Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07

by Carnal Hours (v5. 0)

  “I should think. That’s why I need your help.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “In fact…”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a rumor I been hearin’. About Lyford Cay.”

  She pronounced “Cay” in the Bahamian manner: key.

  “What’s Lyford Cay?” I asked.

  “The west tip of New Providence—it sticks out, like an island. But it’s not an island, it’s more like…” She searched for the word, then smiled as she found it in the dictionary of her mind. “…a peninsula. Very beautiful—verdant. But it’s bein’ developed, you know.”

  “Developed?”

  “For houses for rich folks. Right now it’s just palm trees, beaches and plots of land they cleared, but they say, one day, there will be electric lights and phones and plumbin’ and fancy houses.”

  “And whose project is this?” I asked, knowing.

  “Why, Mr. Christie’s, of course.”

  “Tell me about the rumor, Marjorie.”

  “There’s a dock there, and a caretaker. Lyford Cay is private property.”

  “I see.”

  “But there’s no fence or gate yet. You can still drive right in there. Anyway, the caretaker is a local man named Arthur.”

  “Colored?”

  “Yes. The rumor I’ve been hearin’ is that the night of the killin’, after midnight sometime, Arthur saw a boat pull up to the dock with some white men in it. A car was waitin’ for ’em.”

  “That’s an interesting rumor, all right.”

  “I know Arthur. He goes to the same church as me—Wesley Church, in Grant’s Town. Or anyway, his sister does. I spoke with her, and she says her brother hasn’t talked to the police about this.”

  I leaned forward. “Would he talk to you?”

  “I think so. I talked to his sister this afternoon—she’s in housekeepin’ at the B.C.—and she said I could probably find him at Weary Willie’s this evening.”

  “Weary Willie’s?”

  “It’s a bar, over the hill.”

  I stood. “Take me there.”

  “Over the hill” was more than directions: it was what the area was called, south of where Government House stood on its ridge, looking the other way; in the virtual backyard of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s plantation-house domicile, the thatch-roofed shacks of blacks crawled up the hill like shambling invaders who would never quite make it to the top.

  As the land leveled out, the houses became more substantial, but the flickering of candlelight in windows with shutters, but no glass, indicated the lack of electricity on the far side of the hill. There were no streetlights to guide a pilgrim’s progress on these dark streets littered with roadside ice stands (closed at the moment), sheltered by trees of avocado and silk cotton; but the moonlight showed off the sorrowful gaiety of the clustered houses of Grant’s Town, doused as they were with blue and red and green and pink.

  I wasn’t scared, but I had the same white man’s uneasiness I experienced in Chicago whenever I ventured into Bronzeville on the South Side.

  “It’s just up here,” Marjorie said, pointing, “on the right. See that fenced-off place?”

  “Yeah.”

  I pulled the Chevy up in front of an unpainted wooden structure with a thatch roof; over the saloon-style swinging doors a rustic-looking wooden sign bore the hand-carved words “Weary Willie’s.” There were no other cars around, but the open windows leaked laughter and babble and the general sound of people drinking.

  “It is okay for a white man to go in there?”

  “It’s fine,” she said, with a reassuring smile. “Tourists come here all the time—look closer at the sign.”

  I looked up. Beneath “Weary Willie’s” it said: “A Glimpse of Africa in the Bahamas.”

  Only there were no tourists inside, just black faces, with the whites of their eyes large and displeased at the sight of me, or maybe the sight of me with Marjorie. Day laborers in sweaty tattered clothing stood at the bar having bottles of that exotic tropical brew known as Schlitz. The round uncovered tables in this kerosene-lamp-lit, wood-and-wicker world were mostly empty, but a native man and a voluptuous, almost heavy native woman were huddled over their drinks at one, in a mating ritual that knew no race. Against the far wall, which had two African-style spears crossed on it, sat an angularly handsome, jet-black young man in a loose white shirt and tan pants and no shoes. He recognized Marjorie and she nodded and we went over to him.

  “May we sit, Arthur?” Marjorie asked.

  He half-rose, gestured nervously. “Go on.”

