Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 (11 page)

Damn near the entire surface of the bed was burned black, except a small area under where his hips had been, where Oakes’ bladder had put out the fire.

“Notice,” I said, pointing, “there’s no indication anywhere of the outline of Oakes’ body. If his body had been on the bed
before
the fire was set, the sheet and mattress beneath his body would have been virtually untouched.”

Gardner was right with me, nodding. “The position of the body, and its weight, would have shut the oxygen off from the fire.”

“Add that to the pajama shreds that didn’t burn, and the trickle of blood that moved uphill, and what do you get?”

“Well,” Gardner said archly, “I don’t get Sir Harry asleep in bed, getting shot or bludgeoned and his bed set on fire.”

I paced by the blackened bed, studying it. “I think maybe he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Talking to somebody—maybe arguing….”

I put my finger behind Gardner’s left ear and said, “Then bang, bang, bang, bang…he’s shot…or
maybe
struck…anyway, he collapses on the floor.”

“And the bed is set on fire, without Harry on it!”

“Sort of.” I frowned. “Look at the ceiling. Right over the bed. What do you see?”

“The charred framework of the mosquito-netting canopy.”

“And the mosquito netting is burned away, right?”

“Right,” he said.

“But what
isn’t
burned?”

Gardner looked; his tiny eyes popped. “The goddamn
ceiling
!”

I smiled. “Right. Look at these weird burns on the floor…circular…here and there…and Sir Harry himself was burned like that, too…
intermittently.”

“That means a torch. Something homemade?”

“Possibly. I think a blowtorch. Something that could be aimed. Something you could point and scorch this bed, even get a fire going, yet still not even touch the ceiling, when you burned the netting away.”

Now Gardner’s eyes were so slitted they were gone. “You’ve got something, Heller. You’ve got something….”

“This bed was on fire when Sir Harry was tossed on it. He was already dead, or nearly dead, from those wounds behind his ear. The killer…”

“Killers,” Gardner interjected. “With all this going on, there had to be at least two.”

“You’re probably right. The
killers
then took their time playing voodoo, burning Sir Harry’s body here and there, particularly the eyes and his private parts, tossing those feathers on him.”

He pointed at the fan on the floor by the bed. “What about that? Isn’t that how the feathers got blown around?”

“No,” I said. “There were feathers sticking to him on the side of him
away
from the fan. Those feathers were sprinkled over him.”

Gardner looked puzzled, now. “Did they
mean
to burn the place down?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe they just wanted to leave this phony voodoo calling card. Or maybe one of them burned and feathered Harry while the body was still on the floor, the other one getting the fire on the bed going real good, then they both tossed him on….”

“And took a powder while the fire was still blazing, figuring the whole place would burn down!”

I nodded slowly. “Maybe. But the wind put it out. You know, usually when a man kills for money—as de Marigny is accused of—he does it as quickly and simply as possible and makes his getaway.”

“These killers weren’t in a hurry,” Gardner said. “They took their time, either out of hatred for Sir Harry, or in an effort to suggest a ritual killing. Unless it
was
a ritual killing….”

“Whatever the case,” I said, “it’s no hit-and-run job.”

“Are you gentlemen in need of assistance?” said a voice from the doorway. A familiar voice, actually.

Colonel Lindop entered the room, his face long and dour under the pith helmet, hands behind him.

“You’ve been telling tales to my men,” he said dryly. His smile was thin and not pleased.

“I told them I was meeting you here,” I said. “And here we are—back in the old clubhouse.”

“Don’t underestimate my people,” he said. “Colored or not, they’re good men. They had the sense to call me.”

But not the sense to stop me from waltzing in.

“I’ll admit they do a hell of job destroying evidence,” I said. “They were scrubbing bloody fingerprints off the wall when we got here.”

Lindop blinked at the bare wall, then looked glumly my way.

“Not my doing,” he said softly.

“I didn’t figure it was.”

“But I must admit I didn’t expect to see you in Nassau again so soon,” he said, too curious to throw me the hell out, right away.

“I’m working for the defense,” I said.

The unflappable Lindop seemed flapped. “Really? For Mr. Higgs?”

“Mrs. de Marigny hired me.”

His features froze as he tried to fathom this news. Then he looked at Gardner and said, “And who would this gentleman be?”

“This is Erle Stanley Gardner, the famous writer. He’s an old friend of mine. Giving me his reading of the crime scene.”

“Fascinating, I’m sure,” Lindop said, with the slightest smirk. “You wouldn’t be covering this for the press, would you?”

“Actually,” Gardner said, with a sheepish grin, “I would. Pleased to meet you, Colonel Lindop….”

