The Short Forever

                        “Pleasure,” Stone said. “A little vacation.”

                        “And how long do you plan to stay?”

                        “Somewhere between a few days and a couple of weeks, I suppose.”

                        “And are you aware that your passport expires the day after tomorrow?”

                        He was not. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice.”

                        She handed it back to him. “You can renew it at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Enjoy your stay.”

                        Stone pocketed his passport. “Thank you.” He followed the signs toward baggage claim and retrieved his cases.

                        Stone made a point of dressing well when traveling; it seemed to smooth the way, somehow, and British customs was no exception. While a slovenly young man ahead of him had his bags searched, Stone walked through the “nothing to declare” gate and found himself staring at a man in a uniform holding up a sign with his name on it.

                        “I’m Mr. Barrington,” he said to the man.

                        The man took Stone’s luggage cart. “Please follow me, sir.”

                        Stone followed him to a large Mercedes, and a moment later they were on their way into central London. Stone reset his watch, noting that it was nearly eleven P.M., London time, and he was not at all tired or sleepy.

                        The Connaught was small by hotel standards, discreet, and elegant. At the front desk, he merely signed a check-in form; there were no other formalities.

                        “I believe the concierge has a message for you, Mr. Barrington,” the young man at the desk said. “Just behind you.”

                        “Mr. Barrington?” the concierge said, before Stone had barely turned. “Mr. Bartholomew rang and said that he had arranged privileges for you at these places.” He handed Stone a sheet of paper.

                        Annabel’s, Harry’s Bar, and the Garrick Club, Stone read. “Thank you,” he said to the concierge. “Where would you suggest I go for some dinner at this hour?”

                        “Well, sir, our restaurant has already closed, and room service would only have sandwiches this late. I’d suggest Annabel’s; it’s a short walk, and they go on quite late there.” He gave Stone directions. “If you’d like to go straightaway, the porter will be glad to unpack for you.”

                        “Thank you, I will,” Stone said. Following the directions, he left the hotel and walked down Mount Street toward Berkeley Square, then turned right. The night was cool and clear, belying what he’d heard about London weather. He crossed a street and followed an iron railing to an awning over a basement entrance, then walked downstairs. He was greeted by a doorman who clearly didn’t recognize him, but as soon as he gave his name he was ushered down a hallway.

                        “Would you like to go straight into the dining room, sir, or would you prefer to have a drink first?” the man asked.

                        They had entered a beautifully decorated lounge and bar area. “I’d like a drink first,” Stone said. He was shown to a comfortable sofa under a very good oil of a dog and her puppies, and he ordered a glass of champagne. He looked around. There were many good pictures and an extremely well-dressed crowd. The women were beautiful in London, he reflected.

                        As he sipped his champagne, a very handsome couple entered the bar, both obviously a little drunk. They were seated on the opposite wall, and they were both quite beautiful. The girl was tall and willowy, wearing a very short dress, and the young man wore a rakishly cut suit that had obviously not come off the rack. They nuzzled and giggled, and they attracted the attention of other patrons with their behavior.

                        Stone watched as a barman approached them, and his voice was mildly disapproving. “Good evening, Mr. Cabot,” Stone heard him say.

                 Chapter 4

                        STONE WAS SEATED IN A DIMLY LIT dining room with a glassed-off dance floor at one end, and Lance Cabot and Erica Burroughs were seated a few tables away. Although they were drinking champagne with their dinner, they didn’t seem to get any drunker.

                        It was five hours earlier in New York, and Stone’s stomach had not caught up with the time change, so he wanted something light. He handed the menu back to the waiter. “May I just have some scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and half a bottle of champagne? You choose the wine.”

                        “Of course, Mr. Barrington,” the man said.

                        Stone finished his dinner before Cabot and Burroughs did. He thought of following them when they left, but he knew where to find them, and, in spite of the time change, he was beginning to believe his wristwatch. He left Annabel’s and walked back to the Connaught through the beautiful clear night. A moon had risen, and Berkeley Square was almost theatrically lit, its tall plane trees casting sharp shadows on the grass.

                        At the hotel, the night clerk insisted on showing him to his room. He found himself in a very pleasant suite, and his clothes had been put away. He soaked in a hot tub for a while until he felt sleepy, then he got into a nightshirt and fell into bed.

            It was nearly ten A.M. when he woke, and as he reached for the telephone to order breakfast, he noticed a small electrical box on the side table, displaying buttons for a maid, a valet, and a waiter. He pressed the waiter button, and a moment later, there was a sharp, metallic rap on his door.

                        “Come in.”

                        A waiter let himself into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington. May I get you some breakfast?”

                        “Yes, please.”

                        “What would you like?”

                        There was apparently no menu. “Scrambled eggs, toast, a kipper, orange juice, and coffee, please.” He hadn’t had a kipper in many years, but he remembered the smoked-fish flavor.

                        “Right away, sir.” The waiter disappeared, to return a few minutes later, rolling a beautifully set tray table.

                        I’m going to like this hotel, Stone thought, as he dug into his breakfast.

            Showered, shaved, and dressed, he presented himself at the concierge’s desk. “Can you direct me to the American Embassy?” he asked.

                        The concierge produced a map. “We’re here, and the embassy is just there,” he said, “in Grosvenor Square. A three-minute walk.”

                        “And I have to get a passport photo taken.”

                        The concierge pointed to a corner across from the embassy. “There’s a chemist’s shop there, and they do American passport photographs, which are a different size from the British ones.”

                        “Good. Now, can you tell me how to find Farm Street?” he asked the man.

                        The concierge pointed to a spot on the map. “It’s quite near, Mr. Barrington; a five-minute walk. Would you like to borrow an umbrella?”

                        Stone looked toward the door. “It’s raining?”

                        “Happens often in London, sir.”

                        Stone accepted the umbrella and walked outside. A steady rain was falling.

                        A top-hatted doorman greeted him. “Good morning, sir; taxi?”

                        “Yes, please.” The hell with the walk, in this weather.

                        The doorman summoned a taxi from a rank across the street, and Stone got into it. “Farm Street,” he said.

                        “Any particular number, sir?” the cabbie asked.

                        “I want to take a look at a house called Merryvale, but don’t stop, just drive slowly past.”