Max Collins - Carnal Hours

“The body was moved,” I said. “At the very least, turned over.” I indicated lines of dried blood running from the ear wounds across the bridge of Sir Harry’s nose. “Gravity only works one way, you know.”

Lindop grunted noncommittally.

A nightstand between the beds had a lamp whose celluloid shade was unblistered by heat, thermos jug, drinking glass, set of false teeth and a pair of reading glasses-undisturbed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in this bedchamber the night before.

“It’s wet under his hips,” I said, pointing. “Bladder released on death, probably. Has your photographer been here yet? There’s a newspaper Sir Harry’s lying on you might want to note.”

“We have no departmental photographer. I sent for two RAF photographers, who are developing their photos now, and a draftsman, who drew a floor plan.”

“Jolly good.” I moved away from the bed, gestured around us. “But you’d better seal off this crime scene before you compromise all this evidence.”

Lindop moved his mouth as if tasting something-something unpleasant. “Mr. Heller-much as I might appreciate your insights…I did not ask you to Westbourne as a police consultant.”

“What, then? A suspect? I hardly knew the guy!”

He cocked his head back again. “You were one of the last persons to see Sir Harry alive. I wish to know the nature of your business with him.”

I glanced over at my employer; he was staring at the ceiling with his eyes burned out. He seemed to have no objection.

“His business with me was to have me shadow his son-in-law, which I did yesterday afternoon and evening.”

That perked up the Colonel; he took a step forward. “For what reason?”

I shrugged. “Suspected marital infidelity on the part of the Count. Sir Harry wasn’t fond of him, you know.”

“Damnit, man-give me the details!”

I gave him the details. From picking up the Count’s tail at the Yacht Club, to driving the RAF wives home after the party.

“Hubbard’s Cottages,” Lindop said, narrowing his eyes. “That’s near here….”

“Almost next door.”

“Then de Marigny drove right past Westbourne!”

“So did I. Around one, one-thirty.”

Now his eyes widened. “You didn’t follow him back home to his house on Victoria Street?”

“No. I figured he wasn’t getting laid, so my night was over.”

Lindop heaved a disgusted sigh. “Perhaps it would have been better for all concerned if you’d kept Count de Marigny in your sights a while longer.”

I shrugged again. “Yeah, and I should’ve bought U.S. Steel at a nickel a share.”

A voice from the entry area called, “Sir!”

A black face was peeking around the Chinese screen.

“The Governor is on the phone for you, sir.”

We went back down-except for Harry-with Lindop requesting I stay on for a few more minutes. I said sure, and stood idly near the foot of the stairs with several of the Bahamian bobbies; I glanced around, hoping to catch sight of Marjorie Bristol.

Instead, I saw a dazed-looking Harold Christie, in the hallway nearby, pacing bleakly, like a father in a maternity waiting room expecting twins from Mars.

“Mr. Christie,” I said, approaching him. “I’m sorry about your loss.”

Christie, who was dressed in the same rumpled manner as the day before, seemed not to recognize me at first, but maybe he was just distracted. “Uh…thank you, Mr. Heller.”

“I understand you found Sir Harry. Have you been here all that time?”

He frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Since you stopped by this morning, around seven, wasn’t it?”

Now his confusion was gone, and his expression seemed almost one of embarrassment. “I was here, last night.”

“What?”

He flipped a dismissive hand. “I frequently stay over with Sir Harry. He had a small dinner party that went on fairly late, and we had an appointment first thing this morning regarding his sheep.”

“Sheep?”

Irritation began to edge around his eyes and mouth. “Sir Harry bought some fifteen hundred sheep from Cuba. For food production purposes? The meat shortage, you understand. He’s been letting them graze on the country club greens.”

That sounded like Sir Harry, all right.

“Now, Mr. Heller, if you’ll excuse…”

“You weren’t in the bedroom next door, were you? That looked unslept-in to me.”

He sighed. “You’re right. I was in the room just beyond that.”

“Well, still, that’s only sixteen feet. Did you hear anything? See anything?”

Christie shook his head no. “I’m a sound sleeper, Mr. Heller, and that storm last night must have drowned out any commotion…”

“You didn’t smell smoke? You didn’t hear a struggle?”

“No, Mr. Heller,” Christie said, insistently, openly irritated now. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.”

“Phone call?”

Very irritated. “Yes. I’d just been trying to compose myself when you seized upon the moment for conversation. You see, no one as yet has called Lady Oakes.”

Behind him, the front door flew open and Alfred de Marigny stormed in.

Dark hair falling over his forehead like a comma, his eyes wide and almost wild, the bearded Count said, “What’s going on here? Who’s in charge?”

None of the black cops answered, so I told him.

“Colonel Lindop,” I said. I wasn’t tailing him anymore. No need to keep a low profile….

“Harold,” de Marigny blurted at Christie, “what the hell is this dirty business? John Anderson stopped me outside his bank and said Sir Harry’s been killed!”

Christie nodded numbly, then pointed to the living room and said, “I have a long-distance call to make.”

Then he walked into the living room, with de Marigny-casually dressed, blue shirt, tan slacks, no socks-tagging along.

I moved to the doorway, to eavesdrop on Christie’s side of the phone conversation with Lady Oakes, but couldn’t hear much. There was too much chatter in the hallway-not from the cops, but from a group of well-to-do-looking whites who were gathered down near the kitchen. Probably a mix of government officials and Oakes’ business associates.

Far too many people on hand for a crime scene. This was as bad as the fucking Lindbergh case, everybody and his damn dog tramping through the place.

I watched the silent movie of Christie speaking on the phone to Lady Oakes, de Marigny standing nearby, somewhat impatiently. Finally the Count tapped Christie on the shoulder, like a dancer cutting in.

De Marigny took the receiver.

Christie watched with obvious distaste as de Marigny spoke to his mother-in-law; he spoke louder than Christie, but his thick accent kept me from catching much of it. Obviously he was paying his condolences and asking what he could do to help.

And at least three times he asked her (and this I could hear-he was insistent) to have his wife, Nancy, get in touch with him as soon as possible.

De Marigny hung up the phone and looked at Christie, who turned his back on the Count and headed toward the hallway, and me.

“Why wasn’t I called, Harold? Why did I have to hear about this on the street?”

Christie mumbled something, brushing past me. De Marigny was on his heels.

“Count de Marigny,” Lindop said.

The Colonel was positioned in front of them like a traffic cop, as if to make them stop.

They stopped.

“I regret to inform you that Sir Harry Oakes is dead. Foul play is indicated.”

“When exactly was the body found?” de Marigny asked.

“At seven this morning.”

He scowled. “My God, man! It’s almost eleven o’clock-this is my father-in-law who’s been murdered! Why wasn’t I contacted?”