Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 (10 page)

“And even
creates
evidence?”

“Sometimes,” I said, making two words of it. “Does Freddie have any enemies in Nassau?”

She smirked humorlessly. “Quite a few, I’m afraid. He doesn’t play by the rules; he’s his own man, Freddie is.”

“These clowns, Barker and Melchen, they were brought in by the Duke. What was your father’s connection to the Duke?”

“They were friendly. David and Wallis are…
were
fairly frequent guests at Westbourne…even stayed there, for several weeks, when they first arrived in Nassau, while Government House was being redecorated to Wallis’ specifications. My parents attended many social occasions where the Duke and Duchess were present. Daddy and the Duke played a lot of golf together. And, of course, they had certain mutual business interests.”

“Such as?”

She winced in thought. “I’m not really sure. I know that Harold Christie and Daddy and the Duke were involved in
some
business deal or other…oh, and so was Axel Wenner-Gren. He’s a Swedish industrialist.”

“Is that the guy who bought Howard Hughes’ yacht?”

“The
Southern Cross,
yes.”

“Axel Wenner-Gren.” I was sitting up again. “Isn’t that guy a Nazi? The Duke and Duchess got bad publicity having him chauffeur ’em around in his yacht. The papers were full of it—the American authorities wouldn’t let him dock, a couple times.”

She was shaking her head and smiling at me like I was a kid who’d just repeated some wild, unbelievable schoolyard story. “Axel a Nazi? It’s preposterous. He’s a
charming
man, Nate.”

“Well, if you say so.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s true that he’s been blacklisted from the Bahamas, and the United States, for the duration.”

I snapped my fingers. “That’s what I thought! For suspected collaborationist leanings, right?”

“Right,” she allowed. “But it’s nonsense.”

“Where is the charming Axis what’s-his-name now?”

“It’s Axel and you know it. Cuernavaca—sitting out the war on one of his estates.”

I was grinning. “So there’s a Nazi in the woodpile…that’s real interesting….”

“Nate—don’t bother going down that road. I
know
Axel isn’t a Nazi.”

“How could you ‘know’ that?”

Her gaze was boring holes in me again. “Because Daddy wouldn’t have been
friends
with him if he was. Look—Daddy wasn’t very political…like a lot of wealthy people, he considered himself
above
politics, I suppose. But he
hated
Nazis. He’d sooner do business with the devil! He was active in all the local war efforts, and when Hitler declared war on Britain, Daddy immediately donated five Spitfires to the RAF! And he’s given his airfield to….”

“Okay, Nancy…okay. You made your point. What about a guy named Meyer Lansky? Ever hear of him?”

She shrugged. “No.”

I described him to her. “Ever see anybody who looked like that come around to talk to your father?”

“No.”

“Any Americans come around who didn’t seem like somebody who’d typically do business with your dad? Somebody…suspicious. Somebody with bodyguards, maybe.”

“A gangster or something? Hardly.”

I didn’t want to get into it with her, but I wondered what interest, or connection, Meyer Lansky might have to the murder. Last night his questions had been pointed, and knowledgeable; so knowledgeable that I wondered if he might not have been, in an oblique fashion, warning me off the case….

A knock at the door summoned Nancy, and I stayed and sipped my coffee, watching golfers golf, pondering Lansky’s possible warning. I heard Nancy’s voice, then another voice, but higher-pitched, and that of an older woman; both voices were raised in something approaching anger.

I went to have a look. Probably none of my business, but I’m a snoop by nature and profession….

“Mother,” Nancy was saying, “I did not
sneak
away. I left word where you could find me, and under what name, or else you wouldn’t have! Correct?”

Lady Eunice Oakes was tall, handsome, dignified, and royally pissed off. She was also just a tad stout, with a firm jaw and thin wide lips, her hair of medium length and graying blond. She was in black, of course, but stylishly so, with a black fur piece, black soupdish hat and dark glasses and black gloves. Even her nylons were in mourning.

“Don’t speak to me in that tone of voice,” Lady Oakes snapped. “I don’t appreciate having to come running after you…chartering a plane at all hours…”

“You didn’t have to come ‘running after’ me, Mother. I’m of age. I’m a married woman.”

