Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 (20 page)

“Yes,” I said, “doesn’t it?”

Higgs looked at me with narrowed eyes. I was sitting on the edge of a desk. “What’s your point, Heller? That all
four
of these police officers are lying?”

“Yes. Back in Chicago we call it a frame, counselor. Actually, a fucking frame.”

“Mr. Heller is right, Godfrey,” de Marigny said, his prominent lips curled into a self-satisfied smile. “But remember: there were others present when I was taken upstairs—Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Ainslie, to name two. And Colonel Lindop himself!
He
wouldn’t lie.”

“No he wouldn’t,” I agreed.

Now Higgs’ irritation was gone and the boyish smile was back. “Now isn’t
that
interesting.”

I held my hand out to Higgs. “Let me see that copy of the fingerprint Adderley provided you.”

He dug it out of his briefcase.

I studied the photo. “I thought so.”

“What?” Higgs asked.

De Marigny’s attention was caught, too; he stood.

“You fellas happen to notice the background of that Chinese screen? It’s a wood-grain pattern—whorls, sort of. Now look at this print…look at the background….”

Higgs took the photo. “It doesn’t resemble a wood-grain pattern at all.”

“It’s more like a pattern of small circles,” de Marigny said.

“What does this mean?” Higgs asked, puzzled.

The presentation I was about to make wasn’t as elaborate as Barker’s, but it was every bit as impressive.

“It means,” I said, “that this print did not come from that screen.”

So that’s the infamous Axel Wenner-Gren,” I said. Tall, white-haired, hefty, blandly handsome, with a pink complexion, apple cheeks and a small white smile, the blacklisted billionaire stood leaning against an armchair, gazing at me with pale blue eyes that radiated a cold intensity.

“Yes, that’s the notorious Nazi sympathizer you’ve been hearing about,” Di affirmed in her wryly British way.

The huge oil painting in its glorious gilt frame hung over the fireplace in a round living room otherwise decorated with primitive artifacts of some kind.

Di saw me looking at the grotesque clay masks, garishly decorated pottery and gold-and-turquoise ceremonial daggers, displayed on walls and on shelves, and said, “Inca.”

“Dinka Doo,” I said.

That made her laugh; she put a hand on my shoulder, shook her head, making her shoulder-length silver-blond hair shimmer. “No, seriously. My employer’s avocation is anthropology. He’s made countless expeditions, to the remotest digs in Peru. Simply everything you see here is museum-quality.”

She sure didn’t look like she belonged in a museum: white silk gown with shoulder pads and silver-sequins collar that plunged to the wide matching silver-sequins waistband. She was ready for this evening’s party—a dance to be held here at Shangri La, in my secret honor.

Our absent Swedish host’s estate on Hog Island was a sprawling white limestone hacienda affair set against a lush tropical garden, with enough rooms to give the British Colonial a run for its money. The place was filled with antique mahogany furniture and polished silver pieces, trays, bowls, plaques, platters; the dining room I glimpsed must have been sixty feet long with a twenty-foot mahogany table.

Right now a lot of the mansion was closed off, however; as Di had explained, Wenner-Gren’s staff of thirty servants had been cut to a meager seven, when he had been forced to relocate to Cuernavaca for the duration.

“That’s one of the reasons why we’ll have such a grand turnout,” Di had told me earlier, as she’d helped me settle in at my guest cottage, which was a single room but larger than my entire suite at the Morrison back home.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I’ve thrown several parties since Axel’s departure, but all of them were at hotels in town. This is the first opportunity Nassau society has had to see Shangri La, post-blacklist. Their curiosity will bring them around.”

My curiosity, as we stood in the living room under the oil portrait’s cool watchful gaze, was piqued about something else.

“Never mind the Incas,” I said. “What’s the story on the elephants?”

With the exception of those rooms given to primitive Peruvian artifacts, it seemed everywhere you looked was a statue of an elephant—from tiny as a beetle to big as a horse, these gold, silver, ivory and wooden pachyderms ruled the estate, trunks held high.

“It’s the Electrolux symbol, silly,” she said. “My boss made his fortune by inventing, and selling, vacuum cleaners, and those elephants signal his triumph.”

“Oh.”

“A lot of them came from the estate of Florenz Ziegfeld—he collected elephants, too.”

“Ah.”

“You notice their trunks are erect, every single one of them? Can you guess why?”

“They’re glad to see me?”

Her smile settled on one side of her pretty face. “No, you fool. An elephant with its trunk down is a symbol of bad luck.”

“So is an elephant with his foot on your head.”

She took my arm and sat me down on one of two facing, curved couches that fronted the unlighted fireplace. In the Bahamas I would imagine you wouldn’t light it often.

