The violet eyes narrowed. “Ah…she was fascinated by that, wasn’t she? I hear from a mutual friend that she’s similarly fascinated by our local Oakes tragedy.”
She turned to Di, took one of her hands in both of hers.
“Lady Medcalf, I must thank you for opening Shangri La’s gates once again-giving our hot little island a cool breath of sea air. You know, I keep expecting to turn and see Axel and that wonderful smile of his.” She sighed. “Since Harry’s death, social functions have been at a standstill. I must say, New York will be a relief.”
The band suddenly shifted from its Cole Porter kick and went into a lilting waltz. The Duchess’ face, already radiant, lit up.
She said, “You’ll have to excuse me-they’re playing ‘The Windsor Waltz’….”
Then she moved gracefully away, going near the bandstand to join the sandy-haired sad-eyed little man in a double-breasted white jacket and black tie who used to be the King of England.
And they waltzed, with the dance floor to themselves as the other guests looked respectfully on, two tiny celebrities smiling at each other in what might have been great love or just a practiced public pose. Either way, there was something bittersweet about it.
I turned to Di. “You had the perfect opportunity to tell her what I’m doing here.”
“You mean, by saying Evalyn McLean recommended you to Nancy?”
“That’s right. Don’t you think the Duchess will be irritated with you, when she finds out who I really am?”
She smirked and shrugged. “I can get away with murder where those two are concerned. I’ve known David longer than Wallis has, remember.”
“Well, when this waltz is over, would you introduce me to ‘David,’ and then spirit Wallis away? I want a word with the Duke.”
“You have but to ask.”
“Lady Diane, why are you so good to me?”
“No offense, but it’s not you, Heller: it’s Nancy. I want her to get her husband back. I lost mine a long time ago, and it still hurts.”
“Sorry. Where is Nancy, anyway?”
“She wasn’t invited; neither was Lady Oakes. It’s easier for you to do what you have to without those two around reminding the room about what they’re all here to forget.”
When the waltz was over, and the applause had died down for the Duke and Duchess, who nodded their recognition of the crowd’s kindness, Di took me over to them and said, “Your Royal Highness, this is…”
“Nathan Heller, isn’t it?”
His voice was soft, gentle.
“That’s right, Your Royal Highness.”
He extended his hand and I took it and the handshake was so brief it seemed almost not to have happened.
He turned his disappointed little boy’s gaze on his wife. “This is the detective whom Sir Harry hired to follow de Marigny. He’s working for Nancy Oakes, now.”
Not Nancy de Marigny: Nancy Oakes.
Wallis winced, ever so slightly, at this news, and when she smiled at me, it was a little chilly.
“Mr. Heller and I met, but he didn’t mention that fact.”
I tried to smile it off. “Seemed an unpleasant topic of conversation, Duchess. Forgive me if I seem to have misled you.”
“Not at all. David, Mr. Heller worked on the Lindbergh case for Evalyn McLean.”
“Is that so?” the Duke said pleasantly but skeptically. “Do you know Charles?”
“Once upon a time I did,” I said. “I haven’t seen Slim in years.”
His eyes flickered. I’d just used a nickname only Lindbergh’s closest friends were privy to.
“Duchess,” Di said, “Rosita Forbes has been dying to say hello, all evening.”
“Oh, well, I’d love to chat with Rosita. Lead the way, dear.”
And that left me with the Duke, standing to one side of the bandstand, where the musicians were taking a break while a piano player noodled Gershwin. We were standing near a potted palm and a pedestal with a bronze statue of an elephant with the mandatory erect trunk.
“Would you mind if I asked you a question, Your Highness?”
“By all means,” he said, and smiled, but his eyes were cold.
“Why did you call Melchen and Barker in to handle the Oakes murder, rather than go to Scotland Yard, or just leave it to your own local police?”
He twitched another smile as he plucked a glass of champagne off the tray of a blond waiter. “Mr. Heller, we had a riot here last year-perhaps you’ve heard about it.”
