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Chapter Five (#ulink_9d3762c4-3104-50b9-9573-990462be62a7)
At sea, later that evening, Captain Vacarro came to Harry Stanford’s stateroom.
‘Signor Stanford …’
‘Yes?’
The captain pointed to the electronic map on the wall. ‘I’m afraid the winds are getting worse. The libeccio is centered in the Strait of Bonifacio. I would suggest that we take shelter in a harbor until –’
Stanford cut him short. ‘This is a good ship, and you’re a good captain. I’m sure you can handle it.’
Captain Vacarro hesitated. ‘As you say, signor. I will do my best.’
‘I’m sure you will, captain.’
Harry Stanford sat in the office of his suite, planning his strategy. He would meet René in Corsica and get everything straightened out. After that, the helicopter would fly him to Naples, and from there he would charter a plane to take him to Boston. Everything is going to be fine, he decided. All I need is forty-eight hours. Just forty-eight hours.
He was awakened at 2 A.M. by the wild pitching of the yacht and a howling gale outside. Stanford had been in storms before, but this was one of the worst. Captain Vacarro had been right. Harry Stanford got out of bed, holding on to the nightstand to steady himself, and made his way to the wall map. The ship was in the Strait of Bonifacio. We should be in Ajaccio in the next few hours, he thought. Once we’re there, we’ll be safe.
The events that occurred later that night were a matter of speculation. The papers strewn around the veranda suggested that the strong wind had blown some of the others away, and that Harry Stanford had tried to retrieve them, but because of the pitching yacht he had lost his balance and fallen overboard. Dmitri Kaminsky saw him fall into the water and immediately grabbed the intercom.
‘Man overboard!’
Chapter Six (#ulink_67464a00-287f-54f1-a21d-4010470f71dd)
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.’
Chapter Seven (#ulink_4737f3d5-ee78-54f8-b82f-b3485a97350e)
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.’
‘It was about thirty years ago – thirty-one, to be exact – when I joined this law firm. Old Man Renquist handled Stanford then. You know how people use the phrase “larger than life”? Well, Harry Stanford was really larger than life. If he didn’t exist, you couldn’t have invented him. He was a colossus. He had an amazing energy and ambition. He was a great athlete. He boxed in college and was a ten-goal polo player. But even when he was young, Harry Stanford was impossible. He was the only man I’ve ever known who was totally without compassion. He was sadistic and vindictive, and he had the instincts of a vulture. He loved forcing his competitors into bankruptcy. It was rumored that there was more than one suicide because of him.’
‘He sounds like a monster.’
‘On the one hand, yes. On the other hand, he founded an orphanage in New Guinea and a hospital in Bombay, and he gave millions to charity – anonymously. No one ever knew what to expect next.’
‘How did he become so wealthy?’
‘How’s your Greek mythology?’
‘I’m a little rusty.’
‘You know the story of Oedipus?’
Steve nodded. ‘He killed his father to get his mother.’
‘Right. Well, that was Harry Stanford. Only he killed his father to get his mother’s vote.’
Steve was staring at him. ‘What?’
Fitzgerald leaned forward. ‘In the early thirties, Harry’s father had a grocery store here in Boston. It did so well that he opened a second one, and pretty soon he had a small chain of grocery stores. When Harry finished college, his father brought him into the business as a partner and put him on the board of directors. As I said, Harry was ambitious. He had big dreams. Instead of buying meat from packing houses, he wanted the chain to raise its own livestock. He wanted it to buy land and grow its own vegetables, can its own goods. His father disagreed, and they fought a lot.
‘Then Harry had his biggest brainstorm of all. He told his father he wanted the company to build a chain of supermarkets that sold everything from automobiles to furniture to life insurance, at a discount, and charge customers a membership fee. Harry’s father thought he was crazy, and he turned down the idea. But Harry didn’t intend to let anything get in his way. He decided he had to get rid of the old man. He persuaded his father to take a long vacation, and while he was away, Harry went to work charming the board of directors.
‘He was a brilliant salesman and he sold them on his concept. He persuaded his aunt and uncle, who were on the board, to vote for him. He romanced the other members of the board. He took them to lunch, went fox hunting with one, golfing with another. He slept with a board member’s wife who had influence over her husband. But it was his mother who held the largest block of stock and had the final vote. Harry persuaded her to give it to him and to vote against her husband.’
That’s unbelievable!’
‘When Harry’s father returned, he learned that his family had voted him out of the company.’
‘My God!’
There’s more. Harry wasn’t satisfied with that. When his father tried to get into his own office, he found that he was barred from the building. And, remember, Harry was only in his thirties then. His nickname around the company was the Iceman. But credit where credit is due, Steve. He single-handedly built Stanford Enterprises into one of the biggest privately held conglomerates in the world. He expanded the company to include timber, chemicals, communications, electronics, and a staggering amount of real estate. And he wound up with all the stock.’
‘He must have been an incredible man,’ Steve said.
‘He was. To men – and to women.’
‘Was he married?’
Simon Fitzgerald sat there for a long time, remembering. When he finally spoke he said, ‘Harry Stanford was married to one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Emily Temple. They had three children, two boys and a girl. Emily came from a very social family in Hobe Sound, Florida. She adored Harry, and she tried to close her eyes to his cheating, but one day it got to be too much for her. She had a governess for the children, a woman named Rosemary Nelson. Young and attractive. What made her even more attractive to Harry Stanford was the fact that she refused to go to bed with him. It drove him crazy. He wasn’t used to rejection. Well, when Harry Stanford turned on the charm, he was irresistible. He finally got Rosemary into bed. He got her pregnant, and she went to see a doctor. Unfortunately, the doctor’s son-in-law was a columnist, and he got hold of the story and printed it. There was one hell of a scandal. You know Boston. It was all over the newspapers. I still have clippings about it somewhere.’
‘Did she get an abortion?’
Fitzgerald shook his head. ‘No. Harry wanted her to have one, but she refused. They had a terrible scene. He told her he loved her and wanted to marry her. Of course, he had told that to dozens of women. But Emily overheard their conversation, and in the middle of that same night she committed suicide.’
‘That’s awful. What happened to the governess?’
‘Rosemary Nelson disappeared. We know that she had a daughter she named Julia, at St Joseph’s Hospital in Milwaukee. She sent a note to Stanford, but I don’t believe he even bothered to reply. By then, he was involved with someone new. He wasn’t interested in Rosemary anymore.’
‘Charming …’
‘The real tragedy is what happened later. The children rightfully blamed their father for their mother’s suicide. They were ten, twelve, and fourteen at the time. Old enough to feel the pain, but too young to fight their father. They hated him. And Harry’s greatest fear was that one day they would do to him what he had done to his own father. So he did everything he could to make sure that never happened. He sent them away to different boarding schools and summer camps, and arranged for his children to see as little of one another as possible. They received no money from him. They lived on the small trust that their mother had left them. All their lives he used the carrot-and-stick approach with them. He held out his fortune as the carrot, then withdrew it if they displeased him.’
‘What’s happened to the children?’
‘Tyler is a judge in the circuit court in Chicago. Woodrow doesn’t do anything. He’s a playboy. He lives in Hobe Sound and gambles on golf and polo. A few years ago, he picked up a waitress in a diner, got her pregnant, and to everyone’s surprise, married her. Kendall is a successful fashion designer, married to a Frenchman. They live in New York.’ He stood up. ‘Steve, have you ever been to Corsica?’
‘No.’
‘I’d like you to fly there. They’re holding Harry Stanford’s body, and the police refuse to release it. I want you to straighten out the matter.’
‘All right.’
‘If there’s a chance of your leaving today …’