“You
would
have to remind me of that.”

Lady Oakes rustled in her purse—also black—for a hanky—white. She lowered her face into the hanky as Nancy tapped her on the shoulder.

“Mother,” Nancy said, nodding toward me. “We’re not alone….”

She put the hanky away and removed her sunglasses; her eyes, though bloodshot, were a clear, sky blue. Once upon a time, she could have given Nancy a run for the money in the looks department.

Studying me, she said, not unpleasantly, “And who are you, young man?”

A funny way to address me, since she probably only had five or six years on me.

I told her, and expressed my sympathies.

“You’re the detective my husband hired,” she said, and beamed. She strode over to me and offered me her gloved hand. I shook it, not knowing why this welcome was so warm.

“You provided valuable evidence in the case against my husband’s murderer,” she said, “and I would just like to thank you personally….”

“Mother—Mr. Heller is working for
me,
now. He’s going to prove Freddie’s innocence.”

She let go of my hand as if it were something disgusting. She looked at me the same way.

“I fail to see the humor in that,” she said.

“Me either,” I said.

“Mr. Heller,” Nancy said, “was paid ten thousand dollars to investigate my husband’s activities. I’m keeping him on the case. He’ll investigate, and prove Freddie’s innocence.”

Lady Oakes smiled, and it was a sly, smart smile.

“Am I to understand,” she said, addressing us both, looking from Nancy to me and back again, “that you intend to have Mr. Heller continue investigating…using up the money that your father paid him?”

“Yes,” Nancy said, indignantly.

“I think not,” Lady Oakes said. She looked at me. “I’ll speak to our attorney, Walter Foskett of Palm Beach, and fix your little red wagon, Mr. Heller.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You can’t both threaten me with the same lawyer!”

“Mother,” Nancy began, and the two were arguing. Not yelling, but heatedly talking over each other’s words.

I put two fingers in my mouth and blew a whistle that would have brought Ringling Brothers to a standstill.

The two women looked at me, startled.

“I have a suggestion,” I said. I looked at Nancy. “Your mother has a point. My client here, in a very real sense, is your late father.”

Lady Oakes smiled smugly and nodded the same way. She folded her arms across a generous matronly bosom.

“Suppose,” I said to Lady Oakes, “that I work for your daughter, on the following condition: if I find evidence of her husband’s guilt, I won’t suppress it. It goes straight to the prosecution—right to the Attorney General.”

The widow’s smile turned approving; but Nancy was frowning, and said, “But…”

“Otherwise,” I told the lovely Mrs. de Marigny, “it would be a conflict of interests. I’d be working
against
your father—who is, after all, my client.”

Nancy thought about that. “Well, Freddie’s innocent. So you’re not
going
to turn anything up that would work against him.”

“There you go,” I said.

“And you’d answer to me,” Nancy said. “
I’m
your client now.”

“Yes. With that one condition.”

“Well…it’s acceptable to me,” Nancy said, uncertainly.

“It’s acceptable to me, as well,” Lady Oakes said. She looked at her daughter with a softer expression. “We won’t be enemies, you and I. I’m championing my husband, and you are championing yours. I
expect
you to stand by him….”

Now Nancy was getting teary-eyed again; she clutched her mother and her mother patted her, somewhat stingily I thought, but patted her.

“All I need,” I said, “is for good old Uncle Walter Foskett to write up a letter acknowledging I’m working out my ten-thousand-dollar retainer—and that when it’s used up, my meter is still running, at three hundred dollars per day and expenses.”

Lady Oakes smiled frostily at me. “That’s between you and your client.” She turned to her daughter. “I’ll see you in Nassau, my dear.”

And she was gone.

The taxi deposited me at the International Seaplane Base on Biscayne Bay, just south of Miami, and I hauled my duffel bag toward what might have been a fashionable yacht club, with its manicured lawn, decorative nautical pennants, and stream of blue-and-white-uniformed flight crews. Along the seawall, sightseers—some of them tourists no doubt, but locals as well—were passing this dazzling sunny afternoon by taking in the spectacle of the awkward-looking yet streamlined black-and-silver flying boats as they streaked through the water, coming and going. The roar of engines and churn of seawater and noise of sightseers were more air show than airport.