“You’re in a smart-alecky mood,” she said, almost scolding me; she looped her arm, bare in the white silk gown, in mine. She had been treating me like an old friend—or even, old lover—since I’d gotten here. Complaining would have seemed ungracious.

“It’s just that I feel awkward in a monkey suit,” I said.

I was wearing a black tuxedo that I’d rented from Lunn, the tailor kitty-corner from the B.C.

“Balls! You look elegant, Heller.”

“I’m going to be mistaken for a waiter.”

“I don’t think so. My waiters are too distinctively attired.”

“Oh, yeah—I saw that. Why in hell is the help wearing those Navy uniforms? And frankly, all those blond boys do look like Nazis. Don’t you have
any
native help?”

She was shaking her head, but smiling. “You
are
bad. Of course we have native help—the boy who brought you over in the launch, for one. But our house staff wears the same uniforms as on the
Southern Cross.
”

“Oh—your boss’ yacht.”

“Exactly. And those blond boys are five Swedes and a Finn.”

“One of my favorite vaudeville acts.”

“Bad,” she said, laughing. “I don’t know why I’m helping you.”

“Actually, neither do I—but I’m glad you are.”

She fixed her Bahama blues on me, serious now. “Nancy’s just about my best friend in the world. I’d do anything to help her get her Freddie back.”

“A true romantic.”

“I am. Are you, Nate?”

“A true romantic? I don’t know.”

“What are you, then?”

“A true detective,” I smiled.

“Well, you’ll get your chance tonight,” she said, looking away from me, leaning forward to a coffee table and popping open a gold cigarette box on the top of which an elephant reared—trunk erect.

“Thanks to you, Di. I do appreciate it. Very kind of you.”

She shrugged, as she lighted her smoke with an elephant lighter, flame bursting from its trunk. Its erect trunk.

I shook my head. “If your friends figure out why you’ve invited them here—that is, to be grilled by yours truly—you may drop off the social register with a thud.”

“Heller,” she said, and despite the blood-red bruised lips her grin was almost mannish, “if you have enough money, you may behave as insufferably as you wish.”

“Hell—I’ve managed that without the money.”

She leaned her head back, blew smoke out through her mouth and nose, and chuckled.

I thought about kissing her, but it was too easy. And too soon. She was blond perfection; trouble was, I was still possessed by a darker girl. As impossible as that was, as
over
as that was, I was still full of Marjorie Bristol….

The band in the ballroom—which with its high ceilings, Gobelin tapestries and crystal chandeliers seemed to belong in some other house—wore tuxes like mine while playing jazz-tinged renditions of, mostly, Cole Porter. Classy as hell—you could dance to it or listen to it or ignore it. My kind of music.

The guest list, I understood, ran to around fifty people: twenty couples and five singles who could bring an escort. I didn’t recognize most of the people in this room—lots of older men with slightly younger wives, black tie and black jacket or sometimes white jacket, gowns and glittering jewels. The guests had names like Messmore and Goldsmith and Merryman; the Duchess of Leeds here, Sir Fredrick Williams-Taylor there. Winding among them, blond boys in blue naval-style livery carried alternating trays of brimming champagne glasses and mixed drinks. I wasn’t out of place. Not any more than Marlene Dietrich in a convent.

Occasionally I spotted someone I recognized. Over at an
hors d’oeuvre
table—where cracked crab, caviar and shrimp mingled with fruit under the supervision of a tropical centerpiece—Harold Christie, in a wrinkled black tux, spoke briefly with an attractive blonde in a green gown before moving nervously on.

The blonde was Dulcibel Henneage—Effie, to her pals, and Christie’s reputed married-lady lady friend. They weren’t here together; he merely had a furtive moment with her before joining a group of men who were chatting and smoking over in one corner.

What the hell: time to mingle.

“Lovely evening,” I said, joining her as she filled a small plate from the table of goodies.

She smiled sweetly; her blond hair was marcelled, and she was definitely too pretty for that iguana Christie. “Yes it is—we’re lucky to have such a cool breeze.”

“We haven’t met, Mrs. Henneage, although I recognize you from your appearance at the preliminary hearing the other day.”

She gave me a sharp look, though her smile didn’t falter. “You must have got there early, to get a seat.”

“I have connections. My name’s Nathan Heller.”

She put the little plate down to offer her hand for me to take by the fingertips—anyway, I hope that’s what I was supposed to do, because I did—and said, “That name sounds familiar….”

Then her smile fell, and her eyes went glazed and damn near frightened.

“You’re the detective….”

“That’s right. I’m working for Nancy de Marigny, on behalf of her husband, and his attorney, Mr. Higgs.”

She backed away, till the table stopped her. “Mr. Heller, I don’t mean to be rude, but…”

“I’ve been leaving messages for you for days now. Could I impose on you for a minute or two? I need to ask a few questions.”