Lindop ignored the hand the writer offered. He said, “I’ll have to ask you to leave. We’ll be bringing the press out, en masse, one day soon.”

“Swell,” Gardner said.

“Before we go,” I said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me take a few evidence samples, for the defense.”

Lindop looked at me, amazed. “Samples? Such as?”

“Pieces of the sheets and blankets and carpet.”

“Why?”

“To conduct experiments about rate of burning.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t know…”

“I’m sure,” I said, “that the Miami dicks wouldn’t want you to allow this.”

He smiled faintly. “I see. Well…why don’t you go ahead, then. Take your samples.”

I did. Lindop watched, then saw us out. He was almost friendly.

“Oh, Colonel,” I said, outside on the front doorstep, “I wonder if you’d mind pointing out the picket fence, from which the murder weapon was supposedly plucked?”

Lindop smirked again. “I suppose you want to take one of the pickets, too,” he said, “for your scientific experiments.”

I exchanged shit-eating grins with Erle Stanley Gardner.

“Now that you mention it,” I said.

Brilliant late-morning sunlight careened off the high stone walls of the fortresslike Nassau Jail. The structure—which was at the end of a street called Prison Lane, fittingly enough—was atop a hill in a run-down colored district near the southern border of the city. A formidable iron gate swung open to allow the deep-blue Bentley into a courtyard overseen by placid black officers in towers and on walkways—unlike their counterparts on the streets of Nassau, these bobbies were armed, with rifles.

Godfrey Higgs, counsel for the defense, was driving. I was his passenger. I had spoken with Higgs on the phone the evening before, and we’d met for breakfast on a dining porch at the B.C., overlooking lush gardens and busy tennis courts.

I was sitting sipping orange juice when he strode through the hotel dining room over to where I sat by a window. Despite his three-piece suit, my first impression was that the tall, broad-shouldered attorney moved, and looked, like an athlete—even if it was in some ersatz sport like cricket or polo or something.

His forehead was high under dark, slicked-back, parted-in-the-middle hair; the eyes in his oval face were alert and hazel, smile broad and ready, nose sharp.

“Mr. Heller?”

“Mr Higgs?”

His grip was firm. He sat and ordered breakfast from a black waiter; my food was already on the way.

“One of Sir Harry’s good deeds, you know,” Higgs said.

“What’s that?”

“Giving hotel jobs to the colored population. That’s one of the reasons Sir Harry was so beloved.”

“I understand your client treats
his
Negro employees well, too.”

Higgs’ smile moved to one side of his face. “Yes…but not in the far-sweeping manner of Sir Harry Oakes. I’m afraid, right now, my client is as unpopular with the black population as he is with the social crowd he’s gone to such lengths, over the last few years, to alienate.”

“Why so much resentment against him? I’ve only viewed him at a distance, but he seems at least as charming as he is obnoxious.”

Higgs laughed brittlely. “Well put. But you’ll find soon enough, in your investigations, that outsiders here…unless they’re tourists spreading money around…are viewed with suspicion and disdain.”

I drank some coffee. “So that French accent of his, that charms the pants off the ladies, doesn’t win him points with the men.”

“That’s part of it.” His tea had arrived and he was stirring it idly, cooling it. “You see, Mr. Heller, the local people in Nassau…of either color…are unbelievably lazy. If an outsider comes in, and has the success that Fred has had…from his yachting victories to this chicken farm of his, which is so prosperous…it rankles.”

“But Sir Harry wasn’t resented that way?”

“Hardly. Oakes didn’t do anything but bring money in and spend it…which is what white men are supposed to do in the Bahamas. Freddie, on the other hand, arrived with an accent and a title, worked side by side with blacks, seduced the local ladies, and made himself a general pain in the posterior.”

“I like him better already. But the notion that an entire population is ‘lazy’ seems a little silly to me….”

His smile turned wry. “I understand you’re from Chicago. I’m told that’s a city where every citizen has his hand in another citizen’s pocket. Is that generalization at all true, or am I being offensive?”

Now I had to smile. “No—more like an attorney who’s made his point.”

He sipped the tea. Muscular-looking as he was, he moved with grace. “You see, Mr. Heller, Nassau is an easy-money town…it’s part of the pirate mentality.”

“What do you mean?”

His expression was almost condescending. “Don’t be taken in by all these lovely flowers and this luxurious sunshine—New Providence is a barren island…the soil is a thin layer over stone, nothing much can be grown here. The major crop of the Bahamas has always been, and probably always will be, piracy of one form or another.”

“Loosely speaking, that would include the rum-running of a few years ago, and the tourism of today.”

