Carnal Hours nh-6

by Max Allan Collins

  “Almost a secretary.”

  She smiled; she liked that. “Almost. I’m always tryin’ to be versatile.”

  “Miss Bristol-if you don’t mind my asking…where did you go to school?”

  She seemed surprised-and pleased-that I’d asked; she hugged a knee as she sat. “Right here in Nassau. I graduate from Government High School.”

  “Good for you. Any college?”

  She almost winced. “No. There’s no college here…. I have a brother, he is very smart, you know. We hope he’ll go to college someday-in the United States, they have colleges for Negroes.”

  “Yes they do. I would’ve sworn you’d been to one.”

  She lowered her eyes; this was the first she’d seemed at all shy. “I just like to read, Mr. Heller. I like books, you know.” Then she raised those deep brown eyes and her lashes fluttered and she said, “I think ignorance is the most evil thing. Don’t you?”

  The sky seemed more overcast; maybe she was right-maybe a storm was coming.

  “Well, Miss Bristol…I’m afraid evil’s a bigger thing than even ignorance. But ignorance probably has hurt more people than greed or jealousy or even war. I’m kind of in the anti-ignorance business myself.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not a teacher, are you?”

  “No. I’m a detective.”

  That surprised her. “Really? Police?”

  “No, I guess I’m what people insist on calling a private eye.”

  She lit up. “Like Humphrey Bogart?”

  I laughed. “Not quite. Look, I’ve said more than I should. We’re getting into Sir Harry’s business now, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Miss Bristol…”

  She nodded, as if to say, “You’re quite right.” I was stupid to mention my profession to her; as far as she’d known, I was just some business associate of her employer’s.

  We sat in awkward silence for a minute or so, and I ate, and looked out at the vast sea. Somewhere, across it, Mussolini’s government was toppling, and Cologne was trying to recover from a visit by a thousand Allied bombers. Back home Charlie Chaplin had attracted near as much attention just by marrying teenage Oona O’Neill in the middle of his latest paternity suit.

  But it all seemed abstract, it all seemed to be happening in some other world, when you sat in the Bahamas and studied the sea-a sea that men were dying on right now, most likely, even as I finished my turtle soup.

  “Delicious lunch,” I said, touching the napkin to my lips. “The fritters were good, too.”

  “Just heated up. Cook fried ’em last night. They’re better fresh.”

  “What’s ‘conk’?”

  “You spell it c-o-n-c-h. The meat from a pretty pink shell the tourists buy.”

  “Oh-sure. Well, any way you spell it, the fritters are tasty.”

  She grinned. “You’ll be eatin’ a lot of conch while you’re here, Mr. Heller.”

  She wouldn’t let me help her with the dishes, but I walked her into the kitchen and said, almost whispered, “Please don’t mention that I’m a detective…to anyone.”

  “Mr. Heller,” she said warmly, “you’re a nice man. I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want me to.”

  Our eyes locked, and there was a moment between us-a man/woman moment, that transcended culture and time and taboo-but it was just a moment, and we both looked away, embarrassed.

  “I best take you to Sir Harry, now.”

  She did.

  Oakes was in a medium-size room with a fireplace, oriental rug and tall windows that looked out on the ocean; a billiards table took up much of the floor space. On the walls here and there, stuffed big-game fish and mounted wild-game heads were mute observers.

  Looking like a sight gag in his plaid shirt, jodhpurs and riding boots-I was reminded of Harpo dressed as a jockey in A Day at the Races-Sir Harry was standing bowlegged, leaning on a bending cue as he spoke to a rather disheveled-looking little man sucking desperately on a cigarette.

  Both were frowning; perhaps we’d interrupted an argument.

  But Sir Harry smiled tightly, seeing us, and said, “Ah! My guest. Have a decent lunch?”

  “Swell,” I said. “Turtle soup and conch fritters.”

  He laughed shortly. “We’ll make a Bahamian out of you by nightfall, Heller. Marjorie, fetch me my checkbook.”

  “Yes, Sir Harry.”

  Miss Bristol left, and Sir Harry gestured to his diminutive but muscular-looking friend, who was so tanned I wondered if he might be mulatto.

