That bastard! Poaching my clients!”
“I thought you’d want to know.”
“What were they talking about?”
“Well, Bill, I couldn’t hear them. I just saw them in that big Bentley of hers, talking.”
“Well, I’ve already got our tax people working on something that might save her a few hundred grand. It’s the kind of thing she likes.”
“I’d tell her about it soon, Bill. Bye-bye.” Stone punched off. He thought about calling T&A and canceling his shirt order, but he thought better of it.
Stone arrived home and went upstairs to leave his new ties, before returning to his office. As he approached his bedroom, he heard a snore. He pushed open the door and peered inside. Carpenter lay on her back, a breast exposed, sawing lightly away. He tiptoed across the room toward his dressing room, left the ties and tiptoed back into the bedroom. He was greeted by a wide-awake Carpenter, sitting up in bed, clutching a sheet to her bosom with one hand while using the other to point a small, semiautomatic pistol at him.
“You caught me hanging up neckties,” he said, raising his hands in surrender.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, seeming confused.
“I live here,” Stone explained. He pointed at the bed. “I sleep there. Is that my Walther you’re pointing at me?”
“No, it’s mine. My firm has issued them to everybody since the first James Bond novel.”
“And why are you still pointing it at me?”
She lowered her hand. “Sorry,” she said, dropping the sheet, to good effect, and running her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“I remember,” he said. “I was all curled up in bed, waiting anxiously for you. When I woke up, you were gone.”
“Business,” she said.
Stone sat down on the bed, removed the pistol from her hand, and set it on the night table. “Something to do with Herbie Fisher’s big night?” he asked.
“Why do you ask?” she said warily.
“Well, as soon as I told you what happened, you were on the phone in the next room, and that’s the last thing I remember.”
“There was something I was supposed to ask you,” she said, scratching her head.
“You don’t seem quite awake yet.”
“It’s jet lag, I think.”
“Why don’t you go back to sleep. I’ll wake you at dinnertime.” He pushed her gently back onto the bed, pecked her lightly on each nipple, pulled the covers up, and tucked her in.
“Mmmmm, thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes. She seemed instantly asleep.
Stone left her there and closed the door behind him. He was about to start downstairs when the bedroom door was flung open, and a very naked Carpenter stood there.
“The photographs!” she cried, pointing at Stone.
“What?”
“The photographs that Herbie Fisher took. Where are they?”
Stone walked her back into the bedroom and sat her on the bed. “Why do you want to know?”
“Business,” she said. “Sort of.”
“Those were some of your people who turned up at the flat after Herbie took his dive,” Stone said.
“Maybe,” she said warily.
“What were they doing there?”
“Stone, I need those photographs.”
“Why?”
“They’re important to something I’m working on.”
“I don’t understand,” Stone said. “How could some bedroom divorce photographs be important to MI Five, or whatever number it is you work for?”
“I can’t talk about that,” she said.
“All right, then, I’ll trade you.”
“What do you mean, trade me? Isn’t that a baseball term?”
“I’ll trade the photographs for some information.”
“What information?”
“I want to know how Larry Fortescue died.”
“Your rabbit-brained photographer fell on him,” Carpenter replied.
“Nah, that’s not what killed him; Herbie fell on Larry’s legs. He was already dead, wasn’t he?”
“How would I know that?” she asked, looking out the window.
“Because somebody—somebody you’re very likely associated
“I thought you’d want to know.”
“What were they talking about?”
“Well, Bill, I couldn’t hear them. I just saw them in that big Bentley of hers, talking.”
“Well, I’ve already got our tax people working on something that might save her a few hundred grand. It’s the kind of thing she likes.”
“I’d tell her about it soon, Bill. Bye-bye.” Stone punched off. He thought about calling T&A and canceling his shirt order, but he thought better of it.
Stone arrived home and went upstairs to leave his new ties, before returning to his office. As he approached his bedroom, he heard a snore. He pushed open the door and peered inside. Carpenter lay on her back, a breast exposed, sawing lightly away. He tiptoed across the room toward his dressing room, left the ties and tiptoed back into the bedroom. He was greeted by a wide-awake Carpenter, sitting up in bed, clutching a sheet to her bosom with one hand while using the other to point a small, semiautomatic pistol at him.
“You caught me hanging up neckties,” he said, raising his hands in surrender.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, seeming confused.
“I live here,” Stone explained. He pointed at the bed. “I sleep there. Is that my Walther you’re pointing at me?”
“No, it’s mine. My firm has issued them to everybody since the first James Bond novel.”
“And why are you still pointing it at me?”
She lowered her hand. “Sorry,” she said, dropping the sheet, to good effect, and running her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“I remember,” he said. “I was all curled up in bed, waiting anxiously for you. When I woke up, you were gone.”
“Business,” she said.
Stone sat down on the bed, removed the pistol from her hand, and set it on the night table. “Something to do with Herbie Fisher’s big night?” he asked.
“Why do you ask?” she said warily.
“Well, as soon as I told you what happened, you were on the phone in the next room, and that’s the last thing I remember.”
“There was something I was supposed to ask you,” she said, scratching her head.
“You don’t seem quite awake yet.”
“It’s jet lag, I think.”
“Why don’t you go back to sleep. I’ll wake you at dinnertime.” He pushed her gently back onto the bed, pecked her lightly on each nipple, pulled the covers up, and tucked her in.
“Mmmmm, thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes. She seemed instantly asleep.
Stone left her there and closed the door behind him. He was about to start downstairs when the bedroom door was flung open, and a very naked Carpenter stood there.
“The photographs!” she cried, pointing at Stone.
“What?”
“The photographs that Herbie Fisher took. Where are they?”
Stone walked her back into the bedroom and sat her on the bed. “Why do you want to know?”
“Business,” she said. “Sort of.”
“Those were some of your people who turned up at the flat after Herbie took his dive,” Stone said.
“Maybe,” she said warily.
“What were they doing there?”
“Stone, I need those photographs.”
“Why?”
“They’re important to something I’m working on.”
“I don’t understand,” Stone said. “How could some bedroom divorce photographs be important to MI Five, or whatever number it is you work for?”
“I can’t talk about that,” she said.
“All right, then, I’ll trade you.”
“What do you mean, trade me? Isn’t that a baseball term?”
“I’ll trade the photographs for some information.”
“What information?”
“I want to know how Larry Fortescue died.”
“Your rabbit-brained photographer fell on him,” Carpenter replied.
“Nah, that’s not what killed him; Herbie fell on Larry’s legs. He was already dead, wasn’t he?”
“How would I know that?” she asked, looking out the window.
“Because somebody—somebody you’re very likely associated
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