  A fat barman in an apron that may have, at one time, been clean approached and took our orders; Marjorie asked for a Goombay Smash and I had the same. Arthur already had his bottle of Schlitz.

  Marjorie sat forward. “This is Mr. Heller, Arthur.”

  I extended my hand and he looked at it, as if it were some foreign object, then extended his. It was a firm but sweaty handshake. His eyes were both wary and troubled in his carved mask of a face.

  “He’s trying to help Mr. Fred,” she explained to him.

  “Mr. Fred is a good mon.” He spoke in a hushed, rich baritone. “My cousin, he works for him.”

  I said, “I’d like to hear about what you saw out at Lyford Cay the night Sir Harry died.”

  “I work de night shif,” he said. “In fact, I got to be out there by ten tonight. I use to fish de sponge, you know, before de fungus come.”

  I tried to get him on track. “What did you see that night, Arthur?”

  He shook his head. “It was a bad night, mon. Storm, it whip de island. I see one of dem fancy motorboats come in and dock, ’bout one in de mornin’. Two white mon, big ones, got off de boat—somebody else, he stay behind with dat fancy boat. It was rockin’, mon. Thought maybe it was gonna sink.”

  “Did you approach them? Lyford Cay is private property, right?”

  “Right—but dey was white. And I didn’t know what dey was up to, in dat storm—didn’t want to know.” He shrugged fatalistically. “Like dey say, strange t’ings happon in de carnal hours.”

  “Carnal hours?” I asked.

  Marjorie explained patiently. “In these islands, that’s what they call the time between dark and daylight.”

  Our drinks arrived and I gave the barman a buck and told him to keep the change and made a friend. The Goombay Smash seemed to be pineapple juice and rum, mostly.

  “It was rainin’ so hard,” Arthur said, “one of de mon, he slip and drop his hair.”

  “His hair?”

  “His hat, it fly off, his hair too—get wet in de rain.” Arthur laughed. “He chase it like a rabbit.”

  One of the men was wearing a toupee, then.

  “Did you notice anything else distinctive about him?”

  “What?”

  “Anything special or odd about his appearance. Him, or the other man?”

  His eyes narrowed. “That rain, mon, was really comin’ down, you know. But dey walk right past my shed, you know. I was peekin’ through de window. The fella dat lost his hair, he had a skinny mustache, his nose was all pushed in. The other fella…he was fat, with a scar on his face.”

  The back of my neck was tingling.

  “What sort of scar, Arthur?”

  He drew a jagged line in the air with one finger. “Like de lightning in the sky, mon—it flash across his cheek.”

  Jesus Christ—were the men Arthur was describing the two bodyguards at Meyer Lansky’s table back at the Miami Biltmore?

  “A car was waitin’ for dem—dey come back an hour later. Maybe longer. Got back on dat boat and go back out in de storm. Crazy, doin’ that—the sea was real ugly.”

  “What sort of car was it? Did you see the driver?”

  “Driver I didn’t see. What do you call dat long square car, with de extra seats?”

  “A station wagon?” Marjorie asked.

  He nodded confidently. “Dat’s it. It was a station wagon.”

 
“You didn’t happen to catch the license number did you?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I didn’t figure I’d be that lucky.

  “Could it have been Mr. Christie’s station wagon?” Marjorie asked. Then to me, she said, “Mr. Christie, he has a car like that.”

  “Maybe,” Arthur said. “It was dat kin’ of car. But I didn’t see de driver. See, I wasn’t thinkin’ about dat car so much as dat boat dat docked at Lyford Cay. I’m thinkin’, maybe dis boat don’t have no business here. So I got de registration nomber, and name on de side.”

  I grinned. “Arthur, you’re a good man. You remember that name and number, by any chance? Or maybe have it with you?”

  “No. But I write it down.”

  “Good. That’s very good…. Did you show it to anybody? Or tell anybody—like Mr. Christie, say—what you saw that night?”

  He smeared the moisture on his beer bottle with his thumb, then shook his head. “No—I got to thinkin’, if dat was Mr. Christie in dat car, he might not like me askin’ him about it.”

