Ashes From A Burning Corpse (An American True Crime Reporter in the 20th Century Book 3)

by Noel Hynd

  “A few. I wrote and narrated a radio show on NBC a few years ago. A series called Wanted: Armed and Dangerous! True crime. Criminals at large. I was the radio voice. It was produced by a man named Aaron Fairstein.”

  “Ah! I know Aaron,” Schindler said. “Are you two still friends?”

  “Very much so,” I said.

  “Yes, yes, I now recall. Well, listen, Alan, when the dice are hot, the dice are hot,” he said, draining his glass. “Keep rolling them.” His eyes left me for a moment and he surveyed the room.

  He lowered his voice. “Those two men over there,” he said, indicating with his eyes two white men in the opposite corner, “work for Governor Christie. Security people. Very unofficial. Dumb as mules but equally stubborn. That’s what you get down here in the inbred tropics. It’s okay, you can glance.”

  I turned and looked toward the bar, catching a view at the same time.

  “I’ve had my antenna up ever since I arrived,” Schindler said. “I can honestly tell you that I feel as welcome here in Nassau as a good island-wide outbreak of bubonic plague.” He laughed.

  “Sorry about that, Ray,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said, dismissing it. “I’m used to it. They’ve got a salt and pepper team following me, also,” Schindler said. “The colored one is outside in a green Buick. The white guy is down at the second table with two women. They don’t think I spotted them yet, but they followed me from the airport yesterday. Now that they’ve seen me with you, you might have a tail, also. Or we can stay together and they can follow us both at once.”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “Look at those security people again when you can, Alan,” he said. “Look at their shoes.”

  I stole a glance. “Okay. So?” I said.

  “Police shoes. Standard issue for the Bahamian police. Even the flatfoots out there conducting traffic have the same footwear. That’s how dumb they are. They don’t even realize that I can pick out the undercover people by glancing at their feet.” He paused. “Now, you can, too. Cheers,” he said, lifting a refreshed drink.

  “Cheers,” I said, reciprocating with the drink.

  “On the street, they work teams of five, two at a time. The overall direction seems to come from a mulatto thug in a farm-stand truck, as if I’m not supposed to notice. Each one has a sun visor turned down on the passenger side so they can spot each other. I’m not supposed to spot these either, I suppose. Keep your eyes open, Alan. If you make yourself unpopular enough, you’ll draw a team or two, also. I assume you’re here on the Oakes case,” he said.

  “Correct.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “True Magazine. Fawcett Publications,” I said. “Not a literary journal like The American Mercury which I also work for, but they have a solid checkbook and it pays the rent.”

  He nodded. He knew them. Everyone did. True was a man’s magazine. Action, adventure, crime and sanitized pictures of wholesome girlies in peril. It was hot on the newsstands and popular in barber shops. People also sent it to their soldiers overseas.

  “At the end of the day, what else matters?” he asked. Schindler’s eyes found me again. “So how long have you been down here in Nassau?” he asked. “When did you arrive?”

  “More than a week ago. Seems like a month.”

  “Have you had your eyes open?”

  “It would be dangerous not to, wouldn’t it?”

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Bring me up to date. And for God’s sake keep your dulcet voice down in this place.”

  “I think there are a lot of loose pieces with the case against Alfred de Marigny,” I began. “You know as well as I do, a murder case, any major crime, has its own logic or even a logical strain of illogic. I don’t see it here. Not yet.”

  “The money angle,” Ray said. “The potential inheritance? There’s a story that Oakes was going to cut him off, or already did.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But there’s still Lady Oakes and Nancy and a bunch of sibling, so the wealth isn’t going to flow through that cleanly.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “I’ve done a little pencil and paperwork,” I said. “Not with the official versions, but with what people are saying. If the Count gave a true summary of his movements the night of the crime, he would have had to be a magician to transport himself from his cottage to Westbourne to commit the crime.”

  “He could be lying.”

  “He could also be telling the truth. There are other problems, too. Is the Count the type of fellow to slug and burn Sir Harry, then stick around to sprinkle him with feathers, with Sir Harry’s good friend Harold Christie snoring in the next room? I can’t picture it.”