She was shaking her head, no. “I’d really rather not….”

“Please. If at any time you’re uncomfortable, I’ll just go. Why don’t we go out on the patio and see if we can find a table….”

Reluctantly she allowed me to escort her outside, onto the balconylike patio that overlooked, and led down to, a fountain in the middle of which a cement elephant rose, erect trunk high and spouting water; around this was an open grassy area where couples could stroll along the edges of a tropical flower garden. The night indeed was cool, the sky as clear as a sociopath’s conscience. Wrought-iron tables and chairs were scattered at left and right, and there were two more tables of appetizers and a well-stocked bar with one of those blond naval cadets playing bartender—Aryan boys in the glow of Japanese lanterns. Just being here seemed unpatriotic, somehow.

We sat. She didn’t look at me, instead studying her little plate of caviar like a head doc’s inkblot she was trying to find meaning in.

“I suppose you want to ask me about having dinner at Westbourne, the night Sir Harry was killed. But I’m afraid there’s really nothing much to say about that….”

“What I want to know, Mrs. Henneage—and I mean no disrespect—is if it’s true that you and Mr. Christie are…friendly.”

She looked up sharply, and she wasn’t smiling this time. “Well…of course, we’re friends. Acquaintances.”

“Please don’t pretend to misunderstand my question. I don’t mean to embarrass you. I’ll be discreet.”

She began to rise. “I’m feeling uncomfortable. One of us should go….”

I touched her arm, gently. “Mrs. Henneage, Mr. Christie is going to great lengths to place himself adjacent to the murder room. His story is incredible—nobody in Nassau believes him.”

She sat back down, and swallowed. “I don’t think Mr. Christie would lie about something like that.”

“Rumor has it he’s protecting a woman. That woman is you, isn’t it, Mrs. Henneage?”

“Please…Mr. Heller…I’m going to go now—”

I held my hand up in a gentle stop gesture. “If Count de Marigny is acquitted…and I have reason to believe he will be…then the police will start looking for another suspect. If you care about Mr. Christie, your alibi would prevent him from being the next innocent man to stand trial.”

Her eyes were as earnest as they were beautiful. “Do you…do you believe Mr. Christie is innocent in this?”

“I don’t know. I know he was seen driving at midnight in Nassau, the night of the murder. Was he on his way to see you?”

She frowned, but it was a hurt frown. “Mr. Heller, I’m a married woman. I love my husband. I
miss
my husband. I have children, and I love them, too.”

“I appreciate that. But just answer this question: did Harold Christie spend the night of July seventh at your home?”

“No,” she said.

But her eyes said something else.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,
please,”
she said, starting to rise again.

“No, I’ll go. Enjoy your
hors d’oeuvre
—I won’t bother you again, tonight.”

She smiled tightly and nodded, relief and irritation merging, and I wandered back toward the ballroom.

Damn! She was lying, but her eyes had told the truth. That son of a bitch Christie had spent at least part of the night with the lovely Effie. Which meant he wasn’t the murderer, or at least, his hand wasn’t on the murder weapon….

As I entered the ballroom, Di was suddenly on my right, touching my arm. “Here’s someone you should meet, Nathan.”

She was standing chatting with a handsome little woman in white and gold, down to her gold-trimmed white gloves; her gold necklace and earrings collectively probably weighed more than she did.

Wallis Simpson looked more attractive than her photographs—what I had always taken for rather plain features were, when animated, beautiful: luminous violet eyes; high cheekbones, broad brow, firm jaw, but most of all a wide, generous smile, her lipstick startlingly scarlet against flesh too pale for the Bahamas.

“Your Royal Highness, this is Nathan Heller,” Di said. “Nathan, the Duchess of Windsor.”

“Quite a thrill for a Chicago boy,” I said, taking the fingertips she offered, returning her smile, though mine couldn’t compare.

“A pleasure for a girl from Virginia to meet up with another American,” she said. Her Southern accent had a tinge of British; mannered, perhaps, but not without a certain charm.

“I’ve heard impressive things about your work with the Red Cross, Duchess. And a canteen for soldiers of both races….”

“Why thank you, Mr. Heller. Who’s been telling you these stories about me?”

I smiled. “I don’t know if I should say.”

The wide smile twisted whimsically. “Come now, Mr. Heller—you’re among friends.”

“Well, actually, it was Sally Rand.”

For just a second the Duchess seemed shocked, her big violet eyes frozen; then she laughed ripplingly. Di was already laughing.

The Duchess arched an eyebrow. “How is it you know Miss Rand?”

“We go back to the Century of Progress together—where she first made fans with her fans. I was arresting pickpockets.”