The Short Forever

dominated it. “What’s Cliveden?” he asked, pronouncing it with a long i.

                        “Cliveden, with a short i, was the country house of Lord Astor, before the war. His wife, an American woman named Nancy, who was a member of parliament, ran a very big salon there. Everybody who was anybody showed up at one time or another—George Bernard Shaw, Charlie Chaplin—and every literary or political figure of the time.”

                        “How do you know this stuff?”

                        “I read a book about it.”

                        “So why is this important?”

                        “It’s a hotel now, and it’s near Heathrow. Suppose Morgan wanted to lie low for a few days, until the heat was off at the airports, then beat it out of the country? He’s got to know everybody will be looking for him.”

                        “Could be,” Dino said. “You want to check it out?”

                        “Have we got anything else to do?”

                        “Nope.”

                        “Then let’s do it.”

            They were on the M4 motorway, driving fast.

                        “Why aren’t we looking for Lance instead?” Dino asked.

                        “Two reasons: First, Lance is a lot smarter than Morgan, I think, and he’s going to be a lot harder to find; second, Morgan has my money.”

                        “And that’s the important one, huh?”

                        “You bet your ass; I don’t give a damn about the device, whatever it is, but Carpenter and her people don’t give a damn about my money, either.”

                        Following a small map in the magazine ad, they found the house.

                        “Jesus Christ,” Dino said, as they drove up the drive and came to the place. “I didn’t expect it to be so big.”

                        “Neither did I,” Stone said, getting out of the car. He took the photograph of Morgan from his pocket and showed it to Dino. “This is our guy.” Morgan was late fifties, heavyset, balding, with graying hair and a military mustache.

                        “I’ll bet he shaved before he left the house,” Dino said.

                        They walked into the building, into an enormous living room, ornately decorated.

                        “Wow,” Dino said under his breath. “This Astor guy knew how to live, didn’t he?”

                        They approached the reception desk. “Show them your badge,” Stone whispered.

                        “May I help you, gentlemen?” the young woman behind the desk asked.

                        Dino flashed his badge. “We’re looking for a man,” he said.

                        Stone handed her the photograph. “His name is Morgan, although he may be using an alias. It’s possible he’s shaved his mustache, too.”

                        “Oh, yes,” she said. “Sir William Mallory, and no mustache; he booked in a week or so ago, sent a cash deposit, checked in half an hour ago.”

                        “Where can we find him?”

                        “I’m afraid I don’t know,” the young woman said.

                        “What’s his room number?”

                        “He didn’t check all the way in,” she replied.

                        “Pardon?”

                        “He came to the desk; a porter brought his luggage; he registered, then he left. He seemed very nervous; he was sweating, I remember.”

                        “Did he show you any kind of identification?”

                        “Yes; he didn’t want to use a credit card, insisted on paying cash in advance, so I asked him for identification. He showed me a British passport.”

                        “Did he say anything?”

                        “He said he’d forgotten something at his London house; he’d have to go back for it.”

                        “How was he dressed?”

                        “A raincoat and a trilby hat, which I thought was odd, since the weather is so nice at the moment.”

                        “How much luggage did he have?”

                        “Two large cases and a sort of canvas bag.”

                        “Describe the canvas bag, please.”

                        “A kind of satchel, roomy, like a Gladstone. The porter told me after he’d gone that he’d insisted on carrying it himself.”

                        “Where would I find the porter?”

                        The young woman raised a finger and beckoned a man in a uniform. “These gentlemen have some questions about Sir William Mallory,” she said.

                        “Yes, sir?” the porter said.

                        “How did he arrive?”

                        “By car, sir.”

                        “What kind of car?”

                        “A Jaguar from the sixties—dark blue—quite beautifully restored, inside and out. His luggage was fitted to the boot, except for the valise.”

                        “Did you, by any chance, take note of the number plate?”

                        “It was a vanity plate, sir; B-R-A-I-N.”

                        “Did he say where he was going?”

                        “Back to London; he said he’d forgotten something important.”

                        “Thank you very much,” Stone said. He and Dino went back to their car.

                        “Good call, Stone,” Dino said, “but now we’re going to have to get Carpenter’s people on the case; he could be anywhere.”

                        Stone dialed Carpenter’s cellphone.

                        “Yes?” She sounded harried.

                        “It’s Stone. Morgan drove to Cliveden, a country house hotel; do you know it?”

                        “Yes, it’s famous, but how did you know he went there?”

                        “He left a travel magazine at his house with a page marked with an ad for the hotel.”

                        “Is he still there?”

                        “No, he came over all nervous while checking in, and left, telling the desk clerk that he’d forgotten something in London and had to go back for it.”

                        “Anything else?”

                        “Yes; he’s traveling under the name of Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name. Cabot got it for him, I expect. He’s driving a sixties-vintage Jaguar, dark blue, restored, with the number plate B-R-A-I-N. Should be easy to spot.”

                        “Stone, that’s very good. Would you like a job?”

                        “I’d like my money back,” Stone replied. “And if I were you, I’d double your effort at Heathrow; it’s very near here, and that’s where I’m going. Can you have somebody from airport security meet me at the departures entrance?”

                        “Which terminal? There are four.”

                        “International departures?”

                        “Terminal four; I’ll find a man for you.”

                        “Tell airport security he’s shaved his mustache, and he’ll be carrying a canvas valise; he won’t check it.”

                        “Right.”

                        Stone hung up. “Heathrow, my man.”

                        “This is a long shot,” Dino said.