“I had expected an American car,” Stone said.

“Too much of a tip-off to the opposition,” the man said. “The Mercedes is more anonymous in London.”

“What opposition?”

“Whoever.”

“Any news on what I’m doing here?”

“Somebody will call you in the morning. I’m told you may be finished in time for an afternoon flight tomorrow. If so, we’ll pick you up at the Connaught.”

Nothing was said for the remainder of the drive into London.

Stone checked into the Connaught and was given a handsome suite on the top floor. He booked a dinner table downstairs, had a nap, showered and changed, and went down to dinner.

Something was wrong. He looked around the handsome, paneled room as he was shown to his table. The big chandelier was gone; there was an odd, contemporary carpet on the floor; there were strange new sconces on the walls; the waiters were not dressed in their usual tailcoats; Mr. Chevalier, the restaurant manager, was nowhere to be seen; the elaborate menu had been replaced by a much shorter one.

“Where is Mr. Chevalier?” he asked the captain.

“He has left the Connaught. I understand he’s at Harry’s Bar now.”

“What about the chef?”

“Gone, too. We have a new chef.”

Stone’s dinner was good but different. It wasn’t the Connaught dining room anymore. He felt as if he’d lost an old friend.

Stone was wakened at seven a.m. by the telephone.

“Hello?”

“It’s Carpenter.”

“Hello. How’d you know I was here?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t because you called me, was it? You needn’t have spent the evening alone.”

Stone didn’t know what to say.

“A car will pick you up at eight-thirty this morning,” she said. “Please be out front. And think carefully before you speak.”

“Speak about what?” But she had hung up.

Stone had a full English breakfast, then dressed and went downstairs at the appointed hour. The doorman opened the door to an anonymous black sedan, a Ford, Stone thought, and he got inside.

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” one of the two men in the front seat said. His accent was Cockney.

“Good morning. Where are we going?”

“We have a twelve- or fifteen-minute drive, depending on traffic,” the man said.

“But where?”

“Please make yourself comfortable.”

Stone looked out the window as the car drove down to Berkeley Square, up Conduit Street to Regent Street, down to Piccadilly Circus, then Shaftsbury Avenue to Cambridge Circus. They turned off into a side street, then into an alley, and the car stopped.

The man got out, looked carefully up and down the alley, then opened Stone’s door. “Just here, Mr. Barrington,” he said, indicating an unmarked door.

Stone got out, and the door was opened for him just before he reached it.

“Please follow me,” a young man in a pin-striped suit said. His accent was upper-class. Stone followed the young man to an elevator with unmarked buttons, and they rode up a few stories and got out. He was shown into a small room containing a leather sofa and some chairs.

“Please be seated, Mr. Barrington. You’ll be called in a few minutes.”

“Called for what and by whom?” Stone asked, but the door had already been closed. He felt as if he were in the waiting room of a psychiatrist’s office.

Stone rummaged through a stack of old Country Life magazines and chose the most recent, which was more than a year old. He sat down and leafed through it, reading about country houses for sale in Kent and the Cotswolds. Perhaps twenty minutes passed and then a door at one side of the room opened.

A middle-aged man in a good suit stood in the doorway, holding a file folder under one arm. The shrink? “Mr. Barrington, will you come in, please?” He stood back to let Stone pass.

Stone walked into a conference room. Four men, ranging in age from their early fifties to their early seventies, sat at the opposite end of a table that seated twelve. A chair was pulled out at Stone’s end, and he sat down.

“Good morning,” said a gray-haired man seated down the table from Stone.

“Good morning,” Stone said. He had the feeling that either he was present for a job interview or he had done something terribly wrong and was being called to account. Then the man who had shown him into the room handed him a Bible and a sheet of cardboard.

“Please take the Bible and read aloud from the card,” he said.

Stone took the Bible and read, “I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I am about to give in this proceeding is the truth.”

The man took back the Bible and the card.

Was this a court? A grand jury? He noticed for the first time that a woman sat in a corner before a stenographic machine.

The man at the other end of the table answered Stone’s unasked questions. “This is an inquiry,” he said, “into the events which occurred at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City earlier this year in your presence, Mr. Barrington. Also present were a Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti and a person you know as Carpenter. Do you recall the occasion?”

“Yes,” Stone said, “I believe so.”

“The three of you were in pursuit of a young woman named Marie-Thérèse du Bois?”

“Yes, we were.”

“We have heard testimony that Mademoiselle du Bois took refuge in a hotel room.”

“That is correct.”

“Please tell us what transpired after you and Lieutenant Bacchetti and Carpenter arrived at the room.”

“Think carefully before you speak,” Carpenter had said.

Stone took a breath; he would keep his account to a minimum. “Marie-Thérèse du Bois emerged from the room, riding on the back of a large man, using him as cover.”

“Was she armed?”

“Yes, she was pointing a semiautomatic pistol at the man’s head.”

“Were the three of you armed?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened next?”

“The large man surprised us by slamming Mademoiselle du Bois against a wall, stunning her.”

“Go on.”

“She raised her pistol as if to fire at us, but Carpenter fired first.” This statement obscured the truth somewhat.

“Did Mademoiselle du Bois fire her weapon?”

“No, there was something wrong with it, I think.”

“Do you know what?”

“I suppose it jammed or misfired.”

“We have heard testimony that her weapon contained no ammunition. Do you know if that was the case?”

“I did not examine her weapon,” Stone said, avoiding a direct answer.

“Mr. Barrington, did you feel that your life was in danger during these events?”

“Yes,” Stone said.

“How many times did Carpenter fire?”

“Twice, I believe. I’m not entirely sure.”

“Did Lieutenant Bacchetti fire?”

“No.”

“Did you fire?”

“No.”

“If you felt your life was in danger, why did you not fire your weapon?”

“Carpenter was quicker than we were, and it was obvious that further firing was unnecessary. Mademoiselle du Bois had been shot in the head.”

“Do you feel that Carpenter was justified in shooting Mademoiselle du Bois?” the man asked.

Stone hesitated only a moment. “Yes,” he lied.

“Have you anything to add to this statement?” the man asked.

Stone looked down at the table for a moment, then at the man again. “No,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Barrington,” the man said, “that will be all. We are grateful for your testimony.”

Before Stone knew it, he was back in the alley, in the car. Fifteen minutes later, he was back at the Connaught. As he walked into the room, the phone was ringing. He picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Thank you,” Carpenter said.

“Did you get the job?”

“I’ve been acting in the job since returning to London,” she said. “This morning’s proceeding was part of an investigation to determine whether I shall keep it.”

“I lied,” Stone said. “You didn’t have to kill her.”

“Yes, I did,” Carpenter replied. “But thank you. I hope I’ll see you again before long.”