never figure it out.”
“Neither could I.”
They ate on, finishing with dessert and coffee.
“I think I’d like a brandy,” she said.
“Careful, you’re driving, and I hear they’re tough about that in this country. I want you to get home in one piece, and without getting arrested.”
“I can’t go home,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for me.”
“Can you go to a friend’s?”
“I can’t even leave the hotel; they’re bound to be waiting outside. I’ll stay with you.” Her foot rubbed against his leg under the table.
“No, you won’t,” Stone said. “First of all, you’re supposed to be in mourning.”
“I’m not a widow!”
“Near enough. Second, they have a photograph of us together; if you don’t leave the hotel, they’ll make a very big thing of that. What you have to do is, walk out of the hotel like a citizen, get into your car, and drive home. Ignore any questions or photographers, and lock your doors. Live your normal life, except stay out of men’s hotel suites. You can’t become a fugitive; they’ll go away eventually. Once the funeral is behind you, they’ll lose interest.”
“I hate this,” she said.
“It won’t last forever.”
“I mean, I hate not being able to sleep with you.”
“You’ve already done that, remember?”
She giggled. “I’ll bet you thought I was Monica.”
“No comment.” He pushed back from the table and walked her to the lobby. “Now, shake my hand,” he said. “They could be anywhere.”
She shook his hand, then stole a peck on his cheek.
“Oh, you should have these.” He handed her the will and the financial statement, and she tucked them into her bag. “Bye,” she said, then walked out.
As soon as she was out the door, flashguns began popping.
19
BOBBY JONES STOOD ON GREEN STREET, half a block from the house where John Bartholomew resided. He wore a suit and a cloth cap and, in spite of the warm weather, a raincoat. Bobby had learned, after years of surveillance, how to stand for long periods of time without becoming too tired. He wore thick-soled black shoes, and inside were sponge pads to cradle his feet. He had been there since eight a.m. It was now nearly half past nine.
Bartholomew came through the front door and down the steps, then turned toward Grosvenor Square and the American Embassy.
Bobby crossed the street and followed, keeping the half-block distance. He had expected Bartholomew to go straight to the embassy, but instead, the man crossed the street and began walking east along the little park at the center of the square. Well, blimey, Bobby thought, he’s on to me already. Bobby didn’t follow; instead, he walked to a bench that offered a good view of the square, checked to be sure Bartholomew wasn’t looking at him, shucked off the raincoat, turned it inside out, and it became tweed. He stuffed his cloth cap into a pocket, sat down, opened his newspaper, and set his half-glasses on the tip of his nose, so he could look over them. In a practiced fashion, he would glance at Bartholomew, then down at his paper, turning a page occasionally, then look back at his quarry.
Bartholomew proceeded around the square at a march, swinging an umbrella and taking in the sunny morning like a tourist. He crossed the street again, but instead of walking into the embassy through the front door, he continued straight along the street toward the entrance of the passport office, disappearing around the corner of the building.
Bobby sat his ground, resisting the urge to run to the corner to see if he had gone inside. Bartholomew would go inside, Bobby was sure; the man worked there, didn’t he? What he would do now was go upstairs, then peer out the window to see if his tail was still here. Bobby, accordingly, got up, crossed the street, and went into the little chemist’s shop on South Audley Street, where he browsed for a few minutes, then bought a small tin of aspirin. Finally, he returned to Grosvenor
“Neither could I.”
They ate on, finishing with dessert and coffee.
“I think I’d like a brandy,” she said.
“Careful, you’re driving, and I hear they’re tough about that in this country. I want you to get home in one piece, and without getting arrested.”
“I can’t go home,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for me.”
“Can you go to a friend’s?”
“I can’t even leave the hotel; they’re bound to be waiting outside. I’ll stay with you.” Her foot rubbed against his leg under the table.
“No, you won’t,” Stone said. “First of all, you’re supposed to be in mourning.”
“I’m not a widow!”
“Near enough. Second, they have a photograph of us together; if you don’t leave the hotel, they’ll make a very big thing of that. What you have to do is, walk out of the hotel like a citizen, get into your car, and drive home. Ignore any questions or photographers, and lock your doors. Live your normal life, except stay out of men’s hotel suites. You can’t become a fugitive; they’ll go away eventually. Once the funeral is behind you, they’ll lose interest.”
“I hate this,” she said.
“It won’t last forever.”
“I mean, I hate not being able to sleep with you.”
“You’ve already done that, remember?”
She giggled. “I’ll bet you thought I was Monica.”
“No comment.” He pushed back from the table and walked her to the lobby. “Now, shake my hand,” he said. “They could be anywhere.”
She shook his hand, then stole a peck on his cheek.
“Oh, you should have these.” He handed her the will and the financial statement, and she tucked them into her bag. “Bye,” she said, then walked out.
As soon as she was out the door, flashguns began popping.
19
BOBBY JONES STOOD ON GREEN STREET, half a block from the house where John Bartholomew resided. He wore a suit and a cloth cap and, in spite of the warm weather, a raincoat. Bobby had learned, after years of surveillance, how to stand for long periods of time without becoming too tired. He wore thick-soled black shoes, and inside were sponge pads to cradle his feet. He had been there since eight a.m. It was now nearly half past nine.
Bartholomew came through the front door and down the steps, then turned toward Grosvenor Square and the American Embassy.
Bobby crossed the street and followed, keeping the half-block distance. He had expected Bartholomew to go straight to the embassy, but instead, the man crossed the street and began walking east along the little park at the center of the square. Well, blimey, Bobby thought, he’s on to me already. Bobby didn’t follow; instead, he walked to a bench that offered a good view of the square, checked to be sure Bartholomew wasn’t looking at him, shucked off the raincoat, turned it inside out, and it became tweed. He stuffed his cloth cap into a pocket, sat down, opened his newspaper, and set his half-glasses on the tip of his nose, so he could look over them. In a practiced fashion, he would glance at Bartholomew, then down at his paper, turning a page occasionally, then look back at his quarry.
Bartholomew proceeded around the square at a march, swinging an umbrella and taking in the sunny morning like a tourist. He crossed the street again, but instead of walking into the embassy through the front door, he continued straight along the street toward the entrance of the passport office, disappearing around the corner of the building.
Bobby sat his ground, resisting the urge to run to the corner to see if he had gone inside. Bartholomew would go inside, Bobby was sure; the man worked there, didn’t he? What he would do now was go upstairs, then peer out the window to see if his tail was still here. Bobby, accordingly, got up, crossed the street, and went into the little chemist’s shop on South Audley Street, where he browsed for a few minutes, then bought a small tin of aspirin. Finally, he returned to Grosvenor
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