by Stuart Woods
“Thomas, can you put together a week’s provisions for me in a hurry?”
“I’ll see to it,” Thomas said. He jumped down from the deck and sprinted back toward the Shipwright’s Arms.
Stone looked at Leslie Hewitt. “Well, Leslie, I hear that my co-counsel hasn’t been absolutely frank with me about the way Allison’s case was conducted.”
“What? What do you mean? I surely…”
Stone held up a hand. “Don’t bother; Allison came to see me last night.”
Leslie looked embarrassed, but he managed a grin. “Well, perhaps I wasn’t entirely candid with you, Stone, but all’s well…”
“That ends well,” Stone said. “It did end well, I suppose; you’re just lucky I didn’t die of a heart attack last night.”
“Myself as well,” Leslie said. “I was frantic when I couldn’t get anyone on the phone at the prime minister’s residence or in his office. I was nearly as much in the dark as you, right up until you asked about the disposition of the body, and the policeman gave you that malarkey about cremation. There’s no crematorium on St. Marks, so I figured I must have brought it off after all.”
“You certainly did, but you aged me ten years in the process.”
“Well, I’m glad it came out all right. I got a lovely fee, the prime minister got his, ah, pension fund, and you got a very fine yacht.”
“If I can hang on to it,” Stone said, laughing. “I’d better get the engine started.” He went aft to the cockpit, switched on the ignition, and prayed that the thing would start. The starter ground on for a good ten seconds before the engine caught and ran smoothly. He looked up and saw Thomas running across the lawn again, carrying a cardboard box and followed by an employee carrying a second one.
Stone checked the fuel gauges. Full. He hoped to God the water tanks were full, too.
Thomas and his man ran down the dock and set their boxes aboard, then Thomas ran back down the dock, untied a dinghy with an outboard, pulled it to Expansive, and tied it to the stern. “Come on, I’ll give you a hand getting out of the harbor,” he called.
Stone embraced Leslie again, then lifted him over the lifelines and set him on the dock. “Good-bye, old fellow!” he called out. “Let go our lines, will you?”
Leslie and Thomas’s employee untied the lines and tossed them on board, then gave the big yacht a shove away from the dock. Stone put the engine in reverse and began backing out.
“Look up there,” Thomas said, pointing with his chin, “but pretend you don’t see.”
Sir Winston’s elderly Jaguar had pulled into the inn’s parking lot, and the minister of justice was striding toward them, a piece of paper in his hand. They could hear a faint shout over the engine.
Stone shoved the gear lever to forward and spun the wheel to port; Expansive accelerated quickly through the smooth water of the harbor. They were about to turn past a point of land when Stone looked back and saw Sir Winston on the dock waving his piece of paper and shouting. He made a show of cupping his hand to his ear and shrugging, indicating an inability to hear, then they were around the point, and the harbor entrance lay ahead. “Thomas, you take the helm, and I’ll get some sail up,” he called.
Thomas tossed the mooring lines into the cockpit and took the wheel. Stone unreefed the headsail first, and when it was full and drawing, he unwound the big main from the mast. He went aft and switched off the engine, and everything grew quiet, except the fresh breeze in the rigging and the burble of water slipping past the blue hull. He stowed the mooring lines and went below, wrote Thomas a check, then came back on deck.
“I guess that’s it,” he said, handing Thomas the check.
“You are too generous, Stone,” Thomas said, looking at it.
“You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble, Thomas, and I’ll never forget it. When you come to New York, stay at my house, and we’ll do some serious dining and wining.”
“That’s an offer I can’t refuse.”
“Are you going to have any problems with Sir Winston?”
Thomas shook his head. “Nah; he’s got nothing on me. And even if he did have, I’ve got enough relatives on this island to turn him out of office.”
“I think Leslie has something like that in mind; why don’t you talk to him about it?”
“I’ll do that.”
They were nearly to the mouth of the harbor now. Stone gave Thomas a big hug, then watched as he jumped into the dinghy, untied the painter, and yanked the cord on the outboard. The little engine buzzed to life, and Thomas kept pace with the yacht for another hundred yards. Then, as the smooth water of the harbor met the swell of the sea outside, he gave a big wave and turned the little boat back into English Harbour.
Stone watched him go. He reflected for a moment that he had not made many friends as good as that one, then he bore away around the point and headed for the open sea, a lump in his throat. There would be time later to sort out charts and courses, but right now, he wanted to sail his boat.
That night, sailing north with the autopilot on, Stone fixed himself some supper, opened a bottle of wine, sat down in the cockpit, and began thinking about the events of the past days. There were anomalies in what he had seen and heard, and he wanted to think about them.
He slept in snatches of a few minutes, scanning the horizon often for ships and other yachts and boats. He saw little traffic. The next day, at midmorning, he fired up the satellite phone and got it working. He called his secretary and informed her of his new travel plans, then he called Bob Cantor.
“Hello, Stone; I heard the news on television this morning. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“There is, Bob. I want you to take a trip up to Ithaca for a couple of days and do a little research for me.”
“Sure; what do you need?”
