Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 (9 page)

How the hell did he know that? Would Helen have spilled that much?
Why did Meyer Lansky care about Sir Harry Oakes?
“I was, but it got cut short by the murder.”

He was nodding in interest, but his eyes were so damn expressionless. “Well, that’s really something. Isn’t that something Teddie?”

Miss Schwartz nodded, paying no attention.

“So—tell us what the papers haven’t. How exactly did Sir Harry Oakes die?”

Maybe Lansky was just curious—the press was all over the case, after all….

“It was kind of grisly, Mr. Lansky. I really don’t think it makes for suitable conversation over cocktails.”

He was nodding again. He didn’t press. “Certainly. I understand. I understand. At any rate, I just wanted to say hello. We have mutual friends, you know.”

“I’m sure we do.”

He reached over and patted my hand; his was cold. Like a dead man’s hand. “And I wanted to express my condolences to you over the loss of one of those mutual friends. I know you were close to Frank. And he thought highly of you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He meant Frank Nitti. I’d done some favors for Capone’s successor, and he for me, and the mistaken notion had grown up that I was in the Outfit’s pocket. Sometimes that came in handy; sometimes it damn near got me killed.

And tonight it put me, uneasily, at Meyer Lansky’s table for a few minutes.

“This fellow de Marigny,” he said, shifting back suddenly to his favorite topic, “do you think he did it?”

“Maybe. There was no love lost between Sir Harry and him, and the Count’s wife stands to inherit millions.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like a murder motive to me. I understand the Miami police are handling the case.”

“If you want to call it that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” I said. Barker and Melchen were pals of his, for all I knew; better to keep my opinions to myself.

“Well,” he said, with a twitch of a smile, “I’ll let you get back to the lovely Miss Rand. You know, she hasn’t aged a day since the Streets of Paris.”

That was where Helen had danced at the Century of Progress.

“I’m afraid that’s more than
I
can say,” I said. I’d aged a year since sitting down. “Good evening, Miss Schwartz. Thanks for the hospitality, Mr. Lansky.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

“I hope so,” I lied.

The two potted palms looked at me, coldly, and I walked back toward our table as Lansky and Miss Schwartz headed out to dance to “Tangerine.”

I risked a look at the beautiful brunette, who stood and said, “Could I have a moment?”

I stopped. My tongue felt thick as those steaks I used to eat before the war. “Certainly.”

“I wondered if I might speak to you,” she said. Her voice was a rich alto; but she was young. Sophisticated as she looked, she couldn’t be much older than nineteen.

“Well…sure.”

Despite the strength of her eyes, she had a vulnerable look. “I wondered if you might join me.”

“I’m afraid I’m with someone….”

“I know. I meant, in my room.”

I mean,
popular.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not believing my ears, “but I just can’t. I’m
with
someone….”

She pressed a slip of paper into my hand; hers was warm. The tips of her lovely, tapering fingers were painted the same blood red as her lipstick.

“Tomorrow morning, then,” she said. “Ten o’clock.”

And she picked up her purse and swept away from the table, disappearing into the hotel.

A tall drink of water. Nice shape on her. Someday Elizabeth Taylor was going to grow up and look almost that good….

“Well,” Helen said, just a little icily, “
you’re
certainly popular tonight.”

“Helen,” I said, sitting down, “did you mention to Meyer Lansky that I just got in from Nassau?”

She was genuinely surprised. “Why, no. We didn’t talk about you at all. I’m sure you’re disappointed….”

“No. Worried.” I unfolded the slip of paper and had a look.

“Heller…what’s wrong? You turned white!”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I’ve got a date tomorrow morning.”

She laughed; blew smoke. “Well, I’m not surprised.”

“With Nancy Oakes de Marigny,” I said.

When I knocked on the door of the penthouse suite in the Biltmore’s central tower, the lush alto of Nancy Oakes de Marigny called, “It’s unlocked! Come in.”

Apparently the death of her father hadn’t made the Countess tighten up her personal security measures.

