by Stuart Woods
Holly came out of her dressing room. “Same with my stuff; nothing missing.”
“A burglar would have taken the TV and stereo and the booze,” Stone said.
“Where’s your passport?” Holly asked.
“In my jacket pocket,” Stone said, feeling for it. “I always carry it when I’m in a foreign place. Yours?”
“In my handbag.”
“Was there anything here…” He stopped himself, walked over to Holly and whispered in her ear. “Let’s check for bugs.”
She nodded, and they both went to work. Dino knocked and came into the room. “We’re not missing anything,” he said, “but you’re right; somebody’s been through the place.” He got no response, but Stone tapped his ear. “Oh,” he said, and went back to his own room.
Holly unscrewed the mouthpiece on the phone, then waved to get Stone’s attention. He walked over, looked at the small device inside and nodded. Holly left it there and screwed the thing back together. They went into the living room and found the same device on the phone there; there was one in Dino’s room, too.
“Why don’t we have a nightcap on the terrace?” Stone said. He grabbed a bottle of premade gimlets and some glasses and led them outside. The wind was up a little, and the waves on the shore were making more noise than usual.
They sat down and Stone poured the drinks. “Okay,” he said, “who?”
“The way I see it,” Holly said, “we’ve got two choices: Sir Winston’s cops or Teddy Fay.”
“Any particular thoughts on which?” Stone asked.
She thought for a minute. “Nope, but Lance is going to just love this.”
17
Stone walked up to the inn and found Thomas Hardy in his office, working at his computer. He looked up.
“Stone,” he said, sounding pleased, “come in and sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
“Thank you, yes, Thomas.”
Thomas spoke briefly into the phone, and a moment later, a waiter appeared with a coffeepot and a plate of cookies.
“How is your visit going?” Thomas asked as he poured their coffee.
“Very well, thanks,” Stone said, stirring in a sweetener and sipping. “Until last night.”
Thomas’s eyebrows went up. “Something wrong?”
“We had dinner at Irene Foster’s house last night, and when we returned to the cottage we found that it had been ransacked-neatly, but nevertheless, ransacked.”
“I’m very sorry,” Thomas said, looking concerned. “Was anything missing?”
“Nothing, but some things had been left behind.”
“What?”
“All three phone extensions had been bugged.”
“Bugged?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing happening in St. Marks. You’re sure about this?”
“Go down to the cottage, unscrew the mouthpiece on any phone, and you’ll see the device.”
“But who would do such a thing?”
“I was hoping you might have a suggestion.”
“Surely you don’t think that I…”
“No, of course not, Thomas; I apologize if I gave that impression. Our best guesses are Teddy Fay or Sir Winston Sutherland.”
“Well, I don’t know about Mr. Fay, but certainly Sir Winston would do such a thing, if he thought it in his interest.”
“But what could he possibly hope to learn by bugging our quarters?”
Thomas shrugged. “Perhaps you could better tell me. Is there something about your visit to St. Marks that you haven’t told me?”
Stone shook his head. “No, there isn’t; I’ve told you everything.”
“Let’s start with Teddy Fay, then. Is there some reason, assuming he’s on the island, that he would bug the premises?”
“I suppose he might want to learn if our presence here has anything to do with looking for him.”
“You say the choices of culprit are Fay and Sir Winston; has it occurred to you that they might be combining their efforts?”
“Combining? How?”
“Well, if I were a fugitive living on the island, I might look for some sort of official protection. Mightn’t you do the same, if you were Fay?”
“But what would be in it for Sir Winston to hide a fugitive from the United States?”
“Money, of course; does Fay have money?”
“We believe so, but we don’t know how much. Anyway, that sort of bribe would be very small compared to the money I understand he’s getting from the offshore gambling interests.”
Thomas smiled. “It is not my experience of Sir Winston that any sum of money would be too small to escape his attention. But he might have other reasons to assist Mr. Fay; Sir Winston has a supple mind, and it is always attuned to whatever person or information might be useful to him.”
“I cannot imagine what use Teddy Fay’s presence in his country would be to Sir Winston.”
“Perhaps Sir Winston has a more active imagination than you.”
Stone laughed. “I’ll grant you that. I suppose that could apply to why he might want to listen in on our conversations. Let me ask your advice: should we leave the bugs in place or remove them?”
“If you are guarded in your conversations, perhaps it might be better to leave them in place. If you remove them, it might excite his further curiosity into why you are here-and that would go for both Sir Winston and Teddy Fay.”
“That’s good advice,” Stone said. “By the way, last night the conversation at Irene Foster’s house was mostly of Sir Winston’s rapidly growing wealth. Anything to that?”
“Ah, there are many rumors, but if they are true, Sir Winston is being careful not to display too much wealth.”
“What about his new house on Black Mountain?”
“That’s his most visible purchase in the past couple of years, but it’s not an ostentatious place. He has always lived well, but he sold his old house for more than he paid for the place on Black Mountain. Of course, the government might have invested in certain improvements to the house, mostly in the line of security.”