According to the bulletin board in the waiting room, my plane was on time. I knew Nancy de Marigny would not be joining me, as she was going out on a later flight; but I glanced around, wondering if Lady Oakes would be one of the thirty passengers taking the
Caribbean Clipper
to Nassau at one o’clock.

She didn’t seem to be, which was fine with me. I didn’t dislike her—she was a smart, tough lady, if possessed of that superiority that comes of a shopgirl marrying big money—but the notion of being cooped up with her in the clipper cabin for an hour was less than enticing.

Bag checked, ticket punched, I followed a small, stout, wide-shouldered man in Western shirt and chinos down a canopied walk that opened onto sunshine and the landing dock. I followed the hick down the few steps through a hatchway into the plane; turned out I had the seat across the aisle from him, and he smiled at me, an affable character who was probably a farmer or a rancher or something.

He said, “First trip to the Bahamas?”

He had a grating yet ingratiating voice; for a guy clearly in his mid-fifties—as the broad oval of his tanned, weather-beaten face attested—he had a boyish look. Behind gold wire-frames, his eyes narrowed as he smiled, and his longish brown hair, short and gray at the temples, was combed back carelessly.

“Actually,” I said, “my second in two weeks.”

“Oh. Go there often, do you? On business?”

“It’s my second trip, period—but it is business, yes.”

“Don’t mean to pry,” he said, with a smile, and he looked out the porthole next to him.

The four engines started up, one at a time, the hatchway clanged shut, and the plane began to coast down the watery runway. It took the pilot half a mile of plowing down the bay, pontoons cleaving the water, till he got into position for the wind, and then the plane yanked itself forward into the sky. I looked out my porthole window, but it was washed with spray.

The cabin was full, mostly men, business types.

I leaned into the aisle and said to the hick, “Wonder how many of these guys are reporters?”

He grinned. “On their way to cover the Oakes case, you mean? Probably damn near all of ‘em. Myself included.”

“You’re a reporter?”

“In a half-assed sort of way.” He extended a hand. “Name’s Gardner. Friends call me Erle.”

“Nate Heller,” I said, and accepted his firm handshake. I rolled his name around in my head for a couple seconds, then said, “Not Erle Stanley Gardner?”

“That’s right.” He beamed, pleased to have his name recognized. “Ever read my stuff?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I never read mystery novels.”

“Not your cup of tea?”

“More like busman’s holiday.”

“Oh?”

We were both having to work our voices up a bit, over the roar of the props.

“I’m president of the A-1 Detective Agency in Chicago,” I said.

His eyes slitted in thought. Then he pointed at me. “Nathan Heller! Damn. I should’ve recognized the name.”

“Hardly.”

He was shaking his head, smiling one-sidedly. “No, I should’ve. The Lindbergh case got you a lot of press. You damn near sprung Hauptmann!”

“Close only counts in horseshoes,” I said.

“Point well taken—they
did
fry the boy. But you’ve been in the thick of all sorts of major cases…the Dillinger shooting, this movie union scandal that’s
still
in the papers. You’re the genuine article! I’m the goddamn pretender. I’d like to pick your brain, son.”

“Trust me, Mr. Gardner—if you could pick a brain, it wouldn’t be mine.”

He had a hearty laugh over that one.

“What’s a mystery writer doing covering a real-life crime?”

“I’m Hearst’s trained seal,” he said with a smirk.

“Trained seal?”

“You know—these big-city papers like to have some famous-name ‘expert’ who isn’t a newspaperman do color on a big story like this. They want me to stick around for the trial and tell the public how Perry Mason would’ve handled it.”

“Who?”

For some reason that amused him. “That’s a character I write about.”

“Oh.” It did sound familiar. “I may have seen a movie based on one of your books.”

“Did it stink?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you probably did. Those Hollywood sons of bitches pay good money to buy a good story and then invent a thousand new ways to turn it lousy.”