I stepped inside to discover, in the modern, pastel living room of the suite, Nancy de Marigny—slender and shapely in white tights and ballerina slippers—with her leg in the air, toes pointing right at me.

This was not a new way of waving hello she’d invented: she was doing a ballet workout. She had a hand against an over-stuffed peach-color chair on which she’d piled various thick phone books, using it for a support, in place of a rail. Her free arm arced gracefully in the air.

Without makeup, her hair pinned up carelessly, she was still a ravishing girl—and a girl is what she was: nineteen years old, a child, a woman. The body suit consisted of a white, bathing-suit-like portion that covered her torso, with her legs in white leotards. The outfit left her arms bare and little to the imagination.

“Hope you don’t mind if I continue my exercises,” she said. “If I miss a day, Miss Graham will tan my hide.”

“Miss Graham?”

She turned away from me, working the other leg. “Martha Graham. My ballet instructor. That’s why I’m summering in Maine.”

“I see.”

“But now I’m on my way to be where I belong: at my husband’s side.”

My hat was in my hands. “Mrs. de Marigny, please allow me to offer my condolences on the death of your father.”

“That’s very kind, Mr. Heller.”

God, I felt uneasy. She was pointing her toes at me again, and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing here!

“Would you mind if I locked your door?” I asked. “It makes me uncomfortable, thinking some reporters might get wind of you, and start hounding you….”

She was bending at the knees, now. “Go ahead. But I’m registered under an assumed name. No one knows I’m here.”

I locked the door, threw the nightlatch. “Speaking of which…how did you happen to recognize me? And know where to find me?”

“To answer your first question, the hotel manager pointed you out, at my request.”

Despite her continued exercises, she didn’t seem to be breathing hard, though small beads of sweat gleamed on her wide forehead like jewels.

“As for your second question…Mr. Heller, my father owned the British Colonial Hotel. You left the Miami Biltmore as your immediate forwarding address.”

“True. But how did you even know about me?
What
do you know about me?”

“You were hired to get the dirt on Freddie,” she said casually. She might have said, “The Astors will be taking tea with us later.”

I didn’t know what to say. She had turned her pretty backside to me again, arching her leg at the opposite wall.

“My husband’s attorney, Mr. Higgs, told me about you,” she continued. “You gave a statement placing Freddie near Westbourne about the time of the crime.”

“Well, yes….”

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Okay.”

“Sit on this chair. I need to do some stretching, and I don’t think those phone books are enough support.”

I sighed, went over, moved the phone books and sat down. She was looking right at me, her eyes dark and intense and as naive as a four-year-old child’s.

“Uncle Walter admitted he hired you,” she said.

“Uncle Walter. Foskett? The attorney?”

This close up, I could tell that she actually was breathing a bit heavy; just a faint huff and puffing.

“That’s right,” she said. “I saw him yesterday, at the funeral.”

“But you were
here
yesterday.”

“I arrived yesterday evening. The funeral was in the morning.”

“I see…” But I didn’t.

“I wanted to be at my husband’s side as soon as possible…allowing time to make contact with you, of course. I take a Pan Am flight to Nassau this afternoon.”

“You believe in your husband’s innocence, then.”

“I have no doubt.” And she didn’t seem to. Her eyes, her expression, were unwavering. Also, unnerving, as she faced me, leaned in to me, while she stretched each long limb behind her, one at a time of course.

“You see, Mr. Heller, while I may not have made a study of it, I
know
human nature—I’ve lived with Freddie, and he may not be perfect…but he is my husband, and he is no murderer.”

“That’s an admirable attitude for a wife to have.”

“Thank you. I want you to do a job for me.”

“A job? What sort of job?”

“I want you to clear Freddie, of course. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or orange juice? I think even Miss Graham would agree I’ve done enough of a workout for one day.”

She pointed me to an area where picture windows overlooked the Biltmore golf course, and I sat alone at a carved wooden table shaped like a large seashell and sipped coffee she’d provided from a silver service on a stand nearby.

She emerged in a white terry-cloth robe, belted over her workout clothes, and smiled her multimillion-dollar smile and said, “Would you like breakfast? I can have some brought up.”

