Morning, Noon & Night

by Sidney Sheldon

  “He sounds like a monster.”

  “On the one hand, yes. On the other hand, he founded an orphanage in New Guinea and a hospital in Bombay, and he gave millions to charity—anonymously. No one ever knew what to expect next.”

  “How did he become so wealthy?”

  “How’s your Greek mythology?”

  “I’m a little rusty.”

  “You know the story of Oedipus?”

  Steve nodded. “He killed his father to get his mother.”

  “Right. Well, that was Harry Stanford. Only he killed his father to get his mother’s vote.”

  Steve was staring at him. “What?”

  Fitzgerald leaned forward. “In the early thirties, Harry’s father had a grocery store here in Boston. It did so well that he opened a second one, and pretty soon he had a small chain of grocery stores. When Harry finished college, his father brought him into the business as a partner and put him on the board of directors. As I said, Harry was ambitious. He had big dreams. Instead of buying meat from packing houses, he wanted the chain to raise its own livestock. He wanted it to buy land and grow its own vegetables, can its own goods. His father disagreed, and they fought a lot.

  “Then Harry had his biggest brainstorm of all. He told his father he wanted the company to build a chain of supermarkets that sold everything from automobiles to furniture to life insurance, at a discount, and charge customers a membership fee. Harry’s father thought he was crazy, and he turned down the idea. But Harry didn’t intend to let anything get in his way. He decided he had to get rid of the old man. He persuaded his father to take a long vacation, and while he was away, Harry went to work charming the board of directors.

  “He was a brilliant salesman and he sold them on his concept. He persuaded his aunt and uncle, who were on the board, to vote for him. He romanced the other members of the board. He took them to lunch, went fox hunting with one, golfing with another. He slept with a board member’s wife who had influence over her husband. But it was his mother who held the largest block of stock and had the final vote. Harry persuaded her to give it to him and to vote against her husband.”

  “That’s unbelievable!”

  “When Harry’s father returned, he learned that his family had voted him out of the company.”

  “My God!”

  “There’s more. Harry wasn’t satisfied with that. When his father tried to get into his own office, he found that he was barred from the building. And, remember, Harry was only in his thirties then. His nickname around the company was the Iceman. But credit where credit is due, Steve. He single-handedly built Stanford Enterprises into one of the biggest privately held conglomerates in the world. He expanded the company to include timber, chemicals, communications, electronics, and a staggering amount of real estate. And he wound up with all the stock.”

  “He must have been an incredible man,” Steve said.

  “He was. To men—and to women.”

  “Was he married?”

  Simon Fitzgerald sat there for a long time, remembering. When he finally spoke, he said, “Harry Stanford was married to one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Emily Temple. They had three children, two boys and a girl. Emily came from a very social family in Hobe Sound, Florida. She adored Harry, and she tried to close her eyes to his cheating, but one day it got to be too much for her. She had a governess for the children, a woman named Rosemary Nelson. Young and attractive. What made her even more attractive to Harry Stanford was the fact that she refused to go to bed with him. It drove him crazy. He wasn’t used to rejection. Well, when Harry Stanford turned on the charm, he was irresistible. He finally got Rosemary into bed. He got her pregnant, and she went to see a doctor. Unfortunately, the doctor’s son-in-law was a columnist, and he got hold of the story and printed it. There was one hell of a scandal. You know Boston. It was all over the newspapers. I still have clippings about it somewhere.”

  “Did she get an abortion?”

  Fitzgerald shook his head. “No. Harry wanted her to have one, but she refused. They had a terrible scene. He told her he loved her and wanted to marry her. Of course, he had told that to dozens of women. But Emily overheard their conversation, and in the middle of that same night she committed suicide.”

  “That’s awful. What happened to the governess?”

  “Rosemary Nelson disappeared. We know that she had a daughter she named Julia, at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Milwaukee. She sent a note to Stanford, but I don’t believe he even bothered to reply. By then, he was involved with someone new. He wasn’t interested in Rosemary anymore.”

  “Charming…”

  “The real tragedy is what happened later. The children rightfully blamed their father for their mother’s suicide. They were ten, twelve, and fourteen at the time. Old enough to feel the pain, but too young to fight their father. They hated him. And Harry’s greatest fear was that one day they would do to him what he had done to his own father. So he did everything he could to make sure that never happened. He sent them away to different boarding schools and summer camps, and arranged for his children to see as little of one another as possible. They received no money from him. They lived on the small trust that their mother had left them. All their lives he used the carrot-and-stick approach with them. He held out his fortune as the carrot, then withdrew it if they displeased him.”

  “What’s happened to the children?”

  “Tyler is a judge in the circuit court in Chicago. Woodrow doesn’t do anything. He’s a playboy. He lives in Hobe Sound and gambles on golf and polo. A few years ago, he picked up a waitress in a diner, got her pregnant, and to everyone’s surprise, married her. Kendall is a successful fashion designer, married to a Frenchman. They live in New York.” He stood up. “Steve, have you ever been to Corsica?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like you to fly there. They’re holding Harry Stanford’s body, and the police refuse to release it. I want you to straighten out the matter.”

  “All right.”

  “If there’s a chance of your leaving today…”

  “Right. I’ll work it out.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  On the Air France commuter flight from Paris to Corsica, Steve Sloane read a travel book about Corsica. He learned that the island was largely mountainous, that its principal port city was Ajaccio, and that it was the birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte. The book was filled with interesting statistics, but Steve was totally unprepared for the beauty of the island. As the plane approached Corsica, far below he saw a high solid wall of white rock that resembled the White Cliffs of Dover. It was breathtaking.

