Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07

by Carnal Hours (v5. 0)

  To her credit, she chuckled and said, “You are bad. I understand you’re going to clear Freddie of this ridiculous charge.”

  “Fred’s got the deck stacked against him,” I said. “I was just explaining to Nancy how some of Nassau’s social lions are ducking my inquiries.

  “Really,” Lady Diane said, and her brow creased and she seemed honestly troubled. “We can’t have that, can we? Why don’t I arrange a little soirée out at Shangri La?”

  “Pardon?”

  Nancy said, “Shangri La is Axel Wenner-Gren’s estate…it’s over there…fabulous place.”

  “And Axel won’t mind?” I asked dryly. “Being as he’s in Mexico and all?”

  Lady Diane’s laugh was brittle, too, but it had a certain musicality. “I’m sure Axel won’t mind. Who does a girl have to fuck around here to get a drink?”

  “Oh, Di,” Nancy said, giggling, a little embarrassed, “you’re awful.”

  “I’ll get you a drink,” I said. “You can pay up later.”

  “You are b-a-d, Heller,” Lady Diane said. “Gin and tonic, darling.”

  I went over to the portable bar, where a white guy in a tuxedo was bartending under the hot sun, and bought her a drink and myself a rum and Coke; it only cost me about half what a week’s rent did back home at the Morrison Hotel. This rich bitch appealed to me, for some strange masochistic reason. If my heart didn’t belong to a dusky native girl, I might have done something about it.

  I took my seat again, but Lady Diane was gone.

  “She went in for a dip,” Nancy said. “To cool off.”

  “With that mouth of hers,” I said, “it’s no wonder.”

  “Isn’t she fabulous?”

  “Fabulous is the word. Who the hell is she? How do you get to be a ‘lady,’ anyway?”

  “In Di’s case, by marrying a lord. She’s the widow of one of the Duke of Windsor’s closest friends…his equerry.”

  “The Duke always did strike me as a little effeminate.”

  She made a face; a pretty one. “Nate, an equerry is in charge of horses.”

  “I know. It was a joke.”

  She smirked. “You are…”

  “Please don’t tell me I’m bad. Tell me more about Di before she gets back.”

  Nancy shrugged, raised her patrician chin. “She’s only one of the most important women in the Bahamas…possibly second only to Wallis Simpson. She’s a professional woman, Nate, which is something of a rarity around here. She’s been Axel Wenner-Gren’s executive secretary for almost a decade.”

  “Who pulled the strings to get her a job like that? The Duke?”

  “Actually, yes. He and Axel are extremely close friends. Now that Axel’s been blacklisted, so very unfairly I might add, Di is managing the Wenner-Gren assets for the duration.”

  “And she’s bunking in at Shangri La?”

  Nancy arched an eyebrow. “More than that—she’s running it, maintaining it, with something of a skeleton crew. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. I can’t tell you what it means to have her offer to throw a party for our benefit…no one will decline an invitation from Lady Diane.”

  She came running up, as if fleeing from the sun, pulling a white rubber cap off her mane of blond hair, which sprang free, glimmeringly, the supple muscles of her long legs grabbing as her feet caught the sand.

  For a moment she stood there before me, though she must have known that brown pubic patch was showing right through; so were small erect nipples on the oversize breasts. She picked up the drink I’d brought her, guzzled it greedily, set down the empty glass and grinned at me. There was something savage about that grin; the look in her eyes was gleeful.

  Then she threw the robe around herself, tossed back her hair. With the rouge washed away from the pouty lips, she looked even better. Naturally pretty, instead of calculatedly beautiful.

  “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Nathan Heller,” she said, biting off each word, sitting forward brazenly. “You tell Nancy who you want invited—Harold Christie, the Duke and Duchess, Humphrey Bogart, Jesus Christ, Tojo…and I guarantee you they’ll be there.”

  “You understand I mean to corner ’em one by one, and grill ’em.”

  “I simply adore barbecue,” she said. “It’s so…American. Got a smoke, honey?”

