“I knew it was a possibility.”
“Were they in fact obliterated?”
“Yes.”
“Well, did you at least measure these bloody handprints, to ascertain whether they came from a large hand or small?”
“I suppose I could have.”
“I put it to you that there were other prints on that Chinese screen, which were destroyed by the humidity.”
“That’s true.”
“If the accused was there that night, why weren’t his fingerprints similarly destroyed?”
“We got lucky, finding that one print.”
“Lucky? Is that the appropriate word? Perhaps you should say, ‘It was a miracle that we found it.’”
Melchen, seated in the courtroom, stood; his face was green and desperate. He rushed outside, pushing aside spectators seated on folding chairs in the aisle. At the press table, Gardner stood to look out the nearby window and started grinning. Faintly, despite the churn of fan blades overhead and the buzzing flies, the sound of vomiting could be heard.
“Did it ever occur to you, Captain Barker, that the burns on the accused’s face and arms could have been caused by sunburn?”
Barker glanced over at de Marigny, who sat smiling, eating this testimony up; his pale face mocked Barker.
“Sure,” Barker told Higgs, “but I saw how white he was and ruled that out.”
“Really. Were you not aware that the accused is a yachtsman, and constantly in the sun?”
Barker hadn’t realized de Marigny’s current complexion had to do with spending many weeks indoors of late—in the Nassau Jail.
“I, uh, was struck by the absence of sunburn in a yachtsman.”
Higgs hammered Barker like that all day. He put Barker and Melchen’s slipshod investigative practices—in particular the botched fingerprint work—under a merciless magnifying glass. He made Barker admit that he hadn’t told Melchen about the print until Bar Harbor.
“Captain Barker, I would like you to look at two photographs of fingerprints lifted experimentally by defense expert Leonard Keeler from the area on the screen from which you have testified Exhibit J came.”
Barker took the photographs.
“Can you explain why Exhibit J is so perfect a print—without the wood-grain markings in the background exhibited by these other lifted prints?”
“Well…perhaps these prints were not lifted from the same precise area as Exhibit J.”
“Would you like to experiment yourself, Captain Barker? Would you like to step down and take various sample prints from the Chinese screen, in full view of the court? Perhaps you will be ‘lucky’ again.”
“I, uh…don’t think that would be appropriate.”
“I see. There is, however, a pattern of sorts in the background of Exhibit J, is there not?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything on the background of that screen that resembles these circles?”
“No, sir.”
“When you were lifting prints from that screen on the morning of July nine, did Captain Melchen bring the accused upstairs?”
“I understand that he did.”
“And didn’t you go to the door of the room where Captain Melchen was interviewing the accused, and ask, ‘Is everything okay?’”
“I did not.”
“Wasn’t the accused’s latent print obtained from some object in that room, possibly the drinking glass Captain Melchen asked de Marigny to hand him?”
“Definitely not!”
And the accusatory finger was thrust. “But it was after he left that room that you claimed to have discovered the print, was it not?”
“Yes.”
Higgs walked away, and his voice filled the courtroom in a manner even the theatrical Adderley could have envied.
“I suggest that you and Captain Melchen deliberately planned to get the accused alone in order to get his fingerprints!”
“We did not!” Barker’s composure was a memory now; he was shouting, sweating.
“Your expert testimony has never before been called upon in a case of such great public interest, has it? May I suggest that in your desire for personal gain and notoriety, you have swept aside the truth and substituted fabricated evidence!”
“I emphatically deny that!”
“My lord,” Higgs said, his face solemn with disgust, “I am quite finished with this witness.”
Barker was slumping in the box, his face long, haggard; he’d taken a worse beating from Higgs than the one I gave him. He walked out of the courtroom cloaked in silence—his own, and that of everyone present, a silence that spoke eloquently of its contempt.
The court was adjourned for lunch, and Gardner caught up with me as the crowd pressed toward the outside.
“The prosecution hasn’t rested yet,” Gardner said, “but the defense could win this without calling a witness.”
