Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 08 (15 page)

I shrugged. “I saw Vidrine in action. He seemed more than competent.”

Seymour raised both eyebrows. “Mebbe so—but when Dr. Maes arrived, about an hour after the operation, he examined Huey—and then he read Vidrine the riot act.”

“Why, in God’s name?”

“I’ll tell you as best I can, one layman to another. Dr. Maes’s diagnosis was that Huey had been shot through the kidney…but Vidrine didn’t probe the bullet beyond the intestines. Another operation was indicated, but Maes refused to do it.”

“Why?”

Seymour gazed at me without blinking. “He said…he doesn’t operate on dead men.”

It looked like I was going to bear Alice Jean the bad tidings, after all.

Seymour slipped his arm back around my shoulder and walked me slowly down the hall.

“If Huey dies,” I said, “there’ll be an inquest….”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Seymour said. “You didn’t witness the shooting, did you? You’re free to go back to Chicago.”

Seymour stopped for a moment, dug inside his suit coat and came back with a fat wallet; from it, he peeled out two hundred dollars in twenties.

“Your train ticket’s waitin’ at the Heidelberg desk. You leave this afternoon. Acceptable?”

“Fine with me,” I said, pocketing the cash. “I don’t particularly need this kind of publicity. The detective hired to prevent a killing that’s headline news all over the world? Not great for business.”

“Here’s another hundred,” Seymour said, taking out another handful of twenties.

I took them, tucked them away. “I hope Huey beats the odds. Tell him that for me, Seymour. So long….”

I’d taken a few steps when Seymour called out to me.

“Oh, and Heller?”

“Yeah?”

He walked quickly up to me and pressed still more twenties into my palm.

“What’s this for?”

“It’s what we call in Louisiana a lann-yapp.”

“A what?”

He repeated it, and spelled it: l-a-g-n-i-a-p-p-e.

“Means somethin’ extra, for no special reason. Somethin’ for nothin’.” He patted me on the shoulder, smiled, then as an apparent afterthought added, “Oh, and would you, on your way, get Alice Jean out of here? Her presence upsets Mrs. Long.”

It didn’t begin raining until Monday night. I was well on my way home, dry as a bone, in a private compartment, thanks to Seymour Weiss’s largess. But a day later, when I spoke to Alice Jean, long distance from Chicago, she said the rain had started Monday evening and was still coming down. Not a storm, but a steady, rhythmic rain. A deluge couldn’t have dampened the vigil of his followers, and when Huey died before sunup Tuesday morning, just as it was beginning to build, they were waiting, ready to add their tears to the downpour.

They had sunny weather for the funeral, except for a brief sprinkle that quickly turned to steam. It was so hot, in fact, many of the mourners used umbrellas to shield themselves and their children from the rays. Even in Chicago, you couldn’t avoid the details of the spectacle. Every radio carried it live; every newspaper gave it the front page; and a week later, the newsreels were full of it.

As it turned out, his skyscraper statehouse was the only gravestone large enough to suit Huey: it had been his wish to be buried on the capitol grounds, and he was, in the sunken garden facing his art moderne memorial. But first, twenty-two thousand mourners passed by the bier as he lay, strangely enough, in a citified tuxedo, a peasant under glass in an open coffin in grandiose Memorial Hall. So many flowers were sent, they would have overflowed the hall, had they all been displayed there; instead, they were set up on the grounds and extended out over several acres.

By daybreak Thursday—the day of the funeral—mourners were streaming into Baton Rouge from all over the state, by train and bus, by limo and pickup, black and white, rich and poor, man/woman/child, hillbillies and rednecks and Creoles and Cajuns, in tailored suits, in dusty coveralls, by some estimates as many as 150,000, congregating everywhere from oak trees to rooftops, perched on statues, peeking out capitol office windows, but most of all swarming the capitol grounds.

While the LSU Marching Band played a minor-key dirge variation of “Every Man a King,” Huey Long’s bronze casket was carried by Seymour Weiss, Judge Fournet, Governor Allen and other key figures in the Long machine, down the forty-nine steps through the crowd’s weeping gauntlet, to the resting place in the sunken garden.

At the graveside, Dr. Gerald L. K. Smith delivered the eulogy, making a bid for Huey’s followers. (The next day, in a press conference at the Roosevelt, in a flurry of anti-Semitism, the Rev announced himself officially the heir to the Kingfish’s throne.)

When the last mourner had drifted away, one final precaution was taken to guard Huey Long: he was buried beneath seven feet of steel and cement. Alice Jean said it was Seymour Weiss’s idea. Dillinger’s dad had done much the same for him. Keeps the tourists out.

