Stone Barrington 06-11

him.

7
    STONE HAD THE BRESAOLA, THINLY sliced, air-cured beef, and a pasta dish with seafood. Lance ordered the wine, and when it came, it was a Le Montrachet ’78. Stone reflected that the cost of the wines they were drinking on this occasion would pay for a dozen dinners at Elaine’s. Having gotten to know Lance just a little, he fully expected to end up with the check.
    They dined in a leisurely manner, and with the wine, Lance became a bit more bearable, even charming, at times. They were on dessert when Stone saw Bartholomew and Sir Antony Shields leave the restaurant. Bartholomew had never looked in his direction. He was tempted to ask Lance if he recognized the man, but the men were too quickly gone. Stone waved at the headwaiter.
    The man was there in a flash. “Tell me,” Stone said, “the two gentlemen who just left; one was Sir Antony Shields; do you know the other man’s name?”
    “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t. The reservation was Sir Antony’s, and although I’ve seen the other gentleman here before, I never learned his name.”
    “Thank you,” Stone said, and the headwaiter went away.

    The bill arrived, and as Stone started to reach for it, Erica pushed it toward Lance. “You’re our guest,” she said.
    Lance hardly noticed. He signed the bill with a flourish, and they got up to go.
    “We’re going this way, to Farm Street,” Erica said as they went out the door.
    “I’ll get a taxi for Monica,” Stone said, grateful to be alone with her. He shook hands with both Lance and Erica and said good night.
    “No cabs in sight,” Stone said. “Let’s walk down to the Connaught; there’s usually a taxi parked out front.” Monica agreed, and they strolled down Mount Street, which was shiny from a rain that had come and gone while they were at dinner.
    “I think Lance liked you,” Monica said.
    “I’d be surprised if that were true,” Stone replied.
    “No, he turned out to be quite friendly toward you, for someone he has nothing to gain from.”
    “Is he friendlier when he has something to gain?”
    “Isn’t everyone?”
    Stone laughed. “I suppose so.”
    “And I thought you showed great forbearance, especially early in the evening.”
    “The remainder of the company was good.”
    They were nearly to the hotel. “Would you like to…” he began.
    “Oh, I hardly think the Connaught is the proper place for that,” she said, reading his mind. “However, if you’re free this weekend, there’s a promising house party down in the country. Would you like to go?”
    “I’d like that very much,” Stone replied.
    “Grand. I’ll pick you up at, say, three tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll miss the worst of the rush-hour traffic.”

    “Fine. What clothes shall I bring?”
    “It’s for two nights, so I’d bring some tweeds, a dark suit, and a dinner jacket. That should cover just about anything, except tennis or sailing. The house is on the coast.”
    They stopped in front of the hotel, and Stone indicated to the doorman that they would like a taxi. “I’ll be right here at three o’clock,” he said, aiming a kiss at her cheek.
    She turned slightly, and he caught the corner of her mouth, and there was just a flick of her tongue.
    “Wilton Crescent,” she said to the doorman. “I’ll point out the house.” The doorman told the driver.
    Stone put her into the cab and went into the hotel. On the way up in the elevator he thought about John Bartholomew and who he might be. He glanced at his watch. It was only seven o’clock in New York, so he went to his room, undressed, and picked up the telephone. He called Bill Eggers’s home, and a maid answered.
    “Oh, Mr. Barrington,” she said, “they’ve gone skiing in Chile.”
    “Chile in South America?” Stone asked.
    “Yes, there’s apparently snow there this time of the year. They’ll be back on Monday.”
    “Thank you,” Stone said, and hung up. He thought some more. Bartholomew had mentioned Samuel Bernard, an old professor of his at NYU Law School. Bernard had been in the OSS during World War II, and he had remained in intelligence when the CIA was founded, serving during the agency’s formative years. He had left at the time of the Bay of Pigs disaster, along with a lot of others, including Alan Dulles. Stone found his address book 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.