“Of course.”
“Now tell me what’s going on with Bobby.”
“When Bobby returned the wallet, he was apparently followed from the house by two men. They dragged him into an alley and beat him badly.”
“Jesus, is he all right?”
“He will be, eventually. He’s in hospital at the moment.”
“I want to go and see him.”
“He doesn’t want to see you, Mr. Barrington. He regards the beating as a message from Mr. Bartholomew to stay away from him and from you.”
“I’d like to pay any medical bills.”
“We have a National Health Service in this country.”
Stone peeled off another thousand pounds from Bartholomew’s money and handed it to Cricket. “Then please give him this; if he needs more, let me know.”
Cricket pocketed the money. “I’m sure he’ll be grateful.”
“What about you, Ted? Do you want out of this?”
“No, sir; I’d like to stay on it in the hope of meeting the two gentlemen who did this to Bobby.”
“I understand, but I can’t promise that will happen.”
“It will, if I continue to follow Bartholomew.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt, too, Ted.”
“Believe me, Mr. Barrington, it is not I who will be hurt.”
“Ted . . .”
“Let me deal with this, please. I know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t want anyone killed.”
“I’ve no intention of doing that.”
“I don’t want Bartholomew touched.”
“I won’t promise you that.”
“This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”
“I understand that, but it went that way.”
“I’ll continue to pay you to watch Lance Cabot,” Stone said. “But I don’t want you near Bartholomew. Don’t follow him again.”
“In that case, I’ll have to leave your employ, Mr. Barrington.” He handed over another sheet of paper. “Here’s my bill.”
Stone paid it.
Cricket stood up and offered his hand. “I’m sorry it turned out this way, Mr. Barrington; I know you’re a gentleman and that you didn’t intend for anything like this to happen.”
“Thank you, Ted, and I wish you luck.”
“And the very best to you, Mr. Barrington. Oh, by the way, I’ll leave the tape recorder going in the garage for the time being.”
Stone shook his head. “Don’t bother; I’ll be returning to New York, as soon as I take care of a couple of loose ends.”
“Then I’ll have the equipment removed,” Cricket said. He turned and left the hotel.
Stone went to the concierge’s desk and asked to be booked on a flight to New York the following day, then he went to his suite. He took out the little satellite phone, positioned himself near the window, and from the phone’s memory, dialed Bartholomew’s number.
It was answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
“What do you have to report?”
“You and I have to meet right away.”
“I’m in New York.”
“We both know that’s a lie; you’re staying at a house in Green Street and visiting the American Embassy every day.”
There was a grinding silence for a moment, then Bartholomew said, “The Green Street house in an hour.”
“No; someplace public.”
“All right, the Garrick Club, at six o’clock, in the bar; I’ll leave your name at the door.”
“I’ll be there.” Stone hung up. He stretched out on the bed and tried to nap. Jet lag took a long time to completely go away.
The Garrick Club porter directed Stone up the stairs, which were hung with portraits of dead actors, costumed for their greatest roles. The whole clubhouse seemed to be a museum of the theater. Stone found the bar at the top of the stairs, and in this room, the portraits were of actors more recently dead—Noel Coward and Laurence Olivier and their contemporaries. The bar was not crowded, and Bartholomew stood at the far end.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Nothing, thank you.”
Bartholomew shrugged. “As you wish. Let’s go in the other room.” He led the way to an adjoining reading room and settled into one of a pair of leather chairs. “Now, what’s so important?”
Stone fished an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. “This is the remainder of the money you gave me, and an accounting of what I spent. I’m returning to New York tomorrow.”
“But you can’t do that,” Bartholomew said, alarmed.
“Watch me. I’ve had enough of your lies, Mr. Hedger, if that’s your real name.”