Stone Barrington 06-11

greeted him. “Good morning, sir; taxi?”
    “Yes, please.” The hell with the walk, in this weather.
    The doorman summoned a taxi from a rank across the street, and Stone got into it. “Farm Street,” he said.
    “Any particular number, sir?” the cabbie asked.
    “I want to take a look at a house called Merryvale, but don’t stop, just drive slowly past.”
    “Righto, sir.” The cabbie drove off, made a couple of turns, and two minutes later they were in Farm Street, which turned out to be a mews behind Annabel’s.
    “Here we are, sir,” the cabbie said, as he drove slowly past a beautiful little house with flowers growing from window boxes on each of its three floors. “Merryvale.”
    A small sign on the front door proclaimed as much. Mr. Cabot has elegant tastes, Stone thought. “What would you think it would cost to rent that house?” Stone asked the driver.
    “Thousand quid a week, easy,” the cabbie replied. “You want me to take you to an estate agent’s in the neighborhood?”
    Stone thought. He wasn’t going to stand conspicuously in the rain in this little mews, waiting for Cabot or Burroughs to emerge. He’d go renew his passport and return later. “Make a U-turn at the end of the street, and let’s drive past again,” he said.
    “Righto,” the cabbie said. He drove to the end of the mews and made an amazingly tight U-turn.
    As he did, Stone saw a taxi pull up to Merryvale and honk its horn. “Stop here for a minute,” he said. A moment later, Erica Burroughs came out of the house, locked the door behind her, and, holding an umbrella over her head, got into the waiting taxi, which immediately drove away. “Follow that cab,” Stone said.
    The driver laughed. “Twenty-one years I’ve been driving a cab,” he said, “and it’s the first time anybody ever said that to me.” He drove off in pursuit of Erica’s taxi.
    Stone watched the city go past his cab window. Shortly, they were in Park Lane, then they turned into Hyde Park. By what seemed to be a rather convoluted route, Erica’s taxi took her to Harrod’s. She got out of the cab, paid the driver, and ran inside.
    Stone was not far behind her. He followed as she went on what seemed to be an extensive but unplanned shopping trip. She wandered through department after department of the huge store, looking at this and that, but the only thing she bought was a pen, in Stationery.
    He followed her up the escalator into the book department, where she browsed and bought a novel, then back downstairs into the food halls, which were the most spectacular supermarket Stone had ever seen. She bought a few pieces of fruit, then, suddenly, she turned and came back toward Stone, who was pretending to look at the smoked fish.
    She stopped next to him and looked at the fish, too, then turned to him and spoke. “Are you following me?” she asked.
    Stone was startled, but there was a small smile on her face. “Of course,” he said. “And nobody would blame me.”
    She laughed. “You were at Annabel’s last night, weren’t you?”
    “I was.”
    “Were you following me then, too?”
    “You’ll recall I got there ahead of you.”
    “And how long have you been following me this morning?”
    “Since you left the taxi,” he said. “I happened to be right behind you, in another cab.”
    “Coming from where?”
    “The Connaught.”
    She stuck out her hand. “I’m Erica Burroughs,” she said.
    Stone took her hand; it was cool and dry. “I’m Stone Barrington.”
    “What a nice name; it sounds like an investment bank.”
    “You’re not the first to tell me that.”
    “Since you’re at the Connaught, I assume you don’t live in London.”
    “No, New York. I’m just visiting.”
    “Business or pleasure?”
    “Pleasure, at the moment.”
    She laughed. “You’re very flattering, but I must tell you, I’m spoken for.”
    “I’m desolated.”
    “However, I’m hungry, standing amidst all this food, and if you’re hungry, too, you can buy me lunch.”
    “I’d be delighted,” Stone said, and he was, more than she knew. She was making his job all too easy.

    “Follow me,” she said. She marched off toward a door, and a moment later they were in another taxi. “The Grenadier, in Wilton Row,” she told the driver.
    “I take it you live in London?” Stone asked.
    “Yes, but only for a few weeks.”
    “Do you work?”
    “Not at the moment; how about you?”
    “I’m an attorney.”
    “With a New York