  “Money will drive many men to extremes. And we know the Count likes money.”

  “For whatever else his faults are,” I said, “and he has plenty, nothing de Marigny’s past indicates that de Marigny is a violent man. Far from it. And, come on, Ray, what about the feathers, anyway? That feather business was strictly dark-of-the-moon stuff. De Marigny is a light-of-the-moon character, whatever else you might think of him.”

  “Valid points,” Schindler said. He laughed.

  “Further, why are they so fast to order a noose and build a case against him? Did you hear about that? They’ve already ordered a rope to hang the man.”

  “I heard. What do you think of those Miami gumshoes that His Highness the Duke of Windsor hired?”

  “Not much.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “In my opinion, these Miami dicks are a couple of burned out hacks. If they were ever any good as cops, they don’t seem to be flashing any brilliance these days. They arrived without fingerprint equipment, did you hear that?”

  “I heard. Anything else?”

  “About the cops? Sure. Miami has one of the most corrupt departments in the country. It’s a Mafia town and seven eights of the department are probably on the pad.”

  “And the crime itself?”

  “I’m not convinced Sir Harry was killed in his bed. He may have been killed elsewhere and the body was moved. Don’t know. Then a fire was set to cover the crime, but the killer failed to set an efficient fire. Forget about that part for now. Harry was a big man. De Marigny hit him four times, then moved the body by himself? I’m not able to envision that, either. So, who helped him? His wife? Servants? Harold Christie? It’s preposterous, Ray. There’s too much here that doesn’t fit.”

  Schindler’s head tiled back and he laughed. “That’s what I always liked about you, Alan. You could smell the bull crap a mile away.”

  “Let’s just say the stench is pretty strong here,” I said. “Now, you talk. Why are you here? I don’t know you to be travelling pro bono in wartime.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “Why would I?”

  Just then, the decibel level in the bar dropped by half. Ray and I looked around to see what had caused it. Bing Crosby still crooned from the radio, but something had changed the room tone and even the atmospheric pressure.

  It didn’t take long to spot the reason. Two men, one big and hefty the other small and wiry, had come through the door from the outside. Everyone else in the bar seemed to know who they were. They sauntered past us, gave us a long look as if to suggest that they didn’t like the fact that they didn’t recognize us. But they kept going.

  They were in tropical suits and walked with their arms folded behind their backs. The wiry one walked a few steps in front of his partner. I knew plainclothes security people when I saw them and these were them. Whose was another question.

  The wiry one wore a yellow tie and a straw boater. His suit jacket was soaked. He had slightly tinted glasses and a sharp face like a weasel, dark eyes and an unbending expression. His partner was half a head taller in a canvas pith helmet. He wore the map of Ireland. He had a broad open face with some of the small broken veins of a man who drank heavily. His gaze was locked on me. His face looked like ten pounds of corned beef floating in beer. The two o
f them exuded menace, each in their own way. They were as subtle as a couple of deep belches.

  They did a brief tour of the place. Almost imperceptibly, the small one gave a short nod to one of the cops that Ray had indicated at the table near the bar. The cop gave a little gesture back. No words were spoken.

  I glanced at their footwear. Police shoes. No surprise.

  They shot us another glance when they were on the way out. Then they were gone.

  “It’s wartime,” I said to Ray.

  “I hear it’s always wartime in the colonies,” Ray answered. “Be careful in the Bahamas Alan. Everything you say, everything you hear, everything you see, chances are someone’s watching.”

  Another drink arrived for each of us. Ray leaned forward. He lowered his voice yet again, keeping beneath the din of the room so that only I could hear him.

  “When Nancy Oakes was in the United States,” he said, “to take her husband to his burial in Maine, a mutual friend came to my office. Dr. Paul Zahl. He’s a New York physician and very friendly with Nancy. They travel in the same social sets. Know him?”

  “Too wealthy for my circles,” I said.

