Stone waited until after breakfast before phoning Lance Cabot and scrambling.
“Give me news,” Lance said. “Please.”
“All right, last night Peter Grant entertained a dozen Russian gentlemen, if I can apply that term to them, at Tour d’Argent, no less. I think the name translates as ‘a walk around money,’ or something like that.”
“That sort of extravagance does not match up with reports of his parsimony,” Lance said.
“I’m not finished. Grant ordered six—count ’em, six—bottles of the Romanée-Conti ’78. I asked for the wine list later, and I reckon his bill was something like one hundred twenty thousand euros, just for the juice of the grape.”
Lance was, apparently, stunned into silence.
“Not only that,” Stone continued, “but also tonight he’s hosting a dinner party for twelve at his home, to which we are invited.”
Lance found his voice. “It would appear,” he said, “that our Mr. Grant has experienced a windfall.”
“Almost certainly,” Stone replied. “But a windfall from what?”
“How do you know the men were Russians?” Lance asked.
“Dino caught a snatch of their conversation on the way to their table, and he said it sounded the way everybody in Brighton Beach speaks.”
“How were they dressed?”
“Very good suits, but their neckties all looked as if they had been purchased at the same hot new Moscow men’s shop.”
“Twelve guests at Tour d’Argent at five hundred euros or so a head, plus wine, would be a lot to spend on Poles or Czechs,” Lance observed. “I think Dino was right.”
“Dino has a good ear.”
“I need to ponder this for a while,” Lance said. “Anything else?”
“Did you have any luck on the name-change search?”
“We searched Boston, Chicago, and Los Angeles,” Lance said, “but came up with nothing.”
“Then the next search should be of deceased men who would now be of Grant’s age.”
“Ah, yes, birth certificates. If we can find a Peter Grant matched up with a tombstone applying for a passport, that would be very helpful.”
“I leave you with that, then,” Stone said.
“Stone, I want a guest list for that dinner party tonight.”
“It will be forthcoming tomorrow,” Stone replied, and they both hung up.
Dino looked at him from across the breakfast table. “One hundred twenty thousand euros for wine?”
“In round numbers; I didn’t want to whip out my iPhone calculator, which I normally use for simple arithmetic.”
Back at Langley, Lance buzzed his secretary.
“Yes, sir?”
“Kindly google the wine list at Tour d’Argent, in Paris, and get a price per bottle for Romanée-Conti ’78.”
“Yes, sir.” Shortly, she buzzed back.
“Do you have it?”
“Something around twenty-three thousand dollars,” she replied. “I don’t know what the euro is today. How many bottles would you like?”
“That will be all for the moment,” Lance replied, then hung up. He wished desperately to know how Peter Grant could afford that, or if he couldn’t, why he had ordered it. He called an assistant and ordered a Dun & Bradstreet report on Grant and credit checks from all three services.
An hour later, the assistant phoned back. “We drew a blank on everything,” he said. “I checked the European services, too. The man doesn’t seem to have so much as a credit card.”
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.