“Think so?”
“Cut and dried, son—thanks to that fingerprint evidence you came up with. That was a piece of detective work worthy of Paul Drake.”
“Who’s Paul Drake?”
Gardner laughed and slapped me on the back. “I like you, Heller!”
“You’re cute, too, Erle.”
Gardner was right. For all intents and purposes, the trial was over: the frame de Marigny had been fitted for was obvious. The defense held the courtroom for several days, but all was anticlimax.
De Marigny himself was a strong, intense witness who told his own story well, gesturing expressively, his French accent reminding the jurors that this man was fighting for his life in a foreign land. With the help of Higgs, Freddie convincingly portrayed himself as not only a solvent, but successful businessman.
The prosecution was singularly unsuccessful in penetrating his shield of self; Hallinan almost pitifully focused on whether or not Freddie had a right to call himself “Count,” only to find out he indeed did, but chose not to, even having instructed the local newspapers never to use the title.
De Marigny’s American friend Ceretta, as well as other guests at the party, testified to the events of the murder evening, including Freddie burning himself; these witnesses included teenage Betty Roberts, blond hair brushing the shoulders of her green-and-white-striped dress, her pretty smile and shapely figure making a hit with the press table.
Captain Sears was a predictably strong witness, and even Adderley’s best shots couldn’t budge him: he had seen Christie at midnight in downtown Nassau that night and that was that.
Len Keeler beat the dead horse that was the fingerprint issue.
Neither side called me as a witness; the defense didn’t need me, and the prosecution didn’t want me.
Adderley’s last stand—and the only really bad moment the defense suffered, presenting its case—was a devious effort to make Freddie’s pal the Marquis de Visdelou seem a liar.
The dapperly dressed Georges de Visdelou, so nervous he was shaking, had testified that at three in the morning he had, at Freddie’s request, fetched his cat. But Adderley confronted him with the following from his own signed statement: “I did not see de Marigny from eleven p.m. until ten a.m. the next morning.”
The Marquis responded to the forceful Adderley, “Perhaps I was confused when I said that…I am French, and very emotional….”
Over the lunch break I had helped Higgs and Callender pore over the original de Visdelou statement; it was in longhand, and we passed the pages around over lunch at the Rozelda Hotel.
“Here it is!” I said. “That Adderley is one sneaky son of a bitch….”
In court, Callender went over the statement with de Visdelou, demonstrating that the witness had indeed not seen de Marigny—they had spoken through the door!
“The statement makes this clear?” the Chief Justice asked.
“Yes, my lord,” Callender said, and handed the papers to the Chief Justice.
“Mr. Adderley,” the Chief Justice said sternly, his round face bunched as tight as a fist, “you g
ave me, and the jury, reason to believe that Mr. de Visdelou’s signed statement contradicted his courtroom testimony.”
Adderley rose; he cleared his throat. His usual self-confidence seemed to elude him. “My lord, I was only attempting to show that the witness did not see the accused from midnight on. My learned friend’s statement does not contradict that—it merely says the witness talked to the accused.”
The Chief Justice was red with fury. “I don’t appreciate such a fine distinction when a man’s life is at stake! Mr. Adderley, do not try my patience again.”
The final witness of note was Nancy de Marigny.
Looking pale and a little weak, in a white hat and black dress trimmed in white, the dead man’s daughter marched bravely to the witness box and supported her husband by way of her testimony. Her calm broke only once: her chin trembled and tears flowed as she told of Barker and Melchen’s coming to the New England funeral to deliver their horror story of how her husband supposedly murdered her father. De Marigny, in his cage, dabbed his eyes with a hanky; women in the gallery wept openly.
“Mrs. de Marigny,” Higgs asked her, “has your husband ever asked you for money?”
“No. Never.”
“Did your husband at any time ever express any hatred toward your father?”
“No. Never.”
When Nancy stepped down from the witness box, Higgs announced, “The defense rests, my lord!”