  That last was for Nancy, who pulled a pack of Chesterfields from the pocket of her own terry robe, and gave one to Di, had one herself and offered me one.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “I thought all you ex-GIs smoked,” Di said.

  “Who told you I was an ex-GI?”

  “I did,” Nancy admitted.

  “I asked all about you,” Di said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m bored.” She laughed again, a more full-bodied laugh this time. “This must really be paradise for you, Heller…all these young women around without their husbands. You see, an old gal of thirty-six like me has to work a little harder to stay in the game.”

  I had missed it by only a year. Mrs. Heller’s son was a detective.

  “I would have said twenty-five,” I said.

  She liked that; threw her head back regally. “It’s an effort. Why do you think I keep this precious skin of mine out of the sun? I keep telling Nancy, if she insists on tanning, she’ll be as leathery as an alligator’s bum by the time she’s thirty.”

  “Di,” Nancy protested, shaking her head, smiling.

  “Besides,” Di said, gesturing with cigarette in hand, “I burn like a son of a bitch!”

  Considering how Nancy’s father died, that struck me as in bad taste; but Nancy didn’t seem to notice.

  “And,” I said to Di, “you swear like a sailor.”

  Her mouth made amused little movements. “A lot of men find that attractive.”

  “You run into a lot of men around these parts, do you?”

  “Not real ones.” Then she smiled enigmatically, or thought she did: there was no enigma about it, as far as I was concerned.

  “I’m glad to see you two hit it off so famously,” Nancy said.

  “I almost never give beautiful blondes too bad a time,” I said.

  “So, Mr. Heller,” Lady Diane said, blowing the air a kiss as she made a smoke ring, “what do you say? Shall I throw a wingding for you? Cracked crab and caviar and all the champagne my well-heeled boss can afford in his absence?”

  “Why not?” I said. “Just so long as it’s all kosher.”

  Nancy looked shocked, but Di only laughed heartily again.

  “Bad,” she said, smiling, shaking her head.

  When I got back to the British Colonial, I had a message to call Eliot Ness in Washington, D.C. I caught him in his office at the Department of Health.

  “Remember I said I thought Christie had some fed trouble in Boston, years ago?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Come up with something?”

  “Oh yeah. My contact there also recalls an outstanding warrant out on the boy, dating back to the early thirties, for false registry of a ship.”

  “Hot damn. Eliot, if you can get me copies of the documents, that’ll go a long way toward discrediting Christie as a witness for the Crown.”

  “It’s going to take a while, I’m afraid.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s no listing for Christie in the federal indexes to indicate any infraction.”

  “Hell! Somebody pulled his records, you mean?”

  “That would be nearly impossible—removing a number from the index would be one thing, destroying the actual record would be something else again. I’ve got a man going through every number in the indexes, looking for any missing numbers.”

  I was smiling. “And if you come up with any, you can request the records the missing file numbers refer to. Ness, you’re a detective.”

  “Heller, be patient. Even if I can find these records, there’ll be yards of red tape getting certified copies. There are a few hurdles in wartime that we don’t normally have.”r />
  “Just drive a steel-nosed truck through ’em.”

  “See what I can do. How much time do I have?”

  “The preliminary hearing’s coming up in a few days. We’re at least a month away from the trial itself.”

  “Good,” he said, sounding relieved.

  “I can’t tell you how I appreciate this, Eliot…”

  “Don’t thank me yet—there’s more. Not about Christie, but I did ask some friends in the FBI, and in law enforcement circles down Miami way, about your friends Barker and Melchen.”

  “And?”

  “The word is they’re bent.”

  “How bent?”

  “They climbed through the ranks thanks to corruption and mob ties. Unfortunately, there’s never been any charges brought against them, except insubordination.”

  “In other words, they’re not popular with the cleaner cops.”

  “That’s it. But it hasn’t stopped their mutual rise to captain.”

  I laughed humorlessly. “And here they are in the Bahamas, at the Duke of Windsor’s behest.”

