“They were of Mediterranean extraction, carrying Greek passports. Do you know anyone of that description?”

“No,” Stone lied.

“Think carefully, Mr. Barrington; you don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“I do not think I am acquainted with them.”

Throckmorton took the raincoat from his lap and held it out to Stone. “Then why was one of them wearing your raincoat?” He opened the coat and turned out an inside pocket. A label bore the name of Doug Hayward’s shop and neatly printed inside, Stone’s own name.

Stone was stunned; he struggled to remain calm. “I don’t understand,” Stone said. “My raincoat is upstairs.”

“Let’s go and see it,” Throckmorton said, standing up.

Stone went to the concierge’s desk, asked for his key, and led the way to the elevator. The four men filled it completely. Stone’s mind was racing. When the two men had entered Lance’s house, they must have hung their raincoats on the rack with Stone’s: When he had left the house, he must have taken the wrong coat. Oh, shit, shit, shit! How was he going to explain this? And if he told Throckmorton everything, how would he explain not having told him earlier about the two corpses in the wine cellar?

The elevator stopped on Stone’s floor, and he led them to his suite. He went to a closet, found the raincoat, and handed it to Throckmorton.

The two detectives peered over his shoulder at the two coats, comparing them. “They’re nearly identical,” one of them said, helpfully. “The linings look the same, too.”

“Mmm, yes,” Throckmorton agreed. He turned to Stone. “That doesn’t explain how the two coats got exchanged,” he said.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Stone replied. “Perhaps in a checkroom somewhere?”

“Where? Where have you checked this coat?”

“Everywhere I’ve been,” Stone replied. “Downstairs in the cloak room, in restaurants; I’ve also hung it on racks in pubs, set it down in shops.”

“But where could you have taken this dead man’s coat?”

“I don’t know, it seems likely that he took mine and left his, doesn’t it?”

Throckmorton turned to the two detectives. “Wait downstairs,” he said. The two men left the room. “Sit down,” he said to Stone. Both men took chairs.

“Evelyn . . .”

“It is only because of Lieutenant Bacchetti’s recommendation of you that we are not having this conversation in an interrogation room, and that the interrogation is not being conducted by the two men who just left, who would be doing the job far less gently than I.”

“I appreciate the consideration,” Stone said, “but I have absolutely no idea when and where this exchange of raincoats happened.”

“Let me tell you a bit more,” Throckmorton said. “The passports found on the men were counterfeits. Does that help jog your memory?”

“I know nothing of false passports,” Stone said.

“Let me see yours.”