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 two 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
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 Casa-longa.
“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 ship, 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?”