“Yes, but you realize it would be an illegal search.”
“Not with your permission.”
The man handed over the key. “It’s two floors up—nineteen-seventeen.”
“Thanks,” Dino said. “I’ll return this to you. Let’s go, Stone.”
Downstairs, in the Café Carlyle, Marie-Thérèse was deep in conversation with a man at the bar.
Musicians began taking their places at the opposite side of the room, and a voice came over the sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Café Carlyle is proud to present, in his thirtieth season at the Carlyle, Mr. Bobby Short!”
The music began, and Marie-Thérèse and her new acquaintance turned toward the stage.
53
Carpenter dialed Mason’s cell phone and he answered immediately. “Speak,” he said.
“It’s Carpenter. Where are you?”
“At a restaurant called La Goulue, on Madison Avenue, at Sixty-fifth Street.”
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
“I have news, but don’t react.”
“Go.”
“Architect is dead.”
“Really?” he drawled, in his Etonian accent. “Anyone we know involved?”
“La Biche shot him in the men’s room at the Four Seasons.”
“Goodness gracious. Who’s next in line?”
“You and I.”
“Well, I wouldn’t like that much.”
“I didn’t think so. I think she followed him from the firm offices, so don’t go back there.”
“Makes sense. Any suggestions?”
“Don’t go back to your hotel, either.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to seek shelter elsewhere,” Mason said, sighing.
“Good idea.”
“Do you have any plans?”
“I think we should get an RAF airplane over here and get out. I’d feel more comfortable at home.”
“Would you? I’m not sure I agree. After all, our, ah, friend is here, isn’t she? I should think
we’d have more luck making a connection with her right here in the Big Apple.”