  “That’s what stymies me, Nate—why? Why in hell would the Duke of Windsor invite two crooked cops from Miami in to run an investigation of such international magnitude?”

  “Eliot, if you were any more eloquent, I’d have to kiss you.”

  “I’m glad this is a phone conversation, then. I’ll work on the Christie documents. You keep your head up—those Miami boys play dirty.”

  “I’ve been known to throw a punch or two below the belt myself,” I reminded him.

  I made a quick call to Captain Miller, the warden at Nassau Jail, and asked if he could arrange an impromptu meeting with Freddie. I already knew Miller was sympathetic to de Marigny’s cause; the warden had made it clear (between the lines of several conversations we’d had) that he thought this was a railroad job.

  So within half an hour I was sitting on the stool in Freddie’s cell, while the Count sat on his cot, his long legs akimbo. Cleanshaven now, his chin looked weaker, his nose larger, and he didn’t look at all satanic: just pale and skinny and troubled.

  “Whether the cops think so or not,” I said, “we’ve got two murders now: Sir Harry and Arthur. But before somebody silenced Arthur, he described two men to me who resemble a pair of goons in the employ of Meyer Lansky.”

  He sat forward. “The gangster?”

  “The gangster. Actually, he’s more like an accountant these days, but they say the little guy made his bones by going around breaking legs side by side with Bugsy Siegel. Anyway, there’s little doubt Christie was in bed with Lansky back in rum-running days—and I just learned this afternoon that both Melchen and Barker are connected, too.”

  He winced in confusion. “Connected in what manner?”

  “I mean, they’re in the mob’s pocket. There’s a lot of mobsters in Florida, Freddie—trust me on that. My question to you is, why the hell would the syndicate have a reason to murder Harry Oakes?”

  De Marigny’s eyes were bulging; he seemed bewildered. “I have no idea…though it is no news to me that Harold Christie and Meyer Lansky have done business.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’ve been rumors for months now that Lansky and Christie are making plans to put casinos in, here in Nassau, and to develop some of the other islands into, what do you call it in America? Tourist traps.”

  “Like Lansky’s already done with Havana,” I said.

  “Precisely.”

  “But isn’t gambling illegal here?”

  He shook his head. “No. In fact, it was made legal just a few years ago—however, only for tourists, not residents. Before the war, the Bahamian Club operated openly, with the Royal Governor’s blessing.”

  “What was that? A casino, you mean?”

  “Yes. For the rich who winter here. But since America entered the war, assigning such licenses has been suspended.”

  “But when the war’s over, the floodgate will open.”

  He nodded vigorously. “Certainly. Tourism—and, I would imagine, gambling—should flourish.”

  I thought about that. Then I said, “Could Sir Harry have been blocking Lansky and Christie, somehow, in their plans to bring casinos to Nassau?”

  De Marigny shrugged elaborately. “But why? Is a man who owns the largest hotel in Nassau against tourism?”

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “Just doesn’t make sense….”

  “Anyway, Harry was powerful on the island, but it only went so far—he bought himself a seat on the legislature, but the real ruling class of Nassau is the Bay Street Pirates.”

  “And the head buccaneer is Harold Christie.”

  He shrugged facially and gestured with an open hand. “But of course.”

  I lifted a forefinger. “Suppose Christie had his own reasons for having Sir Harry killed, and just reached out to his mob associates to help get the job done?”

  De Marigny looked doubtful. “Christie and Sir Harry were the best of friends, Mr. Heller.”

  “Most murders are committed by friends or relatives.”

  That made him nod knowingly. “They did share many business interests…. Should some matter of money go awry, who knows what one friend might do to another?”

  “But of course,” I said.

  “By the way,” he said cheerfully, “if you need any help, don’t forget my man Curtis Thompson. How’s your petrol holding out in that Chevrolet?”

  “I could use a fill-up.”

  “Go see Curtis. And he may have some insights into the murder of that native, Arthur.”

  “I will. Maybe he can help with something else, as well.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m also trying to track down a native named Samuel—Sir Harry’s night watchman. I had Marjorie Bristol checking around for me, but I’ve asked her to limit her inquiries somewhat. After Arthur’s killing, I’m afraid of putting her at risk.”

