Class Act

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Stone Barrington hipped his way out of a cab (the Bentley was being serviced) and found a discreet doorway with a polished brass number. He rang a bell, which was answered by a silken female voice. “How may I help you?” She made it sound more like a bordello than what he was looking for.

“Stone Barrington to see John Coulter.”

“Please come in.” A buzzer gently sounded.

Stone entered the doorway, which led him to another doorway, that led to a comfortably furnished sitting room — Chesterfield sofa, wing chairs, etcetera — which made the place seem more like an exclusive gentleman’s club. A young woman in a Chanel suit sat behind a large mahogany desk. “Good morning,” she said, identifying herself by her voice as the person Stone had heard on the intercom. “Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“Will you follow me?”

That turned out to be an unexpected pleasure, as the suit was snug and its contents shapely. She led him to a door bearing a brass-plate placard: lark was imprinted upon it. She knocked gently, but firmly. There was a muffled response, then she opened the door and stood back for Stone to enter first.

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