  “You told your sister,” Marjorie reminded him.

  “Oh, well, I tell a few friends. Guess that’s how the story got around.”

  “But nobody you work for,” I said.

  “No. More I thought about it, less I want to make a fuss. Still…knowin’ dat Sir Harry, he was killed dat same night. It makes you think.”

  Yes it did.

  I reached in my pants pocket and fished out a fin. I handed it to Arthur, who took it gratefully. “I work with a lawyer named Higgs,” I told him. “He’s going to want to get your deposition.”

  Now he frowned. “What’s dat?”

  “Your statement about what you saw.”

  “I don’t know, mon….”

  “Look—there’s more dough in it for you. What would you say to a hundred bucks, Arthur?”

  Arthur grinned. “I say, hello.”

  I laughed a little. “All right. But you got to keep quiet about this till you hear from me.”

  “As a mouse, mon.”

  “I’d like to see this Lyford Cay…get the layout. Why don’t I give you a ride to work, right now, and have a look around?”

  He waved that off. “No—no thanks, mister. I got my bicycle. Anyway, I got to try and find dat piece of paper I wrote dat nomber and name on.”

  “Okay, then—how about I meet you at the dock tomorrow night. You go on at ten, right? Is eleven okay? You could have that information ready for me, and I’ll have a time set up for you to meet with Higgs at his office, day after tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Make dat an afternoon time. I sleep mornin’s.”

  “Not a problem. Now, Arthur—keep all this under your hat….”

  “I buy a hat and put it dere,” he promised, and grinned again, and this time he offered his hand. I shook it and Marjorie and I found our way out. By now we barely rated a glance from the native clientele. The fat bartender I tipped even waved.

  Going back up and over the hill, Marjorie asked, “What do you think it means, Nathan?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”

  “Could those men Arthur saw be the killers?”

  “Yes. But I have to give you the same advice I gave Arthur: not a word to anybody.”

  I left the car in the country club parking lot and walked her to her cottage. Occasionally our arms would brush, and we’d move away, then eventually drift back together. We weren’t saying anything much; suddenly, with business out of the way, things had gotten awkward.

  Just as I was about to say good night to her on her doorstep, feeling as shy as a teenager at the end of a first date, something scuttled across the sand, and scared the hell out of me.

  She laughed. “It’s just a sand crab.”

  I raised a hand to my forehead. “I know….”

  Concern tightened her eyes; she touched my face with gentle fingertips, as if inspecting a burn. “You’re upset. You look sick…what is it….”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s something! Tell me.”

  “I have to walk a second. I need to breathe….”

  She walked with me along the beach, our footsteps slowed by the sand; the rush of the tide, the beauty of the moonlight, calmed me.

  “I’m all right, now,” I said.

  I didn’t know how to tell her that the last time land crabs had skittered across my path, I’d been in a shell hole on another tropical island, waiting for the Japs to come and finish the job they’d started on me and the rest of the patrol….

  She looped her arm in mine; she was close to me, gazing up at me. Those huge eyes were something a man could get lost in. Right now, I felt like getting lost.

  I stopped in my sandy steps and she stopped, too, and I searched her eyes for permission before I took her in my arms and kissed her. Gently, but not too gently.

  Oh, those lips; soft and sweet and they told me how she felt without a word.

  Still in my arms, she looked past me. “We’re to Westbourne.”

  The rectangular shape of the place where Sir Harry died was outlined against the sky, haloed by moonlight. We stood where Oakes and I had strolled that first day.

  “We should turn back,” she said.

  I agreed, and walked her home, and gave her one, brief, final kiss before she slipped inside, wearing a haunting little smile.

  But somehow I think we both knew there was no turning back.

  Off Rawson Square, behind the sullen statue of Queen Victoria and the white-pillared, pink-walled, green-shuttered buildings she guarded, was an open square of administrative buildings that included the post office, fire brigade HQ, and Supreme Court. At the square’s center a plot of grass was home to a sprawling, ancient silk-cotton tree, a beautiful, grotesque thing whose trunk extended in buttresslike waves of wood, branches spreading forever, a wonderful monstrosity that would have been at home in the forest Disney drew for Snow White. In the shelter of its shade stood the courthouse overflow: lawyers in wigs and robes, policemen, and citizens black and white (litigants and witnesses, no doubt), discussing their cases, rehearsing their statements, escaping the afternoon sun.