“Actually, yes,” I said, wondering what this had to do with my question. “I understand natives, hired to help build airfields, discovered they were being paid much less than the imported white American laborers doing the same work. Am I close?”
“More or less. Things got out of hand, Bay Street was a shambles, a pity all the way ‘round. As it happened, I was in the United States on a diplomatic mission…and, frankly, I was, and am, unhappy with the performance of the Nassau police in that matter. If they had been tougher, they might have contained the problem.”
“I see.”
“In addition to which, our police department does not have the proper fingerprint equipment. Captain Barker is an acknowledged expert, you know. And, frankly, the Nassau department is simply altogether too black.”
He sipped his champagne.
“With all due respect, sir, Scotland Yard isn’t ‘too black.’”
“Very true. But this is wartime-with the transport problems we have, Mr. Heller, it might have taken weeks for a London detective to reach Nassau. I knew Captain Melchen to be reliable-he’s been my bodyguard in Miami, on several occasions-and I knew he was literally minutes away.”
“I see.”
He smiled again, tightly. “Now, I simply must circulate. I wish you luck with your inquiries, despite my own antipathy toward the Count de Marigny.”
“Your Highness-forgive me. But I’ve tried to make appointments to see you, and haven’t gotten anywhere. Could you chat with me for just a few minutes more?”
The smile was lost in the folds of a face that for all its boyishness seemed prematurely old. “This is hardly the place for such a conversation.”
“Who else but you can explain why I’ve been denied access to official records of those coming and going to Nassau? And why I’ve been stopped from searching for a blowtorch? And…”
“My dear fellow, you are not an official investigator on this case. Your role is to aid the defense of Count de Marigny-a gentleman who I personally find indefensible, but that’s of no consequence. Excuse me….”
He moved away, and there was no following him. Soon he was at his bride’s side again, as they chatted pleasantly with Di and several other guests.
Out on the patio I spotted Christie and Mrs. Henneage, down by the elephant fountain, having a heated little discussion; she seemed worried, he was placating her. I’d rattled them. Good.
She came up the stone stairs first, while I faded into the background; but when Christie emerged onto the patio, I approached him.
“Mr. Christie-beautiful night. Speaks well of these islands of yours.”
He frowned. “Yes. It is a lovely night. Excuse me.”
I put a hand on his arm. “Let’s just step over here and talk for a moment.”
“You’re hurting my arm.”
I guess I was gripping it a little tight. I let go. “Sorry. Say, you remember my mentioning a fellow named Lansky, in your office last week?”
“Not really. Excuse me….”
I grabbed his arm again; just as hard as before. “You’re not still denying you know him, are you? I have friends in Washington, D.C., who say otherwise.”
He shook free of me, then smiled perhaps the least convincing smile I’ve ever witnessed. “Perhaps I did run into a man of that name, back in my rum-running days.” And now he chuckled just as unconvincingly. “You know, a lot of people around here prefer having lapses of memory where those days are concerned….”
“I hear Lansky’s Hotel Nacional in Havana is running into some trouble. Seems his dictator pal Batista is on shaky ground, lately.”
“I really wouldn’t know.”
“Expanding into the Bahamas with gambling would be a nice way for Lansky to hedge that bet….”
He sighed heavily. “Gambling will come into the Bahamas after the war, Mr. Heller. But if you think any of this has anything to do with Sir Harry’s death, I’d say you’re gravely mistaken.”
“You mean, Sir Harry wasn’t against gambling here?”
Christie snorted. “He couldn’t have cared less about it. Now, good evening, sir.”
And he moved quickly into the ballroom.
I stood in the breeze, wondering what the hell Lansky could have to do with this, if casino gambling wasn’t in the picture. Of course, Christie might be selling me swampland; wouldn’t be the first time for a real-estate agent like him.