“No. Thank you. I already ate.”

She sipped her orange juice. She looked calm, poised, but it was a mask. Her eyes had the same red filigree as Marjorie Bristol’s. Yesterday she had reminded me of Merle Oberon; today I was thinking Gene Tierney….

“Your friend Sally Rand really is quite a gifted ballerina,” she said.

“Yes she is. A lot of people don’t notice that, though.”

“Lovely dancer.” Her smile seemed confident, but I sensed vulnerability. “Well, Mr. Heller? What do you say? Will you take the case?”

“No.”

Her wide eyes widened. “No?”

“No. Mrs. de Marigny, it’s impossible. I’m a material witness…for the prosecution!”

She smiled wickedly. “So much the better.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea, getting a private investigator to work with this attorney…Higgs, is it? I can tell you, frankly, that I’m not impressed with what the police down there are doing, either the Nassau boys or the imported Miami variety.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know that all too well.”

How? I wondered. But I didn’t ask.

I just said, “Really, I apologize, I’d like to help, but…”

She locked onto me with that unwavering gaze. “Mr. Heller—I checked with the person who recommended you to my father—an old friend of yours: Evalyn Walsh McLean. She speaks warmly of you, and assures me you are
the
man for the job.”

Evalyn. There was a name from the past…one of the queens of Washington society, the owner of the famed, cursed Hope Diamond, she’d been at my side during much of the ill-fated Lindbergh investigation. We’d parted rather bitterly—oddly enough, after all these years, it felt good to know I’d been forgiven….

“She claims you solved the Lindbergh kidnapping,” Nancy de Marigny said.

“Oh yeah. That one worked out just peachy for everybody.”

Her smile was wistful, her eyes glazed. “You know, it’s funny…that’s one of the reasons why my father moved to the Bahamas….”

“What is?”

“The Lindbergh kidnapping.”

“It is?”

She smiled, laughed sadly. “Oh, I know—everyone thinks Daddy moved to Nassau strictly to dodge the Canadian taxes. Well, I’m sure that was part of it. But after the Lindbergh baby was kidnapped, Daddy received several notes, extortion notes, threatening that
I
would be the next ‘rich brat snatched,’ if he didn’t pay. We lived near Niagara Falls at the time…sort of in the same part of the country as the Lindberghs—Mother and Father were friends of theirs, you know. Anyway, for something like two years we had armed guards walking our grounds. I know it was probably only a relatively short time, but in my memory it seems that I spent my entire childhood accompanied everywhere I
went
by armed guards.”

I didn’t know what to say; so I just nodded sympathetically.

“But in
Nassau,
Daddy had been told, even the richest man in the world could go to sleep, and leave his doors unlocked….”

And now, finally, she began to cry.

She found some tissues in her robe pocket and dabbed her eyes; I rose and went to her and touched her shoulder. After a while, she nodded that she was better, and gestured for me to sit down again.

I did.

“Mrs. de Marigny—I really do wish I could help.” And in a way I did, but really I didn’t: I just wanted to get back to Chicago. Between Nassau and Florida, I’d had my fill of palm trees, and I sure didn’t need to travel to the tropics to find knuckleheaded American cops to tangle with.

“Then you decline?” She took one last swipe at her eyes.

“Yes.”

“In that case, I’ll have to speak to Mr. Foskett.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well…you’ll need to refund my father’s ten-thousand-dollar retainer.”

“What?”

“I think you heard me the first time, Mr. Heller.”

“That was a nonrefundable retainer….”

“Do you have that in writing?”

“Well, no. How did you know…?”

She smiled blandly. “I’m friendly with the head of my father’s household staff—a Miss Marjorie Bristol? She’s holding the carbon of the check my father made out to you.”

I didn’t say anything. I may have moaned.

“And,” she continued cheerily, “in his personal ledger, where he recorded the payment, he noted that your daily rate was to be three hundred dollars. He also made a notation that you’d been paid in advance, one thousand dollars for one day’s work. And I believe that’s how long you did, actually, work? Isn’t it, Mr. Heller?”

