Three Stone Barrington Adventures Page 7

  “Stone Barrington.”

  “And with whom is your appointment?”

  “Ms. . . . ah, Dame Felicity Devonshire.”

  “Your passport, please?”

  Stone dug it out and handed it over. The man carefully compared the photograph inside with Stone’s face. He did not return the passport. “Come with me, please.”

  Stone followed him through two more doors to what he assumed was the rear of the building, and then they entered a room the size of a large closet. “Stand against the rear wall, please,” the man said. Stone did so. The man rolled a steel box with a glass top in front of Stone. Etched into the glass were the outlines of two hands. He opened a drawer, opened Stone’s passport and placed it inside.

  “Place your hands upon the outlines, please, and press down slightly.”

  Stone did so, and then suddenly three lights flashed, one in front of him and one on either side. He realized that he had just been fingerprinted and photographed from the front and in both profiles. His passport had been photographed, too.

  The man pressed a button, and Stone heard a whirring sound from the other side of the door they had entered. “Thank you,” the man said, returning Stone’s passport. “Come this way, please.”

  Stone followed him out of the closet and down a hallway into what seemed to be a third building. The man stopped at a steel door and placed his palm on a recognition panel. The door slid open with a hiss, they both stepped through, and it closed behind them. Stone noticed that the inside of the door was sheathed in mahogany panels over the steel. They were in a small sitting room decorated with comfortable leather furniture and hunting prints, along with a few oil landscapes.

  “Please take a seat,” the man said. “Someone will come for you.” He departed through the door they had entered.

  Stone sat down and recognized a Vivaldi sonata for flute wafting through invisible speakers, and a stack of magazines was on a table next to him. He picked up the top one and found himself leafing through the current issue of Country Life, perusing ads for houses in Kent, Sussex, Devon and other counties. He had about settled on a charming cottage by the sea in Cornwall when a door on the other side of the room opened and a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit stepped into the room.

  “Mr. Barrington, I presume?” she said.

  Stone rose. “How could I possibly be anyone else?” he asked.

  She tried not to laugh. “This way, please.” She led him through what was apparently her office and to a set of double mahogany doors, where she knocked twice.

  “Come!” a female voice said.

  The woman opened the door and stood back for Stone to enter. Felicity, who was seated at an antique desk, stood up. “Ah, Mr. Barrington,” she said, extending her hand.

  Stone shook it. “Ah, Dame Felicity,” he said.

  “That will be all, Heather,” Felicity said, “until the other gentleman arrives.”

  Heather closed the door, and Felicity motioned for Stone to sit down. He did so and was about to speak, when she held up a hand. “I trust you’ve been well since our last meeting,” she said, tapping an ear with a fingertip.

  So they were being recorded. “Very well, indeed, Dame Felicity, and may I congratulate you on your honor?”

  She blushed a little. “Thank you,” she said. “It comes with the job.”

  “And what job is that?” Stone asked mischievously.

  “Civil service,” she replied, making a face. They were not being photographed. Then there was another knock at the door.

  “Come!” Dame Felicity said.

  The door opened, and a slight, gray-haired man in a very good but not new suit entered. “Good morning, Dame Felicity,” he said.

  “Good morning,” she said, rising and shaking his hand. “May I present Mr. Barrington?”

  The man turned and shook Stone’s hand. “Smith,” he said.

  “How do you do, Mr. Smith?” Stone asked.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “Please sit, gentlemen,” Felicity said.

  They sat.

  “Mr. Barrington, Mr. Smith is in possession of more knowledge of Stanley Whitestone than I, being his contemporary. I thought it might be useful for the two of you to meet.”

  “I hope so,” Stone replied.

  “Mr. Barrington,” Smith said, “what questions do you have regarding Mr. Whitestone?”

  “Why don’t we start at the beginning?” Stone said. “Please tell me in as much detail as possible of the first time you met Stanley Whitestone.”

  Smith looked at Felicity and got a nod from her, then turned back to Stone and began.

  17

  Smith gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “We were nine years old,” he said, “and we were at Eton. He impressed me immediately.”

  “How so?” Stone asked.

  “He was very bright and quick and had an acerbic wit, especially for a nine-year-old.”

  “Go on.”

  “He excelled in his studies and on the playing field, both without seeming to try very hard.”

  Stone knew that, among the British, not seeming to try very hard was admirable. “What sports did he play?”

  “Cricket, track—he was a sprinter—and he was good on horse-back. I believe he had grown up with his own horse.”

  “Anything else from the Eton years that might be of help in identifying him?”

  Smith thought for a moment. “He suffered a fall from a horse and acquired a cut on his forehead,” he said, pointing to a spot high over his right eyebrow. “Needed stitches. Left a thin line of a scar about two inches long.”

  Stone took the photograph of Whitestone from his pocket, looked at it and handed it to Smith. “Do you see it here?”

  Smith checked. “No,” he said.

  “He had it removed, then?”

  “Possibly. Or it may have moved into his hairline as he grew up. I can’t think of anything else that might identify him now. After we left Eton I was at Oxford, and he was at Cambridge. I saw him two or three times at parties in London, then not again until I . . . became employed as a civil servant.”