By shortly after midnight, the guests had all gone home, and I’d found my way to the guest cottage that was my Nassau home, now. The cottage was one big room with bath, not unlike Marjorie Bristol’s, but bigger, with a living-room area, a fancy console radio and a fully stocked wet bar. I got out of my tux and sat on the soft cushions of the wicker couch; I was in my shorts with my shoes and gartered socks on, drinking a rum and Coke of my own design, and figured the night was over. I’d already thanked Lady Diane for possibly the hundredth time.
But I’d had a few too many drinks tonight to make much sense of the various conversations I’d had. What the hell had I accomplished? Christie seemed guilty of nothing more than boffing Mrs. Henneage; HRH David Windsor actually had acceptable reasons for bringing in the Miami dicks; and Harold Christie claimed Sir Harry didn’t give a shit if gambling came to the Bahamas.
“Heller?”
She was silhouetted in the side doorway.
“I’m not decent,” I said.
“I know that,” she laughed, and came on in, a bucket of iced champagne in her arms, two glasses in hand.
She was wearing a sheer robe over a sheer nightgown; you could see everything and nothing, the swell of her breasts, their rosy tips, sort of, a dark blond triangle between her legs, maybe. She came over, set down the bucket on the bamboo coffee table before us, and poured herself a glass.
“There was bubbly left. Want some?”
“No thanks.” I raised the rum and Coke. “I’m all set.”
She clinked her glass against mine, turning my gesture into a toast.
“How did you do tonight, Heller?”
“I’m not sure. Anybody indicate they were unhappy with you for having me as a guest?”
“No one dared. Not even David. I’m a law unto myself, you know.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
She smelled good; it was a familiar scent.
“What’s that perfume?” I asked.
“My Sin.”
Marjorie had worn that, the day we met.
I stood. I walked over to the double glass doors along one side of the cottage and studied the dark shadows of the palms and ferns. Listened to the caw of exotic birds and the roar of the ocean beyond.
Then she was at my side, touching my arm. “You look charming in your shorts, Heller.”
“The shoes and garters are a nice touch, don’t you think?”
She slipped an arm around my waist. “You’ve got a nice body.”
I swallowed. “All the girls think so.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
She took me by the chin and reached up and kissed me; it was a hot, sticky kiss, lipstick and booze and cigarette smell, kind of sickening and wonderful at the same time. Those soft, bruised lips of hers played my mouth like a cornet.
When the kiss was over, I said, “It’s just too soon, Di.”
“Too soon for us?”
“You don’t understand. I’m…I’m not ready. I’m trying to get over somebody.”
“Well, you know, my brother used to play rugby.”
“Really.”
“And he told me what a good coach always says.”
“What’s that?”
“Pick yourself up, get back into the game.”
She dropped to her knees and her hand slipped inside the front of my shorts and she took me out and held me. Stroked me. Kissed me.
“Oooo,” she said. “What a sign of good luck this trunk makes….”
“I…I’m not sure you should…”
“Shut up, Heller.” Stroking me. “I just love a man on the rebound.”
And then I was in her mouth. And then more of me was in her mouth, and she worked me, and worked me, and worked me some more….
Then I was panting like a winded runner, looking down at her and she was looking up at me smiling whitely, and it wasn’t her teeth.
She stood, smoothed her robe out primly, withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket and touched it to her lips, dabbing politely, as if she’d just finished a petit four.
Then she regarded me with amused eyes.
“They say once a woman does that for a man,” she said, “she owns him.”
I could hear the surf crashing out there. A bird cawing.
“Okay,” I said.
20
Under a cloudless midafternoon sky, on the patio balcony behind the ballroom at Shangri La, a pleasant-looking if intense middle-aged man in a tropical sport shirt, tan slacks and sandals knelt over a hairy coconut about the size of a man’s head, holding high above it, in one tight hand, a white fence picket, its pointed tip pointed down. Modestly handsome, with dark hair, a high, scholar’s forehead and round, wire-rimmed glasses, the slender figure seemed about to perform some strange native ritual, the picket poised like a spear about to strike.
And then with sudden, surprising force, it did strike-only the picket splintered, leaving the coconut intact, its hair barely mussed.