Stone told him in some detail. Finally, he hung up the phone and sat down with his charts. He plotted a course up the leeward side of the islands, then between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico and then to the northwest, leaving the Turks and Caicos and the Bahamas to starboard, and on to Fort Lauderdale. It had not taken him long to figure out that he could not afford to own the yacht; what with dockage, repairs, and insurance, it would break him, unless he sold his house, and he wasn’t about to do that.
He sailed on, thinking about what had happened to him and what to do next. He made other calls, the last of them to Sir Winston Sutherland, who was surprised to hear from him, but extremely interested in what he had to say.
By the time he had reached Fort Lauderdale, he had done all he could do. Except wait.
Epilogue
Two Months Later
Stone sat in his Turtle Bay garden on a lovely early spring morning, breakfasting on eggs and bacon and orange juice. When he had finished, his Greek housekeeper, Helene, took away the plates and poured him a mug of the strong coffee he loved. He looked through the Times idly, checking for any mention of Allison. He had heard nothing from her, and when he had called the Greenwich house, the number had been disconnected. He had thought of calling her Connecticut lawyer, but had decided just to wait for Allison’s call.
Alma, his secretary, came out to the garden with the morning mail. “There’s one from the broker in Fort Lauderdale,” she said.
Stone opened that first and found a check for one million eight hundred thousand dollars and change. He smiled broadly.
“I take it we’re not broke for a while?” Alma asked.
“We certainly are not,” he said, endorsing the check and handing it to her.
Her eyes grew wide. “I had no idea it was worth so much.”
“The broker reckoned it had cost close to three million to build and equip. Still, after his commission, that’s a good price.”
“What shall I do with it?” Alma asked.
“Write a check for, let’s see”—he began scribbling numbers on his newspaper—“three hundred seventy-five thousand to that law firm in Palm Beach, for the account of Libby Ma
nning’s mother. I want that off my conscience.”
“Right,” said Alma.
“Then send a check for five hundred and forty thousand to the Internal Revenue Service.” He groaned. “God, how proud I am to be an American and pay my taxes!”
“Right. That leaves eight hundred and eighty-five thousand.”
“Send my broker a check for two hundred thousand, and tell him to call me about where to invest it.”
“We’re rich!” Alma squealed. “What about the rest?”
“I was thinking about buying an airplane,” Stone said.
Alma’s face fell. “Oh. We’re not rich anymore. Well, it was fun while it lasted.” She got up and trudged comically back into the house.
Stone had a thought: he could afford a car now. He got up, went into the house, and walked through the kitchen into a storeroom, then through another door. This had been a garage at one time, and there was still a folding door to the street, though he hadn’t opened it for a long time. He waded through the stacked boxes and old lawn furniture to the door, which was made of heavy oak. He turned the lock, thinking, I’ll have to install an automatic garage door opener if I’m going to use this space. He tugged at the door, which moved six inches and stopped. He tugged again, and got it open three feet. Then, with all his strength, he moved the door up all the way, until it was standing wide open. He found himself face-to-face with a tall man.
“Morning, Stone,” the man said. “I was going to ring the front bell, but…”
“Morning,” Stone said. “What brings you around to see me?”
“Oh, just a social call,” Jim Forrester said. “Got a few minutes?”
“Sure.” Stone dragged two lawn chairs over, made a pass at dusting them, and sat down. “Take a pew.”
The two men sat, ten feet from the street. Forrester seemed a little annoyed at not being asked into the house. “How about some coffee?” he said.
“Sorry, coffee’s off the menu,” Stone replied. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I was just passing by.”
“Were you? Say, whatever happened to your New Yorker piece? I haven’t seen it.”
“Oh, they take a long time to edit anything, you know. My editor…”
“That would be Charles McGrath?”
“Right.”
“Chip McGrath left The New Yorker a couple of years ago to become editor of the New York Times Book Review.”
“Ah, right; I’m working with another editor now. Say, what do you hear from Allison?”
“You must think I’m a medium,” Stone said, expressionless.
“I inquired about the disposition of the body at Government House. They didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. I began to think that Allison might not be dead after all.”
“The police told me that their policy was to cremate the body and scatter the ashes at sea,” Stone said. That was certainly what they had told him. “By the way, have you been to any alumni reunions lately?”
Forrester looked at him, puzzled. “No, not for years. Why do you ask?”
“I did a little checking upstate. There was no James Forrester at Syracuse, not since the class of ’38, and I think that was a little before your time.”
“Must be some mistake,” Forrester said.
“No, but there was a Paul Manning, at Cornell, of course.”
“Yes, that’s where Paul went. Why were you checking on me at Syracuse?”
“When I’ve been had, I like to know why and by whom.”
“Had?”
“Manning did play basketball for his fraternity, as you said he did. In fact, I’ve got a copy of the yearbook for his senior year, and there’s a very good photograph of him in it. He looks very different—thinner and no beard. Would you like to see it?”
Forrester looked at his nails. “It doesn’t interest me,” he said.
“I guess not,” Stone agreed. “Tell me, where are you living these days?”
