“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 & Asser.
He entered the shop, which was filled with brightly colored shirts and ties, looked at both, bought some, bought a couple of the Sea Island cotton nightshirts 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.
“The potted shrimps and the Dover sole,” the policeman said to the waiter.
“I’ll have the same,” Stone said. “Would you like some wine?”
“Of course.”
Stone ordered a Sancerre, and they chatted a bit until the first course came.
“Now,” said Throckmorton, digging into his shrimp, “what can I do for you while you’re here?”
“I’ve been sent over here by a client to look into the activities of an American living in London, and I need the help of an investigator—no, two. I thought you might know of someone reliable.”
“I know a lorryload of retired coppers,” Throckmorton said. “I daresay I could find you a couple of goo
d men. What will you pay?”
“You tell me.”