  “Did you join the service at the same time?”

  “No, I did two years of National Service, which he seemed to have avoided, so he was senior to me when I came aboard.”

  Felicity spoke up. “Whitestone attended Cambridge as a King’s Scholar,” she said, “after being recruited his first semester. It was arranged that he did his National Service with us.”

  Smith seemed a bit miffed. “I rather thought it was something like that,” he said. “I was recruited out of the army.”

  Stone kept himself from laughing at this display of jealousy. “What were your impressions of him at the time of your joining?”

  “Much the same as at Eton,” Smith said, “only by that time he had acquired considerable charm. Perhaps that happened at Cambridge.”

  Felicity consulted a file on her desk. “Whitestone joined the theater group there and became adept at comedy. A number of his contemporaries went on to become professional actors, and half a dozen of them did very well. He had that opportunity but was already committed to us.”

  “Then I would assume that he learned about makeup and disguise in the theater group,” Stone said.

  “A logical assumption,” Felicity replied. “He made good use of that knowledge in the field.”

  Stone turned back to Smith. “Why did you dislike Whitestone?” he asked.

  “Dislike?” Smith asked.

  “All right, hate,” Stone said.

  Smith said nothing.

  “Answer him,” Felicity said.

  “I tend to distrust people who have too much charm,” said Smith, who seemed to have very little himself.

  “Did he advance in the service faster than you?” Stone asked.

  “I told you, he was two years ahead of me; naturally, he would have been promoted sooner.”

  “Did your record of advancement match his?”
<
br />   Smith scratched an itch on his forehead. “I don’t think anyone advanced as quickly as he.”

  “Was he considered a candidate for . . . top management?” Stone asked.

  “I would have had to be above him to know that,” Smith said, looking pointedly at Felicity.

  “Probably,” Felicity said. “I was junior to him, but—to use an American term—the scuttlebutt was that he was headed for the top.”

  “Did he leave abruptly?” Stone asked.

  Felicity answered. “He didn’t turn up at the office one day, and later that morning the interoffice post delivered a one-sentence letter of resignation to the director.”

  “Have you seen the letter?” Stone asked.

  “It’s in his file.”

  “Was it profane or disrespectful?”

  “I believe he told the director to get stuffed.”

  Stone couldn’t help laughing. “Mr. Smith, where were you at the time of Whitestone’s . . . departure?”

  “I was working in his section,” Smith replied.

  “And what section was that?”

  Felicity interrupted. “I don’t believe that’s relevant.”

  “Let me rephrase,” Stone said. “Was he doing work that could have benefited him financially if he had used the information he had gained in his work in the private sector?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied. “I thought you understood that.”

  “Was his work of a financial nature?”

  Felicity stared at the ceiling. “I can’t think of a way to answer that question without telling you more than you need to know to accomplish your task.”

  “I’ll try again,” Stone said. “Given his experience, might he have gone to work in the financial industry? In the City, perhaps?”

  “Nothing as overt as that,” she replied. “It’s more likely that he would have been employed surreptitiously by someone in a position to profit from his experience.”

  “Do you have a name of a possible employer?”

  “The evidence is inconclusive,” she said.

  “To whom did the evidence point?”

  “I would not wish his name to be bandied about,” she said.

  “Of course not, but knowing it might be very helpful in learning the whereabouts of Whitestone.”

  Felicity sighed. “Lord Wight,” she said.

  Stone’s eyebrows went up.

  “I believe you may have known him briefly,” Felicity said, “during your little sojourn in London a few years back.”

  Indeed, Stone had met him. Lord Wight was the father of a woman he had been quite attached to for some months in that year, and he had visited the family home in the South of England. “Was this before or after Lord Wight’s financial difficulties?” he asked.

  “During and after,” she responded. “It was rumored that Whitestone was responsible for saving his bacon and recovering much of Wight’s fortune and reputation.”

  Stone was puzzled. “But you were unable to verify this?”

  “We verified it to our satisfaction,” she replied, “but that did not rise to an actionable level.”

  “Were crimes committed at the time?” he asked.

  “We believe that both Lord Wight and Whitestone benefited greatly from insider information supplied by Whitestone.”

  “I see,” he said.

  Felicity looked at her watch.

  Smith stood. “Please excuse me,” he said. “I have another appointment.”

  “Of course,” Felicity replied. Smith left the room, and Felicity stood. “I hope that what you have heard may be of use to you, Mr. Barrington,” she said.

  The woman in the outer office suddenly appeared. “May I escort you out, Mr. Barrington?”

  Stone got up. “Yes, thank you. And thank you, Dame Felicity.”

  “Good day, Mr. Barrington,” she replied.

  Stone followed the woman to the elevator, where she unlocked the panel and pressed a button. When he arrived on the ground floor, his uniformed escort was waiting for him. A moment later he was on the front steps of the house, blinking in the sunshine.

  18

  Stone took advantage of the good weather and walked home.

  As he came into his block he saw two things: one that puzzled him and another that frightened him.

