Reluctantly, Stone put away the pistol and called the Strategic Services team.
“This is Derek.”
“It’s Barrington. Larkin is standing in the mews behind my house, about twenty yards from the Grenadier.”
“We’re on it,” the man said, then hung up.
Stone went to the window and peered through the blinds. “He’s gone,” he said, looking up and down the mews.
Dino came and looked. “What’s that place across there where cars are parked?”
“There are a few houses in there; it’s a sort of arm of the mews. It has a name, but I don’t remember it.”
“That’s the only place he could have got to that fast,” Dino said.
Stone called Derek again and reported the news, then hung up. “I’ve just remembered,” he said.
“Remembered what?”
“There’s a sort of tunnel and footpath leading from that alcove to Hyde Park Corner and the Duke of Wellington’s house. The duke’s officers used the Grenadier as their mess, and they needed a direct route to the house.”
“Does Derek know that?” Dino asked.
Stone looked again and saw two men running into the recess. “He does now.”
They sat down and Dino turned his attention to the cricket match again.
Twenty minutes later, Derek let himself into the house and came to the study. “He scampered. At Hyde Park corner he could have got a taxi in any direction, or just walked across the street and disappeared into Hyde Park.”
Stone handed Derek his iPhone with Larkin’s photo. “E-mail this to yourself, and spread it around. Larkin is fifteen or twenty years older and maybe ten pounds heavier, dressed in a dark business suit and necktie, and he still has the beard.”
“This could come in useful,” Derek said, transferring the photo. “Henceforth, anywhere you’re going we enter first and look over the inhabitants.” He handed Stone a tiny handheld radio. “This is faster than the phone.” He left the room and the house and returned to his duties.
“I wish we’d had the photo sooner,” Stone said. “Do you think Derek called the police?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Dino said, digging out his phone and pressing a button. “Sir John Daring,” he said into the phone. “I am Police Commissioner Dino Bacchetti of New York City.” A short pause. “Hello, Sir John, how are you? Very well, thanks. You’ll remember my friend Stone Barrington? Yes, we’re in London for a few days, and we’ve just spotted a man on the street who is wanted in New York for two murders. I’m sending you an old photo.” They talked for another ten minutes, and then Dino hung up. “Okay, Larkin’s photograph is now in every street bobby’s phone, and the ports and airports have been informed. With the number of cameras this city has operating, I wouldn’t be surprised if they have him within the hour.” He went back to his cricket match.
An hour later, Stone said, “Dino, if you were Larkin, what would you be doing right now?”
“Shaving my beard and buying some new clothes,” Dino said. “That’s if he doesn’t have a room near here; then he could just change or hole up.”
“That’s my bet,” Stone said. “It’s been more than an hour, and they haven’t spotted him on the street.”
“Cameras or no, the city is still a haystack, and Larkin is a needle.”
Stone paced around for a few minutes. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I’ll know it when I see in,” Stone replied.
“The girls have the car,” Dino pointed out.
“And London still has taxis,” Stone said.
* * *
—
They ended up on Savile Row, at Stone’s tailor. He had several orders in, so he had a final fitting for some suits and jackets, then asked them to be delivered to Windward Hall.
They walked over to the Burlington Arcade. A miniature mall of elegant shops, then across Picadilly and down to Jermyn Street, where Stone found that his shirt order was ready. He had those sent to Windward Hall, too.
Dino looked around and found himself an elegant silk dressing gown and ordered it without asking the price, which impressed Stone, who normally didn’t enjoy shopping with Dino, because he was so cheap and wanted to bargain with everybody.
Dino had his purchase wrapped and put into a shopping bag, and they walked all the way back to the house in Wilton Crescent, arriving at the cocktail hour.
They went into the study, and Stone had a look through the blinds into the mews to see if Sig Larkin was back. To Stone’s relief, he was not.
Stone poured them a drink, and Dino resumed his cricket watching on TV. “Is it the same match?” He asked.
“Who cares?” Dino responded. “It’s cricket, isn’t it?”
“Undeniably,” Stone said. He found a book he had been reading the last time he was at the house, and resumed it.
Stone settled into the sofa and opened the book. He read for a few minutes, then something seemed to reflect a light from the wall he was facing. Sunlight, he reckoned, getting up and adjusting the blinds.
“What’s the problem?” Dino asked.
“I was getting a tiny flash in the corner of my eye. Must be reflected sunlight.”
“Did it have a color?” Dino asked.
“Green or red, I’m not sure.”
Dino shrugged and went back to his cricket match.
The flash came again, disturbing Stone. “I can’t read with this little light going off,” he said.
“I don’t see anything.”
“It’s infrequent, and I can’t tell where it’s coming from.” Stone returned to his book.
“I see it,” Dino said. “It’s right there.”
“Something inside the heating vent?” Stone asked.
The flash came again. “Got it,” Stone said. He stared at the spot as he approached the vent. The flash recurred, and he realized that it was coming from a tiny space between the molding and the floorboards, less than a quarter of an inch, he thought.
“What the hell is that?” Stone asked.
17
Stone and Dino got down on their hands and knees and peered at the tiny space. They were rewarded with a tiny but definite flash, red this time. Stone got a powerful little flashlight from a desk drawer and directed the beam at the space. He had to wait another minute for the flash, and this time, he marked the baseboard with a felt-tipped pen.