  He sighed appreciatively. “She’s a lovely woman, Miss Bristol.”

  “Yes she is.”

  His smile was a wavery, sardonic line. “And what did you think of Lady Diane?”

  “That’s one beautiful bitch.”

  His laugh echoed in the high-ceilinged cell. “New Providence is a horrible little island—but aren’t the women wonderful?”

  Around dusk, with the weather turned almost cool, I drove east on Bay Street and took the right onto the dirt road that led to de Marigny’s chicken farm. The gas gauge needle was on E, so I hoped Curtis Thompson was around to provide me with “petrol,” or I’d be hoofing it back to town.

  When I pulled into the crushed-rock driveway of the almost ramshackle limestone farmhouse, I knew at once something was wrong: six or eight of de Marigny’s native helpers, in their somewhat tattered work clothes and straw hats, were milling around, wide-eyed, looking like a Stepin Fetchit convention.

  Nearby was a black police car, parked on the grass near the cut-down oil drum where not so long ago I’d seen the Count and his men scalding the feathers off dead chickens; the fire was unlit today, but something was in the air, even if it wasn’t smoke.

  I hopped out of the Chevy and approached the milling men.

  “What’s up, fellas? Where’s Curtis?”

  They looked at each other, nervously; several were shaking their heads. Fear and anger mingled in their dark faces.

  “Where the hell is Curtis? What are the cops doing here?”

  One of them, a kid perhaps eighteen with sad, smart eyes, said, “Dose son of a bitches take Curtis out back.”

  “Where out back?”

  Another stepped forward, chin jutting bravely; he pointed. “Dat toolshed back dere. Two white cops from de U.S.A.”

  Melchen and Barker—law enforcement’s favorite vaudeville team.

  “Are they alone?” I asked. “Did any Nassau cops come along?”

  They shook their heads, no.

  “Not even a colored driver?”

  They kept shaking their heads
in the negative.

  Those two bastards coming out here alone wasn’t a good sign. On the other hand, it did make my job easier….

  “You fellas stay here,” I said. “If any other cops show up, come running and tell me.”

  The toolshed was well in back of the house, near where the yard ended and forest began; a limestone building a shade smaller than a one-car garage, the shed had a thatch roof and a dirt-caked window on each wall. I looked in the nearest window but all I saw was a fat back in a white sweat-soaked shirt. Both no doubt belonged to Melchen.

  I looked in another smudgy window and got the picture: Melchen was standing, hands on hips, watching as Barker stood barking at Curtis Thompson, who was sitting in an old wooden chair, his hands tied behind him with wire, his ankles bound the same way, to the rungs.

  The shed itself was pretty sparse—some shelves of tools and jars of nails and such; some feed bags; some bales of wire, from which they’d probably got what they bound Curtis with. The floor was hard dirt.

  Both cops were in rolled-up shirtsleeves, ties loose, no shoulder holsters in sight—which made me smile….

  Barker paused and Curtis—his handsome ebony face streaked with blood, his mouth and his left eye looking puffy—said nothing. Barker slapped him savagely.

  I went around to the door. On the ground to one side, neatly folded, were the men’s two suitcoats. Brutality and tidiness going hand in hand. Just beyond the weathered door I was facing, Barker stood with his back to me, working Curtis over.

  I could hear what Barker was saying, through the cracked, ancient wood.

  “De Marigny’s going to hang, anyhow, and you’ll be smack out of work! Be a good little darkie—cooperate and we’ll see you get a new job, a good job….”

  Curtis said nothing.

  Melchen’s Southern-fried voice kicked in: “All you got to do, boy, is say you drove de Marigny out to Westbourne the night of the murder. You didn’t take no part in it—you didn’t know what he was up to…you just sat in the car and waited for him.”

  “Curtis,” Barker said in a mock civil tone, “maybe you need your memory jogged a little more….”

  That was when I kicked the door down.