“Then what’s he doing with all his money?”
“You know about his new bank?”
“That came up in the conversation.”
“The bank, I’m sure, required considerable capital, and people in Sir Winston’s position have always found it useful to own real estate and to warehouse funds in other climes-South America or Switzerland, for instance-in case of the necessity of a quick change of residence. Sir Winston has also been known to visit Miami from time to time, in his newly acquired government airplane.”
“He got himself a jet?”
“A more modest King Air turboprop, but I’m told it’s very nice and has a lot of range.”
“So he has an escape plan?”
“In his position, wouldn’t you?”
Stone took in a sharp breath. “Yes, I would, and so would Teddy Fay. Tell me, Thomas, if you had to escape St. Marks in a hurry, how would you do it?”
“Well, there are boats, of course, but if I were being pursued, air travel would be vastly preferable; perhaps a light airplane that could reach Antigua or Guadeloupe or St. Martins. St. Marks has no direct international flights, except to other islands, but international airline connections are available from those places.”
“There’s only the one airport here?”
“Yes, and a friend of mine now operates the local fixed-base operation and charter service. You’ll remember that Chester, who used to own it, died in a plane crash.”
“I remember. What’s your friend’s name?”
“Don Wells, and he would know who on the island owns small airplanes; there wouldn’t be many. Please tell him I sent you.”
Stone put down his coffee cup. “Thank you, Thomas, for the coffee, the advice and the information.”
“Stone, it might be nice if you stopped in to see Sir Leslie Hewitt.”
“How is Leslie? H
e must be very old now.”
“My guess would be about eighty-five, but I swear, he hasn’t changed a bit in all the years I’ve known him.”
“Is he still pretending to be half gaga half the time?”
“Only when it suits his purposes. And you may find that Leslie has a lot of inside knowledge about what goes on in St. Marks.”
“Thanks, Thomas, I will go and see him.” They shook hands, and Stone headed for his car.
18
Teddy Fay drove down to the docks in Markstown and found the freight shipping company. He followed the signs to the receiving platform, gave the foreman his shipment number and waited. Shortly a forklift appeared, bearing two cardboard-and-wood crates, and loaded them straight into his vehicle. Teddy signed for them and started back.
On his way he passed a large hardware store and turned into their parking lot. He bought a small chain saw and a five-gallon gasoline tank and a can of two-stroke motor oil, loaded them into the truck and went on his way. He stopped at a filling station for gas and filled both his vehicle and the spare tank.
Three-quarters of an hour later he backed the vehicle alongside a pair of cellar doors. Using a hand truck, he managed to get both crates inside, then he went back for the chain saw and the gas tank. He garaged the vehicle, then got the crates open to look at his new toy. It seemed sensible enough. He had ordered the thing to be shipped in a half-completed state, and he read the instructions for completion carefully before beginning work. It never ceased to amaze him that most people never read the instructions, until they got into terrible trouble putting things together. Teddy loved instruction manuals, especially when they dealt with assembling something.
He finished reading the manual, put down a pad for kneeling on the concrete floor and set out the few tools necessary for assembly. There were three basic parts that had to be joined; two had come in the long crate and one in the short one. First, he went through the whole thing, making sure all the bolts had been properly torqued at the factory, then he joined the three parts, tightening the main bolts only with his fingers. When he was satisfied that everything was properly assembled, he removed the main bolts and set them next to the thing in a teacup, ready to be used when needed. He’d have to get it out of the cellar before it could be finally assembled.
That done, he filled the tiny fuel tank of the chain saw, went upstairs and outside and walked around to the other side of the building. A ravine ran along one side, and a concrete spillway about four feet wide, meant to handle the overflow from the cistern during the rainy season, ran from the building down to the ravine. Two fairly tall trees had grown from one side of the ravine and, bracing himself carefully, he started the chain saw with a couple of pulls of the cord and cut down both trees, leaving them to wash down the steep ravine with the next rain.
He went back to the house, cleaned the chain saw, poured the remaining fuel back into the spare tank and put the chain saw away. Everything was ready for when it might be needed.
Finally, he picked up the DVD that had come with the equipment and inserted it in his computer. It took him, step by step, through the operation, and every bit of it made perfect sense to him. He would run the drill over and over in his mind at odd moments of the day, to keep it fresh in his memory.
Stone drove out to the St. Marks Airport and found the fixed-based operations now called Wells Air Services. He found Don Wells in the service hangar, working on the engine of a Cessna 150.
“Good morning, Don, my name is Stone Barrington; I’m a friend of Thomas Hardy.”
Don, a short, thick black man, wiped his hands with a greasy rag and shook hands. “Any friend of Thomas’s,” he said.
“I just need a little information. About how many privately owned airplanes are based here?”
“Well, except for the King Air, which is owned by the government, all of them, I guess.”
“How many?”
Don did some counting on his fingers. “Seven,” he said.
“Are all of them owned by local residents?”
“Yes.”
