The Short Forever(96)

“I’ll bet he shaved before he left the house,” Dino said.

They walked into the building, into an enormous living room, ornately decorated.

“Wow,” Dino said under his breath. “This Astor guy knew how to live, didn’t he?”

They approached the reception desk. “Show them your badge,” Stone whispered.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” the young woman behind the desk asked.

Dino flashed his badge. “We’re looking for a man,” he said.

Stone handed her the photograph. “His name is Morgan, although he may be using an alias. It’s possible he’s shaved his mustache, too.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Sir William Mallory, and no mustache; he booked in a week or so ago, sent a cash deposit, checked in half an hour ago.”

“Where can we find him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” the young woman said.

“What’s his room number?”

“He didn’t check all the way in,” she replied.

“Pardon?”

“He came to the desk; a porter brought his luggage; he registered, then he left. He seemed very nervous; he was sweating, I remember.”

“Did he show you any kind of identification?”

“Yes; he didn’t want to use a credit card, insisted on paying cash in advance, so I asked him for identification. He showed me a British passport.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He said he’d forgotten something at his London house; he’d have to go back for it.”

“How was he dressed?”

“A raincoat and a trilby hat, which I thought was odd, since the weather is so nice at the moment.”

“How much luggage did he have?”

“Two large cases and a sort of canvas bag.”

“Describe the canvas bag, please.”

“A kind of satchel, roomy, like a Gladstone. The porter told me after he’d gone that he’d insisted on carrying it himself.”

“Where would I find the porter?”

The young woman raised a finger and beckoned a man in a uniform. “These gentlemen have some questions about Sir William Mallory,” she said.

“Yes, sir?” the porter said.

“How did he arrive?”

“By car, sir.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Jaguar from the sixties—dark blue—quite beautifully restored, inside and out. His luggage was fitted to the boot, except for the valise.”

“Did you, by any chance, take note of the number plate?”

“It was a vanity plate, sir; B-R-A-I-N.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Back to London; he said he’d forgotten something important.”

“Thank you very much,” Stone said. He and Dino went back to their car.

“Good call, Stone,” Dino said, “but now we’re going to have to get Carpenter’s people on the case; he could be anywhere.”

Stone dialed Carpenter’s cellphone.

“Yes?” She sounded harried.

“It’s Stone. Morgan drove to Cliveden, a country house hotel; do you know it?”

“Yes, it’s famous, but how did you know he went there?”

“He left a travel magazine at his house with a page marked with an ad for the hotel.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, he came over all nervous while checking in, and left, telling the desk clerk that he’d forgotten something in London and had to go back for it.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes; he’s traveling under the name of Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name. Cabot got it for him, I expect. He’s driving a sixties-vintage Jaguar, dark blue, restored, with the number plate B-R-A-I-N. Should be easy to spot.”

“Stone, that’s very good. Would you like a job?”

“I’d like my money back,” Stone replied. “And if I were you, I’d double your effort at Heathrow; it’s very near here, and that’s where I’m going. Can you have somebody from airport security meet me at the departures entrance?”

“Which terminal? There are four.”

“International departures?”

“Terminal four; I’ll find a man for you.”

“Tell airport security he’s shaved his mustache, and he’ll be carrying a canvas valise; he won’t check it.”

“Right.”

Stone hung up. “Heathrow, my man.”

“This is a long shot,” Dino said.

“It’s the only shot we’ve got.”





Chapter 56



LANCE CABOT LEANED INTO THE WIND and accelerated. The big BMW motorcycle tore along the country road, making a steady eighty miles per hour, taking the curves as if glued to the road. From a hilltop, he spied the airfield, a disused World War II training facility. There was no longer an entrance; the road had been plowed up and now sported a crop of late wheat. Lance stopped the motorcycle, went to the fence along the road, pulled up a post, and laid it flat. He got back onto the bike, drove over the fence, then stopped and returned the post to its hole. Then he started, overland, for the field, driving as fast as he could without capsizing the big machine.