Allison Manning was an innocent woman, he was sure of that, but if there was anything incriminating on this yacht, he wanted to know about it. He certainly wasn’t going to tamper with evidence, but he needed to know what was here. He set down the duffel and went to the galley. He had no idea what sort of criminal investigation skills were available to the St. Marks police force, but he thought it wise not to leave a lot of fingerprints about. He went to the galley and found a pair of rubber kitchen gloves and put them on. Then he went to the bow of the yacht and started working his way toward the stern, looking at everything along the way. He paid particular attention to the chart table and bookcases, then moved on to the master cabin. He found nothing incriminating. Then he found himself staring at Allison Manning’s briefcase.
He was torn between his lawyer’s respect for his client’s privacy and the cop in him who wanted to know everything. If she was guilty, did he want to know? Probably not. Yes. Finally he made his decision; he laid the briefcase on the large bed and pressed the releases on the locks. Nothing happened. Then he saw the combination locks. Frustrated, he tried changing the last digits one, then two notches in each direction, then he turned the combinations to zero on both sides. The case would still not unlock. “Shit!” he said. Well, it was none of his business anyway. He left the briefcase on the bed, retur
ned the rubber gloves to the galley, picked up the duffel, and went on deck.
He trudged up to the Shipwright’s Arms and climbed upstairs to the room over the bar. Nobody ever seemed to lock anything in St. Marks; he walked in, tossed Allison’s duffel onto the bed, sat down at the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed Bill Eggers’s home number.
“Yeah?” Eggers said grumpily.
“It’s Stone, Bill. Wake up; I need you to pay attention.”
There was a groan as Eggers apparently sat up in bed. “What are you doing back?” he asked, awake now.
“I’m not back; I’m still in St. Marks.”
“Then you must be in jail,” Eggers chuckled. “I can’t think of any other reason you’d call me from there.”
“Close. I have a client who’s in jail, and it’s very, very serious; a murder charge.”
“Did she do it?”
“No, but what does that matter?”
“What do you want from me?”
“She needs an English barrister badly; nobody here will defend her, for political reasons, but it’s a former English colony with an English-style court system. I don’t know any English barristers; you got any ideas?”
“We deal with a firm at Gray’s Inn in London. Let’s see, it’s…six forty-five?! Jesus, Stone; you ever hear of office hours?”
“Bill, I’ve got a preliminary hearing at ten o’clock. It’s what, noon in London? You need to catch these people before they go to lunch.”
“Yeah, yeah; what’s your number there?”
Stone read it off the telephone on the desk.
“I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
Thomas knocked and walked into the room. “Everything you need here?”
“Yes, it’s fine, Thomas; I’m just waiting for a call back from New York about an English barrister.”
“How about some breakfast?”
“I’ve had something, but I’d love some coffee.”
They sat and drank their coffee together.
“Thomas,” Stone said, “there’s something I need to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Is Leslie Hewitt going to be able to get through this hearing without…you know?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Leslie is very sharp when his mind is fully engaged. He’ll manage.”
“God, I hope you’re right.” The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”
“It’s Bill; I’ve got you a guy, but…has this client of yours got any money?”