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formalities to be observed,” Durer saidsternly. “These matters can’t be rushed.” He picked up the yellow pad again. “Who is the next of kin?”
    Captain Vacarro looked at Dmitri for help.
    “I guess you’d better check with his attorneys in Boston.”
    “The names?”
    “Renquist, Renquist, and Fitzgerald.”

Chapter Seven
    A lthough the legend on the door read RENQUIST , RENQUIST & FITZGERALD , the two Renquists had been long deceased. Simon Fitzgerald was still very much alive, and at seventy-six, he was the dynamo that powered the office, with sixty attorneys working under him. He was perilously thin, with a full mane of white hair, and he walked with the sternly straight carriage of a military man. At the moment, he was pacing back and forth, his mind in a turmoil.
    He stopped in front of his secretary. “When Mr. Stanford telephoned, didn’t he give any indication of what he wanted to see me about so urgently?”
    “No, sir. He just said he wanted you to be at his house at nine o’clock Monday morning, and to bring his will and a notary.”
    “Thank you. Ask Mr. Sloane to come in.”
    Steve Sloane was one of the bright, innovative attorneys in the office. A Harvard Law School graduate in his forties, he was tall and lean, with blond hair, amusedly inquisitive blue eyes, and an easy, graceful presence. Sloane was the troubleshooter for the firm, and Simon Fitzgerald’s choice to take over one day. If I had had a son , Fitzgerald thought, I would have wanted him to be like Steve . He watched as Steve Sloane walked in.
    “You’re supposed to be salmon fishing up in Newfoundland,” Steve said.
    “Something came up. Sit down, Steve. We have a problem.”
    Steve sighed. “What else is new?”
    “It’s about Harry Stanford.”
    Harry Stanford was one of their most prestigious clients. Half a dozen other law firms handled various Stanford Enterprises subsidiaries, but Renquist, Renquist & Fitzgerald handled his personal affairs. Except for Fitzgerald, none of the members of the firm had ever met him, but he was a legend around the office.
    “What’s Stanford done now?” Steve asked.
    “He’s gotten himself dead.”
    Steve looked at him, shocked. “He’s what ?”
    “I just received a fax from the police in Corsica. Apparently Stanford fell off his yacht and drowned yesterday.”
    “My God!”
    “I know you’ve never met him, but I’ve represented himfor more than thirty years. He was a difficult man.” Fitzgerald leaned back in his chair, thinking about the past. “There were really two Harry Stanfords—the public one who could coax the birds off the money tree, and the son-ofabitch who took pleasure in destroying people. He was a charmer, but he could turn on you like a cobra. He had a split personality—he was both the snake charmer and the snake.”
    “Sounds fascinating.”
    “It was about thirty years ago—thirty-one, to be exact—when I joined this law firm. Old Man Renquist handled Stanford then. You know how people use the phrase ‘larger than life’? Well, Harry Stanford was really larger than life. If he didn’t exist, you couldn’t have invented him. He was a colossus. He had an amazing energy and ambition. He was a great athlete. He boxed in college and was a ten-goal polo player. But even when he was young, Harry Stanford was impossible. He was the only man I’ve ever known who was totally without compassion. He was sadistic and vindictive, and he had the instincts of a vulture. He loved forcing his competitors into bankruptcy. It was rumored that there was more than one suicide because of him.”
    “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