The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) by Gregg Loomis Read Free Book Online

‘Lang,’ although I’m not one of them.”
                  He paused, disappointed at not getting a laugh--or even a smile--at his little joke before describing Reilly’s real and perceived misdeeds while in the UK.
                  Her unsculpted eyebrows went up. “You say he killed a man at the British Museum with an ancient Egyptian spear?”
                  “Justifiably, but yes.”
                  “Well, he sounds interesting, I’ll say that. When do I get to meet him?”
                  Patel frowned. “Inspector Lundy, The Yard is hardly a dating service.”
                  She shook her head, a smile toying with her mouth. “Too bad for me, then.”
                  There was a moment of silence while Patel tried to decide if he was being put on. Then, “He arrived Heathrow this afternoon. Our last shot of him is about . . . ” He checked his watch. “Two hours ago, going into Christie’s in St. James. I want you to take a couple of men, er, officers, mufti, and keep an eye on him preferably without him noticing. First sign of trouble, in the nick he goes. We’ll think of charges later. It’s your job to make certain he doesn’t kill anyone on this trip, understood?
                  She stood. “Perfectly.”
                  He made a shooing motion with both hands. “Then get along with you before we lose him.”
                  As he watched the door close behind her, he had the thought he might as well try to trap smoke as keep up with the elusive American. Well, as his father’s favorite old Hindustani proverb suggests, best to dig your well before you are thirsty.

9.
    Club Gascon
    57 West Smithfield
    London
    23:20 Local Time
     
                  As he waited for the check, Lang was still enjoying the cod served with grapes and maple syrup. It had sounded, as his British hosts might say, a bit dodgy. The assurances of the heavily accented French waiter had won him over to Lang’s gastronomical delight, a fact tempting him to make a generous addition to the service charge when the bill finally arrived. Gurt had enjoyed her rabbit and octopus with fennel and chorizo as well.
                  The only hint of dissatisfaction was the exorbitant price of the accompanying wine. Perhaps Lang would rethink that tip.
                  The restaurant was small, every patron visible. Gurt had noticed them first: a table of one woman and two men.
                  “No,” she had cautioned Lang, “Don’t turn around. “She is the only woman I see not wearing heels, certainly the only one wearing a pullover , a sweater.”
                  The check arrived. Gurt picked it up, pretending to study it while looking at the group behind Lang. “And the men’s shoes . . . Gummisohle.”
                  Lang reached across the table to take the folder containing the tab and put his personal black American Express card inside. “There are a lot of people who wear rubber-soled shoes. And most of them are cops. Inspector Fitzwilliam has been very generous in providing me with escorts from Scotland Yard. Last time I was here in London I was also having dinner, at Bebendum, with Jacob and Rachel during that business about the Harry Oakes murder. I’m wondering if Fitzwilliam has access to every reservation list in town.”
                  Gurt shook her head. “There would be no need with all the surveillance cameras. A mouse cannot cross the street here without being filmed.”
                  Lang decided against the extra tip, signed the check and stood, walking around to ostensibly help Gurt with her chair. His purpose was to get a good look at the trio.
                  The inexpensive, off-the-rack clothes, more appropriate for a neighborhood pub than a Michelin-starred restaurant,