Higgs kept his closing remarks short; Hallinan, unwisely, gave the prosecution’s closing. Adderley, even embarrassed, would have done better. The Chief Justice’s summation to the jury was a virtual instruction for acquittal, and in particular was critical of Barker and Melchen.
After court recessed, Erle Gardner found me again, clapped me on the back and said, “Stay in touch, son!”
“Where are you going? The jury’s still out!”
“Like hell it is. I’m catching a plane back to the States this evening.”
Gardner was right. In less than two hours, the verdict came in: not guilty.
Cheers rocked the courtroom. The Chief Justice said to de Marigny, “You are discharged,” and Higgs hugged Callender, saying “We’ve won!” as both their wigs flew off; nearby, de Marigny was embracing his wife, and they were sharing a storybook kiss as Adderley and Hallinan stalked sullenly out.
But the foreman of the jury had been saying something, just after the verdict, making some recommendation that got all but drowned out by the cheers. And now, as de Marigny was carried out into the street on the shoulders of a good-natured multiracial mob, to the tune of “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” I wondered if what I thought I’d heard could be true.
If so, this wasn’t as happy an ending as de Marigny and his fair-weather fan club thought….
The reception for the de Marignys at Shangri La that evening—actually, night, because it didn’t get under way until after nine p.m.—was both less formal than Di’s previous party and smaller, but far more festive and intimate. Many of the dozen or so guests had been in court today, and none had taken time to change from the clothes they’d worn there. The refreshments were limited to sandwiches, brandy and coffee, and a few bottles of champagne, liberated from our absent host’s wine cellar. Di’s cook was here, and one helper, but the blond servant boys had the night off. We were roughing it.
The little group was gathered in the circular living room where Axel Wenner-Gren’s oil-painting visage oversaw his collection of Inca artifacts. Present were the Marquis de Visdelou and his blond cupcake Betty Roberts; Freddie Ceretta and the attractive RAF wives; Godfrey Higgs and his glowing spouse; Professor Leonard Keeler; Lady Diane, of course, our hostess; Freddie and Nancy; and myself. Also a handful of other friends of de Marigny’s, who I didn’t know.
In addition—making a brief if surprising appearance—was the man we were toasting, now.
Standing embarrassed, Curtis Thompson—chauffeur’s cap in hand, having driven his boss and Mrs. de Marigny to the Hog Island launch, and then been invited along by the ebullient Freddie—was the man of the moment, if not the hour.
Freddie lifted his champagne glass high, his other arm around his black driver, who was grinning shyly.
“Here’s to my best and dearest friend!” he said. “Curtis stood by me despite the best efforts of our Attorney General and his Miami hoodlums!”
“Hear hear,” Higgs said, raising his glass.
Everyone joined in (though I imagined Wenner-Gren himself just might not have relished the idea of a colored guest in his living room) and de Marigny shook Curtis’ hand. Then he embraced him.
“There’s no way I can repay you for the beating you took,” de Marigny said, his eyes moist.
“Mist’ Heller, he did his part, too,” Curtis said.
“I know he did.” De Marigny saluted me with his glass, and I smiled and nodded.
“Boss, excuse me now. Kitchen staff, dey may need my help….”
And he was gone.
Was it my imagination, or did Di seem relieved to see him go?
What the hell—she looked lovely tonight, the only one who’d taken time to dress, in a shoulderless pink satin blouse under which the tiny tips of her cantaloupe breasts were apparent, and a short black skirt trimmed in black with matching black gloves.
She latched on to my arm. “You really pulled it off, Heller.”
“Freddie’s win? I think Higgs and Callender had a little to do with that.”
I noticed the mulatto Callender had either not been invited or had chosen not to attend.
Her blood-red bruised lips formed a wicked smile. “Can you stay for a few days? I’m supposed to fly to Mexico City to meet with Axel tomorrow, but I could postpone if—”
“I don’t think you should. I think this’ll be my last night in Nassau.”