  He was puzzled by the chauffeur-driven, Mercedes-made Maybach parked in front of his house, and frightened by the woman standing across the street, who did not seem to see him. She was of Dolce’s height and build, but she wore a coat or cape with a hood, which was drawn over her head, leaving her face in shadow.

  Stone stepped behind a tree and stopped. As he watched, she turned toward Third Avenue and began walking. At the corner, she hailed a cab and was driven away. Stone heaved a sigh of relief and walked on to his house, entering through the office.

  Joan sat at her computer, paying bills online. “Morning,” she said. “A client is waiting for you.”

  “Which one?” he asked.

  She waved him away with a hand, as if he were breaking her concentration.

  Stone walked into his office to find Herbie Fisher stretched out on his leather sofa, his shoes off, sound asleep. Stone sat down at his desk and noisily shuffled some papers, but Herbie slept on. Stone made a couple of phone calls, not bothering to keep his voice low, and still Herbie slept. Finally, his patience ran out.

  “Herbie!” he practically shouted.

  Herbie raised his head, looked around, and then sat up and began putting on his shoes.

  “Will there be anything else?” Stone asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Herbie said, and then rose, put on his jacket and did up his necktie. Stone noticed that he had a better haircut than customary and that his nails had been manicured.

  “Then I’d better get back to work,” Stone said.

  Herbie was almost to the door when he stopped. “Oh,” he said, “I almost forgot. I’m thinking of buying a house in this neighborhood, and I wanted to ask your opinion.”

  This was disturbing news. “Where in the neighborhood?” he asked.

  “Next door,” Herbie said, pointing to the east.

  The house was larger than Stone’s, and the two back gardens were separated only by a low brick wall. “Not the best choice,” he said.

  “Well, there’s another one available across your back garden, in the next block.”

  Stone knew that house, and it was very nice. “Herbie,” he said, “I’m not sure you’re suited to living in a large house alone. The upkeep and, especially, the taxes are just awful. I think you might feel more at home in a good condo building, maybe a penthouse?” Maybe he would fall off the thing.

  “That’s a thought,” Herbie said.

  “The ladies love a penthouse. Why don’t you ask your agent to show you a few?”

  “How about a co-op building?” Herbie asked.

  Stone shook his head. “Then you’d have to face a board of directors, and they can be very tough on people with new money. They like a long record of high earnings; some of them even demand a high net worth from applicants, as much as fifty million dollars. None of those problems with condos.”

  “That’s very good legal advice, Stone,” Herbie replied, nodding sagely. “I’m glad I retained you.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy with my services, Herbie. That your Maybach waiting outside?”

  “Not yet. It’s a loaner from the dealer, but I’m considering it.”

  “How much?”

  “A little under four hundred grand,” Herbie said. “It’s the short-wheelbase model, not the limo. I don’t want to be too . . .” He seemed to search for the word.

  “Ostentatious?” Stone offered.

  “I was going to say flashy, but I guess opsenbacious will do.”

  “Yes, you want to keep a low profile,” Stone said. “Why don’t you look at some penthouses today?”

  “Good idea,” Herbie said, turning toward the door while reaching for his cell phone
and pressing a speed-dial button. “Hello, Serena? Herbert Fisher here. I’d like to see some penthouses.” He listened for a moment. “High-up ones,” he said. “Meet you outside your office in ten minutes? I’m in the Maybach.” He snapped the phone shut. “See you, Stone.”

  “Be sure and look at a lot of apartments,” Stone said. “You really want to know what’s out there before you decide. And you might ask to see apartments that are already nicely decorated.” Stone dreaded to think what sort of decor Herbie might wind up with.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Herbie said. “You want to come along? It’s a nice car.”

  “Can’t, Herbie; too much work to get done. Have a good day.”

  “You, too,” Herbie said, and then walked out.

  After he heard the outside door close, Stone walked down the corridor to Joan’s office. “You let him use my office?”

  “Why? Did he disturb anything?”

  “Only me.”

  “Well, he’s our most important client, isn’t he? We have to treat him well.”

  “Did he tell you he’s thinking of buying the house next door?”

  Joan put the back of a hand to her forehead. “Oh, no.”

  “If he does, he’ll be in here every day.”

  “Oh, no, no!”

  “Wouldn’t you be happy to see our most important client every day?”

  “No, no. Please, no.”

  “I’m encouraging him to go high-rise,” Stone said. “Assist me in that endeavor, will you? Help me convince him that he belongs in a penthouse in some building on the far Upper West Side or maybe New Jersey.”

  “New Jersey would be perfect,” she said.

  “By the way, did you happen to see the woman standing across the street?”

  “Oh, God! Was it Dolce?”

  “I don’t know; she was wearing a hood that obscured her face, and she walked away shortly after I spotted her. Your view must have been blocked by the car Herbie is thinking of buying.”

  “The Maybach? That’s big enough.”

  “We’re supposed to have one of Cantor’s people here to deal with Dolce, remember?”

  “Oh, there was one here. He said he was going down to Second Avenue to look for a paper.”

  “Did you offer him the Times or The Wall Street Journal?”

  “I think he’s more of a Post reader,” she replied. “Oh, here he comes.”