“No, he just looked very familiar. It’ll come to me.”

“You’re not losing brain cells, are you?”

He laughed. “Yes, but no more than usual.”

They had a drink and ordered dinner. Stone didn’t really care what he ate; he was happy just to be with her, with no strain, no conflict. Every time they had met during the past couple of years there had always been some problem that made the situation difficult.

“It’s so nice to be back in London,” Arrington said. “And I’ve always loved this room. Vance and I stayed here when we were in town, and we always had dinner here at least once.”

That didn’t improve the atmosphere much for Stone, but he let it pass.

“You’re looking very beautiful tonight,” he said, trying to get things back on track.

“You look pretty good yourself,” she said.

Mr. Chevalier suddenly appeared at the table and handed Stone a small envelope. “A message for you, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

“Thank you,” Stone replied. “Sorry about this,” he said to Arrington. He opened the envelope. On a sheet of the hotel’s stationery was written, I am in the hotel lounge; I must see you at once. It was signed by Detective Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton.

“Oh, shit,” Stone muttered.

“What is it?”

“There’s someone here I have to see for a moment. Please excuse me.”

“Not a woman, I hope,” Arrington said.

“Fear not.” He left the table and started toward the lounge. As he reached the central hallway, Monica appeared through the front doors.

“Hello, there,” she said, taking him by the shoulders and giving him a kiss on the lips.

Stone could see Throckmorton waiting impatiently in the lounge across the hallway. “Hello; I dropped Lance’s keys through your mail slot; did you get them?”

“Yes. Did you check out his house?”

“No, I decided it was none of my business, so I dropped off the keys. Why are you at the Connaught?”

“I’m having dinner with some friends in the grill; I’d better run.” She repeated the warm kiss, then disappeared down the hall into the grill.

Stone walked into the lounge, wiping lipstick from his lips. Throckmorton and two men who were obviously detectives were waiting for him, seated in large chairs, still wearing their raincoats. The detective inspector looked grim. A raincoat was draped across his lap. “Sit down,” he said. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want truthful answers,” he said.

Stone sat down.

“Early this morning,” Throckmorton began, “a police constable in Hyde Park found a stolen car abandoned there.”

Stone tried to remain calm.

“In the boot were the bodies of two men who had been murdered, shot in the head with a handgun, obviously a professional job of work.”

“I believe I saw something about that in the papers,” Stone replied.