“I’ve been living here in the city, but I think I’m going to do some traveling now.”
“I’m not surprised,” Stone replied.
Alma walked into the garage from the house. “Oh, there you are. Bill Eggers is on the phone; he wants to know if you want to have lunch.”
“Tell Bill I can’t make it today, but I’ll call him later,” Stone said. “Oh, and call Dino and tell him to pick me up in five minutes and to bring his friends. I’ve got some stuff I want to give to the Salvation Army.”
“Okay,” Alma said, then left.
“Stone,” Manning said, “I really came to see you to find out if you would represent me as my attorney.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re looking for attorney-client confidentiality, aren’t you?”
“In part.”
“Well, you won’t get it from me, pal.”
“Stone, I don’t understand…”
“Sure you do, Paul. By the way, I got a check for your yacht this morning. It brought a million eight after the broker’s fee.”
His face flushed. “I should have thought it was worth a good deal more.”
“Oh, I know you paid more, but what with the market and all…”
Paul Manning looked at his nails again. “When did you figure it out?”
“Oh, I was very slow. It didn’t all come together for me until I was sailing the boat from St. Marks to Fort Lauderdale. No, a little earlier, I guess, when I saw the repair you’d made to the headsail reefing swivel.”
“What else do you think you’ve figured out?”
“The dinghy was never stolen in Las Palmas.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“You just made some noise about it, replaced it, then sailed the old one back to the Canaries after Expansive was over the horizon.”
“If you say so.”
“What did you do about clothes and papers? You couldn’t use your own passport.”
Manning looked at Stone for a long moment, then apparently decided it didn’t matter anymore. “All right, I left a car on the south coast of Gran Canaria with some clothes.”
“How long did it take you to lose the weight?”
“I started dieting the minute we left the States,” Manning said. “Losing weight has never been easy for me, but I had some time; I lost a pound or two a week. By the time we got to Las Palmas, I was as slim as I am now.”
“Careful you don’t gain it back, Paul; somebody might recognize you.”
“Not where I’m going.”
“And where would that be?”
“You figure it out.”
“It’s going to be tough without the money, isn’t it?”
“Damn Allison!” Manning said suddenly, and with some venom.
“Wasn’t the money in the Cayman Islands account? Didn’t you have access to it?”
“The money was moved to a different account the day before Allison’s trial.”
“I thought it might have been.”
“I’d like to get my hands on her.”
“I’ll bet you would, but it’s going to be a little difficult, isn’t it?”
“She’s not dead, is she?”
“Suppose she’s not? I doubt if you could find her. After all, you must have given her lessons in how to obtain a real U.S. passport, how to establish new identities, and all that. All the research you did for your books, and for your own use.”
“All that insurance money—tax free—the money from the sale of the house and the cars; it’s all gone,” Manning said bitterly.
“And even if you could find it, you’ve no way to get at it, have you?”
“Sir Leslie Hewitt showed me the will he drew for her, leaving everything to the Girl Scouts of America!”
Stone burst out laughing. “Paul, you’ve made my day, you really have.”
“And she gave the goddamned boat to you,” Manning said through clenched teeth.
“That’s right, pal, but your h
eart will be warmed to know that Libby’s mother got four hundred thousand of the proceeds.”
“Shit!”
“So you killed Libby for nothing, didn’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Paul; you had the skills to screw up that airplane engine. You’d flown with Chester; you knew he never did a runup, that he’d never notice his fuel problem until he was already in the air. You killed Chester, too, and that other poor woman who was aboard.”
“You can’t prove that,” Manning said.
“You know, right up until the moment that plane crashed, this was all just a lark, a bit of insurance fraud. But when that plane went down, you became something else entirely. You became a murderer—not just three times, but four. You stood there in that jail in St. Marks and let Allison walk out to the gallows. I’ll bet she thought until she was standing over that trap door with the rope around her neck that you would step forward and save her. You could have at any time; all you had to do was to tell Sir Winston that you were Paul Manning. He couldn’t prosecute her for a murder that hadn’t taken place. But you didn’t do that, did you? You thought all that money was safe in the Caymans account, and it would all be yours. But Allison out-smarted you.”
“I can’t figure out why she did it,” Manning said, looking dejected.
“Because she knew you. At first she thought you’d save her, but finally she knew you’d never turn yourself in, even to save her. If you had turned yourself in, you’d have had all that money to buy your way out of the business in St. Marks, but you decided to go for broke, to keep it all for yourself, and now you’re just that—broke.”
“I want the money you got for my boat,” Manning said. “And I want all of it.”
Stone laughed aloud. “I took the boat as payment of my fee; it was all legal and aboveboard. Why should I give it to you?”
“Because I’ll kill you if you don’t,” Manning said calmly.
“You’re not going to kill anybody, Manning.” Stone stood up, drew back his hand, and brought the back of it across Manning’s face, spilling him out of the lawn chair. “That’s for Allison, you miserable son of a bitch. You cooked up the scam, and she went all the way with you, then you let her hang.” Stone looked up and saw a car stop in his driveway. Dino Bacchetti got out. “Hi, Dino,” he said.
