Max Collins - Carnal Hours

That made me laugh, and she laughed along.

“Well, then,” I said, “it was patriotic of the Duke to watch you strut your stuff. Didn’t Wallis mind?”

I referred, of course, to Wallis Simpson, the American divorcee David Windsor, aka King Edward VIII, current Governor of the Bahamas, had abandoned his throne to marry-“the woman he loved!”

“Wallis smiled and giggled throughout. Frankly, the Duke was the one who seemed ill at ease. Embarrassed.”

“These ex-kings have no sense of humor.”

“I’ll say. I hear he’s issued an official ban on reporting that the Windsors actually saw my act. Of course, that ban doesn’t extend to my press agent back home.”

“Of course.” I clicked in my cheek. “The poor royal dears…banished to a tropical Elba like this.”

She lifted an arching, plucked eyebrow. “Well, there always have been rumors the Duke is a Nazi sympathizer. Churchill had to get him out of Europe so Hitler couldn’t grab him, and set Edward up as a puppet king!”

“What would I do, without a burlesque queen to explain world politics to me?”

She slapped my arm, but she was smiling. “You’re such a louse.”

“That’s what you like about me.”

“True. But I have to say, I really do admire Wallis…”

“Admire her? Everybody says she’s a shrew who pushes poor ol’ Dave around.”

“That’s ridiculous! You’re just threatened by strong women, Heller!”

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly.

She smirked. “In fact, both the Duke and Duchess have chalked up a lot of good works to their credit, in the short time they’ve been here. The local Negro population has benefited particularly…”

“Here we go.”

“Be good. Did you know the Duke started a CCC-type farm, for the native men? And the Duchess works in the local Red Cross clinic, side by side with black women…something the local whites certainly wouldn’t lower themselves to do.”

“Really gets her hands dirty, huh?”

“Yes she does. Personally, I think they’re a lovely couple….”

“You, and every starry-eyed bobby-soxer in America. This bittersweet romance, these tragic lovers!” I laughed. “I can’t believe you’re seduced by this royal horseshit, a left-wing fan-dancing fanatic like you.”

“Heller, you’re getting cynical in your…”

“Watch it.”

“…these troubled times.”

“Thanks. Actually, I’ve always been cynical.”

“You just think you are. That’s why I should have married you: you’re the biggest, most romantic lug I ever met.”

“Fooled you.”

“You said you were doing a job here. Who for?”

“Sir Harry Oakes.”

The green-blue eyes lighted up; lashes fluttered. “No kidding! He’s a real character! You should have seen him at the benefit…eating peas with a knife, swearing like a sailor. But I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. What’s he like?”

“Dead,” I said.

Helen’s eyes were still saucers when somebody tapped my shoulder and I turned to see another pair of those dignified black bobbies.

“You must return to Westbourne, sir,” said the one who’d tapped on my shoulder.

And in their company, I did.

I was ushered into the billiards room, where the lights were off but for a small lamp on a fancy wooden card table along one wall. The effect was moody, like the lighting in an old Warner Brothers gangster movie. Looming above the card table was a huge stuffed fish-a swordfish or a marlin or something, I’m a city boy myself-swimming in the darkness.

Two men in baggy suits and fedoras were shrouded in these shadows. One was a tall, ruggedly handsome character in his forties, who looked like what a police detective was supposed to. The other, a fiftyish, chunky, hook-nosed guy in wire-frame glasses, was what police detectives did look like.

If the melodrama of this underlit room and these imposing figures was supposed to intimidate me, I could only stifle a laugh. Once upon a time, I was the youngest plainclothes officer in the history of the Chicago PD, thanks to a little honest graft, and could give these bozos lessons in scare tactics and the third degree.

In fact, all I could think of, when I looked at this pair, was Abbott and Costello.

“Is something funny?” the tall one asked.

“Not really,” I lied, and stopped smirking.

“You’re Heller?” the shorter pudgy one drawled.

“Yeah. And who would you be?”

“This is Captain Edward Melchen,” the tall one said, gesturing to his partner.

“And this is Captain James Barker,” the short one said, with a similar gesture.

Maybe I should wait for the applause to die down.

“You’re Miami PD,” I said.

“That’s right,” Barker said. Unlike his partner’s, his Southern accent was barely noticeable. “Sit down.” He gestured to the little lamp-lit table and the chair beside it.

I stayed put. “Why don’t you boys turn on the lights, take off your hats, and stay awhile?”

“I don’t like this guy,” Melchen said.

“I don’t like him either,” Barker said.

“Who’s on first?” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Barker snapped.

“Nothing. What are a couple Miami dicks doing working a murder in Nassau?”

“If it’s any of your business,” Barker said, “we were invited by the Duke of Windsor. We’re acquainted.”

Now I did laugh. “You’re acquainted with the Duke of Windsor?”

Melchen stepped forward; his bulldog face was tight. If I’d been twelve years old, I’d have been really scared. “We’ve handled security for him when he’s passed through Miami, from time to time. So, do we have your goddamn permission to be here?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Thanks for asking.”

Barker barked. “Sit down!”

I sat at the little table. Barker started to turn the lamp toward my face and I batted it away. “I’m from Chicago, boys. Spare me the musical comedy.”

Barker said, “You’re an ex-cop.”

“Mmm hmm.”

Melchen was looking at me thoughtfully, which seemed to be an effort. “Most private dicks are.”

That was a shrewd observation.

Barker spoke, and he’d drained the intimidation from his voice. “Mr. Heller, why don’t you tell us what your business with Sir Harry Oakes was.”

“Sure,” I said, and did.

Every now and then they would look at each other, and one of them would say, “De Marigny,” and the other would nod. Neither bothered taking any notes.

When I’d wrapped up my account, Barker said, “The estimated time of death is between one-thirty a.m. and three-thirty a.m. You’ve just placed Count de Marigny on the murdered man’s doorstep in that time frame. Perfectly.”

Melchen was smiling tightly and nodding.

“Fellas,” I said, “the Count’s a good suspect-don’t get me wrong. But the behavior I observed the day of the murder wasn’t consistent with somebody planning a crime.”

“Maybe it was spur of the moment,” Melchen said.

“Yeah,” said Barker. “He saw the lights on here at Westbourne, driving by, pulled in and had it out with the old man.”

“What,” I said, “and just happened to have a blowtorch in his pocket? I saw the crime scene, gentlemen. Sloppy as it is, murders don’t come much more premeditated.”

They both looked at me blankly, the way a dog might.

“Of course,” I said, “he may have been killed elsewhere and moved here.”

“What makes you say that?” Barker asked.

“The direction of the dried blood on his face. He was on his belly when he was shot.”

That made both of them smirk; Barker looked up smugly at Melchen, who was rocking on his heels like a fat top.