“I wouldn’t think a successful book writer like you would even want to bother with newspaper work.”

He snorted a laugh. “I don’t. When they approached my agent, he knew I didn’t want the job and made an outrageous offer. That goddamn Hearst double-crossed us and accepted it!”

Hearst sending one of America’s most popular writers to cover the case meant Sir Harry’s murder wasn’t just the hot story of the moment: it would stay big news through the trial, at least.

Gardner was a likable, energetic, jovial guy and made pleasant company on the ride. His Western apparel and leathery complexion were explained by the four-hundred-acre ranch he lived on in Southern California. Seemed he did most of his writing in a trailer that he hauled around his own property, as well as on excursions to Arizona and Mexico.

“I’m strictly a free-lance writer,” he said. “It’s one of the few businesses where you can take your work with you, anywhere you go.”

I’d met my share of literary lions in Chicago, some of whom—like Nelson Algren and Willard Motley—were men’s men who belied the artsy-fartsy stereotype. But even so, this Gardner was one of a kind: an outdoorsman who viewed writing as a trade, not an art.

He’d be writing a daily column for Hearst on the Oakes case, for the foreseeable future, while working on a novel and radio scripts for an upcoming show about his Mason character. Like his fictional hero, Gardner—despite his unpretentious farmer appearance—was a criminal lawyer himself, though he didn’t practice anymore.

“Novels, radio shows, columns—hell, Erle…how will you manage all that out of a Nassau hotel room?”

“Well, it’ll be dicey at first,” he said, “but my girls will be following me down in a few days.”

“Girls?”

“Secretaries—three of ’em. Sisters. Cute as buttons and smart as whips. I dictate everything. Haven’t used a typewriter in years.”

We fell into silence for a while. The stewardess came by with coffee, which we both took. I was chewing on whether or not to reveal to him that I was working the Oakes case. Before I’d decided, he spoke.

“So,” he said, “you’re working for de Marigny.”

“Pardon?”

“Look, son—stands to reason you’re not working for the prosecution. They’ve supposedly got a couple Miami dicks working the case. What else would Nate Heller be doing in Nassau right now but helping de Marigny’s lawyer collect evidence?”

I just looked at his wide, farmer face and shook my head and laughed. Who was the detective here?

“Actually,” I said, and I kept my voice down as much as possible so none of these other possible reporters could hear, “I’m working for Nancy de Marigny.”

“The poor little rich girl! Is she as cute as they say?”

“As a button.”

His brow creased with thought, but he kept smiling; he usually was. “So how the hell did a Chicago op get pulled in on an exotic crime like this?”

I gave him a condensed version, which he ate up eagerly.

Now his expression was wistful. “If I made up a yarn like that…gold miner becomes the world’s richest man…murder in a tropical storm…voodoo kill…cradle-robbing count and beautiful child bride…I’d either make a million or get laughed out of the business.”

“Don’t forget the part where the victim’s best friend in the bedroom next door sleeps through the killing.”

“Oh, I haven’t. I’ve read every news report I can, and in a case that smells a hundred ways, that part smells the worst. What do you say we team up?”

“Mr. Gardner…Erle…I don’t think that would be appropriate. I don’t think my client would want me working hand in hand with the press.”

He scowled; even his scowl seemed affable. “I’m not the goddamn press! Look—these other reporters are going to go check in this afternoon and then head to the hotel bar and start guzzling booze out of hollowed-out coconuts. But you and me, we can go right out to Westbourne and have a look. I bet you could get us in.”

I thought about it.

“I’ll go with you or without you,” he said, head to one side.

“You got a car lined up?” I asked. Nancy had promised to have either a rental or family car for me, by tomorrow, with a ration book full of stamps. But for this afternoon and tonight, I had no wheels.

“Hearst’ll have one waiting. I’m at the Royal Victoria. Where are you staying?”

“The British Colonial.”

“Sir Harry’s own hotel.” He clapped his hands, once, like a sultan summoning his harem. “All right, after we’re both checked in, I’ll swing by, and we’ll go see what’s up out at Westbourne.”

