‘Man overboard!’
Capitaine François Durer, chef de police in Corsica, was in a foul mood. The island was overcrowded with stupid summer tourists who were incapable of holding onto their passports, their wallets, or their children. Complaints had come streaming in all day long to the tiny police headquarters at 2 Cours Napoléon off Rue Sergent Casalonga.
‘A man snatched my purse.’
‘My ship sailed without me. My wife is on board.’
‘I bought this watch from someone on the street. It has nothing inside.’
‘The drugstores here don’t carry the pills I need.’
The problems were endless, endless, endless.
And now it seemed that the capitaine had a body on his hands.
‘I have no time for this now,’ he snapped.
‘But they’re waiting outside,’ his assistant informed him. ‘What shall I tell them?’
Capitaine Durer was impatient to get to his mistress. His impulse was to say, ‘Take the body to some other island,’ but he was, after all, the chief police official on the island.
‘Very well.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll see them briefly.’
A moment later, Captain Vacarro and Dmitri Kaminsky were ushered into the office.
‘Sit down.’ Capitaine Durer said, ungraciously.
The two men took chairs.
‘Tell me, please, exactly what occurred.’
Captain Vacarro said, ‘I’m not sure exactly. I didn’t see it happen.’ He turned to Dmitri Kaminsky. ‘He was an eyewitness. Perhaps he should explain it.’
Dmitri took a deep breath. ‘It was terrible. I work … worked for the man.’
‘Doing what, monsieur?’
‘Bodyguard, masseur, chauffeur. Our yacht was caught in the storm last night. It was very bad. He asked me to give him a massage to relax him. Afterward, he asked me to get him a sleeping pill. They were in the bathroom. When I returned, he was standing out on the veranda, at the railing. The storm was tossing the yacht around. He had been holding some papers in his hand. One of them flew away, and he reached out to grab for it, lost his balance, and fell over the side. I raced to save him, but there was nothing I could do. I called for help. Captain Vacarro immediately stopped the yacht, and through the captain’s heroic efforts, we found him. But it was too late. He had drowned.’
‘I am very sorry.’ He could not have cared less.
Captain Vacarro spoke up. ‘The wind and the sea carried the body back to the yacht. It was pure luck, but now we would like permission to take the body home.’
‘That should be no problem.’ He would still have time to have a drink with his mistress before he went home to his wife. ‘I will have a death certificate and an exit visa for the body prepared at once.’ He picked up a yellow pad. ‘The name of the victim?’
‘Harry Stanford.’
Capitaine Durer was suddenly very still. He looked up. ‘Harry Stanford?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Harry Stanford?’
‘Yes.’
And Capitaine Durer’s future suddenly became much brighter. The gods had dropped manna in his lap. Harry Stanford was an international legend! The news of his death would reverberate around the world, and he, Capitaine Durer, was in control of the situation. The immediate question was how to manipulate it for the maximum benefit to himself. Durer sat there, staring into space, thinking.
‘How soon can you release the body?’ Captain Vacarro asked.
He looked up. ‘Ah. That’s a good question.’ How much time will it take for the press to arrive? Should I ask the yacht’s captain to participate in the interview? No. Why share the glory with him? I will handle this alone. ‘There is much to be done,’ he said regretfully. Papers to prepare …’ He sighed. ‘It could well be a week or more.’
Captain Vacarro was appalled. ‘A week or more? But you said –’
‘There are certain formalities to be observed,’ Durer said sternly. ‘These matters can’t be rushed.’ He picked up the yellow pad again. ‘Who is the next of kin?’
Captain Vacarro looked at Dmitri for help.
‘I guess you’d better check with his attorneys in Boston.’
‘The names?’
‘Renquist, Renquist & Fitzgerald.’
Although the legend on the door read RENQUIST, RENQUIST & FITZGERALD, the two Renquists had been long deceased. Simon Fitzgerald was still very much alive, and at seventy-six, he was the dynamo that powered the office, with sixty attorneys working under him. He was perilously thin, with a full mane of white hair, and he walked with the sternly straight carriage of a military man. At the moment, he was pacing back and forth, his mind in a turmoil.
He stopped in front of his secretary. ‘When Mr Stanford telephoned, didn’t he give any indication of what he wanted to see me about so urgently?’
‘No, sir. He just said he wanted you to be at his house at nine o’clock Monday morning, and to bring his will and a notary.’
‘Thank you. Ask Mr Sloane to come in.’
Steve Sloane was one of the bright, innovative attorneys in the office. A Harvard Law School graduate in his forties, he was tall and lean, with blond hair, amusedly inquisitive blue eyes, and an easy, graceful presence. He was the troubleshooter for the firm, and Simon Fitzgerald’s choice to take over one day. If I had had a son, Fitzgerald thought, I would have wanted him to be like Steve. He watched as Steve Sloane walked in.
‘You’re supposed to be salmon fishing up in Newfoundland,’ Steve said.
‘Something came up. Sit down, Steve. We have a problem.’
Steve sighed. ‘What else is new?’
‘It’s about Harry Stanford.’
Harry Stanford was one of their most prestigious clients. Half a dozen other law firms handled various Stanford Enterprises subsidiaries, but Renquist, Renquist & Fitzgerald handled his personal affairs. Except for Fitzgerald, none of the members of the firm had ever met him, but he was a legend around the office.
‘What’s Stanford done now?’ Steve asked.
‘He’s gotten himself dead.’
Steve looked at him, shocked. ‘He’s what?’
‘I just received a fax from the French police in Corsica. Apparently Stanford fell off his yacht and drowned yesterday.’
‘My God!’
‘I know you’ve never met him, but I’ve represented him for more than thirty years. He was a difficult man.’ Fitzgerald leaned back in his chair, thinking about the past. ‘There were really two Harry Stanfords – the public one who could coax the birds off the money tree, and the sonofabitch who took pleasure in destroying people. He was a charmer, but he could turn on you like a cobra. He had a split personality – he was both the snake charmer and the snake.’
‘Sounds fascinating.’