Stone breathed a sigh of relief and followed him into the study.

Hewitt arranged himself behind his desk. "Now, what is it?" he asked, in the manner of a man who didn't have much time for whatever Stone wanted of him.

Stone placed the file folder before him. "Leslie, I know you plan to give the opening and closing state but I put some thoughts together on how you proceed, and I'd appreciate it if you'd read the statements I've prepared. There might be some there you can use."

"Of course I'll read them," Hewitt replied. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get back to my garden."

"Do you think you could find time to read them now?" Stone asked. "You might have some questions for me."

"No, no, not now," the man said. "I'll read them this afternoon after my nap; I'm more alert then. Now, I'll see you in the courtroom." He walked out of the room, leaving Stone standing there alone.

Stone followed him as far as the back door and watched as Hewitt knelt down and began digging in the behind the low hedge again, seemingly oblivious to Stone's presence. Finally, Stone shook his head and returned to the car. As he was about to turn toward English Harbour, he had another thought and turned left instead, toward the airport.

He drove through the gates and down the approach with the runway and the single hangar in full view. He pulled up in front of the hangar and got out. The mechanic who had testified at the inquest was working on an engine of the DC-3 that belonged to the St.Marks government. Stone couldn't remember his name, but he walked over to the airplane.

"Excuse me," he said to the man. "I'm Stone Barrington; I heard you testify at the inquest."

"Righto," the man said. "You're the lawyer fellow, aren't you? The one who's defending that lady?"

"That's right. I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute. What's your name again?"

"Harvey Simpson," the man said, turning away from the airplane and wiping his hands with a cloth. "What can I do for you?"

"I was just noticing that the hangar has an overhead door, like a garage," he said, pointing at the ceiling, where the door was retracted.

"That's right; there it is," Simpson said, following his gaze.

"Do you close that every night and lock up?"

Simpson shook his head. "Not unless the weather looks like it's turning bad. That door is a pain in the ass; sticks all the time. I keep meaning to do something about it, but I never seem to get around to it."

"Was the hangar door closed the night before Chester's crash?"

Simpson thought for a minute. "No, we haven't had no bad weather for a while now."

"So anybody could have come in here where Chester's airplane was?"

"That's right, I guess."

"How about your tool cabinet over there," Stone said, pointing to a large, double-doored cupboard. The doors were open, exposing an array of spanners, screwdrivers, and socket wrenches.

"I never lock it," Simpson said.

"Don't your tools get stolen?"

Simpson shook his head. "Everybody who might steal them knows that my tools are American gauge, for working on the American-built airplanes. All the cars on the island and all the other machinery are metric so my tools wouldn't be worth much to anybody."

"So somebody could have come in here the night the crash, taken some tools out of your cabinet, and done something to an engine?"

Simpson gazed into the middle distance for a moment before answering. "Yes sir, I guess somebody could have done that. But there isn't no one on this island who would want to do that to Chester."

"How about to his passengers?"

"I can't speak for the white lady, but I knew the black well, and everybody liked her. Anyway, if somebody wanted to kill her, he wouldn't kill Chester doing it."

"Is there anybody on guard out here at night?"

Simpson shook his head. "Nope. There's a couple of people in the airport office, through there," he said, pointing at a door that led from the main part of the hangar to the offices, "but they wouldn't be out here at night. The runway lights are pilot-operated, you see. The approaching pilot just tunes in the local frequency and clicks his mike three times, and the lights come on."

"I see," Stone said.

"Mister, this is not the first time I've thought about this," Simpson said. "I been over it in my mind a few times. I thought about how it was the morning of the crash, and everything was just like I left it."

"Did Chester make it a habit of doing a run up before takeoff?"

"Well, he made it a habit sometimes, and other times he didn't," Simpson said. "If you know what I mean. Chester been flying that Cessna a long time; he didn't have much use for checklists no more."

He didn't have much use for run ups either, Stone thought. A run up might have saved his life and those of his passengers.

"Chester was a good pilot, though," Simpson said. "A natural-born pilot."

"Right," Stone said. Chester had been a cowboy; Stone had flown with him in the right seat when he had come to St.Marks, and the man was strictly a seat-of the-pants pilot-no checklists. Stone walked over to the tool cabinet and looked at the array of tools inside; then he saw something familiar on the cabinet door. He touched it lightly. Fingerprint powder; he had seen enough of it in his time. "The police have been here?" he asked.

"Sure have; looked at everything, asked, a lot of questions, took my fingerprints."

Stone nodded. "Well, Harvey, thanks for your time." He shook the man's oily hand and walked back to the car thinking, I'll never fly an airplane off a runway without doing a run up first. Not as long as I live. He got into the car and headed back to English Harbour. He didn't want to think about Allison right now; he tried thinking about Arrington instead and found that he missed her. He still hadn't rewritten his letter to her; he would do it before the day was out.

Stone parked Thomas's car in its usual place and left the keys in it, as Thomas often did. His business with Leslie Hewitt apparently concluded for the time being, he wanted now to talk with Jim Forrester again, and he was lucky enough to find him at the bar, talking to Thomas.

"Hi, Jim; have you got a few minutes for me?"

"Sure, Stone, what's up?"

"I want to go through your testimony with you; make sure we're both on the same page."

"Great, let's get a table."

Thomas held up an envelope. "Fax for you," he said to Stone.

"Thanks, Thomas," he said, stuffing the envelope into his pocket. He'd read it when he was through with Forrester. He followed the reporter to a table, and they got comfortable. "Jim, I'll just ask you some questions, the way I will at the trial, and you answer them as you see fit. If I don't like the way you answer a question, we'll talk about rephrasing."

"Okay, shoot."

"Have you ever testified in court before?"

"No."

"They'll ask you your name for the record."

"Right."

"Now I'm on my feet in my robe and my wig, and…"

"Wig? You have to wear a wig?"

"I'm afraid so. You'll have to try not to laugh; it wouldn't look good for me in front of the jury."

"I'll do my best, but I'm not promising anything."

"All right, Mr.Forrester, what is your occupation?"

"I'm a magazine writer."

"And what brings you to St.Marks?"

"I intend to write an article about this trial for an American magazine."

"I see. Now, were you acquainted with Paul Manning?"

"Yes, I knew him in college."

"Tell us how you met him."

"We were on the same basketball team."

"Hang on, Jim; I thought you told me you played against him."

Forrester shook his head and raised the glass from which he was drinking. "I'm sorry, Stone; the booze must be going to my head."