  “Nancy Oakes de Marigny is in a tough squeeze,” Schindler said. “The girl loved her father and she loves her husband. One of her loves is charged with murdering the other. She can’t believe that her husband is guilty of the murder, or that he even had the slightest knowledge of it. So Paul Zahl came to see me. He asked me to get into the case.”

  Schindler was a natural recommendation, considering the society in which Nancy Oakes moved.

  “Alan, I’d been reading about the murder in the papers,” Schindler said thoughtfully. “I didn’t jump at the proposition offered by Dr. Zahl on behalf of the slain man’s daughter. It’s another country, another justice system, another system of power and wealth lurking beneath the surface. This is a sunny place for shady people, the Bahamas. From the ex-King, who’s a long way away from being the smartest member of a particularly stupid royal family, right down to the colored kids selling funny cigarettes down at the far end of Bay Street. And if you don’t like what you see here in Nassau, you should get a gander at what goes down on the other islands. You’ve got colored men out there that are barely civilized. The grandsons of slaves, living on islands which have no electricity or running water, much less indoor plumbing. So first, I told Zahl, I’d have to get a letter from Nancy de Marigny saying that if, while investigating the case, I find her husband guilty instead of innocent, I have permission to turn the results of my investigation over to the Crown, via Nassau authorities. Dr. Zahl flew to Nassau and returned with a suitable letter. Then the question of fee was discussed. I come at a high price, everyone knows that. Nancy de Marigny has the money to afford me plus a lot more. Meanwhile, I’d gone to the Pacific Coast on another case. My brother phoned me in California, I suspended the West Coast investigation and flew here. I arrived yesterday and met with Nancy.”

  “So, you’re working for Nancy?”

  “Let me tell you what she told me, Alan. Those two Miami clowns Barker and Melchen cornered the widow a few hours after her husband was buried. It was up in Maine. They flew up there just to lean on her, from what I can see. They summarized the murder for her, their opinion. They claimed an intruder came onto the Oakes estate, picked up a sharp stick or object from the outdoors, came into Harry’s bedroom and attacked him. Then the intruder poured some flammable liquid on him, maybe kerosene, maybe insecticide, and set him on fire. Then they claim Harry woke up screaming, rose up and tried to fight back. The Chinese screen got knocked onto the intruder, who grabbed it, then Harry was overcome by flames, settled back onto his bed, roasted and died. And the fire was relit.”

  “By the Frenchman all by himself? That doesn’t work.”

  “That’s their case. The cops claim de Marigny’s fingerprints were on the screen.”

  “If that’s even true, who knows how and when the fingerprints got there?” I asked. “De Marigny was Harry’s son-in-law. He had been to Westbourne before.”

  “Exactly,” Ray said. “Nancy also said that Barker and Melchen’s explanation of the crime was thoroughly unconvincing: a halfwit Punch and Judy show.”

  “And what about Harold Christie sleeping in the next room?” I asked. “He didn’t hear anything?”

  Ray’s eyes went to his drink. He swirled it in his glass. He looked back up at me.

  “Christie’s an immensely powerful man here, Alan,” he said. “Be careful when you stroll in that direction.”

  I was taken aback by his change of tone. I was about to follow up his warning with a question, but he continued too quickly.

  “Miami,” he sniffed. “I was in Miami in 1929. I had to visit a police station to interview a potential client. The police officers, the detectives, they all knew me, of course, thanks to gentlemen like you, Alan, who write me up so graciously.” He winked. “I arrived there by taxi but they gave me a motorcycle escort to the main train station. It was a terrifying ride.” He paused. “They were drunk. All drunk. My driver and the motorcycle escort. It seemed that they were all buddies with some bootleggers. A bunch of busybody revenue agents had just seized several trucks full of booze. They’d turned over half of it to the cops who were going to give it back to the rum runners. But the mob guys are generous souls, as you know, and take great pleasure in helping working men. They’d left ten cases in the police headquarters and the boys had been sampling it. Never mind whether real police work was being done. Between us, Alan, the fact that these two dicks are brass in Miami doesn’t impress me goddam one bit, even if it impresses the featherbrained Crown Governor. In fact, just the opposite! Cheers.”

