The Short Forever(59)

Lance stopped eating and looked as if he hadn’t thought of that.

“I suppose you’re right; Ali can call them in the morning. After all, they weren’t in the shop at the time, so they can hardly be of much help.”

“I can tell you from experience that the police are looking for them at this moment,” Stone said. “They don’t ignore bombings, and they’ll want to hear who Ali and Sheila think might have done this.”

“I expect so,” Lance said, resuming his dinner. “Well, that’s Ali’s problem, not mine. I expect he’ll handle it in the morning.”

“The sooner, the better,” Stone said. “Tell me, do you have a theory about who did it?”

“Not a clue, old bean,” Lance said, looking perfectly innocent. “I hope Ali will leave me out of it when he talks to the cops.”

“Do Ali and Sheila belong to some group that another group might be angry with?”

“What sort of group did you have in mind?”

“Well, they’re Middle Easterners, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“I should think that would give you a variety of groups to choose from—Palestinian, Israeli, Osmin ben whatshisname?”

“I suppose so, but as far as I know, they’re not into politics.”

“What are they into?”

“Making money,” Lance replied. “At least, until today. They may want to rethink their business after this; I’m sure they must have lost most, perhaps all, of their inventory.”

“I expect so,” Stone said. They continued eating their dinner, and Stone stopped asking questions; there seemed to be no point, what with the answers he was getting.





Chapter 35



STONE SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY IN the most relaxed fashion possible. He was stuck in his investigation, he had no theories, and he had always found that was a good time to do nothing, to let the brain work on its own.

He had breakfast in his room, then did the museums: He started at the National Gallery, where he particularly enjoyed the Italian masters, went on to the National Portrait Gallery, which was fun but didn’t take long, then continued to the Tate, where he had lunch in the excellent restaurant before taking in the exhibitions. He walked slowly back to the Connaught—the rain had cleared and the day was lovely—and he was back in his suite when the satellite telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Stan Hedger; do you possess a dinner jacket?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, did you bring it with you? I can send over something, if necessary.”

“Yes, I brought it with me; where am I wearing a dinner jacket?”

“To dinner at the American ambassador’s residence; I want you to look at some faces.”

“All right; what time?”

“A car will pick you up at seven o’clock; when you get to the residence, don’t recognize me; we’ll talk later.” He hung up before Stone could speak again. Stone shrugged and rang for the valet to press his tuxedo.



He was standing in front of the Connaught when a car pulled up to the entrance. Stone was startled because it was the car in which he had been abducted. The doorman went to the car window and briefly conversed with the driver.

“Mr. Barrington?” he said. “Your car, sir.” He opened the rear door wide.

Stone inspected the interior before getting into the car.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the uniformed driver said.

“Good evening.” The car pulled away from the curb. “What kind of car is this?”

“It’s a Daimler limousine, sir; made by Jaguar.”

“And to whom does it belong?”

“It belongs to the embassy, sir; they have a small fleet of them; this particular one is assigned to the ambassador, but since he’s entertaining at home this evening, he didn’t need it.”

“Are these cars common in London?”

“Oh, yes; many of the foreign embassies use them, as does the Royal Family.”

Stone relaxed a little; he wasn’t being abducted again. “Where is the ambassador’s residence?”

“In RegentsPark, sir; do you know it?”

“No, this is my first trip to London in many years, and I never got to RegentsPark the first time.”

“It’s about a twenty-five-minute drive this time of day, sir.”

“You’re English?”

“Welsh, sir; the embassy employs quite a lot of locals. Cheaper than bringing over Yanks, I expect.”

“I’m afraid I don’t even know the ambassador’s name.”

“It’s Sumner Wellington, sir; I’m told the name went down rather well with the Queen.”