A smaller funeral had been held, in the pouring rain, three days before: that of Dr. Carl Weiss. The monsignor at St. Joseph’s didn’t feel it had been clearly proven Dr. Weiss shot Huey, and granted a church burial. The funeral was attended by Baton Rouge’s business, civic and social leaders, as well as every doctor in town, not to mention several congressmen and one former governor.

And the Kiwanis and Young Men’s Business Club sent wreaths.

Sometimes at night, in the months that followed, I would think about being in the Reymond Building, trying to ferret out the Huey Long murder plot, wondering how many offices away from the real thing I’d been.

Other times I would think about Alice Jean, who occasionally dropped me a note, sometimes even called, urging me to return for a visit; but fond of her as I was, I wasn’t about to.

If I wanted to go to a banana republic, I’d hop a tramp steamer to South America.

The Mediterranean-style, creamy-stucco, tile-roofed two-story, in the Garden District of New Orleans near Tulane University, wasn’t a mansion, exactly. Not that it wasn’t impressive, with its railings and ornamentation and many windows, not to mention the manicured lawn and exotic shrubbery. Small cedars hugged the first floor and moss-hung oaks protected the perimeter, and here and there were other, more tropical trees, including several broad-leafed banana trees.

I shook my head, as I pulled my black rental Ford into the cement-block driveway: here I was, back in the banana republic of Louisiana, after all. And only one thing could have coaxed my return. Alice Jean Crosley, you’re thinking? The love of a woman? How romantic.

Hardly. I was here on a thousand-dollar retainer from the Chicago office of the Mutual Life Insurance Company. The woman—a widow, who lived in this near-mansion at 14 Audubon Boulevard—had put in an accidental death claim on her husband. I had been chosen as a neutral third party, acceptable both to the insurance company and the widow (and her attorney), to determine whether her husband’s death was accidental or not.

Actually, I wasn’t sorry to be back in Louisiana at all. We’d had a cold snap, and Chicago had done that disappearing act it occasionally likes to perform: skipping fall and cutting straight to winter. It felt good to be in a lightweight white linen suit, walking around in seventy-degree weather, even if it was slightly humid.

The lady of the house must’ve had a perfectionist, raking fool for a gardener; though the oaks and cedars were losing their leaves, the lawn was free of them, and was still green and as perfect as the nearby Audubon Park Club Golf Course. I shook my head again. That’s where I’d been, a little over a year ago (or was it a century?), caddying with my nine millimeter strapped under my arm.

I went up the steps to the elaborate entryway; two white plaster artichokes framed the massive wood front door. I rang the door bell, expecting a butler or maid to answer.

But she answered herself.

She hadn’t changed: the tragedy was nowhere in her attractive oval face; her pale blue eyes and her smile were shy, but not insecure. Pleasantly plump, she wore a simple chocolate-color dress with touches of lace and a silver brooch at the neck.

“Hello, Mrs. Long,” I said. “Nathan Heller, from Chicago…”

Her smile widened as she offered me her slender hand to shake, which I did. “I remember you, Mr. Heller. That’s why you’re here.”

“Pardon?”

“I requested you.”

Confused, I took off my Panama, as she led me inside, shutting the massive door with a thud. We passed through a small entryway into a larger vestibule where dark wood stairs rose to an upstairs landing; a formal living room was through a double archway at right, an immaculate dining room through a double archway at left. The woodwork was dark, the walls creamy pastel plaster, the furnishings Mediterranean and expensive. Lovely, but it didn’t quite look like anybody lived here.

She paused and said, “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Heller? A mint julep, perhaps? I’ve just made a pitcher of iced tea, if you prefer something softer?”

“Tea would be fine, Mrs. Long…excuse me. Would you prefer ‘Senator Long’?”

She had been appointed to serve out the remainder of her husband’s senate term.

Now her smile turned embarrassed. “Actually, I prefer ‘Mrs.’ I’m afraid I’m playing hooky at the moment. I’m really not in Washington as often as I should be…public affairs and politics just aren’t very interesting to me.”

“Then, if you don’t mind my asking, why’d you accept the job?”

“It provides a nice change of scenery…but mostly, it’s the ten thousand dollars a year. Shall we have that iced tea? I assume you prefer it unsweetened, like most Northerners….”

Soon she was escorting me through a hallway to an expansive solarium with dark-stained wicker furnishings, creamy walls and a red-tile floor. We moved past a card table to a sofa and chair, and she gestured to the chair as she settled herself on the sofa, sitting with hands folded in her lap, her iced tea on a coaster on the wicker-and-glass end table beside her. Prim, proper, but in no way pretentious.