  “Meet the real baron of Nassau, Mr. Heller-Harold G. Christie. Best damn pard an old prospector ever had.”

  So much for interrupting an argument.

  Christie was fiftyish, nearly bald, with an egg-shaped head and shaggy, sandy eyebrows over piercing money-green eyes. He was homely as a toad: face seamed, nose bulbous, chin weak; his light-weight white suit looked slept-in, his dark tie hastily knotted.

  This was the real baron of Nassau?

  “This is Nathan Heller,” Oakes told his friend. “He’s a detective from Chicago I hired for some personal business.”

  Christie’s eyes widened momentarily as he flashed Oakes a wary look. “A detective? Why, Harry?”

  Sir Harry sniggered; put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s personal, Harold. You have a personal life. I have a personal life.”

  Christie frowned up at Oakes, then turned to me and smiled in a surprisingly engaging way; the toad could become a prince when he switched on the charm.

  “Welcome to Nassau, Mr. Heller,” he said. His voice was mellow. “Though why you’d come to the Isles of June in July is a mystery even to a Bahamas booster like me.”

  “If you want that mystery solved, Harold,” Sir Harry said, “you’ll have to hire your own goddamn detective.”

  What was going on here? Was Oakes goading his pal?

  But Christie only kept smiling, albeit in the strained way of the underling whose boss has just made a joke at his expense. He crushed his cigarette out in an ashtray on the edge of the billiards table and immediately lighted up another.

  “Nate, if you’re not careful, Harold here will have you in a villa on the oceanfront before supper.”

  “You’re in the real-estate business, Mr. Christie?”

  Christie smiled, blew out smoke and was about to answer when Oakes interrupted. “Saying Harold is in the real-estate business is akin to saying Hitler’s in the land-grab business.”

  That comparison made Christie wince, but Sir Harry bellowed on.

  “Few years back, Harold buttonholed me in London, talked me into coming to New Providence, and then managed to sell me half the goddamn place.” Oakes snorted a laugh. “Do you know why Mr. Christie here is the most influential man in these islands? And I’m counting our little friend the Duke of Windsor, too, mind you. Harold understands that the basic asset of these islands is land…not for mining or crops, mind you: but for selling to rich goddamn fools like me. Ah! Here’s Marjorie….”

  She was bringing his checkbook; he put down the pool cue and went with her to a small table by a lamp with a silk shade.

  Christie said, very softly, “You’ll have to forgive Harry. Talkativeness is among his worst vices.”

  “And tact is not among his chief virtues.”

  “Hardly,” Christie said, and chuckled, and sucked in smoke.

  “Nate!” Oakes called, waving at me. “I’ll see you out….”

  “Pleasure meeting you, sir,” I told Christie.

  “Likewise,” he said pleasantly, and nodded.

  Oakes slipped an arm around my shoulder as we walked, handing me a ten-thousand-dollar check that glistened with wet ink. Miss Bristol had gone on ahead to open the door; our conversation remained private.

  “That’s thirty-four days, approximately,” he said, “at your three-hundred-dollar-a-day rate…counting today, which was a flat thousand.”

  “Did you want me to start today?”

  “Hell, yes! You’ll find de Marign
y at the Yacht Club. He’s racing there this afternoon. This card will get you in anywhere.”

  It was a small white card that simply said, “The bearer is my personal guest” signed “Sir Harry Oakes, Bart.”

  “I’ll need de Marigny’s photo….”

  Sir Harry waved that off. “Just ask somebody to point him out. He’s a tall horsy-looking frog, skinny as a plank. He’s grown a goddamn devil beard, too. You can’t miss the son of a bitch. Look for his yacht.” Harry’s thin upper lip curled in disgust. “It’s called the Concubine.”

  “It would be,” I said.

  Miss Bristol had the door open for us. We walked out under the balcony’s overhang, toward the garage, the young woman following at a respectful distance. There was a breeze now, Bahamas balmy, but the humidity remained oppressive.

  “You’re to check in with me every day, by phone. Miss Bristol will give you the number.”

  I glanced back at her and she smiled. God, I loved her smile.

  He was squeezing my shoulder, getting my attention back. “I’ve a car for you…it’s rented in your name. Nassau and New Providence road maps in the glove box with a list of pertinent addresses-de Marigny’s house, his business interests.”

