Marcel tapped him on a knee as “Limehouse Blues” died. “Bonjour, Stone. Do not rise.”
The Frenchman sat down beside him. Their view through a floor-to-ceiling glass wall was of treetops and a view across the city.
“Good morning, Marcel,” Stone finally managed. “I am very impressed by the new wrinkles in your security system. I assume the police-like costumes and weapons of the men downstairs were chosen for a reason?”
“Ah, yes. After our difficulties of last year, your good friend Michael Freeman suggested that the presence of security be overt, rather than the subtlety of men dressed in blue suits with bulges under their arms.”
“An economical and, no doubt, effective change. What about my thumbprint, my cornea, and my taste in music? Where did they come from?”
“The prints were unobtrusively harvested from your person last year,” Marcel replied. “And the music was read from the albums stored on the iPhone in your pocket. Imelda—the name given to her voice—deduced which was the most-played track among them and played it for you. I rather liked it. Are the artists popular in the States?”
“The artists, unfortunately, are all dead, as are most of my favorites—Count Basie, Artie Shaw, Erroll Garner, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, et alia. Fortunately, their work survived them.”
“Ah, yes, the same with me. Did you and Mirabelle enjoy your breakfast together?”
“Once again, Marcel, you are well ahead of me. Yes, we did.”
“And have you been enjoying your Blaise?”
“I drive it to my house in Connecticut on a road ideal for it. I think it goes too fast for the police to see.”
“Ah, good.”
“I have also enjoyed the performance of Frederick Flicker, and he and I have come to a more permanent arrangement. I’m grateful for your realization that I needed him.”
“Every gentleman of any substance needs a gentleman’s gentleman to take care of him. I have so much substance myself that I need three, in shifts.”
“I can manage very nicely with the one,” Stone said.
There was the tinkle of silverware from behind them. “And now, shall we have some lunch?” Marcel asked.
They rose and went to the table that had been set for them. Instead of courses, a small smorgasbord was wheeled out on a cart, and they chose what they liked from a dozen dishes.
“So much food,” Stone said. “I hope what we don’t eat will not go to waste.”
“Don’t worry, the kitchen staff are anxiously awaiting the return of the cart. By the end of their lunch hour, it will be empty.”
Champagne was poured for them. Marcel raised his glass. “A Krug ’55,” he said. “I hope you enjoy it.”
Stone enjoyed it.
—
WHEN THE TABLE had been cleared they returned to their seats before the huge window.
“Now,” Marcel said, “I must tell you that I have had an offer for my stock in the Arrington Group.”
“Is it from a Russian source?”
“It is from a corporation, benignly named. No name was attached to it.”
“Then I think we will have to assume that the source is Russian, and that the name is Yevgeny Majorov.”
“It was a more reasonable offer than I would have thought that gentleman would come up with, but I have the same suspicions as you. Should I explore it further?”