It was nearly ten A.M. when he woke, and as he reached for the telephone to order breakfast, he noticed a small electrical box on the side table, displaying buttons for a maid, a valet, and a waiter. He pressed the waiter button, and a mome
nt later, there was a sharp, metallic rap on his door.
“Come in.”
A waiter let himself into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington. May I get you some breakfast?”
“Yes, please.”
“What would you like?”
There was apparently no menu. “Scrambled eggs, toast, a kipper, orange juice, and coffee, please.” He hadn’t had a kipper in many years, but he remembered the smoked-fish flavor.
“Right away, sir.” The waiter disappeared, to return a few minutes later, rolling a beautifully set tray table.
I’m going to like this hotel, Stone thought, as he dug into his breakfast.
Showered, shaved, and dressed, he presented himself at the concierge’s desk. “Can you direct me to the American Embassy?” he asked.
The concierge produced a map. “We’re here, and the embassy is just there,” he said, “in Grosvenor Square. A three-minute walk.”
“And I have to get a passport photo taken.”
The concierge pointed to a corner across from the embassy. “There’s a chemist’s shop there, and they do American passport photographs, which are a different size from the British ones.”
“Good. Now, can you tell me how to find Farm Street?” he asked the man.
The concierge pointed to a spot on the map. “It’s quite near, Mr. Barrington; a five-minute walk. Would you like to borrow an umbrella?”
Stone looked toward the door. “It’s raining?”
“Happens often in London, sir.”
Stone accepted the umbrella and walked outside. A steady rain was falling.
A top-hatted doorman greeted him. “Good morning, sir; taxi?”
“Yes, please.” The hell with the walk, in this weather.
The doorman summoned a taxi from a rank across the street, and Stone got into it. “Farm Street,” he said.
“Any particular number, sir?” the cabbie asked.
“I want to take a look at a house called Merryvale, but don’t stop, just drive slowly past.”
“Righto, sir.” The cabbie drove off, made a couple of turns, and two minutes later they were in Farm Street, which turned out to be a mews behind Annabel’s.
“Here we are, sir,” the cabbie said, as he drove slowly past a beautiful little house with flowers growing from window boxes on each of its three floors. “Merryvale.”
A small sign on the front door proclaimed as much. Mr. Cabot has elegant tastes, Stone thought. “What would you think it would cost to rent that house?” Stone asked the driver.
“Thousand quid a week, easy,” the cabbie replied. “You want me to take you to an estate agent’s in the neighborhood?”
Stone thought. He wasn’t going to stand conspicuously in the rain in this little mews, waiting for Cabot or Burroughs to emerge. He’d go renew his passport and return later. “Make a U-turn at the end of the street, and let’s drive past again,” he said.
“Righto,” the cabbie said. He drove to the end of the mews and made an amazingly tight U-turn.
As he did, Stone saw a taxi pull up to Merryvale and honk its horn. “Stop here for a minute,” he said. A moment later, Erica Burroughs came out of the house, locked the door behind her, and, holding an umbrella over her head, got into the waiting taxi, which immediately drove away. “Follow that cab,” Stone said.