and dialed the number.
“Yes?” The voice was the same, but older.
“Good evening Dr. Bernard,” he said. “It’s Stone Barrington.”
Bernard’s voice brightened. “Oh, Stone, how are you?”
“I’m fine, and I hope you’re well.”
“I’m better than I could justifiably expect to be at my age,” Bernard replied, chuckling. “I haven’t seen you for a while. What have you been up to?”
“Life has been fairly boring until recently, when it got more interesting.”
“Oh? How interesting?”
“That remains to be seen. A man came to see me a few days ago, sent by Woodman and Weld, but he also mentioned your name; said you had more or less recommended me to him.”
“Strange,” Bernard said. “I don’t recall discussing you with anyone recently. What is the man’s name?”
“John Bartholomew.”
There was total silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Bernard spoke. “John Bartholomew,” he said tonelessly. “How very interesting. Can you describe him?”
“Mid-fifties, tall—six-two or -three, athletically built, salt-and-pepper hair, beaked nose, fierce eyebrows. Do you know him?” Stone asked.
“No one knows him,” Bernard replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“Stone, do you remember an Alfred Hitchcock film called
“Of course; it’s a favorite of mine.”
“Then you’ll recall that, early in the film, Cary Grant is abducted from the Plaza Hotel by foreign agents who have mistaken him for a guest at the hotel. I believe the guest’s name was George Kaplan, or something like that.”
“Yes, I remember. The Grant character goes across the country, chasing after Kaplan, but he turns out not to exist. He’s a fiction contrived by some American intelligence agency.”
“Exactly. Well, in the early fifties there actually was an operation that resembled the one in the film; in fact, I’ve often wondered if Hitchcock had heard about it. A fictional character was created, given an identity, and checked in and out of various hotels. It was very similar to the film.”
“That’s very interesting,” Stone said, but he couldn’t think why.
“May I ask, what did this man want you to do?”
“Well, of course, I must observe client confidentiality, but suffice it to say, as a result of our conversation, I’m now in London. I’m not quite sure what I’m involved in. I saw him earlier today at the American Embassy—at least I think I caught a glimpse of him—and again tonight, at a restaurant, with a man named Sir Antony Shields.”
“The Home Secretary,” Bernard said. “Something like our Attorney General. He supervises, among other departments, MI5, the British domestic security department, which is analogous to our FBI.”
“Well, he’s certainly well connected. But why did you tell me about the Hitchcock film?”
“As I said, we ran an operation something like that. Our fictional agent was called John Bartholomew.”
Stone felt as if someone had rapped him sharply on the skull.
“The name became, over the years, something of an inside joke, generally referring to a hoax of some sort.”
“I see,” Stone said, but he didn’t see at all.
“Where are you staying?” Bernard asked.
“At the Connaught.”
“Let me see what I can learn,” he said, “and I’ll call you if I find out something.”
“Oh, I have a cellphone number,” Stone said. “It’s one of those satellite things that works in a lot of countries.” He gave Bernard the number.
“This may take a while,” Bernard said. “Good night.” He hung up.
Stone sat on the bed, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
Chapter 8
STONE WOKE REFRESHED, HAVING slept well, but all through breakfast he puzzled over Bartholomew, or whatever his name was, and his own assignment in London. Well, he thought finally, I’m an investigator, so maybe I’d better start investigating.
He dug out the phone number of Dino’s acquaintance at Scotland Yard and called him.
“Detective Inspector Throckmorton’s line,” a woman’s voice answered.
Stone tried not to laugh at the name. “Good morning, my name is Stone Barrington. Would you tell Detective Inspector Throckmorton that Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti suggested I call him?” He spelled Dino’s name for her.
“One moment, please.”
There was a brief pause, a click, and a crisp English voice said, “Throckmorton here; is that Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Bacchetti called the other day and said you might turn up. You free for lunch?”
“Yes; may I take you?”
“Name the spot.”
“How about the Connaught?”
“I can live with that,” he said. “The Restaurant or the Grill?”
“Which would you prefer?”
“Menu’s pretty much the same, but the Grill is nicer at lunch, I think.”
“Twelve-thirty?”
“See you then,” Throckmorton said, and hung up.
Stone booked the table, then showered and dressed and left the hotel. The sun shone brightly, though he was not sure for how long, and he immediately began to enjoy walking. Using his map, he strolled through
He entered the shop, which was filled with brightly colored shirts and ties, looked at both, bought some, bought a couple of the Sea Island cotton nightshirts he preferred, and was sure to get the tax refund forms. He then strolled back to the Connaught, doing a lot of window-shopping in
Evelyn Throckmorton was a small, well-proportioned, handsome man in his forties, wearing a Savile Row suit and a military mustache. He greeted Stone, and they went into the Connaught Grill, which was painted a restful green, and were given a table in an alcove by a window.
“How is Dino?” Throckmorton asked.
“He’s very well; we see a lot of each other.”
“I’ve heard him speak of you,” Throckmorton said, perusing the menu. “Surprised we didn’t meet when I was in New York that time.”
“I’ve been off the force for several years, now,” Stone said.
“Oh yes, I remember your last case; Dino and I discussed it in some detail.”
Stone didn’t care to revisit the Sasha Nijinsky case. “What would you like for lunch?” he asked as a waiter approached.
“The potted shrimps and the Dover sole,” the policeman said to the waiter.
“I’ll have the same,” Stone said. “Would you like some wine?”