I nodded. “That was three hundred dollars plus expenses, though.”

She shrugged facially. “That’s fine. And if you put in enough days to exhaust the retainer, I’m willing to continue paying you at the same rate. Which I understand is top money in your field.”

I sighed. “That’s correct.”

“So. When would you like to head back to Nassau?”

She’d beaten me; Nate Heller, tough guy, pummeled by a nineteen-year-old ballerina.

“This afternoon will be fine,” I said.

“Wonderful!” She reached in the pocket of her robe. “Here are your tickets…your room is waiting at the B.C.”

She meant the British Colonial; I took the tickets, numbly.

She sipped her orange juice. Looked out at the golf course, proud of herself.

“Mrs. de Marigny…”

“Nancy.” She smiled, and it was genuine enough.

“Nancy. And call me Nate, and how did you know the police are botching the investigation? Did the Count’s attorney, Higgs, tell you?”

She shook her head no. “I had firsthand experience with those Miami detectives.”

I squinted at her. “Barker and Melchen? How’s that possible?”

“They flew to Maine yesterday…they crashed the funeral, Mr. Heller.”

“Nate. They crashed the
funeral
?”

They crashed the funeral, and afterward they followed Nancy and her mother to the latter’s bedroom, where Lady Oakes collapsed in grief. They chose this moment to tell Nancy and Lady Oakes, in gruesome detail, their reconstruction of the murder as Freddie de Marigny supposedly committed it.

She was tightly angry as she told me this; her brown eyes brimmed with tears that seemed of indignation more than sorrow.

“The tall, good-looking one with salt-and-pepper hair…”

“That’s Barker,” I said.

She nodded. “Barker. He told Mother, stood at her bedside and
told
her, that Freddie had taken a wooden picket from a fence outside the house, and used it to batter and gouge Daddy senseless…this Barker even used his hands to demonstrate the motion, stabbing the air!”

“Christ. How did your mother take this?”

“She’s a very strong woman,
very
—but she became hysterical. Our doctor advised them to stop with their story, but Mother—through her hysteria—screamed to let them continue.”

“How did
you
take it?”

She spoke through her teeth. “It just made me mad. Mad as hell.”

“Good girl. Go on.”

Her eyes hardened even as a tear trickled. “Then Barker said Freddie splashed Daddy, who was still alive, with insecticide from a flit gun. And then…set him on fire—only the fire roused Daddy, who rose up, writhing in ‘horrible agony.’”

Jesus Christ.

“Even if it were true,” I said, “Barker is a sadistic moron, putting you and your mother through that hell.”

She shook her head vigorously, as if trying to shake that awful story out of it. “I didn’t believe a word. I was just getting more and more furious. But it was a cold fury.”

“That’s the best kind. Did those sons of bitches leave you alone then?”

“No. Barker added a
coup de grâce:
he said that four or five fingerprints of Freddie’s had been found in Daddy’s bedroom.”

I shook my head. “I have to be honest with you, Nancy—that’s bad. Real bad.”

She heaved a huge sigh and nodded.

“Juries just
love
fingerprint evidence,” I said.

“But the odd thing is,” she said, frowning, thinking back, “the
other
detective…the fat one? With the Southern accent?”

“Melchen,” I said.

“Melchen. He said, ‘No kidding?
Fingerprints?’
It was obvious it was the first he’d heard of it!”

I sat up. “What did Barker say then?”

She shrugged. “He just shushed him, and they hurried out.”

My laugh was hollow. “They fly up from Nassau on the plane together, they’re partners in this all the way, and Barker doesn’t even
mention
to Melchen that he found the accused’s fingerprints in the murder room?”

She seemed confused, as well she should be. “What does it mean?”

“Well, the bad news is they’re working up a frame.” Then I smiled. “The good news is, they’re incompetent dopes.”

She was still confused. “But…why would they frame my husband?”

“Could be plain old-fashioned bad police work. A true detective accumulates evidence until it leads him to a suspect. A lousy detective finds a suspect and accumulates only the evidence that fits that suspect.”