Max Collins - Carnal Hours

“I called for one this morning. I was told to call again tomorrow.”

“Well, you should have. You still should. There are many people ahead of you. But if you have something we can attend to quickly…”

“I just have a few questions I want to run past you. So we can get Sir Harry’s murder cleared up.”

His face tightened. “I was under the impression it had been cleared up.”

“Oh, you mean the arrest of Count de Marigny? I don’t think so. I think Freddie’s arrest raises more questions than it answers.”

“And why is that?”

“Well…the motive’s a little fuzzy, for instance. Surely you’re aware that Sir Harry had already changed his will, so that Nancy won’t come into big dough till she’s thirty?”

“I hadn’t heard that. I don’t believe Sir Harry’s will has been probated as yet.”

“Well, Nancy says she was informed of this by her father, months ago. So why should de Marigny kill Sir Harry now? What’s to gain?”

“Mr. Heller, even assuming you’re correct, the blood between Fred and Sir Harry was bad, to say the least.”

“But you and Freddie are friends yourselves, aren’t you? Didn’t he invite you to dinner at his place the night of the killing? And you declined so you could dine with Sir Harry?”

“Certainly not!”

“Freddie says he did.”

“He’s a liar.”

“What were you doing driving around downtown Nassau at midnight, that night? I thought you were supposed to be at Westbourne.”

He sat up huffily; beneath those shaggy eyebrows, he was blinking as if he had something in his eye-both eyes. “I was at Westbourne- all night. Anyone who claims to have seen me elsewhere is a damn liar. Who is making this claim?”

I shrugged. “Just something I heard. You know, even an out-of-towner like me hears things. By the way, do you know a man named Lansky? Meyer Lansky?”

He stopped blinking; his eyes were cold and hard, now. But also a little scared.

“No,” he said. “That name is unfamiliar to me. Mr. Heller, I’m a very busy man…”

“I just have a few more questions.”

“No,” he said, standing as he buzzed his intercom, “I’m afraid you don’t. And I don’t have any interest in speaking further to you, at this or any time. Sir Harry Oakes was my dearest friend, and I do not intend to aid the man who murdered him.”

“And who would that be?”

“Freddie de Marigny, of course! Mildred-show Mr. Heller out.”

Well, I’d rattled him, anyway. The danger, of course, was that I might be rattling Meyer Lansky, too. If the East Coast syndicate was involved, I might not be getting paid enough for this job, even at three hundred bucks per day. Funeral costs weren’t something I wanted my heirs to have to list on my posthumous expense account.

Down on Bay Street, I headed toward Dirty Dick’s, figuring a rum punch would hit the spot about now. But I’d barely started ambling down the sidewalk when I noticed I’d picked up a tail.

And an incredibly obvious tail, at that.

This guy was white, about thirty, with a leathery tan but otherwise ordinary-looking, wearing a colorful tropical shirt-tourist-style-and pressed tan pants and the well-polished black shoes of a cop. Which is what he was, pretending to be a tourist. They should have invested in sandals and sunglasses, as well.

So this was what Captain Sears meant when he advised me to watch my back….

I walked three blocks down and he stayed with me, half a block behind. If I paused to look in a store window, he did the same. He was as subtle as the mumps. I crossed the street, walked back three blocks, and so did my shadow.

Ducking into a pharmacy, I asked the pretty, freckled redheaded girl behind the counter if they had any chalk.

“Like kids use?”

“Right-it doesn’t have to be colored or anything.”

“I think we do.”

“And you wouldn’t happen to have a magnifying glass?”

“Like Sherlock Holmes?”

“Exactly.”

She smiled; nice dimples. “I think we have that, too.”

I bought both items, while the cop in the bright shirt pondered the varieties of aspirin on a nearby shelf.

Back outside, I found the nearest alleyway and ducked in. I stood before the brick wall that was the side of the pharmacy and studied it; out of the corner of my eye, I watched for the cop to peek around.

He did.

I studied that wall carefully, like I was an art critic and it was a would-be Picasso. Then I began examining portions of the wall with the magnifying glass. Touching the brick here and there…

“Hmmmm,” I’d say from time to time, rubbing my fingers together, as if examining a suspicious substance.

Finally I drew a large chalk circle on the brick wall, put my chalk and magnifying glass away and stood smiling at my artwork, rubbing my hands in satisfaction.

“Yes!” I said. “Yes.”

The shadow stayed behind as I walked back to the B.C., where I called Marjorie from the phone in my room.

“Nathan,” she said. “Before we go out doing things tonight, I was thinkin’ about makin’ some supper for you….”

I heard a click on the phone line.

“Marjorie, that’s great. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

“That’s a little early, but I don’t mind….”

“Good,” I said. “See you.”

And I hung up; it probably seemed a little sudden to her, but that click had made me wonder. I was being shadowed-was I being bugged, as well?

I picked up the phone, got an outside line, and dialed a random number.

“Hello, Watkins speaking,” a thickly British voice said.

“Don’t say another word,” I said. “I’m being watched. Meet me at Fort Charlotte in half an hour. Have the evidence with you.”

I hung up.

On my way to Marjorie’s in the Chevy sedan, I swung around by Bay Street; it wasn’t on the way, but I wanted to have a look. I almost started crying with laughter, at the sight of the half-dozen black coppers, in their fancy dress uniforms, and pudgy Captain Melchen, all standing there, baffled, gazing at that circle I’d drawn on the alley wall.

As I passed by Fort Charlotte, on my way to Westbourne, I thought about pulling in so I could watch the cops show up for my nonexistent rendezvous.

But I was more anxious to see Marjorie Bristol.

I drove past Westbourne and doubled back before pulling into the country club parking lot, just to make sure I’d shaken my tail. Apparently I had, but I got out of the Chevy and ducked behind a palm, anyway, and waited to see if anybody else pulled in. Nobody did.

As I watched, however, I had one of those stupid moments that I assume others must occasionally have, of which I have more than my share: I wondered why it had gotten so dark out so early, before remembering I was still wearing my sunglasses. I slipped them into my sport-shirt pocket-I wore no coat with my slacks, and was hatless, wearing sandals with no socks, looking more like a tourist than a detective, I supposed. Maybe I should have been doing the shadowing.

Only a few cars were in the graveled lot, and I walked toward the tennis courts and the subtle thunder of the ocean beyond, a cooler, less humid breeze ruffling the trees and the grass and my hair. At dusk, the palms positioned against a gray sky, the beds of colorful flowers muted now, had an otherworldly beauty; I felt alone, but it was a nice feeling, solitary not lonely.

Even in twilight, the beach looked ivory; the gun-metal sea looked peaceful, tide rolling lazily in. I stood staring for a moment, hands in my pockets, thinking about the invasion that was under way somewhere across these vast waters-the Allies were moving across Sicily, and in the paper today the Pope was bitching about us bombing Rome-but I couldn’t make it anything but abstract.