“I know. I found that in checking your records. What I also found out, though, is that Aunt Margaret was Diana’s mother’s sister.” He looked at the others proudly; all he got in return were blank stares. He frowned. “Now who’s not thinking? If her aunt married a man named Cogswell, how did Diana get the name? Did her mother also marry a man named Cogswell? Or did Diana merely adopt the name and later take it legally? And if she did give up her real name, why did she do so?”
“You’re trying to say something,” Da Silva said quietly.
“I am, indeed. Her real name was Corbett — Diana Corbett.”
Inspector Storrs sat up straight. “Jimmy Corbett’s sister! I imagine she would have known about the stones!” He turned to Da Silva. “He was one of the four who held up the ship. He died in prison.”
“I know.” Da Silva turned to Wilson. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself. Anyone could have done it who wasn’t tied up in meetings all day.” He smiled.
Inspector Storrs was drumming his thin fingers nervously on the table.
“This may change the picture. We may be able to bring up a bit more at the trial than I had thought.” He looked at Wilson. “You’ll be able to stay here to testify, of course?”
Wilson’s self-satisfied grin disappeared instantly. He raised his hand hurriedly.
“Look, Inspector, you don’t need me. Everything I told you is a matter of record. I have to get back to Rio. I’ll make a deposition when I get back, notarize it at the Embassy and send it along airmail. But I have to get back. I’ve been away too long as it is.”
Da Silva smiled. “He has a date with some smells, and to cross a street.”
The inspector was beginning to recognize in jokes. He didn’t let them bother him. He glanced at his watch.
“All right. I’ll accept the deposition. And if you really want to catch your plane, we’ll have to be leaving soon. What about a final cup of cheer on the Barbados constabulary?”
“Good,” Wilson said, relaxing. “You had me worried there for a moment.”
Inspector Storrs smiled and turned to call the waiter; a thought struck him and he turned back. “By the way,” he said curiously, “how is it that at my house you preferred cognac, but here at the inn you seem to prefer rum?”
There was a moment’s pregnant silence.
“Do you mean,” Da Silva said slowly, “that they serve more than rum or beer?”
“Of course.” Inspector Storrs raised his voice. “Sam, what do you have in the way of brandy? Anything foreign?”
The bartender stooped beneath the bar, coming up with a dusty bottle.
“Some salesmon, he sell it to the boss one day,” he said. “Funny taste, boys don’t like it much. Got a name—” He squinted at the label. “Reserve San Joan, or something...”
“My God!” Wilson said in an awestricken tone.
There was a twinkle in Da Silva’s eye.
“Serve it quick and let’s get going,” he said, “before Wilson changes his mind and sticks around for the trial...”