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.’
‘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
