Max Collins - Carnal Hours

Marjorie Bristol stood in the moonlight, as silent and still as a statue-a lovely statue, at that. But if she were a work of art, the artist was God-the breeze blowing the hem of her dress gave her reality away.

I pulled the Chevrolet-de Marigny’s spare sedan, a two-tone-brown number-into the graveled parking lot of the country club; there were a few other cars, and the lights of the clubhouse off to the right indicated activity. But at the moment, no one else was around as she stood waiting for me, on the nearby grass, unblinking, despite my approaching headlights.

I had called her earlier today-using one of several numbers the late Sir Harry had provided me-and asked to see her.

She seemed embarrassed, but said all right; the Westbourne gate was locked, she said, but I could park in the adjacent country club lot and walk over-no wall or fence separated the estate from the country club grounds. She would meet me here.

I locked the car and went over to her; a palm tree was a silhouette behind her. The moon was full. Stars glittered in a sky so clear and blue it should have been day. The breeze was balmy and scented of sea; a perfect evening, but for humidity that hung on you like a woolen overcoat.

I’d almost forgotten how pretty she was-uniquely so, with the huge dark eyes, lashes longer than even de Visdelou’s; petite nose; wide sensual mouth, full lips painted a redundant red.

The blue maid’s uniform was absent; tonight she wore a white short-sleeve blouse, a wide black buckled pirate’s belt, tropical-print skirt and sandals. I’d taken to wearing my white linen suits with sport shirts; it was nice being able to work without wearing a tie. We were as casual, and as ill at ease, as a couple on a blind date.

“Hello, Mr. Heller.”

“Hello, Miss Bristol. Thanks for seeing me.”

She gestured and the wooden bracelets on her wrists clinked. “The house, we’re keepin’ it closed up right now, while my Lady stays with friends. We could go to my cottage….”

“That would be fine, as long as it doesn’t make you…uncomfortable or anything.”

She smiled gently. “I trust you, Mr. Heller. I can tell you’re an honorable man.”

That was a new one.

“But you may not consider me very honorable.” She looked at the ground. “I promised you I wouldn’t tell anyone you were a detective.”

“And then you went and told Nancy de Marigny.”

She nodded. “I thought she deserved to know. They killed her daddy.”

“They?”

“I don’t know who. But I don’t think it was Mr. Fred. He’s many things, you know, but a killer ain’t one of them.”

“You’re probably right. Where’s your cottage?”

She pointed. “Just the other side of the tennis courts. You’re not mad at me?”

“No. But it’s starting to sound like it was your idea to have me give Nancy a hand on this.”

We were walking now, toward the tennis courts. The sound of the breeze blowing and the rush of the surf made soothing background music. Her jewelry provided the percussion.

“Maybe it was a little my idea,” she said, looking away almost shyly. “I just…knew somebody had to do somethin’, you know, and I knew Sir Harry, he hired you for all that money, and you only worked one day for it….”

“My Caribbean conscience. Are you Catholic, Miss Bristol, or Church of England, perhaps?”

“Neither. Methodist.”

“Ah. Well, whatever the case, the Christian thing to do, after getting me into this, is give me a hand.”

I thought that might make her smile, but instead her face tensed.

“I would do anything I could to help find the murderers of Sir Harry,” she said. “I know he was a rough man, but to me, he was always fair, and kind.”

“You keep referring to his killers in the plural. Why did you think there were more than one?”

Her big eyes were as wide as a naive child’s. “I saw the room. Do you think one man could do that?”

Of course, I didn’t, and it struck me that we were walking much the same path as the murderers likely had; they had probably parked in the country club lot, as well.

Her cottage was a small square white stucco building with typical Nassau shutters and a brown-tile pyramid roof; it fronted the beach, which sloped gently from the sandy grass that was her front lawn; the sand looked ivory in the moonlight, the sea a shimmering blue-gray.

“I have a teapot on the stove,” she said. “Would you care for a cup?”

“That’d be nice,” I said.

She opened the door for me and I went in. Neat as a pin, the cottage’s interior consisted of a single room and bath; the plaster walls were a subdued pink, the wooden floor covered by a braided blue-and-white oval throw rug. A kitchenette was at my right, and at left was what seemed to be a sleeping area-dresser with mirror, even a nightstand with Bakelite radio and streamlined little black-and-white clock, but no bed. Hidden against the wall to the left of the door, however, was a walnut-grain metal cabinet-a foldaway. I knew all about those. For a lot of years I slept on a Murphy bed in my office.

Despite a few rattan chairs here and there, there was no couch or sitting area, other than a round table with four captain’s chairs in the middle of the room; pink and white and yellow flowers were arranged in a bowl at its center. Homemade plank-and-brick shelving, under the window along the far wall, brimmed with books, mostly the twenty-five-cent pocketbook variety. The bookcase and its contents were the only aspect of the room (other than perhaps the flowers) that seemed hers; otherwise, this was strictly servants’ quarters, albeit pleasant enough.

She bid me sit at the round table, and I did, while she got us our tea. A paperbacked book was spread open there, saving her place: The Good Earth by Pearl Buck.

“It’s about China,” she said, as she served me a small cup of tea and put a plate of fritters before me.

“Really?” I said. I picked up one of the fritters. “Conch, again?”

She smiled as she sat and poured herself a cup. “Banana. Bet you’ve had your fill of conch.”

“Not yet. Hey, these are good.”

“Thank you. Mr. Heller…”

“Don’t you think it’s time we started using first names?”

She looked into her tea; her smile seemed shy, now. “I would like that, Nathan.”

“I’m glad, Marjorie. But you can make it Nate, if you like. That’s what my friends call me.”

“I think I like the sound of Nathan better. It has more music.”

That was a new one, too.

“Marjorie, I know you didn’t work that night….”

“The night Sir Harry was killed? I did work till ten. Sir Harry and Mr. Christie, they were playin’ Chinese checkers when I left.”

“But Samuel was working…he was the night watchman.”

She nodded. “Him and a boy named Jim.”

“The police haven’t talked to them, you know.”

She nodded again. “I know. Samuel and Jim, they took off.”

“I had the impression Samuel had been working for Sir Harry for some time, was a trusted employee….”

“He is. Or he was.” She shrugged. “He took off.”

I wondered how hard the police were trying to find Samuel. If they were trying to find him. But I sure as hell wanted a word with him.

“Marjorie-does Samuel have family or friends you could check with?”

“Yes. Friends in Nassau…family’s on Eleuthera.”

“Could you help me locate him?”

Her sigh was barely audible; she seemed reluctant. “If Samuel doesn’t want to be found, he must have a reason….”

“Exactly. I need to talk to him. What he saw the night of the murder may clear this whole thing up.”