Stone Barrington 06-11

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.

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