Morning, Noon and Night. Сидни Шелдон

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.’

      ‘When do you plan to release the body?’ Steve asked. Capitaine Durer sighed. ‘Ah, I am afraid not for many, many days. There are a great number of forms to fill out in the case of a man as important as Monsieur Stanford. There are protocols to be followed, you understand.’

      ‘I think I do,’ Steve said.

      ‘Perhaps ten days. Perhaps, two weeks.’ By then the interest of the press will have cooled down.

      ‘Here’s my card,’ Steve said. He handed Capitaine Durer a card.

      The capitaine glanced at it, then took a closer look. ‘You are an attorney. You are not a reporter?’

      ‘No. I’m Harry Stanford’s attorney.’ Steve Sloane rose. ‘I want your authorization to release his body.’

      ‘Ah, I wish I could give it to you,’ Capitaine Durer said, regretfully. ‘Unfortunately, my hands are tied. I do not see how–’

      ‘Tomorrow.’

      ‘That is impossible! There is no way …’

      ‘I suggest that you get in touch with your superiors in Paris. Stanford Enterprises has several very large factories in France. It would be a shame if our board of directors decided to close all of them down and build in other countries.’

      Capitaine Durer was staring at him. ‘I … I have no control over such matters, monsieur.’

      ‘But I do,’ Steve assured him. ‘You will see that Mr Stanford’s body is released to me tomorrow, or you’re going to find yourself in more trouble than you can possibly imagine.’ Steve turned to leave.

      ‘Wait! Monsieur! Perhaps in a few days, I can –’

      ‘Tomorrow.’ And Steve was gone.

      Three hours later, Steve Sloane received a telephone call at his hotel.

      ‘Monsieur Sloane? Ah, I have wonderful news for you! I have managed to arrange for Mr Stanford’s body to be released to you immediately. I hope you appreciate the trouble …’

      ‘Thank you. A private plane will leave here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning to take us back. I assume all the proper papers will be in order by then.’

      ‘Yes, of course. Do not worry. I will see to –’

      ‘Good.’ Steve replaced the receiver.

      Capitaine Durer sat there for a long time. Merde! What bad luck! I could have been a celebrity for at least another week.

      When the plane carrying Harry Stanford’s body landed at Logan International Airport in Boston, there was a hearse waiting to meet it. Funeral services were to be held three days later.

      Steve Sloane reported back to Simon Fitzgerald.

      ‘So the old man is finally home,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘It’s going to be quite a reunion.’

      ‘A reunion?’

      ‘Yes. It should be interesting,’ he said. ‘Harry Stanford’s children are coming here to celebrate their father’s death. Tyler, Woody and Kendall.’

Chapter Eight

      Judge Tyler Stanford had first seen the story on Chicago’s station WBBM. He had stared at the television set, mesmerized, his heart pounding. There was a picture of the yacht Blue Skies, and a news commentator was saying, ‘. . . in a storm, in Corsican waters, when the tragedy occurred. Dmitri Kaminsky, Harry Stanford’s bodyguard, was a witness to the accident, but was unable to save his employer. Harry Stanford was known in financial circles as one of the shrewdest …’

      Tyler sat there, watching the shifting images, remembering, remembering …

      It was the loud voices that had awakened him in the middle of the night. He was fourteen years old. He had listened to the angry voices for a few minutes, then crept down the upstairs hall to the staircase. In the foyer below, his mother and father were having a fight. His mother was screaming, and he watched his father slap her across the face.

      The picture on the television set shifted. There was a scene of Harry Stanford in the Oval Office of the White House, shaking hands with President Ronald Reagan. ‘One of the cornerstones of the president’s new financial task force, Harry Stanford has been an important adviser to …’

      They