One of Nassau’s finest was on the Westbourne gate, late-afternoon sun gleaming off the gold spike of his white helmet.

Gardner was behind the wheel of the black rental Ford and left it running as I stepped out to speak to the bobbie.

“Is Colonel Lindop inside?” I asked.

“No, sir.”

“Damn!”

“Something wrong, sir?”

“I was supposed to meet him here.”

“Meet him, sir?”

“I’m one of the American detectives working the case. Damn.”

“Well, he’s not here, sir.”

“Hell. Well…I guess I’ll just have to go on in and wait, then.”

He thought about that for a long couple of seconds, then nodded, and swung the gate open. Several more of the spiffy black coppers were standing around inside the front entry. I told them I was meeting Lindop and they seemed to buy it; then I said I needed to have another look at the murder room.

One of them asked me who Gardner was and I said, “My assistant.”

That was explanation enough. Even with Sir Harry dead, security around here stunk.

The air, however, no longer stunk; with the murder a little over a week old, the place was aired out, only the faintest bouquet of the aftermath of fire remained. But Gardner, following me up the curving staircase, was taking in the scorched wood and walls with wide eyes.

The Chinese screen was gone, but the bedroom otherwise seemed the same—the scorched circular area as we stepped into the room, the burnt face of the wardrobe, the blood on the phone book by the French phone on the writing table, wind whispering in the open window, ruffling the frilly curtains.

But as we stepped into the portion of the room where the murder bed waited, we saw an incredible tableau; I couldn’t have been much more surprised—or outraged—if I’d interrupted Sir Harry’s murder itself.

Kneeling on the floor, in their perfect uniforms, wearing their goddamned spiked helmets, were a pair of Bahamian cops who had, between them, a soapy bucket and two sponges.

They were cleaning the blood off the walls.

Specifically, they were removing—
erasing
—the small, now-dried bloody handprints by the windows overlooking the north porch.

“What the hell are you men doing?” I yelled.

Gardner was frozen, too; he seemed horrified. It was like finding a couple kids with gum erasers removing Da Vinci’s
Last Supper
off the wall.

They looked at us mildly; we hadn’t even startled them.

“We’re removin’ the bloodstains,” one of them said, even as he was doing so.

“Why, in God’s name?”

The other one said, “Because dey is not de Marigny’s prints…too small.”

He was right, of course; they looked like the palm prints of a woman or an adolescent.

“So?” I asked, numbly.

The first one spoke again. “So de Miami detectives say dese only confuse de evidence. Why get some innocent guy in trouble? Wash down de walls, dey say.”

“Holy Christ,” I said. “Stop it!”

But it was too late.

“Who are you?” one said, standing.

The other said, “He’s not from Miami. He’s dat guy who saw de Marigny. What are you doin’ here, mon?”

“Supposed to meet Colonel Lindop,” I lied.

“He’s not here.”

“I know. But he’s on his way.”

They looked at each other, and the other one got up; their uniforms remained spotless. So, now, were the walls. As they went out, the one carrying the bucket said, “Don’t touch anyt’ing.”

“Right,” I said. “I’d hate for you boys to have to scrub the room down again.”

They gave me blank looks that managed to seem nasty, and left.

“We’d better make this quick,” I told Gardner. “I don’t know how long my story’s going to hold.”

He looked properly astounded. “What the hell’s going on here, Heller? What sort of criminal investigation
is
this?”

“One of these days you’ll meet Barker and Melchen and find out.”

I began filling him in on what the crime scene had looked like on my previous visit: the Chinese screen, the state of Oakes’ burned and feathered body, including such details as the four wounds behind his ear, and the shreds of blue-striped pajamas hanging down from the scorched flesh….

Gardner was on his knees, looking under the bed, like a husband searching for his wife’s lover. “The cloth covering the box spring is burned away—have a look.”

I got down and did. “You’re right—completely gone….”

We stood.

“Meaning,” Gardner said, his broad face gleeful, “the fire on that bed was blazing, at one point. Those torn pajamas should have incinerated.”