“You see!” Professor Leonard Keeler wore a triumphant little smile. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “And I guarantee you the mastoid bone is stronger than that coconut’s shell.”
“Could any blunt instrument have caused those four wounds behind Sir Harry’s ear?” I asked. “What if a demented old miner Harry screwed over in the Klondike sneaked in, and took four swings with a pickax?”
Keeler, shaking his head no, said, “His whole damn skull would have shattered!”
Coconut in hand, he took a seat next to Erle Stanley Gardner at one of the wrought-iron tables with a view of the elephant fountain and the brilliantly colorful tropical garden that surrounded it. Tropical birds were calling; a humid breeze was whispering.
I had run into Gardner at Blackbeard’s pub, where I’d spent the morning chatting with several prosecution witnesses-Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Ainslie, as well as the American Freddie, Freddie Ceretta-who were sympathetic to the defense. All of them confirmed that they had been taken to Westbourne for questioning on the 9th of July, and all of them confirmed de Marigny’s assertion that he’d been taken upstairs by Melchen at eleven-thirty a.m., contradicting police testimony placing that time at three-thirty p.m.
This was good, to say the least: all I had to do now was talk to Colonel Lindop, which I intended to do later this afternoon. If Lindop confirmed Freddie’s time, we would not only cast doubt on that Chinese-screen fingerprint, but on Barker and Melchen themselves.
Wearing a Western shirt with a string tie, Gardner had sauntered up to me like a pudgy pint-sized gunfighter, surrounded by his three wholesomely pretty secretaries, the fresh-scrubbed trio of sisters to whom he dictated his daily columns as well as radio scripts and chapters in his current novel, in a suite over at the Royal Victoria. They were taking a lunch break, and I was alone in the booth, now.
“Girls, this is the dimestore detective I’ve been telling you about,” he growled good-naturedly. “Still ducking me, eh, Heller? Don’t you know every good Sherlock needs a Watson?”
“Which role do you see as yours?”
He had laughed in his gargling-razor-blades way, and I asked them to join me for lunch-I was already having the pub’s specialty, the Welsh rarebit.
“Thank you, son,” Gardner said, sliding into the booth next to me; the trio of smiling curly-haired girls squeezed in across from us, without a word. They were like mute Andrews Sisters.
After some food and chitchat, Gardner finally said, “Come on, Heller-give an old man a break.”
He probably had all of seven years on me.
But he pressed on: “Like the used-car salesman says, you can trust me…. Anything you say or do that you don’t want me to put in my articles, all you got to do is say so. Just don’t exclude me from the fun.”
“All right,” I said, pushing my plate of mostly eaten food aside. “How would you like to meet the inventor of the lie detector?”
His pop-eyed grin reminded me of a kid being offered his first peek behind the hootchy-kootchy show curtain.
And now Gardner-minus his “girls”-was spending the afternoon with me at Shangri La, as I got my first in-depth appraisal from Len Keeler on the evidence he’d been going over and the tests he’d been making.
Despite his relative youth, Keeler had indeed invented the polygraph, an improvement on a German device that measured changes in a suspect’s blood pressure; Len’s device also monitored respiration rate, pulse and the skin’s electrical conductivity during questioning.
“Do you know what mastoiditis is?” Keeler asked us.
Gardner and I were seated at the wrought-iron table, on which were a pitcher of limeade with glasses, the splintered picket, the coconut, and various death-scene photos, fanned out like a hand of cards. In Sir Harry’s case, a losing hand.
An old friend of mine via Eliot, Keeler-Director of the Chicago Crime Detection Lab at Northwestern University Law School-was more than just the top polygraph man in the country; he was also an authority on scientific crime detection in general. Including fingerprints….
But the subject now was the cluster of four wounds, which the prosecution claimed had been produced by a “blunt instrument.”
“To treat mastoiditis, a surgeon has to take a hammer and chisel to break through the thickness of bone,” Len told us, “and even then, the thinner bones around the mastoid would tend to shatter with the impact.”
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