The Short Forever(9)

“Thank you,” Stone said. He wished he could have read the sign-in sheet. He followed the marine’s instructions and found the passport office. He filled out a form, gave it and two photos to the clerk, and was told to wait.

“How long should it take?” he asked.

“We’re not very busy; perhaps twenty minutes,” the clerk replied.

He took a seat and found a magazine.



In a room several floors higher in the embassy, two men studied a television monitor set into a wall with many other monitors.

“Is that he?” one asked.

“Yes, but I think it’s all right,” the other replied. “I think he’s just here to renew his passport.”



Stone heard his name called. He was given a form to take to the cashier, where he paid the fee, then returned and collected his new passport. He reflected that what had taken less than half an hour in London would have taken most of a day in New York.

Outside, he couldn’t find a cab, so he began to walk back toward the Connaught. He walked down South Audley Street and turned left onto Mount Street. He had gone only a few steps when he saw a familiar name on a shop window across the street. HAYWARD, the gilt lettering said. He crossed the street and entered the shop, shaking his wet umbrella behind him at the door.

A large, well-dressed man got up from a couch. “I recognize the suit, but not the man in it,” he said. “I’m Doug Hayward.” He offered his hand.

“My name is Stone Barrington, and you’re quite right; the suit belonged to Vance Calder. After his death, his wife, who is an old friend, sent all his suits to me. There were twenty of them.”

“The cost of alterations must have been fierce,” Hayward said.

“They didn’t need altering; his clothes fit me perfectly.”

“Then I don’t suppose I can sell you a suit,” Hayward said, laughing.

“I could use a couple of tweed jackets,” Stone replied, “and a raincoat. I foolishly didn’t bring one.”

“Have a look at the rack of raincoats over there, and I’ll get some swatches.” Hayward departed toward the rear of the shop, where men were cutting cloth from bolts of fabric.

Stone found a handsome raincoat and an umbrella, then he sat down and went through the swatches. A few minutes later, he had been measured.

“How is Arrington?” Hayward asked.

“I saw her in Palm Beach this past winter, and she was well; I haven’t spoken to her since then.”

“I was very sorry to hear of Vance’s death. Did they ever convict anyone of the murder?”

“A woman friend of his was charged and tried, but acquitted. If she really was innocent, then I think it will remain unsolved.”

“Very strange. I liked Vance, and, of course, he was a very good customer.” Hayward handed him his receipt. “But I suppose he’s bequeathed you to me.”

Stone laughed. “First time I’ve ever been a bequest.” He shook hands with Hayward, put on his new raincoat, picked up his new umbrella and the Connaught’s as well, and walked outside into a bright, sunshiny day. “Not a cloud in the sky,” he said aloud, looking around him. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. Jet lag had crept up on him, and all he wanted was a bed. He turned and walked the half-block to the Connaught, went upstairs, undressed, and, leaving a wake-up call for seven, climbed into bed and slept.



The two men in the embassy sat across a desk from each other.

“You really think this can work?” one asked.

“I checked him out very carefully,” the other replied. “He’s perfect for us.”

“If he can make it work.”

“Let’s give him some time and see. If he can do it, he’ll save us a great deal of time and effort and, possibly, ah, embarrassment.”

The first man sighed. “I hope you’re right.”



Chapter 6

STONE ARRIVED AT THE CONNAUGHT bar downstairs promptly at eight o’clock, showered, shaved, and dressed in a freshly pressed, chalk-striped blue suit. The nap had cleared his head, and he was sure that, with one more good night’s sleep, he would be over the jet lag. The bar consisted of two oak-paneled rooms filled with comfortable sofas and chairs, one room with a small bar at one end. He had only just sat down when his dining companions arrived.

Erica had not lied; her friend was even more beautiful than she. “Stone,” Erica said, “may I introduce my sister, Monica? And this is Lance Cabot.”

Stone shook hands all around. Monica Burroughs was perhaps five-ten, nearly as slim as Erica, and had deep auburn hair and green eyes. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said, and he was not lying.