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too.”
    â€œYour luggage will be here soon.”
    Stone shook his hand and got out of the car. He walked over the bridge to the front entrance of the hotel and into the lobby. “My name is Barrington,” he said to the young woman at the desk. “I believe I have a reservation.”
    â€œOh, yes, Mr. Barrington,” she replied. “We’ve been expecting you.” She picked up a phone and dialed a number. “Mr. Barrington is here.”
    A moment later a young man arrived at the desk. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington, and welcome back. My name is Robert Goodwood; I’m the duty manager. Did you have any luggage?”
    â€œIt’s being delivered from the airport,” Stone said.
    â€œThen I’ll show you to your suite.”
    The young man led the way outdoors and briskly up a walkway, asking about Stone’s flight and making chitchat. He turned down another walkway and arrived at a doorway hidden behind dense plantings, unlocked it and showed Stone in.
    Stone was impressed with the size and beauty of the suite, but concerned about the cost.
    As if anticipating him, Goodwood said, “Mr. Bianchi has insisted that your stay here is for his account.”
    â€œThank you,” Stone said.
    â€œI’ll send your luggage along as soon as it arrives. Can I do anything else for you?”
    â€œPlease send me the New York and L.A. papers.”
    â€œOf course.” Goodwood gave Stone the key and left.
    Stone left the suite’s door open for the bellman, shucked off his coat, loosened his tie, sat down on a sofa, and picked up the phone.
    â€œYes, Mr. Barrington?” the operator said.
    â€œWould you find the number of the Judson Clinic, which is in Beverly Hills, and ring it?” he asked.
    â€œOf course; I’ll ring it now.”
    Apparently the hotel knew of the hospital.
    â€œThe Judson Clinic,” a woman’s voice breathed into the phone.
    â€œMy name is Stone Barrington,” he said. “I’m a friend of Mrs. Arrington Calder. Can you connect me with her room, please?”
    â€œI’m afraid we have no guest by that name or anything like it,” the woman said.
    â€œIn that case, please take my name—Stone Barrington—and tell Mrs. Calder that I’m at the Bel-Air Hotel, when she feels like calling.”
    â€œGood night,” the woman said, and hung up.
    The bellman arrived with the luggage and the papers. “Shall I unpack anything, Mr. Barrington?” he asked.
    â€œYou can hang up the suits in the large case,” Stone said. The man did as he was asked, Stone tipped him, and he left.
    Stone picked up the papers. Vance had made the lower-right-hand corner of The New York Times front page and the upper-right-hand corner of the Los Angeles Times . The obituary in the L.A. paper took up a whole page. There was nothing in the news report he didn’t already know.
    Stone ordered an omelet from room service and ate it slowly, trying to stay awake, hoping Arrington would call. At eleven o’clock, he gave up and went to bed.
    Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

Seven
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    T HE TELEPHONE WOKE STONE. HE CHECKED THE bedside clock: just after nine A.M. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
    â€œIs this Stone Barrington?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThis is Dr. James Judson, of the Judson Clinic.”
    â€œGood morning. How is Arrington?”
    â€œShe’s been asking for you. I’m sorry the woman who answered the telephone last night didn’t know that.”
    â€œWhen can I see her?”
    â€œShe’s still sleeping at the moment, but why don’t you come over here around noon? If she isn’t awake by then, I’ll wake her, and the two of you can talk.”
    â€œWhat is her condition?”
    â€œSurprisingly good, but there are complications; we can talk about that when you arrive.” He