скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Right. I’ll work it out.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
On the Air France commuter flight from Paris to Corsica, Steve Sloane read a travel book about Corsica. He learned that the island was largely mountainous, that its principal port city was Ajaccio, and that it was the birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte. The book was filled with interesting statistics, but Steve was totally unprepared for the beauty of the island. As the plane approached Corsica, far below he saw a high solid wall of white rock that resembled the White Cliffs of Dover. It was breathtaking.
The plane landed at Ajaccio airport and a taxi took Steve down the Cours Napoléon, the main street that stretched from Place General de Gaulle northward to the train station. He had made arrangements for a plane to stand by to fly Harry Stanford’s body back to Paris, where the coffin would be transferred to a plane to Boston. All he needed was to get a release for the body.
Steve had the taxi drop him off at the Préfecture building on Cours Napoléon. He went up one flight of stairs and walked into the reception office. A uniformed sergeant was seated at the desk.
‘Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider?’
‘Who is in charge here?’
‘Capitaine Durer.’
‘I would like to see him, please.’
‘And what is it of concern in relationship to?’ The sergeant was proud of his English.
Steve took out his business card. ‘I’m the attorney for Harry Stanford. I’ve come to take his body back to the States.’
The sergeant frowned. ‘Remain, please.’ He disappeared into Capitaine Durer’s office, carefully closing the door behind him. The office was crowded, filled with reporters from television and news services from all over the globe. Everyone seemed to be speaking at the same time.
‘Capitaine, why was he out in a storm when …?’
‘How could he fall off a yacht in the middle of …?’
‘Was there any sign of foul play?’
‘Have you done an autopsy?’
‘Who else was on the ship with …?’
‘Please, gentlemen.’ Capitaine Durer held up his hand. ‘Please, gentlemen. Please.’ He looked around the room at all the reporters hanging on his every word, and he was ecstatic. He had dreamed of moments like this. If I handle this properly, it will mean a big promotion and –
The sergeant interrupted his thoughts. ‘Capitaine.’ He whispered in Durer’s ear and handed him Steve Sloane’s card.
Capitaine Durer studied it and frowned. ‘I can’t see him now,’ he snapped. Tell him to come back tomorrow at ten o’clock.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Capitaine Durer watched thoughtfully as the sergeant left the room. He had no intention of letting anyone take away his moment of glory. He turned back to the reporters and smiled. ‘Now, what were you asking …?’
In the outer office, the sergeant was saying to Sloane, ‘I am sorry, but Capitaine Durer is very busy immediately. He would like you to expose yourself here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.’
Steve Sloane looked at him in dismay. ‘Tomorrow morning? That’s ridiculous – I don’t want to wait that long.’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘That is of your chosen, monsieur.’
Steve frowned. ‘Very well. I don’t have a hotel reservation. Can you recommend a hotel?’
‘Mais oui. I am pleased to have recommended the Colomba, eight Avenue de Paris.’
Steve hesitated. ‘Isn’t there some way …?’
‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
Steve turned and walked out of the office.
In Durer’s office, the capitaine was happily coping with the barrage of reporters’ questions.
A television reporter asked, ‘How can you be sure it was an accident?’
Durer looked into the lens of the camera. ‘Fortunately, there was an eyewitness to this terrible event. Monsieur Stanford’s cabin has an open veranda. Apparently some important papers flew out of his hand, onto the terrace, and he ran to retrieve them. When he reached out, he lost his balance and fell into the water. His bodyguard saw it happen and immediately called for help. The ship stopped, and they were able to retrieve the body.’
‘What did the autopsy show?’
‘Corsica is a small island, gentlemen. We are not properly equipped to do a full autopsy. However, our medical examiner reports that the cause of death was drowning. We found seawater in his lungs. There were no bruises or any signs of foul play.’
‘Where is the body now?’
‘We are keeping it in the cold storage room until authorization is given for it to be taken away.’
One of the photographers said, ‘Do you mind if we take a picture of you, capitaine?’
Capitaine Durer hesitated for a dramatic moment. ‘No. Please, gentlemen, do what you must.’
And the cameras began to flash.
He had lunch at La Fontana on Rue Nôtre Dame, and with the rest of the day to kill, started exploring the town.
Ajaccio was a colorful Mediterranean town that still basked in the glory of having been Napoleon Bonaparte’s birthplace. I think Harry Stanford would have identified with this place, Steve thought.
It was the tourist season in Corsica, and the streets were crowded with visitors chatting away in French, Italian, German and Japanese.
That evening Steve had an Italian dinner at Le Boccaccio and returned to his hotel.
‘Any messages?’ he asked the room clerk, optimistically.
‘No, monsieur.’
He lay in bed haunted by what Simon Fitzgerald had told him about Harry Stanford.
Did she get an abortion?
