“We both know that’s a lie; you’re staying at a house in Green Street and visiting the American Embassy every day.”
There was a grinding silence for a moment, then Bartholomew said, “The Green Street house in an hour.”
“No; someplace public.”
“All right, the Garrick Club, at six o’clock, in the bar; I’ll leave your name at the door.”
“I’ll be there.” Stone hung up. He stretched out on the bed and tried to nap. Jet lag took a long time to completely go away.
The Garrick Club porter directed Stone up the stairs, which were hung with portraits of dead actors, costumed for their greatest roles. The whole clubhouse seemed to be a museum of the theater. Stone found the bar at the top of the stairs, and in this room, the portraits were of actors more recently dead—Noel Coward and Laurence Olivier and their contemporaries. The bar was not crowded, and Bartholomew stood at the far end.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Nothing, thank you.”
Bartholomew shrugged. “As you wish. Let’s go in the other room.” He led the way to an adjoining reading room and settled into one of a pair of leather chairs. “Now, what’s so important?”
Stone fished an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. “This is the remainder of the money you gave me, and an accounting of what I spent. I’m returning to New York tomorrow.”
“But you can’t do that,” Bartholomew said, alarmed.
“Watch me. I’ve had enough of your lies, Mr. Hedger, if that’s your real name.”
“You stole my wallet?”
“I had it done. And you’re resp
onsible for putting a retired policeman in the hospital.”
“He was working for you? I had no way of knowing that.”
“I should warn you that there’s another retired policeman, a much larger one, looking for you right now, and I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when he finds you.”
“Oh, Christ,” Bartholomew said, tugging at his whiskey. “What the hell were you doing having me followed and my pocket picked?”
“I like to know the truth about the work I do, and I wasn’t getting it from you.”
Bartholomew rubbed his face with his hands.
“What is your real name?”
“That’s not important,” Bartholomew said. “You’re better off not knowing, believe me.”
“As you wish. Since Stanford Hedger is dead, I’ll assume that’s just another alias.” His eyes narrowed. “Or maybe not. You are Hedger, aren’t you? And you just want someone to think you’re dead.”
“How the hell do you know about that?”
“I have my resources, Mr. Hedger.” Stone decided to fire a guess. “Tell me, was Lance Cabot one of your bright young men at the Company?”
Hedger shot him a sharp glance. “You’re wandering into an area where you shouldn’t be.”
“I’ve been in that area since I arrived in London,” Stone replied. “Thanks to you. What was it you really wanted to accomplish when you put me onto Lance Cabot’s back?”
“You’re better off not knowing.”
Stone guessed again. “It wasn’t exactly official Company business, was it?”
Hedger shook his head slowly.