The Short Forever (Stone Barrington 8)

“Nope.”

Stone put down his brochure. “My guess is, it’s Hedger’s people.”

“They must want Lance pretty bad.”

“Then why aren’t they following Lance?”

“Maybe they are.”

“Maybe they are, at that; it’s something to keep in mind. What did you think of Lance?”

“What struck me,” Dino said, “was how much alike the two of you are.”

“How do you mean?”

“Jesus, Stone, didn’t you see the guy? He’s waspy, blondish, beautifully dressed. He has that languid look that only very confident people have.”

“Or very good actors.”

“Well, you’re not that confident, and you’re not that good an actor; from my view of the conversation, you were the guy who wanted something, and he was the guy who was going to decide whether you get it.”

“Just the opposite,” Stone said. “He wants a quarter of a million dollars from me, and I’m demanding full disclosure; he’s not ready to tell me yet.”

“Do you have a quarter of a million dollars?”

“Yes, but I’m not about to give it to Lance; he doesn’t know that, of course.”

“You better be careful, Stone; you start promising people money, and they’re liable to get very upset if you don’t come through with it.”

“You have a point.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to make a couple of phone calls.”

“And the first one will be to Arrington, won’t it?”

“Oh, shut up and get out of here; I’d like some privacy.”

“I’ll go to my room and see if there’s a cricket game on TV.”

“Cricket match.”

“Whatever.” Dino went to his own room.

Stone picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Carlyle hotel in New York, which was lodged in his memory, and asked for Mrs. Calder. The phone rang several times, and then the voice mail kicked in.

“Arrington, it’s Stone. I want to apologize for the other evening; it was inexcusable leaving you like that, but I really didn’t have a choice. I tried to catch up with you at Heathrow, but you got through security before I could. I’d like to explain, if you’ll let me. I’d also like to see you again, but I won’t be back in New York for at least a few more days. Please call me at the Connaught.” He left the number and hung up, then he got out his address book and called Samuel Bernard at his home in Washington Square.

“Good morning, Stone,” the old man said, “or good afternoon, if you’re still in London.”

“I’m still in London, sir, and I wanted to ask for some more advice.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Bartholomew is Hedger, as you suspected, and he and I have parted company.”

“Why?”