“I like this room,” she said, glancing out the slatted wooden blinds at her tropical backyard garden. A balmy breeze drifted in through the screens. “We had a room like this at the governor’s mansion.”

“At the risk of seeming rude,” I said, sipping my tea, “why would a woman of your means have to take on a job that pays ten thousand a year?”

“Then my attorney didn’t fill you in, at all?”

“No. And Mr. Gallagher, the chief of Mutual’s investigative bureau, merely said that you’d worked out an arrangement where an outside investigator—sort of an arbitrator—would be brought in.”

“You weren’t aware that I requested you, specifically.”

“No. In fact, that surprises me. All Mr. Gallagher said was, ‘I understand you did some work in Louisiana for Huey Long.’ I said yes, and he seemed to think that meant I knew my way around down here…for a Northerner, anyway.”

She looked around the room; her eyes landed on a framed family portrait on a table—Huey, Rose herself and their three children, probably taken a year, maybe two, before the Kingfish died. “On the last night we spent together, in this house, my husband spoke of you.”

Now that really surprised me. “Is that right?”

“Yes. The next morning he met with you on the golf course, I understand.”

I nodded.

She was looking off, into the past. “He spoke of how nice it was to have someone from the outside, someone he could trust. With all the squabbling over the spoils, among his ‘supporters,’ from Seymour Weiss to Dr. Smith and a raft of others, I can well understand that he felt surrounded by…vultures. They ran on an assassination ticket, you know—and painted their podiums blood red. Most distasteful.”

I was starting to feel awkward about this. “Mrs. Long, it’s only fair that I tell you I failed in my mission, for your husband. He’d been warned someone was going to try to assassinate him, during the special session, and he came to me to…”

“I know,” she said quietly. Her smile was a madonna’s. “He confided in me. On that last night. The next morning, I pleaded with him not to go to Baton Rouge, with this murder threat hanging over him. But he just laughed, Huey did, and said, ‘I may not come back, dear, but I’ll die fighting!’”

She dug a handkerchief out of a pocket and wept into it for a moment. I sat quietly, listening to the wind rustle the fronds of the banana trees.

Soon she had hold of herself, but she was still in the mood to reminisce. “Huey and I…there was a time when we were very close. He was taking so many classes, working so many jobs, and I was finding every which way to stretch a penny. I’m very much a housewife, Mr. Heller—Huey met me when he was judging a cake-baking contest…he was selling vegetable shortening, at the time.”

I smiled. “And you were the winner.”

She returned it. “I was the winner…for a while. But success came quickly, and wooed him away from me. He didn’t spend much time with us, here in this house. I think he knew his time was short. And now…now I’m a United States Senator myself! Can you imagine?”

“I’m sure you’re doing a fine job.”

“Not really. If I didn’t have Russell beside me, I’d be lost—lost without my twenty-year-old to guide me along. The funny thing is this, even when we first met, Huey was always writing letters to United States senators, at any ol’ excuse. It didn’t make any sense to me, and I’d ask him why he was doing it. He’d say, ‘I want them to know I’m here.’ And again, I’d ask, why? And he’d say, ‘I’m going to be there someday myself.’ Can you imagine? He was only a teenager, then.”

“He already had a sense of what he wanted to do.”

She nodded, rolled the pale blue eyes. “We were barely married when he first told me his ‘master’ plan…. He had it all mapped out. First he’d run for some minor office, then for governor, then United States Senate and finally, the presidency of the United States. He had it all measured out. Gave me cold chills to hear it, and to see that look in his eyes.”

I sat forward. “Mrs. Long. With all due respect, you still haven’t told me why a woman of your standing would take her husband’s Senate seat for what must be to you a paltry sum.”

Now the smile was teasing. “Do you consider ten thousand dollars to be a ‘paltry sum,’ Mr. Heller?”

“Of course not…”

Now it was gone. “And do you know the purpose of the investigation you’re to pursue?”

I shrugged. “Well…as I understand it, I’m to determine whether Mutual’s double-indemnity clause kicks in, on your husband’s life insurance policy.”

“That’s right,” she said, with one nod. “If my husband was murdered by Dr. Carl Weiss, the policy pays ten thousand dollars. But…if he was shot accidentally…for example, by the stray bullet of one of his bodyguards…it pays
twenty
thousand.”

Money again. Another ten grand…

“The fact is, Mr. Heller,” she said, and from her expression I could tell she found this subject disagreeable, “my husband’s estate was just a little over one hundred thousand dollars. That includes the value of this home.”

