Shoot Him If He Runs (Stone Barrington 14)

“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?”