  I nodded. These rich guys were efficient.

  He swung open the garage door. “But for Christ’s sake, remember to stay on the wrong goddamn side of the road!”

  “You mean on the left.”

  “Right,” Sir Harry said.

  The car was a dark-blue 1939 four-door Buick, big as a tank, which is what it handled like; not the best vehicle for a shadow job, and it was unnerving, heading back down Bay Street into town, staying on the left-hand side of the road. The occasional bicycle gave me a start, and the tropical scenery, burning with color, remained a distraction.

  I was saved by the sudden appearance of the sprawling pink terra-cotta monstrosity that was the British Colonial Hotel, which even had a parking lot where I could leave the Buick and get back on my own two feet for a while.

  The room that awaited me at the British Colonial wasn’t a suite, but it was plenty big, and seemed bigger, thanks to the light pink walls and white woodwork. It had a double bed, a chest of drawers, lots of closet space, a writing desk and a good-size bathroom. I could live here awhile.

  There was also a wrought-iron balcony and an ocean view to go with it, but the white beach was near empty under the graying sky.

  I unpacked, and figured I ought to get to work, but I had a couple of things to do, first. For starters, I’d only brought this one, currently sweat-soaked, suit. The guy at the front desk pointed me toward a little tailor shop near the hotel. I stopped in and from a cheerfully weary, berry-brown tailor named Lunn bought two white linen suits off the rack. He would have preferred to make them to order (promising them within two days!) but reluctantly sold me a couple in my size, sighing, “Can’t argue with you, sir! You’re a forty-two reg-nothing special!”

  Story of my life.

  Next stop was the Royal Bank of Canada, which seemed a fitting place to cash Sir Harry’s check; I had them wire most of it to my account at Continental Bank back home.

  Off Rawson Square, I bought a Panama hat with a light brown band from a heavyset, gregarious straw lady whose cart was piled high with hats and bags and mats; she asked “fifty cent,” I argued her down to a quarter, then gave her a buck for the fun of it.

  She gave me a little extra value by pointing me to a camera shop where, since every good bedroom dick needs one, I picked up a flash job, a fifteen-buck Argus with universal focus. Also some 35mm black-and-white film and bulbs.

  “Don’t you want color film, sir?” the cute little Caucasian clerk asked; she had a corsagelike flower in her brunette hair. “You can catch all the beautiful colors of the island….”

  “I’m going more for mood,” I said.

  By the time I got back to the hotel it was nearly two p.m. and I had an armful of clothes-including two short-sleeve white shirts, four obnoxiously colorful sport shirts, some sandal-like leather shoes and three ties with painted tropical scenes-all of which would keep me in comfort and looking properly touristy.

  Wearing one of my new white linen suits over a flowery sport shirt, hiding under my Panama and behind a pair of round-lensed sunglasses, I tooled my Buick down the left, remember, left-hand side of Bay Street. Most of the cars I encountered were, like the Buick, of American extraction; but now and then a Humber Snipe or Hillman would roll by in the “wrong” lane and befuddle me further, with their drivers sitting on the right. Bell-jangling surreys, donkey carts, wheel-barrows and your occasional straw-hatted native leading a goat kept traffic less than brisk; then at the east end of Bay Street, after the shopping district petered out, near the modern Fort Montagu Hotel and the old fortress the hotel was named for, was the Nassau Yacht Club.

  The rambling pale yellow stucco clubhouse, while typical of Nassau’s nineteenth-century, plantation-owner-style architecture, was clearly a recent structure; its landscaped grounds, with their not-yet-tall-enough-to-be-sheltering palms, had the unspoiled, sterile look of the new.

  I ambled into the clubhouse. Nobody stopped me to see if I was a member or a Jew or anything. I was almost disappointed. The bar had framed photos of famous yachts and yachtsmen, as well as a few customers and a white-jacketed bartender (in the flesh-not photos). A wall that was mostly windows looked out on the eastern harbor. I stepped outside, where I was on the edge of terraced grounds that ran down to a surprisingly modest marina where small yachts were docked.