I felt like I’d been coldcocked. While a hundred grand sounded like all the money in the world to a small-timer like me, for a politician like the Kingfish—by all accounts, an incredibly corrupt politician, at that—to leave so little behind was absurd.

I told her so—skipping the corrupt politician part.

“Louisiana is a state of abundant absurdity, Mr. Heller. Surely you remember that from your previous visit.”

I was shaking my head. “I know for a fact your husband had money tucked away. Money that the IRS didn’t know about. Money that might not have been part of his estate, but that, one way or another, should have gone to you.”

“If so, none of it did.”

“Mrs. Long, the day I was on the golf course with your husband, I overheard him and Mr. Weiss mention the so-called ‘dee-duct box.’”

She blinked. “You know about that?”

“I know about that. And from what they both had to say, it was obvious there was at least a cool million stashed away, as your husband’s ‘war chest’ for his presidential campaign.”

“Then the vultures got it,” she said crisply, raising her chin. “Not me. Can you help me get that extra ten thousand dollars?”

Now
I
blinked.

“Well, Mrs. Long,” I said with my practiced shy grin, “I’ve been hired to be impartial. I’ve done considerable work for Mutual, over the years, and wouldn’t want to risk…”

“There would be a thousand-dollar cash under-the-table bonus in it, for you.”

I shifted in my chair. “Well, uh…I’ll see what I can do.”

“Understand, I’m not asking you to falsify any documents or evidence. But you will be sorely tried, and tempted, along the way, I fear….”

“By the ‘vultures,’ you mean?”

“That is correct. The inquests into the deaths of my husband and Dr. Carl Weiss were perfunctory affairs. Neither my husband’s enemies, nor his supporters, were terribly anxious to question this doctor’s supposed role as a lone assassin.”

“Sure,” I said. “Much tidier to just pin it on the mad doctor. If the bodyguards killed the Senator, it would be a scandal. And if a full-scale inquiry turned up a conspiracy, half of the Baton Rouge Chamber of Commerce might find themselves indicted.”

She liked the sound of my reasoning. “Correct. And this is why you’re the perfect man for this job.”

“What is?”

She raised a forefinger. “Only you can accomplish this—an outsider who has already gone into the dens of both camps…the enemies who wanted Huey dead, and the ‘friends’ around him….”

I lifted an eyebrow. “The ‘vultures,’ you mean.”

“Precisely.”

I scratched my neck. “I have to say, Mrs. Long, I felt there was genuine affection between Seymour Weiss and your husband. And some of those bodyguards, like Joe Messina and Murphy Roden, damn near worshipped him.”

“I don’t want to color your inquiry,” she said enigmatically.

I kind of figured she already colored it when she bribed me with the grand.

“You do realize,” I said, “I wasn’t a witness….

“I know. I’m fully aware of your role in rushing my husband to Our Lady of the Lake. But you did view the aftermath, isn’t that correct? The…what is the term?”

“Crime scene,” I said. “Yes. I saw the young doctor’s body.”

“The poor man was shot many times, I understand.”

Interesting that Mrs. Long could refer to her husband’s presumed assassin in such a sympathetic way, unless she had already convinced herself of the man’s innocence.

“Frankly, ma’am, I never saw anything quite so brutal. And it was a very enclosed space for so much shooting.”

She was nodding again; like her husband, she could appreciate a good yes-man. “Then you feel it
is
possible that my husband may have been killed not by Dr. Weiss, but by a wild bullet from one of the bodyguards’ guns.”

“I do. Bullets had to have been ricocheting off that marble, every which way. But it doesn’t necessarily mean anyone was lying, either, about their stories.”

She frowned. “How is that possible?”

“That kind of violence, in so cramped a space, in so short a time, almost none of the eyewitness testimony can be trusted. I heard two versions—one from Chick Frampton—”

“The reporter.”

“Yes. The other from Murphy Roden. They were similar stories, but there were differences.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Such as?”

I shrugged. “Typical eyewitness inconsistencies. Murphy said he wrestled the assailant to the floor. Frampton merely said Murphy was ‘stooped over’ the doctor. Minor, but differences. I’m sure dozens, perhaps hundreds more, will turn up.”

She was frowning in thought. “I already know another.”

“What’s that?”

“Judge Fournet claims he and Mr. Roden
both
struggled with Dr. Weiss, at the same time.”

“Well, frankly, that just may be the judge trying to add some glory to his role in it. When I read in the papers about your husband being rushed to the hospital, I saw the names of half a dozen people, including several bodyguards, claiming to have ridden in that beat-up Ford I commandeered.”