The Short Forever

into the office, and wiped anything he might have touched. Then he closed the office door, wiped the knob, and secured the two wine racks in place. He wiped the knob of the wine cellar door and went upstairs, wiping anything else he might have touched in the house. Finally, he put on his raincoat, retrieved his umbrella from the stand, opened the door a crack, and peered up and down the mews. It was dark now, and streetlights were on, but the mews was empty. He let himself out, wiped the doorknob, inside and out, closed the door behind him, and walked down Farm Street in the direction of Berkeley Square.

                        He had reached the square before he saw anyone else, and he kept the umbrella low to keep anyone from remembering his face. Deciding against a taxi, he walked across Berkeley Square and up the little hill into Dover Street. The gallery was closed and dark. He dropped the keys to the Farm Street house through the mail slot.

                        What now? He wanted to talk to Lance. He walked up to New Bond Street, then to Conduit Street, found a cab at the Westbury Hotel, and gave the driver the Chester Street address that he’d heard Sarah give Lance. As the cab made its way through the West End, he thought about the two dead men on the wine cellar floor at Lance’s house. How long would it be before anyone found them? Lance clearly didn’t intend to go back to the house anytime soon. Was there a housekeeper or a cleaning lady? If so, would she go down to the wine cellar? He retraced his own steps, thought about the time line from a policeman’s perspective. He was without an alibi from the time he left the gallery until he got into the taxi at the Westbury. How long was that? An hour at the most. Where else could he have been for an hour? Monica and Sarah knew he had the keys to the house, including the wine cellar. But no one would have any reason to question them, would they?

                        He thought about the cases he had solved as a cop by interviewing people at the periphery of a case. Any thorough investigation would get to them soon enough. Should he get out of the country? No, that would be the worst thing he could do. The cab stopped in front of the Chester Street house; Stone paid the driver and rang the bell. Erica answered the door.

                        “Oh, Stone, come in,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Where have you been?”

                        Already, he needed an alibi. “I was at the gallery for a while, then I did some window- shopping.” In the pouring rain? That was weak; he’d have to do better than that if the police questioned him.

                        “Come on in; Lance is on the phone.” She showed him into the drawing room, which was empty. The place was handsome and spacious, but it looked as though it had been decorated by a bachelor with the help of a maiden aunt; the furniture was comfortable, but dowdy, and the curtains were too elaborate. “Awful, isn’t it?” Erica asked cheerfully.

                        “Fairly.”

                        “Can I get you a drink?”

                        “Yes, please; bourbon, if there’s any in the house; Scotch, if there isn’t.”

                        She went away and came back with a double old-fashioned glass filled with ice and a brown liquor. “No bourbon; try this.”

                        He sipped it—strong and dark and peaty. “It’s excellent, what is it?”

                        “Laphroaig—a single-malt Scotch whiskey from the island of Islay.” (She pronounced it “Islah.”)

                        “I’m not usually a Scotch drinker, but this will do just fine.” He thought she seemed oddly cheerful and unaffected for a young woman who had had to leave her home on a moment’s notice, for very odd reasons. “Are you doing all right?”

                        “Just fine. Lance will be off the phone in a minute, I’m sure; he’s already been on it since we arrived here. Ali and Sheila are upstairs napping—or something.” She smiled impishly.

                        Stone thought they must be napping, not something else, not after having seen their business explode before their eyes earlier in the day.

                        “Tell me about Ali and Sheila,” Stone said. He wanted to hear what Erica had to say about them before Lance returned.

                        “They’re just friends of Lance’s,” she said. “They have an antique shop in Chelsea.”

                        Had, Stone thought. “What nationality are they?”

                        “Ali is Syrian, Sheila Lebanese, I think.”

                        Syrian? Lebanese? Did they have something against the Greeks, or vice versa? He couldn’t make any sense of this. “How did Lance meet them?”

                        “Business—some importing or exporting thing, I think.”

                        “Does Lance have a lot of friends in London?”

                        “Just the ones you’ve met,” she said. “Monica, Sarah, Ali, and Sheila. He’s the sort of person who seems to have lots of acquaintances and few friends.”

                        I’ll bet, Stone thought. “Have you met a lot of his acquaintances?”

                        “Not really; once in a while someone will come to the house for a business meeting.”

                        “To the house? Doesn’t Lance have an office?”

                        “Not really; if he needs space for a meeting, he uses a club or a hotel meeting room.”

                        “I guess Lance travels pretty light, then.”

                        “Pretty light,” Lance said from the doorway.

                        “Oh, you’re finally off the phone,” Erica said. “Would you like a drink?”

                        “Yes, some Scotch, please.”

                        “Try the Laphroaig,” Stone said, raising his glass. Stone opened his mouth to tell Lance what he’d experienced in his wine cellar, then changed his mind. So far, nobody knew he’d actually been at the house; perhaps it was better to keep it that way, at least, for the moment.

                        The three of them chatted idly for a while.

                        “Anybody hungry?” Erica asked.

                        “Now that you mention it,” Stone replied.

                        “There’s no food here; I guess we’d better go out somewhere.”

                        “There’s plenty of food back at Farm Street,” Lance said. “Let’s go back there and fix something. I’ve been on the phone with some people, and I think it’s safe to go back now.”

                        Stone wondered what kind of people could tell Lance that.

                        “Great!” Erica said. “I feel like cooking. Shall we wake Ali and Sheila?”

                        “Oh, I think they’re down for the night,” Lance said. “Let’s leave them until morning.” He drained his glass and got up.

                        Stone got up, too. He thought of begging off, but he was curious. “I’ll see if I can find us a cab.”

                        The rain had stopped. He found a cab almost immediately.

                 Chapter 34

                        THEY GOT OUT OF THE CAB IN FRONT of the Farm Street house, and Stone paid the driver while Lance unlocked the door. Stone followed Lance and Erica up the stairs.

                        Lights were switched on and everything looked quite normal, Stone thought. Coats were hung up, and he followed them into the kitchen.

                        “Another drink, anybody?”

                        Stone nodded.

                        “We’ve got bourbon,” she said, “or would you rather stick to the Laphroaig?”

                        “I’ll stick with the Scotch, since I’ve started on it,” Stone replied.

                        There was a banquette in the kitchen, and Erica made Stone and Lance sit down there, while she began to put some dinner together.

                        “How about spaghetti Bolognese?” she asked.

                        “Fine,” Stone and Lance said together.

                        Erica put some ground steak on the stove to brown and a pot of water on to boil and began