  Ray lifted his glass and we drank to the thought. Then he leaned back and seemed to study me.

  “What are you doing tomorrow, Alan?” he asked.

  “Hanging around hot and sweaty Nassau to see what develops,” I said.

  “Alan, let me ask you something. Do you know my friend, Joe Cook?

  “The vaudeville entertainer?” I asked.

  “The one and only,” Schindler said.

  “I know who he is. Everyone does. I don’t know him personally.”

  Schindler had many glittery friends. Cook was just one of scores. Joe Cook, who’d been born out in the heartland somewhere under the name of Joe Lopez, had risen to the highest levels of vaudeville, headlining at New York’s famed Palace Theatre. He later conquered Broadway and then radio. In the 1920s and 1930s, when he’d played the most prestigious houses from New York to San Francisco plus the sweaty midwestern metropolises in between, Cook was one of America’s most popular entertainers.

  I had seen Joe Cook perform in New York many times. Joe’s talents were endless. He could ride a unicycle, juggle Indian clubs and skip across a tightrope while telling hilarious stories that made audiences howl with laughter. My friend Walter Winchell once noted in his Broadway column, that “Joe Cook is certainly one of the musical theatre’s three geniuses. I can’t at the moment think of the other two.”

  I knew from my pal Mike Todd that Joe had recently made a couple of movies. I also knew he had been ill and his performances had been curtailed.

  “Joe lives out in New Jersey,” Schindler said. “Lake Hopatcong. When we get off this lousy sand bar and back to civilization,” Schindler said, “we’ll make a Sunday date and drive out. Bring your wife and daughter. We call Joe’s house ‘Sleepless Hollow,’ mostly for the celebrities and the parties. The place is gag-infested. You’ll see.”

  “How can a house be gag-infested?”

  “Joe has a three-hole golf course. On hole two, you tee off onto a clear fairway, but the ball rebounds back at you. Joe camouflaged a boulder with green paint. The last green is a trip to duffer’s heaven: the green is a funnel. No matter where your ball lands it rolls into the cup. Conditions inside Joe’s mansion are similarly cock-eyed,” Ray continued. “He employs old vaudeville friends who’ve fallen on hard times. He’s got a Swe
dish maid who’s a midget. A butler who’s a contortionist. A chauffeur who’s an acrobat. You always keep your eyes open.”

  We shared the laughter. Heads turned and watched us from the other side of the room.

  “Why are you mentioning this?” I asked. “What’s it got to do with the Bahamas?”

  “Everything.” Ray leaned forward. His low tone of voice went even lower. “Why don’t you come along with me while I nose around and ask some questions. Just be in the background. Keep your eyes and ears open. I could use the extra set of both. What do you say?”

  “Work with you?”

  “Accompany me. Observe. I like the way you think.”

  “May I write about what I see?’

  “Within limits. Someday, of course, everything. For now, we’ll work it out.”

  “I’m game,” I said.

  We shook. I was flattered, working with the great one. But I was no fool. Ray liked to have a publicist as well as a witness. It was a deal that worked well in both directions.

  “Listen,” Ray said as we split the bill and stood up to leave. “I’m working for Nancy. But let me be clear. My job is not to find the killer. My job is to keep her husband’s neck out of that noose that they’ve already tied for him.”

  I waited a moment.

  “Think he’s innocent?” I asked.

  “Ha! What a question, Alan. I know he’s innocent. But cancelling that date with the hangman? That is another story!”

  CHAPTER 9

  With de Marigny arrested, people seemed willing to talk. A complex portrait emerged of the dead man.

  Harry Oakes was not, as many people thought, an Englishman. He was an American from Sangerville, Maine, the son of a surveyor. Harry’s professional career was pluck-and-luck stuff in the Horatio Alger tradition with one exception. The Alger heroes who climbed from the bottom to the top, snagging a pretty woman during the ascent, were tough and sometimes rough but never nasty. Oakes, on the other hand, bore a resemblance to the storied bachelor who was despondent because he didn’t have a daughter to throw out into a raging snowstorm.