He nodded. “Exactly. And to this day, wealthy pirates like Sir Harry Oakes—no disrespect to the dead intended—seek shelter here from civilization…that is, taxes…in much the manner Blackbeard, Captain Henry Morgan, Anne Bonney and the rest found these islands a safe, secluded haven.”

I smiled over my coffee. “The roots of the Bay Street Pirates.”

Higgs chuckled softly. “Yes…and many of them are my clients, so I’ll ask you to grant me confidentiality on these views. But always keep in mind, Mr. Heller, as you search for the truth in this island of lies…many local residents are descended from wreckers.”

“Wreckers?”

He looked out the window absently, then back at me. “One hundred years ago, the major industry locally was luring cargo ships onto the rocks and reefs and pillaging them. It was governmentally sanctioned…people had ‘wrecking licenses,’ ships were registered as ‘salvage vessels.’ Easy money, Mr. Heller—that’s Nassau. And that’s why Freddie de Marigny goes against the grain.”

“In how bad a position does the local resentment against de Marigny put his defense?”

The smile was gone, now. “There are already signs of government collusion against my client.”

“Such as?”

He pointed his teaspoon at me. “Keep in mind there’s no love lost between Freddie and our Royal Governor. The Duke once asked Freddie to divert some water on land of his on Eleuthera, one of our ‘out’ islands, away from the black villagers and onto the property of the Duke’s rich friend Rosita Forbes. Freddie declined, and the Duke took angry exception, and Count de Marigny, in his tactful way, within the earshot of several, called the Duke ‘a pimple on the ass of the British Empire.’”

“How to win friends and influence ex-kings.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then there’s Hallinan….”

“The Attorney General?”

Higgs nodded. “Not so long ago a sailboat washed up on Freddie’s beach in Eleuthera—in it were seven half-dead refugees from Devil’s Island.”

“The prison colony?”

“Yes. When France fell, the prison was shut down, and its prisoners declared free men. Under conditions of enormous physical and emotional strain, these seven had found their way to Nassau. Freddie admired their pluck—fed them, bathed, clothed them. Local churches joined his effort. But Harold Christie objected.”

“Why?”

“This ‘rabble’ was an embarrassment to the Bahamas. At Christie’s request, our Attorney General provided a solution: he slapped the refugees in jail.”

“On what grounds?”

He chuckled again. “None in particular—and that’s why Hallinan has
his
grudge against Count de Marigny. Freddie invoked the War Act and promised Hallinan public embarrassment if he didn’t release the prisoners.”

“So Hallinan did.”

“Reluctantly. Now they all have jobs—three were Vietnamese from Saigon, who found work in a local Chinese laundry.”

Around us in the dining room and on the enclosed porches were a number of Army officers; the brass were using the B.C. as their billet.

“All this makes de Marigny an ideal murderer,” I said, “from the Duke and his Attorney General’s point of view.”

He pointed a finger at me. “Yes—and remember, the Duke personally invited these American detectives aboard—who, my sources indicate, are ignoring any evidence that doesn’t pertain to my client. Washing the walls of bloody fingerprints being a prime example….”

I had mentioned that to him on the phone last night.

“And there are other suspicious occurrences,” he continued. “The two watchmen on duty at the Oakes estate the night of the murder have disappeared…blending into the local native population, apparently…but the police have made no effort to question or even find them.”

One of those was Samuel, who’d been surrey chauffeur to Marjorie Bristol and me.

“The prison doctor, Ricky Oberwarth, is a friendly acquaintance of Freddie’s. The day of the arrest, he examined Freddie for singed hairs and didn’t find any.”

I sat forward. “I was there when Barker and Melchen said they saw plenty of singed hairs.”

“Did you see them yourself?”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow, set it back down. “Neither did Dr. Oberwarth. Within hours of the examination, Oberwarth was relieved of his duties at the prison. He asked why, but was refused an answer.”

“Couldn’t he demand one?”

“Not really. Ricky is a refugee from the Nazis…Jewish. He was allowed safe haven here only because a doctor was needed at Bahamas General.”

“So,” I said, “he decided it was the better part of valor not to press the issue.”

“Yes. And most interesting of all…when Freddie was arrested, he repeatedly asked the police to call his attorney of record—Sir Alfred Adderley, who is considered the leading defense specialist in the island.”

“But I read in your local paper that Adderley was hired to
prosecute
de Marigny.”

“Precisely.” Higgs smiled humorlessly. “Mr. Adderley claims never to have received the Count’s messages. Instead, Freddie’s stuck with
me
—a corporate attorney who’s not been in court more than a dozen times.”