  The plane landed at Ajaccio airport and a taxi took Steve down the Cours Napoléon, the main street that stretched from Place Général-de-Gaulle northward to the train station. He had made arrangements for a plane to stand by to fly Harry Stanford’s body back to Paris, where the coffin would be transferred to a plane to Boston. All he needed was to get a release for the body.

  Steve had the taxi drop him off at the Préfecture building on Cours Napoléon. He went up one flight of stairs and walked into the reception office. A uniformed sergeant was seated at the desk.

  “Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider?”

  “Who is in charge here?”

  “Capitaine Durer.”

  “I would like to see him, please.”

  “And what is it of concern in relationship to?” The sergeant was proud of his English.

  Steve took out his business card. “I’m the attorney for Harry Stanford. I’ve come to take his body back to the States.”

  The sergeant frowned. “Remain, please.” He disappeared into Capitaine Durer’s office, carefully closing the door behind him. The office was crowded, filled with reporters from television and news services from all over the globe. All of them seemed to be speaking at the same time.

  “Capitaine, why was he out in a storm when…?”

  “How could he fall off a yacht in the middle of…?”
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  “Was there any sign of foul play?”

  “Have you done an autopsy?”

  “Who else was on the ship with…?”

  “Please, gentlemen.” Capitaine Durer held up his hand. “Please, gentlemen. Please.” He looked around the room at all the reporters hanging on his every word, and he was ecstatic. He had dreamed of moments like this. If I handle this properly, it will mean a big promotion and—

  The sergeant interrupted his thoughts. “Capitaine…” He whispered in Durer’s ear and handed him Steve Sloane’s card.

  Capitaine Durer studied it and frowned. “I can’t see him now,” he snapped. “Tell him to come back tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Capitaine Durer watched thoughtfully as the sergeant left the room. He had no intention of letting anyone take away his moment of glory. He turned back to the reporters and smiled. “Now, what were you asking…?”

  In the outer office, the sergeant was saying to Sloane, “I am sorry, but Capitaine Durer is very busy immediately. He would like you to expose yourself here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

  Steve Sloane looked at him in dismay. “Tomorrow morning? That’s ridiculous—I don’t want to wait that long.”

  The sergeant shrugged. “That is of your chosen, monsieur.”

  Steve frowned. “Very well. I don’t have a hotel reservation. Can you recommend a hotel?”

  “Mais oui. I am pleased to have recommended the Colomba, eight Avenue de Paris.”

  Steve hesitated. “Isn’t there some way…?”

  “Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Steve turned and walked out of the office.

  In Durer’s office, the capitaine was happily coping with the barrage of reporters’ questions.

  A television reporter asked, “How can you be sure it was an accident?”

  Durer looked into the lens of the camera. “Fortunately, there was an eyewitness to this terrible event. Monsieur Stanford’s cabin has an open veranda. Apparently some important papers flew out of his hand, onto the terrace, and he ran to retrieve them. When he reached out, he lost his balance and fell into the water. His bodyguard saw it happen and immediately called for help. The ship stopped, and they were able to retrieve the body.”

  “What did the autopsy show?”

  “Corsica is a small island, gentlemen. We are not properly equipped to do a full autopsy. However, our medical examiner reports that the cause of death was drowning. We found seawater in his lungs. There were no bruises or any signs of foul play.”

  “Where is the body now?”

  “We are keeping it in the cold storage room until authorization is given for it to be taken away.”

  One of the photographers said, “Do you mind if we take a picture of you, Capitaine?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  He lay in bed haunted by what Simon Fitzgerald had told him about Harry Stanford.

  “Did she get an abortion?”

  “No. Harry wanted her to have one, but she refused. They had a terrible scene. He told her he loved her and wanted to marry her. Of course, he had told that to dozens of women. But Emily overheard their conversation, and in the middle of that same night she committed suicide.” Steve wondered how she had done it.

  He finally fell asleep.

  At ten o’clock the following morning, Steve Sloane appeared again at the Préfecture. The same sergeant was seated behind the desk.

  “Good morning,” Steve said.

  “Bonjour, monsieur. Can I help to assist you?”

  Steve handed the sergeant another business card. “I’m here to see Capitaine Durer.”

  “A moment.” The sergeant got up, walked into the inner office, and closed the door behind him.

  Capitaine Durer, dressed 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?”

  Capitaine Durer hesitated for a dramatic moment. “No. Please, gentlemen, do what you must.”

  And the cameras began to flash.

  The Colomba was a modest hotel but neat and clean, and his room was satisfactory. Steve’s first move was to telephone Simon Fitzgerald.

  “I’m afraid this will take longer than I thought,” Sloane said.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Red tape. I’m going to see the man in charge tomorrow morning, and I’ll get it straightened out. I should be on my way back to Boston by afternoon.”

  “Very good, Steve. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

  He had lunch at La Fontana on Rue Nôtre Dame, and with the rest of the day to kill, started exploring the town.

  Ajaccio was a colorful Mediterranean town that still basked in the glory of having been Napoleon Bonaparte’s birthplace. I think Harry Stanford would have identified with this place, Steve thought.

  It was the tourist season in Corsica, and the streets were crowded with visitors chatting away in French, Italian, German, and Japanese.

  That evening Steve had an Italian dinner at Boccaccio and returned to his hotel.

  “Any messages?” he asked the room clerk, optimistically.

  “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 responsibles, 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…sadistic and vindictive.…”

  Well, Harry Stanford is causing a hell of a lot of trouble even in death, Steve thought.

  On his 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 other foreign papers on the stand. He picked them up and looked through them, stunned. Every single newspaper had frontpage 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.”