Carnal Hours nh-6

by Max Allan Collins

  “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.”

  “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 lic
enses 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?”

  17

  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.

  It tore right off its rusty hinges, splintering, and fell straight onto Barker, flattening him; Barker and the door falling knocked Curtis back and down, and left him tied in his chair, on his back, gaping up at me.

  Melchen was glaring at me in shock and outrage as light burst into the gloomy little room and so did I.

  “Heller! What the fuck are you-”

  “You call this the third degree? We invented the third degree in Chicago. Perhaps you ladies need a demonstration.”

  “You’re under arrest, asshole!” Melchen sputtered, moving toward me with fists raised.

  I kicked him in the balls.

  He was doubled over screaming when I dragged Barker out from under the door; he was only half-conscious, so I helped him wake up by slapping him around a little.

  Then I shoved him over onto the feed sacks; the Duke of Windsor’s lanky fingerprint expert sprawled there stupidly, his mouth hanging open and a little bloody drool trickling out.

  Fatboy Melchen, whose face was streaked with tears, had recovered somewhat and charged me like a bull; his big hard head ground into the pit of my stomach and the air went out of me like a blown-out tire. But I stayed on my feet and belted him in the side of the head, weakly, winded as I was, though it was enough to distract him.

  Gasping but better, I straightened him up and slammed a fist into the center of his fat face; the crunch of his nose was a sweet sound. He tumbled backward, hit some shelving, and jars of nails and nuts and bolts rained on him; he sat down hard, breathing the same way. He looked up at me, wondering if he should get up again.

  “Mister!”

  It was Curtis, warning me that Barker was getting
up off the feed bags; the warning helped, because I turned, but it didn’t keep me from getting tackled by the tall, loose-limbed cop. He pushed me onto the fallen door and started throwing punches into my midsection. I grabbed a handful of his greasy hair, yanked his head back and gave him a forearm in the throat.

  He let go of me, rolling off; then he was like a bug on its back, as he struggled to breathe, hands on his throat as if trying to strangle himself. I got back on my feet, but so had Melchen, who had found a wrench amongst the tools and was looking at me with a face running with blood from his mashed nose. His eyes looked crazed.

  “I’m goin’ to kill you, you Yankee son of a bitch!”

  The wrench cut the air, and I ducked, and it cut the air again, even more viciously, with an arcing swoosh, and I ducked again, and Melchen was smiling through the blood streaming down over his piglike teeth, enjoying himself.

  Barker was on his knees, as if praying, and with one hand on his throat and the other gesturing wildly, he wheezed to his partner, “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him…witnesses…too many witnesses….”

  Barker caught Melchen’s attention with this touching speech, briefly, and that was when I kicked the fat fuck in the balls again.

  His howl filled the little room, and he dropped to his knees, clutched himself and bawled like a baby. Which is exactly what I’d have done in his place.

  I picked up the wrench and walked over to Barker, who was still on his knees. Curtis, on the floor in his chair, was grinning like a fox in the henhouse.

  “No…don’t…” Barker whimpered. He didn’t look like such a tough Hollywood-type copper now. His hands assumed a praying position. Seeing him beg like that would’ve made me laugh, if it hadn’t made me sick.

  I tossed the wrench over on the feed bags.

  “Get up and help your partner to his feet.” I righted Curtis and his chair. “You mind if I let ’em go in the farmhouse and wash themselves up?”

  Curtis said, “Dat’s fine.”

  “Go on,” I told Barker. “Go make yourselves presentable.”

  Barker helped Melchen up and out of the shack; the tall cop gathered their suitcoats, then with an arm supporting Melchen, hobbled toward the farmhouse, through a laughing gauntlet of black faces. The native workers had gathered in the backyard to watch and listen to the fight, and now they were applauding and cheering at the sight of the two battered white cops.