Lucid Intervals by Stuart Woods Page A

with.
    “Yeah, maybe,” Herbie said. “You want to come along? It’s a nice car.”
    “Can’t, Herbie; too much work to get done. Have a good day.”
    “You, too,” Herbie said, and then walked out.
    After he heard the outside door close, Stone walked down the corridor to Joan’s office. “You let him use my office?”
    “Why? Did he disturb anything?”
    “Only me.”
    “Well, he’s our most important client, isn’t he? We have to treat him well.”
    “Did he tell you he’s thinking of buying the house next door?”
    Joan put the back of a hand to her forehead. “Oh, no.”
    “If he does, he’ll be in here every day.”
    “Oh, no, no!”
    “Wouldn’t you be happy to see our most important client every day?”
    “No, no. Please, no.”
    “I’m encouraging him to go high-rise,” Stone said. “Assist me in that endeavor, will you? Help me convince him that he belongs in a penthouse in some building on the far Upper West Side or maybe New Jersey.”
    “New Jersey would be perfect,” she said.
    “By the way, did you happen to see the woman standing across the street?”
    “Oh, God! Was it Dolce?”
    “I don’t know; she was wearing a hood that obscured her face, and she walked away shortly after I spotted her. Your view must have been blocked by the car Herbie is thinking of buying.”
    “The Maybach? That’s big enough.”
    “We’re supposed to have one of Cantor’s people here to deal with Dolce, remember?”
    “Oh, there was one here. He said he was going down to Second Avenue to look for a paper.”
    “Did you offer him the Times or The Wall Street Journal ?”
    “I think he’s more of a Post reader,” she replied. “Oh, here he comes.”
    The door opened, and a large young man walked in carrying a Post under one arm. “Hi,” he said, offering Stone a hand. “I’m Jake Musket. Everything all right?”
    “Yes,” Stone said, shaking the hand, “except for the woman who was standing across the street when I arrived ten minutes ago.”
    Jake Musket reddened. “Oh,” he said.

19
    F elicity went home to Stone’s early, shortly after Joan had left. She came to his office and gave him a kiss. “You did well this morning,” she said.
    “I did?” Stone asked. “I didn’t really learn anything of value.”
    “Of course you did,” she said. “You now know as much about Stanley Whitestone as anyone.”
    “I now know he once had a scar on his forehead and that, as a boy, he played cricket, ran fast and was good with horses. None of those things is likely to help me find him in New York City.”
    “But you’re getting a feel for him, aren’t you?”
    “And I know that he was an amateur actor and is good at disguises.”
    “You see? You know a lot now.”
    “I also know that your Mr. Smith hated his guts—still does, probably.”
    “Well, I’m not sure what you can do with that,” she said. “Would you like to go to a dinner party tonight? Good,” she said without hesitating.
    “I guess I’d love to,” Stone replied. “Who’s giving it?”
    “The ambassador.”
    “He’s back?”
    “Got back today. He forgot to invite me before he left. It’s black tie.”
    “I own a black tie,” Stone replied.
    “We’re not due there until eight,” she said. “Why don’t we go upstairs and have a little nap?”
    The little nap came only after half an hour of inventive lovemaking, and it was welcome.
     
     
     
    THE ELDERLY ROLLS-ROYCE picked them up at eight and drove them to the Upper East Side residence of Britain’s ambassador to the UN. They were greeted at the door by a uniformed butler, who led them to the residence’s living room and shouted over the conversation of the early arrivers, “Dame Felicity Devonshire and Mr. Stone Barrington.”
    The first person Stone saw was Mr. Smith, whom he had met earlier in the day.
    “Don’t speak to Smith,” Felicity murmured in his ear.
    Stone nodded to the man and received a nod in return.
    “He doesn’t look