Max Collins - Carnal Hours

He said, “First trip to the Bahamas?”

He had a grating yet ingratiating voice; for a guy clearly in his mid-fifties-as the broad oval of his tanned, weather-beaten face attested-he had a boyish look. Behind gold wire-frames, his eyes narrowed as he smiled, and his longish brown hair, short and gray at the temples, was combed back carelessly.

“Actually,” I said, “my second in two weeks.”

“Oh. Go there often, do you? On business?”

“It’s my second trip, period-but it is business, yes.”

“Don’t mean to pry,” he said, with a smile, and he looked out the porthole next to him.

The four engines started up, one at a time, the hatchway clanged shut, and the plane began to coast down the watery runway. It took the pilot half a mile of plowing down the bay, pontoons cleaving the water, till he got into position for the wind, and then the plane yanked itself forward into the sky. I looked out my porthole window, but it was washed with spray.

The cabin was full, mostly men, business types.

I leaned into the aisle and said to the hick, “Wonder how many of these guys are reporters?”

He grinned. “On their way to cover the Oakes case, you mean? Probably damn near all of ‘em. Myself included.”

“You’re a reporter?”

“In a half-assed sort of way.” He extended a hand. “Name’s Gardner. Friends call me Erle.”

“Nate Heller,” I said, and accepted his firm handshake. I rolled his name around in my head for a couple seconds, then said, “Not Erle Stanley Gardner?”

“That’s right.” He beamed, pleased to have his name recognized. “Ever read my stuff?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I never read mystery novels.”

“Not your cup of tea?”

“More like busman’s holiday.”

“Oh?”

We were both having to work our voices up a bit, over the roar of the props.

“I’m president of the A-1 Detective Agency in Chicago,” I said.

His eyes slitted in thought. Then he pointed at me. “Nathan Heller! Damn. I should’ve recognized the name.”

“Hardly.”

He was shaking his head, smiling one-sidedly. “No, I should’ve. The Lindbergh case got you a lot of press. You damn near sprung Hauptmann!”

“Close only counts in horseshoes,” I said.

“Point well taken-they did fry the boy. But you’ve been in the thick of all sorts of major cases…the Dillinger shooting, this movie union scandal that’s still in the papers. You’re the genuine article! I’m the goddamn pretender. I’d like to pick your brain, son.”

“Trust me, Mr. Gardner-if you could pick a brain, it wouldn’t be mine.”

He had a hearty laugh over that one.

“What’s a mystery writer doing covering a real-life crime?”

“I’m Hearst’s trained seal,” he said with a smirk.

“Trained seal?”

“You know-these big-city papers like to have some famous-name ‘expert’ who isn’t a newspaperman do color on a big story like this. They want me to stick around for the trial and tell the public how Perry Mason would’ve handled it.”

“Who?”

For some reason that amused him. “That’s a character I write about.”

“Oh.” It did sound familiar. “I may have seen a movie based on one of your books.”

“Did it stink?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you probably did. Those Hollywood sons of bitches pay good money to buy a good story and then invent a thousand new ways to turn it lousy.”

“I wouldn’t think a successful book writer like you would even want to bother with newspaper work.”

He snorted a laugh. “I don’t. When they approached my agent, he knew I didn’t want the job and made an outrageous offer. That goddamn Hearst double-crossed us and accepted it!”

Hearst sending one of America’s most popular writers to cover the case meant Sir Harry’s murder wasn’t just the hot story of the moment: it would stay big news through the trial, at least.

Gardner was a likable, energetic, jovial guy and made pleasant company on the ride. His Western apparel and leathery complexion were explained by the four-hundred-acre ranch he lived on in Southern California. Seemed he did most of his writing in a trailer that he hauled around his own property, as well as on excursions to Arizona and Mexico.

“I’m strictly a free-lance writer,” he said. “It’s one of the few businesses where you can take your work with you, anywhere you go.”

I’d met my share of literary lions in Chicago, some of whom-like Nelson Algren and Willard Motley-were men’s men who belied the artsy-fartsy stereotype. But even so, this Gardner was one of a kind: an outdoorsman who viewed writing as a trade, not an art.

He’d be writing a daily column for Hearst on the Oakes case, for the foreseeable future, while working on a novel and radio scripts for an upcoming show about his Mason character. Like his fictional hero, Gardner-despite his unpretentious farmer appearance-was a criminal lawyer himself, though he didn’t practice anymore.

“Novels, radio shows, columns-hell, Erle…how will you manage all that out of a Nassau hotel room?”

“Well, it’ll be dicey at first,” he said, “but my girls will be following me down in a few days.”

“Girls?”

“Secretaries-three of ’em. Sisters. Cute as buttons and smart as whips. I dictate everything. Haven’t used a typewriter in years.”

We fell into silence for a while. The stewardess came by with coffee, which we both took. I was chewing on whether or not to reveal to him that I was working the Oakes case. Before I’d decided, he spoke.

“So,” he said, “you’re working for de Marigny.”

“Pardon?”

“Look, son-stands to reason you’re not working for the prosecution. They’ve supposedly got a couple Miami dicks working the case. What else would Nate Heller be doing in Nassau right now but helping de Marigny’s lawyer collect evidence?”

I just looked at his wide, farmer face and shook my head and laughed. Who was the detective here?

“Actually,” I said, and I kept my voice down as much as possible so none of these other possible reporters could hear, “I’m working for Nancy de Marigny.”

“The poor little rich girl! Is she as cute as they say?”

“As a button.”

His brow creased with thought, but he kept smiling; he usually was. “So how the hell did a Chicago op get pulled in on an exotic crime like this?”

I gave him a condensed version, which he ate up eagerly.

Now his expression was wistful. “If I made up a yarn like that…gold miner becomes the world’s richest man…murder in a tropical storm…voodoo kill…cradle-robbing count and beautiful child bride…I’d either make a million or get laughed out of the business.”

“Don’t forget the part where the victim’s best friend in the bedroom next door sleeps through the killing.”

“Oh, I haven’t. I’ve read every news report I can, and in a case that smells a hundred ways, that part smells the worst. What do you say we team up?”

“Mr. Gardner…Erle…I don’t think that would be appropriate. I don’t think my client would want me working hand in hand with the press.”

He scowled; even his scowl seemed affable. “I’m not the goddamn press! Look-these other reporters are going to go check in this afternoon and then head to the hotel bar and start guzzling booze out of hollowed-out coconuts. But you and me, we can go right out to Westbourne and have a look. I bet you could get us in.”

I thought about it.

“I’ll go with you or without you,” he said, head to one side.

“You got a car lined up?” I asked. Nancy had promised to have either a rental or family car for me, by tomorrow, with a ration book full of stamps. But for this afternoon and tonight, I had no wheels.