“How many of the owners are white men?”
“Ah, five.”
“Do you know all of them personally?”
“In a manner of speaking. Some of them have been customers since before I bought the business.”
“Any new airplane owners in the past few weeks?”
“Two of them,” Don replied, “a Bonanza and a Cessna 140.”
“Who owns them?”
“The Bonanza is owned by one of the casinos, or, I guess, by one of the people there. His name is Brent; he’s one of the top people in the company, I think.”
“Can you describe him?”
“About thirty-five years old, five-ten, well over two hundred pounds, dark hair.”
“And who’s the owner of the 140?”
“He’s fairly new on the island, older fellow, a retiree from England. His name is…let me think a second…Robertson.”
“Description?”
“Close to six feet, slim, thick salt-and-pepper hair, early seventies, I’d say. Nice fellow.”
“Where is the airplane?”
“I’ve got four T-hangars,” Don replied. “It’s in one of them.”
“Could I have a look at it?”
“Sure. Follow me.” Don led the way outside and down a row of hangars, stopping at one of them and entering the combination for its padlock. He hauled the door upward to reveal the airplane.
Stone walked slowly around the aircraft, then opened the pilot’s door and climbed in, looking at the instrument panel. Stone was impressed. The Cessna 140 was the predecessor of the 172, the world’s most popular airplane, and it qualified as an antique. This one was in beautiful condition and seemed to be entirely original; all the equipment-radios and flight instruments-was period stuff.
“This is really something. Do you know where he got the airplane?”
“He said he had owned it for more than forty years, since it was new. When he bought his house here, he had the wings taken off, then shipped the whole thing in a container to St. Martin, where they put the wings back on. Then he flew it over here.”
“Well, thanks, Don. It was a treat just to look at this machine.” Stone made a note of the airplane’s British registration number.
“Anything else I can do for you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You a pilot?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What do you fly?”
“I’ve had a Piper Malibu Mirage for a few years, and I’m having it converted to a turboprop right now.”
“Sounds hot.”
“It will be.”
“Well, I’ve got to get back to work; gotta have that 150 finished today.”
“Thanks very much for the information,” Stone said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep our conversation to yourself.”
“Sure, I will. Say hello to Thomas.”
“I will, Don. Good day.”
Stone got back into his car and headed back to the inn. Holly could get Lance to check out the registration number of the 140.
19
As Stone drove back toward the inn he recognized the turning to Sir Leslie Hewitt’s cottage, and he swung left into the road. As long as he was out this way, he might as well stop in. He drove up a long hill then turned into the drive, marked by a mailbox, then parked the car in the gravel turnaround and knocked on the door. No answer. He tried again, then he walked around the cottage and let himself through the garden gate. Sir Leslie was a few yards away, kneeling on a gardener’s stool, digging in the soil with a trowel.
“Leslie?”
The old man turned and peered at him through thick, steel-rimmed eyeglasses. “Stone? Is it Stone?”
“Yes, it is.”
Sir Leslie struggled to his feet and walked toward Stone, taking off his gloves. He was a small, very black man with white curls and a clean-shaven face. They shook hands. “I am so very glad t
o see you, Stone; I had heard you were on the island, and I had hoped you would come to see me.”
“I couldn’t visit St. Marks without seeing you.”
“Will you have some tea?”
“Thank you, yes.”
Sir Leslie waved him to a table and chairs in the garden and went into the kitchen. He came out shortly with a teapot and a plate of cookies and set them down. “How have you been? What have you been up to? Any interesting cases?”
“I’ve been busy doing a lot of things, but I haven’t spent all that much time in court lately.”
“I’m sorry to hear it; it is your natural habitat.”
“Thank you, Leslie; that’s high praise coming from such an eminent barrister. How about you? Any interesting cases?”
“Only the small stuff. As usual, I specialize in annoying the government in small ways.”
“That must give you great satisfaction. I hear there have been a lot of changes around here.”
“Oh, yes, and it has been fascinating to watch. Winston is in what you Americans call hog heaven; he is enjoying himself immensely, while turning the screws on anyone who gets in his way.”
“I hope you’re staying out of his way.”
“Oh, yes, I just peck around the fringes, but I hear a lot of things.”
“Thomas told me you are a fount of information.”
“Well, if there were a St. Marks version of the parlor game called ‘Trivial Pursuit,’ I would do very well at it, I think. Are you looking for information, Stone?” Sir Leslie asked.
“I think I’m looking for more of an opinion.”
Sir Leslie grinned. “I am full of opinions.”
“Well, then, here’s the situation: Some friends and I are staying in one of Thomas’s new cottages, and we came home last night to find that someone had searched the place. We also discovered that all the telephones had listening devices planted in them. Now who would do such a thing? What is your opinion?”
“Oh, that’s an easy one,” Sir Leslie said. “Colonel Croft. Colonel Croyden Croft, who is in charge of a department called Internal Investigations-ostensibly under the Home Secretary, but he is a creature of Winston Sutherland.”
