Part 5 (1/2)
”Mid-fifties, tall-six-two or -three, athletically built, salt-and-pepper hair, beaked nose, fierce eyebrows. Do you know him?” Stone asked.
”No one knows him,” Bernard replied.
”I don't understand.”
”Stone, do you remember an Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k film called North by Northwest?”
”Of course; it's a favorite of mine.”
”Then you'll recall that, early in the film, Cary Grant is abducted from the Plaza Hotel by foreign agents who have mistaken him for a guest at the hotel. I believe the guest's name was George Kaplan, or something like that.”
”Yes, I remember. The Grant character goes across the country, chasing after Kaplan, but he turns out not to exist. He's a fiction contrived by some American intelligence agency.”
”Exactly. Well, in the early fifties there actually was an operation that resembled the one in the film; in fact, I've often wondered if Hitchc.o.c.k had heard about it. A fictional character was created, given an ident.i.ty, and checked in and out of various hotels. It was very similar to the film.”
”That's very interesting,” Stone said, but he couldn't think why.
”May I ask, what did this man want you to do?”
”Well, of course, I must observe client confidentiality, but suffice it to say, as a result of our conversation, I'm now in London. I'm not quite sure what I'm involved in. I saw him earlier today at the American Emba.s.sy-at least I think I caught a glimpse of him-and again tonight, at a restaurant, with a man named Sir Antony s.h.i.+elds.”
”The Home Secretary,” Bernard said. ”Something like our Attorney General. He supervises, among other departments, MI5, the British domestic security department, which is a.n.a.logous to our FBI.”
”Well, he's certainly well connected. But why did you tell me about the Hitchc.o.c.k film?”
”As I said, we ran an operation something like that. Our fictional agent was called John Bartholomew.”
Stone felt as if someone had rapped him sharply on the skull.
”The name became, over the years, something of an inside joke, generally referring to a hoax of some sort.”
”I see,” Stone said, but he didn't see at all.
”Where are you staying?” Bernard asked.
”At the Connaught.”
”Let me see what I can learn,” he said, ”and I'll call you if I find out something.”
”Oh, I have a cellphone number,” Stone said. ”It's one of those satellite things that works in a lot of countries.” He gave Bernard the number.
”This may take a while,” Bernard said. ”Good night.” He hung up.
Stone sat on the bed, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.
8.
STONE WOKE REFRESHED, HAVING slept well, but all through breakfast he puzzled over Bartholomew, or whatever his name was, and his own a.s.signment in London. Well, he thought finally, I'm an investigator, so maybe I'd better start investigating.
He dug out the phone number of Dino's acquaintance at Scotland Yard and called him.
”Detective Inspector Throckmorton's line,” a woman's voice answered.
Stone tried not to laugh at the name. ”Good morning, my name is Stone Barrington. Would you tell Detective Inspector Throckmorton that Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti suggested I call him?” He spelled Dino's name for her.
”One moment, please.”
There was a brief pause, a click, and a crisp English voice said, ”Throckmorton here; is that Mr. Barrington?”
”Yes, Inspector.”
”Bacchetti called the other day and said you might turn up. You free for lunch?”
”Yes; may I take you?”
”Name the spot.”
”How about the Connaught?”
”I can live with that,” he said. ”The Restaurant or the Grill?”
”Which would you prefer?”
”Menu's pretty much the same, but the Grill is nicer at lunch, I think.”
”Twelve-thirty?”
”See you then,” Throckmorton said, and hung up.
Stone booked the table, then showered and dressed and left the hotel. The sun shone brightly, though he was not sure for how long, and he immediately began to enjoy walking. Using his map, he strolled through Berkeley Square, then over to Piccadilly. He turned right at Fortnum & Mason's, the renowned department store and food emporium, and finally came to Jermyn Street and Turnbull & a.s.ser.
He entered the shop, which was filled with brightly colored s.h.i.+rts and ties, looked at both, bought some, bought a couple of the Sea Island cotton nights.h.i.+rts he preferred, and was sure to get the tax refund forms. He then strolled back to the Connaught, doing a lot of window-shopping in Bond Street along the way.
Evelyn Throckmorton was a small, well-proportioned, handsome man in his forties, wearing a Savile Row suit and a military mustache. He greeted Stone, and they went into the Connaught Grill, which was painted a restful green, and were given a table in an alcove by a window.
”How is Dino?” Throckmorton asked.
”He's very well; we see a lot of each other.”
”I've heard him speak of you,” Throckmorton said, perusing the menu. ”Surprised we didn't meet when I was in New York that time.”
”I've been off the force for several years, now,” Stone said.
”Oh yes, I remember your last case; Dino and I discussed it in some detail.”
Stone didn't care to revisit the Sasha Nijinsky case. ”What would you like for lunch?” he asked as a waiter approached.