  Next to the yellow courthouse, over which the Union Jack flapped, vivid against the blue Bahamas sky, stood a pink building with a green wooden veranda, white shutters and a blue-glass, Victorian-looking lamp on a post: the police station.

  Colonel Lindop’s office was up on the second floor, and his white, male, khaki-wearing secretary sent me right in. From behind a tidy desk, the long-faced Police Superintendent acknowledged me with a nod, not rising, gesturing to a chair that waited across from him.

  This little office—with its couple of wall maps and several wooden file cabinets—being that of the city’s top cop indicated just what a small-time operation this was. Not that it justified the Duke inviting those two Miami clods in to fuck up the case.

  “You wanted to see me, Colonel,” I said.

  A humid breeze drifted in from the open window behind him; a ceiling fan whirred lazily.

  He didn’t look at me. “Yes. Thank you for coming. Mr. Heller, I’ve been asked by Attorney General Hallinan to…clarify your role in the de Marigny matter.”

  “Clarify my role…what the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s just,” he said with patience he was having to reach for, “that Mr. Hallinan wants you to understand what it is you’re to do, here.”

  I laughed. “Frankly, Colonel, I don’t give a goddamn what Hallinan wants me to understand. It isn’t up to him to define my role in this case—he’s the prosecution. I work for the defense. Remember?”

  Now he looked at me; his eyes said nothing. “Mr. Heller, I’ve been asked to inform you that you are absolutely forbidden to investigate anyone other than Count de Marigny.”

  I winced, shook my head. “I’m missing this. What are you talking about?”

  He sighed; started tapping a pencil on the desk. “It is the prosecution’s attitude that, si
nce one man is already charged with this crime, it would be…improper to look elsewhere for a culprit, until or unless the person so charged is acquitted.”

  I felt like I’d been hit with a pie, but not a particularly tasty one. “You’re saying I’m not to go out and try to find out who really did kill Sir Harry Oakes.”

  He shrugged. “That’s Mr. Hallinan’s view. You sent a request to our office yesterday…”

  “Right. I figure, what with the war on, you must have official records of every person traveling to and from Nassau, with dates of arrival and departure. I’d like a look at those records.”

  “That request is denied.”

  I sat at the edge of the chair; did my best not to shout. “Why in hell not?”

  “It doesn’t pertain to the investigation.”

  “In my view it does!”

  “Your view, Mr. Heller, counts for little here.”

  I almost hurled a curse at him, but then I thought better of it: his expression seemed an odd combination of disgust and sympathy.

  Instead, I settled back in my chair. “You don’t like this any better than I do…do you, Colonel?”

  He didn’t reply; just studied the pencil he was tapping.

  “Where are Frick and Frack, anyway?”

  He knew who I meant. “Captain Melchen is in the field. Captain Barker has flown to New York to consult with a fingerprint expert.”

  “I thought Barker was supposed to be a fingerprint expert himself.”

  He shrugged again, with his eyebrows this time.

  “Of course you’re aware,” I said, “what an insult this is to you. Sure, your department’s small…maybe it was a reasonable idea to bring in somebody to work with you, or even handle the case for you. But hell—why not Scotland Yard? You’re a British colony. Or if it’s a problem bringing somebody over in wartime, then the FBI. But a couple clowns from Miami? How can you put up with it, Lindop?”

  I pushed back my chair and stood, shaking my head.

  “Mr. Heller,” he said, looking up at me like a sorrowful hound, “there’s a limit on what I can do.”

  “Well, here’s something you can do. I think either a blowtorch or a flamethrower of some kind was used in the killing. A flamethrower could be hard to trace…it might be a souvenir from the last war. But a blowtorch ought to be rare on an island like this—except in one place: where wartime building’s going on. These airfields under construction, for example. If I can’t get permission to check into that myself, you should.”