“You strike me as good representation, Mr. Higgs. But why did de Marigny come to you?”

He shrugged those broad shoulders. “I’d been his attorney in several minor business matters. We’re yachting club friends, as well. I suggested he acquire top legal counsel from either the United States or Great Britain…but he insisted on me.”

“That’s quite a vote of confidence.”

“It is. Even better is Freddie’s assurance that if at any point in the case I’m less than convinced of his innocence, I may withdraw.”

Our breakfast arrived; mine was scrambled eggs and toast, but Higgs had grits with jelly-coconut milk.

“Mr. Heller,” Higgs said, spooning his grits, “I’m pleased to have your aid. An investigator of your reputation is going to make my first major criminal case somewhat easier, I think.”

“I’ll try. If it won’t spoil your breakfast, I’ll share some of my thoughts on the murder room…I was out there again yesterday with a reporter friend of mine.”

“Reporter friend?”

“A well-known mystery writer from America—Erle Stanley Gardner.”

Higgs beamed. “Perry Mason! I could use some pointers. Nonetheless, let’s be selective about what we give Mr. Gardner access to, in our investigations. The case is already receiving incredible attention in the American press—let’s use him to put our best face forward.”

“Agreed.”

He pushed his half-eaten grits to one side, touched his lips with a napkin. “Why don’t you fill me in about the murder scene, on our way.”

“Our way?”

“Yes—I think it’s time you met our mutual client….”

The warden was a polite, mustached Canadian named Miller; in khakis and pith helmet, he led Higgs and me in a three-man safari down the narrow, clammy corridor. Then, at the last of four cells, he turned the key, admitted us, and turned it again and was gone.

The best thing you could say for de Marigny’s cell was that it wasn’t a dark dungeon; it was a blindingly bright dungeon. Two light bulbs—five-hundred-watt jobs, easy—were at the apogee of a high domed ceiling and made torture out of the illumination that bounced off the whitewashed walls of the eight-by-twelve cubicle. The floor was unevenly set stones and opposite the door was a barred window—too high to see out of, even on tiptoe, but it kept the warm cell from being stuffy.

The furnishings were limited: an army cot against the wall, a stool on which rested a battered enamel basin of water, and in one corner, a big, uncovered galvanized bucket that served as the incarcerated man’s toilet, and gave the cell its distinctive aroma.

De Marigny—in yellow silk shirt and tan pants, but without belt—was standing; with his beard, he looked like a tall, sorrowful devil. He was obviously much too big for the fold-up cot he’d been provided, to which he now gestured.

“Please have a seat, gentlemen,” he said. In these surroundings his thick, suave accent seemed very much out of place. “I prefer to stand.”

“How are they treating you, Fred?” Higgs asked.

“Well enough. Captain Miller is a fair man. Who is this?” He was referring to me, and now he spoke directly to me. “I’ve seen you. I saw you at Westbourne. You’re one of the police!”

“No,” Higgs said, patting the air with one hand. “Freddie, this is Nathan Heller, the American detective your wife hired.”

Now the Count smiled; his lips were wide and sensual, so there seemed something wicked about it.

“You’re the one who placed me at Westbourne’s front door,” he said.

“Actually, I did you a favor.”

“Oh? Perhaps you might explain.”

I shrugged. “I backed up your story. Those two RAF dames might’ve just been covering for you.”

He thought about that, and his smile turned almost friendly. “I never thought of it that way. Had
you,
Godfrey?”

Higgs said, “Yes.”

“Sit, sit!” de Marigny said, suddenly a fussy host.

We sat on the cot.

“Have you a cigarette, Godfrey? I’ve run out.”

Higgs provided one, and lighted it with a silver, crested lighter. De Marigny sucked in the smoke hungrily, and shook his head, in relief.

“Bring me more. Even if they’re American.”

“All right, Freddie,” the attorney said. “I thought you and Mr. Heller should meet. He’s going to be a vital member of our defense team.”

“From hiding in my bushes,” de Marigny said, his smile smug now, “to beating the bushes for me—searching for clues, searching for the real killer. Quite a turnabout.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Count,” I said, “I find it interesting that you’re so unperturbed by all this.”

He moved the water basin off the stool and sat; he was all legs, a gawky farmer who misplaced his milk cow. He frowned, mildly. “First of all, Mr. Heller—may I call you Nathan?”

“Nate.”

“Nate. First of all please don’t call me Count. I’ve never used the title, and I’ve constantly requested the local press not to refer to me as such. Only my wives seem compelled to use it.”

“What woman doesn’t see herself as a countess?” I said.