Lance called Stone and scrambled.
“Yes, Lance?”
“Did you happen to see how Mr. Grant paid his bill at Tour d’Argent last night?”
“No, we left first.”
“Do you know if he has a personal chef or uses a caterer?”
“He’s using a caterer tonight. An acquaintance of mine arranged it.”
“Please find out by what means he pays the bill.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” They both hung up.
* * *
—
As they were driving to Peter Grant’s apartment, in the fashionable 8th arrondissement, Stone turned to Tessa, who was in the front passenger seat. “Would you, please, when you have the opportunity, write down the names of the guests present tonight?”
“I may not know everyone. I’ll see if I can get a look at the place cards.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
—
The building was old, elegant, and in beautiful condition, as if it had recently undergone a renovation. They rode to the top floor and were admitted to a foyer, then to a large salon, which contained more gilded plaster and furniture than Stone was accustomed to, even in a French apartment. Marcel du Bois, in the company of a beautiful actress of the French cinema, was already there. Stone shook Peter’s hand.
“Good evening, Stone,” the man said.
“Good evening, Peter. I wonder if you could direct me to the powder room?”
“Of course,” Grant replied, nodding toward a corridor leading from an interior corner of the room. “Down that hallway, second door on your left.”
Stone ambled to the corridor, then hurried. He passed what must have been a coat closet on his left, then an open bedroom door on his right, then came to the powder room. The door was ajar and the light on. He walked quickly back to the bedroom, which was lit by a single lamp, and entered, looking around for a dresser or a walk-in closet. He followed a light across the room and entered a large dressing room, hung with suits and jackets arranged by color. Then he found what he was looking for: a dresser built into the room, its top scattered with the contents of Peter Grant’s pockets. Stone had been correct in assuming that the host would not fill the pockets of his dinner suit with his usual belongings, since he was not going out.
There was a gold Cartier money clip, containing, no doubt, several hundred euros, as well as a black alligator wallet, containing thousands more in €1,000 and €2,000 denominations. He looked quickly through the wallet and found only a French driver’s license bearing a Cap d’Antibes address—no credit cards. There was another black alligator wallet, which when opened, contained a checkbook for the Berg Bank of Zurich, an elegant private bank where Stone had once attended a business meeting. Several checks had been torn out, but the wallet contained no check register, so he could not see what payments had been made. He quickly took a jotter pad from his pocket and noted the row of digits across the bottom of the checks, then hurried from the dressing room and bedroom to the powder room. He flushed the toilet, then returned to the salon, where he rejoined Tessa, Dino, and Viv.
20
Stone gave Tessa his jotter and pen. “Please do your thing with the place cards.”
She managed to skirt the arriving guests and move to the dining room. She returned after a few minutes and gave the pad and pen back to Stone.
He took a moment to glance through the list. There was only one Russian name: Yevgeny Chekhov, no Mrs. Chekhov. He pocketed the jotter and pen and made nice with the other guests, none of whom was Mr. Chekhov.
He noticed that Peter Grant received a brief cell phone call, then he nodded to a butler, and dinner was announced. Just as the guests were finding their places, a squarely built, middle-aged man, encased in an expensive dinner suit, arrived and was seated next to Peter. Peter rapped on his water glass with a knife. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “May I introduce my good friend Yevgeny Chekhov?” Everyone nodded politely. “It is too rare that we see Yevgeny in Paris, and I am very happy that he could join us.” Peter sat down, and the dinner was served.
* * *
—
The wines were a Le Montrachet 1972 with the first course and a Château Latour 1959 with the entrée, then with dessert a Château d’Yquem 1960, all on a par with Grant’s largesse the evening before. The port served with the cheese course was a Quinta do Noval Nacional 1945, which Stone knew was almost impossible to obtain. He enjoyed the wines, lingering over each, and he especially loved the port.
Dino was two seats away from Chekhov, and Stone could tell his ear was cocked in that direction. Fortunately, the Russian’s conversation was conducted in English. Stone noted no attempt by Peter Grant to try Russian.
* * *
—
After they were invited back to the salon for cognac and liqueurs, Stone managed to edge over to the Russian and engage him in conversation. “Where have you come to us from, Mr. Chekhov?” he asked.
Chekhov looked at him as if he were mad or an imbecile. “From St. Petersburg,” he replied. “I was there this morning.” He spoke English with a faintly British accent.
“Ah, a lovely city,” Stone said, though he had never been there.
“On behalf of the Russian people, I thank you for your compliment,” Chekhov replied.
“In what capacity do you speak for the Russian people?” Stone asked, smiling.
“Huh?” Chekhov blurted out.
“I thought, perhaps, you were the Russian ambassador to France.”
“Why would you think that?” the man asked.
“Because you spoke on behalf of the Russian people,” Stone replied, keeping his smile fixed.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Chekhov said, then turned on his heel and walked to where Peter Grant stood, apparently reporting his conversation with the American fool.
Dino came over. “Enjoy your chat with Chekhov?”
“Yes,” Stone replied, “but he apparently did not.” He related what had been said.
“It was something like that when I tried to engage him over dinner. He seemed to want to speak only to Grant, even ignored the beautiful woman between us.”
“Could you hear what he and Grant were talking about?”
“Agricultural products,” Dino said, “at least for a moment.”
“Which ones?”
“I had the impression that that part of the conversation was entirely for my benefit,” Dino said, “and it was very thin.”