“Of course, I should have known. Is it one of those wonky investigation things you get into?”

“Sort of. Tell me, how do you know Monica and Erica Burroughs?”

“I’ve known Monica for years; she sells my work.”

“Of course, I knew that.”

“But I met Erica only recently, when she and Lance came over.”

“Do you know Lance well?”

“Not really, but he’s very nice.”

“What does he do?”

“Something mysterious; I could 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.