Those sky-blue eyes, so elaborately framed by long brown lashes, looked genuinely sorrowful; she touched my face with a gloved hand. Leaned in and whispered, “Then we’ll get rid of these people as soon as possible…we have things to do tonight….”
My friend Leonard Keeler was in the process of finally finding some use for the polygraph equipment he’d dragged here from Chicago.
Betty Roberts had asked to see the famous machine, and then boldly stated she could “beat it.” This led to much lighthearted discussion and, with a little prodding, Keeler dragged the apparatus out of his room (he’d been staying at Shangri La) and proceeded to play parlor games.
One by one the ladies present took Len’s test. He would have them pick a card from a deck of fifty-two, and hold it high for everyone in the room to see but himself. Then the subject would replace the card in the deck, and Len would attach the machine’s gizmos around their chests (a job I believe he relished), and on their upper arms and middle fingers.
“Now, I’ll begin asking you which card you picked,” he said, hovering over his precious needles and dials, “and when I guess correctly, tell me I’m wrong. That is—lie to me.”
He caught them all.
Len, looking professorial in his wire-frame glasses and off-the-rack brown suit from Marshall Field’s, was the life of the party.
De Marigny—who had removed his tie and stood looking very casual, a glass of barely touched champagne in one debonair hand, his other arm around Nancy’s waist—called out, “Professor! Let me try that infernal apparatus. You’ve been wanting to have at me, ever since you arrived in Nassau.”
“True enough,” Keeler said. He fanned out the deck. “Pick a card….”
“No children’s games, Professor. Hook me up, and ask me about the murder of Sir Harry Oakes.”
A moment of stunned silence was followed by encouragement from several of the guests. Then Higgs stepped forward and put his hand on his client’s arm and said, solemnly, “I advise against this, Fred. You have nothing to prove to anyone.”
Professor Keeler, looking sick suddenly, said, “I agree with Godfrey. These conditions are hardly suitable….”
; “Suppose something went wrong,” said Nancy, who had turned ashen. “We’re all friends here, but if word got out that you’d failed such a test…”
De Marigny looked at her sharply; his expression was as close to a rebuke as I’d ever seen him give her. “I have nothing to fear. The jury found me innocent. I’m merely curious to see if this machine agrees.”
There was no stopping him. Soon he was strapped up—chest cable, blood-pressure cuff, finger cup—and Keeler was standing behind him, regulating the clunky box that was his mechanical baby. The only sound in the room, besides the voices of the professor and his subject, was the scratching of three needles crawling over the rolling graph paper. The guests gathered around, trying not to crowd, but hypnotized by the thin, wavy-lined pattern the needles made.
“Is your name Alfred de Marigny?”
“Yes.”
“Do you live in Nassau?”
“Yes.”
“When you took your guests home, after your dinner party on July seventh, did you come straight home yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Did you enter Westbourne?”
“No.”
“Did you kill Sir Harry Oakes?”
“No.”
“Were you in the room when someone else killed Sir Harry Oakes?”
“No.”
“Do you know who killed Sir Harry Oakes?”
“No.”
“Did you put your hand on the Chinese screen between the time of the murder and the discovery of the body?”
“No.”
Throughout, the needles recording Freddie’s blood pressure, respiration and pulse rate remained steady, never jumping.
When he finally looked up, Leonard Keeler was grinning like a kid. “What do you know—this is an innocent man.”
Unperturbed, Freddie, still hooked up to the machine, glanced back to say, “I’m not sure if that’s an accurate statement—you haven’t asked me about my past life…and don’t you dare!”
“He isn’t lying about that, either,” Keeler said, still grinning, and the room rang with laughter and cheers.
I’m afraid I wasn’t laughing or cheering, although I did smile. But I was preoccupied, thinking about what I thought I’d heard the foreman of that jury say, during the first outburst of celebratory whooping and hollering. I had told Higgs, before any of us took the launch to Shangri La, and he said he’d look into it.
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