“Thanks, Ted; I’ll talk to you later.” Stone walked back up the mews and slowly back toward the Connaught. He passed the Hayward tailor shop, but didn’t go in; it was too soon for fittings on the jackets he had ordered. His pocket phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington, it’s Bobby Jones.”
“Yes, Bobby?”
“I have what you wanted; can we meet?”
“I’ll be at the Connaught in two minutes.”
“So will I, sir.”
Stone encountered Bobby at the front door, and they went in together and sat down in the lounge. Bobby reached into his raincoat pocket and presented Stone with a large wallet.
Stone received it in a handkerchief and lightly turned it over. It was of alligator, and it must have cost a bundle, Stone thought. He looked inside and found more than five hundred pounds, mostly in fifty-pound notes. One side of the wallet held three credit cards, an ATM card from Barclays bank, an international health insurance card, and half a dozen calling cards, all in the name of Stanford Hedger, Mayfair House, Green Street. The credit cards were in the same name. “Well,” he said, “at least we have his name, now.”
“The lady pickpocket said he introduced himself as Bill, so Hedger could be a false name, too.”
“If it is, he’s gone to a great deal of trouble to establish that identity. Since we know he lives at the Green Street address, I’m inclined to think that Hedger is his real name.”
“Maybe so, but these buggers have a thousand names, if they want them.”
“Bobby, can you dust this for fingerprints and have them checked with the international database?”
“I have a friend who can,”
Bobby replied. “Of course, my prints are on it, as are the pickpocket’s.”
“How long will it take?”
“A day or two, depending on how busy my friend is.”
“All right.”
“What do you want me to do with the wallet after that?”
“Wipe all the prints off it and stick it through the mail slot of Hedger’s building. Maybe he’ll think someone found and returned it.”
“All right, sir; I’ll be on my way then.” Bobby took the wallet back in a handkerchief of his own, tucked it into a raincoat pocket, and left.
Stone went upstairs. It was just coming onto nine o’clock, New York time, and he called Bill Eggers, who he knew came in early.
“Eggers.”
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”
“Sounds familiar,” Eggers said, “but I can’t place it. Who is he?”
“That’s what I want to know. I think it may be Bartholomew’s real name. By the way, he works for the government, probably in intelligence.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, based on who sent him to me, but I can’t elaborate on that.”
“I see.”