  A handful of other yachts, three to be exact, were clustered out on the water, presumably racing. Not having ever been to a yacht race, I couldn’t be sure. Perhaps one of them was de Marigny’s Concubine.

  None of them seemed to be going very fast; there was a breeze of sorts, but it wasn’t cooperative. The sky was gun-metal gray now, the ocean a rippling sea of molten lead. The white boats and their white sails seemed trapped in the wrong seascape.

  Back in the bar, I took a stool and asked for a rum and Coke.

  The bartender was a blond young man of perhaps twenty-four. “Are you a member, sir?”

  Finally! I showed him Sir Harry’s card, and he smiled, raised his eyebrows and said, “Allow the Nassau Yacht Club to buy you a drink, sir. Could I recommend our special rum punch?”

  “Yes to both.”

  He served it up in a round red glass with fruit in it; I tossed the fruit aside and sipped the punch-it was bitter with lime, sweet with brown sugar.

  What do you think?” the kid asked.

  “Delicious and deadly.”

  He shrugged. “That’s Nassau to a tee.”

  I turned on the stool and looked idly out the windows. “Racing today?”

  “Our little weekly regatta. Not much of a turnout…lousy weather. They’ll be lucky not to get caught out in it.”

  “Is that fella de Martini racing?”

  “De Marigny you mean? Yeah. Sure.”

  “I hear he’s quite a character. Real ladies’ man.”

  The kid shrugged, rubbed the bar with his rag. “I don’t know about that. But he’s a hell of a yachtsman.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. He’s won all sorts of cups, including the Bacardi-and he’s only been at it four or five years. He ought to be in in a few minutes. Would you like to meet him?”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  Instead I nursed my rum punch and waited for de Marigny’s race to end.

  Mine was just about to begin.

  5

  When de Marigny entered the clubhouse, he was chatting with two young male club members (possibly his crew), but there was no mistaking him: he was six three, easily, with dark, slicked-back hair and a well-trimmed Vandyke beard; slender, muscular, he wore a polo shirt with the arms of a pale yellow sweater tied around his neck like a clinging lover. I hate that.

  On the other hand, despite Sir Harry’s unflattering description, I’d assumed the Count wou
ld be handsome-most gigolos are-but de Marigny had big ears, a prominent nose and fleshy lips. If you were casting Legend of Sleepy Hollow, it would be a close call as to whether to give de Marigny the role of Ichabod Crane or his horse.

  He did carry himself well, with confidence, affable if arrogant, and his two friends seemed hypnotized by his discourse. I couldn’t make out his words, but he had a thick Charles Boyer French accent, which I suppose some women might find charming. Not being a woman, I couldn’t be sure.

  He seemed headed for the bar, so I tossed a quarter tip on the counter, slipped away before the bartender could introduce me, and went out to wait in the Buick.

  Apparently de Marigny had a drink or two, because it was fifteen minutes later before he emerged from the clubhouse, still in his yachting togs but minus his sycophants, and strolled to a black Lincoln Continental. I wondered if Sir Harry’s daughter Nancy had bought it for him.

  Beyond Fort Montagu, aping the curve of the island, East Bay Street became the eastern road, along which were fabulous oceanside mansions on land Harold Christie had most likely sold rich foreigners, and/or rumrunners. But de Marigny took a right, away from this affluence and into the boondocks, and I followed.

  The same bushes and trees that so carefully adorned the grounds of wealthy estates grew wild here, pines and palms and bushes with red berries crowding each other alongside the narrow dirt road, like spectators eager for a look.

  It was tricky not getting made, but the Lincoln kicked up plenty of dust, so I could keep my distance and still keep track of where the Count had headed.

  Then the dust cloud abated, and I knew I’d lost him: he’d turned off somewhere.

  Looking frantically right and left, I didn’t feel panicked for long: there the Lincoln was, stopped in the crushed-rock driveway of a run-down-looking white farmhouse. It might have been an American farmhouse but for its louvered shutters, and limestone construction that dated back a century or two.

  I drove on past, perhaps a quarter of a mile, and found a place alongside the road where I could pull off. Then I left my suitcoat behind but brought along my camera, and walked alongside the road, where the brush was taller than I was, and edged up near the farm.