Lucid Intervals (2010)

be perfect,” she said.
    “By the way, did you happen to see the woman standing across the street?”
    “Oh, God! Was it Dolce?”
    “I don’t know; she was wearing a hood that obscured her face, and she walked away shortly after I spotted her. Your view must have been blocked by the car Herbie is thinking of buying.”
    “The Maybach? That’s big enough.”
    “We’re supposed to have one of Cantor’s people here to deal with Dolce, remember?”
    “Oh, there was one here. He said he was going down to Second Avenue to look for a paper.”
    “Did you offer him the Times or The Wall Street Journal ?”
    “I think he’s more of a Post reader,” she replied. “Oh, here he comes.”
    The door opened, and a large young man walked in carrying a Post under one arm. “Hi,” he said, offering Stone a hand. “I’m Jake Musket. Everything all right?”
    “Yes,” Stone said, shaking the hand, “except for the woman who was standing across the street when I arrived ten minutes ago.”
    Jake Musket reddened. “Oh,” he said.

19
    F elicity went home to Stone’s early, shortly after Joan had left. She came to his office and gave him a kiss. “You did well this morning,” she said.
    “I did?” Stone asked. “I didn’t really learn anything of value.”
    “Of course you did,” she said. “You now know as much about Stanley Whitestone as anyone.”
    “I now know he once had a scar on his forehead and that, as a boy, he played cricket, ran fast and was good with horses. None of those things is likely to help me find him in New York City.”
    “But you’re getting a feel for him, aren’t you?”
    “And I know that he was an amateur actor and is good at disguises.”
    “You see? You know a lot now.”
    “I also know that your Mr. Smith hated his guts—still does, probably.”
    “Well, I’m not sure what you can do with that,” she said. “Would you like to go to a dinner party tonight? Good,” she said without hesitating.
    “I guess I’d love to,” Stone replied. “Who’s giving it?”
    “The ambassador.”
    “He’s back?”
    “Got back today. He forgot to invite me before he left. It’s black tie.”
    “I own a black tie,” Stone replied.
    “We’re not due there until eight,” she said. “Why don’t we go upstairs and have a little nap?”
    The little nap came only after half an hour of inventive lovemaking, and it was welcome.
     
     
     
    THE ELDERLY ROLLS-ROYCE picked them up at eight and drove them to the Upper East Side residence of Britain’s ambassador to the UN. They were greeted at the door by a uniformed butler, who led them to the residence’s living room and shouted over the conversation of the early arrivers, “Dame Felicity Devonshire and Mr. Stone Barrington.”
    The first person Stone saw was Mr. Smith, whom he had met earlier in the day.
    “Don’t speak to Smith,” Felicity murmured in his ear.
    Stone nodded to the man and received a nod in return.
    “He doesn’t look important enough to be dining with the ambassador,” Stone whispered back.
    “I expect he’s on call as the odd man,” she replied. “I would have been seated next to him if you hadn’t come.” A succession of introductions ensued, and Stone made an effort to remember at least their surnames. A waiter passed with Champagne flutes, and Stone snagged a pair.
    He was surprised when he tasted it. “This is Krug,” he said to Felicity.
    “That means there is at least one person here who is very important to the ambassador,” she said.
    “I wonder who it is,” Stone replied.
    “I’ll figure it out before we’re done. Come meet the ambassador.”
    The ambassador, whose name was Sir John Pemberton, was younger than Stone had expected, only fiftyish, and his wife was fifteen years younger and quite beautiful, a redhead in a chic dress with an encouraging expanse of bosom showing.
    “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Barrington,” the ambassador said.
    “Yes,” Lady Pemberton echoed. “One meets so few of Dame Felicity’s friends; they’re such a secretive lot. Are you secretive, Mr. Barrington?”
    “Sometimes,” Stone replied.
    “Oh, good,” she said, deftly separating him from Felicity, like a cowgirl with a calf, and steering him toward a corner. “It will be such fun worming secrets out of you.”
    Stone caught a glimpse of Felicity’s face as they moved across the room, and it occurred to him that if her glance were a knife, Lady Pemberton’s throat would