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.
Steve wondered how she had done it.
He finally fell asleep.
At ten o’clock the following morning, Steve Sloane appeared again at the Préfecture. The same sergeant was seated behind the desk.
‘Good morning,’ Steve said.
‘Bonjour, monsieur. Can I help to assist you?’
Steve handed the sergeant another business card. ‘I’m here to see Capitaine Durer.’
‘A moment.’ The sergeant got up, walked into the inner office, and closed the door behind him.
Capitaine Durer, dressed in an impressive new uniform, was being interviewed by an RAI television crew from Italy. He was looking into the camera. ‘When I took charge of the case, the first thing I did was to make certain that there was no foul play involved in Monsieur Stanford’s death.’
The interviewer asked, ‘And you were satisfied that there was none, capitaine?’
‘Completely satisfied. There is no question but that it was an unfortunate accident.’
The director said, ‘Bene. Let us cut to another angle and a closer shot.’
The sergeant took the opportunity to hand Capitaine Durer Sloane’s business card. ‘He is outside.’
‘What is the matter with you?’ Durer growled. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy? Have him come back tomorrow.’ He had just received word that there were a dozen more reporters on their way, some from as far away as Russia and South Africa. ‘Demain.’
‘Oui.’
‘Are you ready, capitaine?’ the director asked.
Capitaine Durer smiled. ‘I’m ready.’
The sergeant returned to the outer office. ‘I am sorry, monsieur. Capitaine Durer is out of business today.’
‘So am I,’ Steve snapped. ‘Tell him that all he has to do is sign a paper authorizing the release of Mr Stanford’s body, and I’ll be on my way. That’s not too much to ask, is it?’
‘I am afraid, yes. The capitaine has many responsibilities, and – ’
‘Can’t someone else give me the authorization?’
‘Oh, no, monsieur. Only the capitaine can do the authority.’
Steve Sloane stood there, seething. ‘When can I see him?’
‘I suggest if you try again tomorrow morning.’
The phrase ‘try again’ grated on Steve’s ears.
‘I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘By the way, I understand there was an eyewitness to the accident – Mr Stanford’s bodyguard, a Dmitri Kaminsky.’
‘Yes.’
‘I would like to talk to him. Could you tell me where he’s staying?’
‘Australia.’
‘Is that a hotel?’
‘No, monsieur.’ There was pity in his voice. ‘It is a country.’
Steve’s voice rose an octave. ‘Are you telling me that the only witness to Stanford’s death was allowed by the police to leave here before anyone could interrogate him?’
‘Capitaine Durer interrogated him.’
Steve took a deep breath. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problems, monsieur.’
When Steve returned to his hotel, he reported back to Simon Fitzgerald.
‘It looks like I’m going to have to stay another night here.’
‘What’s going on, Steve?’
‘The man in charge seems to be very busy. It’s the tourist season. He’s probably looking for some lost purses. I should be out of here by tomorrow.’
‘Stay in touch.’
In spite of his irritation, Steve found the island of Corsica enchanting. It had almost a thousand miles of coastline, with soaring, granite mountains that stayed snow-topped until July. The island had been ruled by the Italians until France took it over, and the combination of the two cultures was fascinating.
During his dinner at the Crêperie U San Carlu, he remembered how Simon Fitzgerald had described Harry Stanford. He was the only man I’ve ever known who was totally without compassion … a sadistic and vindictive man.
Well, Harry Stanford is causing a hell of a lot of trouble even in death, Steve thought.
On the way to his hotel, Steve stopped at a newsstand to pick up a copy of the International Herald Tribune. The headline read: WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO THE STANFORD EMPIRE? He paid for the newspaper, and as he turned to leave, his eye was caught by the headlines in some of the foreign papers on the stand. He picked them up and looked through them, stunned. Every single newspaper had front-page stories about the death of Harry Stanford, and in each one of them, Capitaine Durer was prominently featured, his photograph beaming from the pages. So that’s what’s keeping him so busy! We’ll see about that.
At nine forty-five the following morning, Steve returned to Capitaine Durer’s reception office. The sergeant was not at his desk, and the door to the inner office was ajar. Steve pushed it open and stepped inside. The capitaine was changing into a new uniform, preparing for his morning press interviews. He looked up as Steve entered.
‘Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici? C’est un bureau privé! Allez-vous-en!’
‘I’m with the New York Times,’ Steve Sloane said.
Instantly, Durer brightened. ‘Ah, come in, come in. You said your name is …?’
‘Jones. John Jones.’
‘Can I offer you something, perhaps? Coffee? Cognac?’
‘Nothing, thanks,’ Steve said.
‘Please, please, sit down.’ Durer’s voice became somber. ‘You are here, of course, about the terrible tragedy that has happened on our little island. Poor Monsieur Stanford.’
