he was. Still, he had been in England for only a few days; perhaps he was being impatient.

                        Finally, his impatience led him into Farm Street, where he saw Ted Cricket standing at the far end. He did not approach the house, but he motioned for Cricket to go to the next mews, and they met there.

                        “Anything to report?” Stone asked.

                        “Not yet, Mr. Barrington,” Cricket replied, “but then I didn’t expect for anything to happen. They haven’t left the house yet, and when I checked the tape, there had only been a couple of phone calls, both for Miss Burroughs, both innocuous.”

                        “Heard anything from Bobby?”

                        “Not yet, but I expect we’ll have some results before the day’s out. We have your cellphone number, if anything of note occurs.”

                        “Thanks, Ted; I’ll talk to you later.” Stone walked back up the mews and slowly back toward the Connaught. He passed the Hayward tailor shop, but didn’t go in; it was too soon for fittings on the jackets he had ordered. His pocket phone rang.

                        “Hello?”

                        “Mr. Barrington, it’s Bobby Jones.”

                        “Yes, Bobby?”

                        “I have what you wanted; can we meet?”

                        “I’ll be at the Connaught in two minutes.”

                        “So will I, sir.”

                        Stone encountered Bobby at the front door, and they went in together and sat down in the lounge. Bobby reached into his raincoat pocket and presented Stone with a large wallet.

                        Stone received it in a handkerchief and lightly turned it over. It was of alligator, and it must have cost a bundle, Stone thought. He looked inside and found more than five hundred pounds, mostly in fifty-pound notes. One side of the wallet held three credit cards, an ATM card from Barclays bank, an international health insurance card, and half a dozen calling cards, all in the name of Stanford Hedger, Mayfair House, Green Street. The credit cards were in the same name. “Well,” he said, “at least we have his name, now.”

                        “The lady pickpocket said he introduced himself as Bill, so Hedger could be a false name, too.”

                        “If it is, he’s gone to a great deal of trouble to establish that identity. Since we know he lives at the Green Street address, I’m inclined to think that Hedger is his real name.”

                        “Maybe so, but these buggers have a thousand names, if they want them.”

                        “Bobby, can you dust this for fingerprints and have them checked with the international database?”

                        “I have a friend who can,” Bobby replied. “Of course, my prints are on it, as are the pickpocket’s.”

                        “How long will it take?”

                        “A day or two, depending on how busy my friend is.”

                        “All right.”

                        “What do you want me to do with the wallet after that?”

                        “Wipe all the prints off it and stick it through the mail slot of Hedger’s building. Maybe he’ll think someone found and returned it.”

                        “All right, sir; I’ll be on my way then.” Bobby took the wallet back in a handkerchief of his own, tucked it into a raincoat pocket, and left.

                        Stone went upstairs. It was just coming onto nine o’clock, New York time, and he called Bill Eggers, who he knew came in early.

                        “Eggers.”

                        “Hi, it’s Stone.”

                        “Hey. What’s up?”

                        “Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”

                        “Sounds familiar,” Eggers said, “but I can’t place it. Who is he?”

                        “That’s what I want to know. I think it may be Bartholomew’s real name. By the way, he