Max Collins - Carnal Hours

“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 grace: 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.”

“And even creates evidence?”

“Sometimes,” I said, making two words of it. “Does Freddie have any enemies in Nassau?”

She smirked humorlessly. “Quite a few, I’m afraid. He doesn’t play by the rules; he’s his own man, Freddie is.”

“These clowns, Barker and Melchen, they were brought in by the Duke. What was your father’s connection to the Duke?”

“They were friendly. David and Wallis are… were fairly frequent guests at Westbourne…even stayed there, for several weeks, when they first arrived in Nassau, while Government House was being redecorated to Wallis’ specifications. My parents attended many social occasions where the Duke and Duchess were present. Daddy and the Duke played a lot of golf together. And, of course, they had certain mutual business interests.”

“Such as?”

She winced in thought. “I’m not really sure. I know that Harold Christie and Daddy and the Duke were involved in some business deal or other…oh, and so was Axel Wenner-Gren. He’s a Swedish industrialist.”

“Is that the guy who bought Howard Hughes’ yacht?”

“The Southern Cross, yes.”

“Axel Wenner-Gren.” I was sitting up again. “Isn’t that guy a Nazi? The Duke and Duchess got bad publicity having him chauffeur ’em around in his yacht. The papers were full of it-the American authorities wouldn’t let him dock, a couple times.”

She was shaking her head and smiling at me like I was a kid who’d just repeated some wild, unbelievable schoolyard story. “Axel a Nazi? It’s preposterous. He’s a charming man, Nate.”

“Well, if you say so.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s true that he’s been blacklisted from the Bahamas, and the United States, for the duration.”

I snapped my fingers. “That’s what I thought! For suspected collaborationist leanings, right?”

“Right,” she allowed. “But it’s nonsense.”

“Where is the charming Axis what’s-his-name now?”

“It’s Axel and you know it. Cuernavaca-sitting out the war on one of his estates.”

I was grinning. “So there’s a Nazi in the woodpile…that’s real interesting….”

“Nate-don’t bother going down that road. I know Axel isn’t a Nazi.”

“How could you ‘know’ that?”

Her gaze was boring holes in me again. “Because Daddy wouldn’t have been friends with him if he was. Look-Daddy wasn’t very political…like a lot of wealthy people, he considered himself above politics, I suppose. But he hated Nazis. He’d sooner do business with the devil! He was active in all the local war efforts, and when Hitler declared war on Britain, Daddy immediately donated five Spitfires to the RAF! And he’s given his airfield to….”