Max Collins - Carnal Hours

The guest list, I understood, ran to around fifty people: twenty couples and five singles who could bring an escort. I didn’t recognize most of the people in this room-lots of older men with slightly younger wives, black tie and black jacket or sometimes white jacket, gowns and glittering jewels. The guests had names like Messmore and Goldsmith and Merryman; the Duchess of Leeds here, Sir Fredrick Williams-Taylor there. Winding among them, blond boys in blue naval-style livery carried alternating trays of brimming champagne glasses and mixed drinks. I wasn’t out of place. Not any more than Marlene Dietrich in a convent.

Occasionally I spotted someone I recognized. Over at an hors d’oeuvre table-where cracked crab, caviar and shrimp mingled with fruit under the supervision of a tropical centerpiece-Harold Christie, in a wrinkled black tux, spoke briefly with an attractive blonde in a green gown before moving nervously on.

The blonde was Dulcibel Henneage-Effie, to her pals, and Christie’s reputed married-lady lady friend. They weren’t here together; he merely had a furtive moment with her before joining a group of men who were chatting and smoking over in one corner.

What the hell: time to mingle.

“Lovely evening,” I said, joining her as she filled a small plate from the table of goodies.

She smiled sweetly; her blond hair was marcelled, and she was definitely too pretty for that iguana Christie. “Yes it is-we’re lucky to have such a cool breeze.”

“We haven’t met, Mrs. Henneage, although I recognize you from your appearance at the preliminary hearing the other day.”

She gave me a sharp look, though her smile didn’t falter. “You must have got there early, to get a seat.”

“I have connections. My name’s Nathan Heller.”

She put the little plate down to offer her hand for me to take by the fingertips-anyway, I hope that’s what I was supposed to do, because I did-and said, “That name sounds familiar….”

Then her smile fell, and her eyes went glazed and damn near frightened.

“You’re the detective….”

“That’s right. I’m working for Nancy de Marigny, on behalf of her husband, and his attorney, Mr. Higgs.”

She backed away, till the table stopped her. “Mr. Heller, I don’t mean to be rude, but…”

“I’ve been leaving messages for you for days now. Could I impose on you for a minute or two? I need to ask a few questions.”

She was shaking her head, no. “I’d really rather not….”

“Please. If at any time you’re uncomfortable, I’ll just go. Why don’t we go out on the patio and see if we can find a table….”

Reluctantly she allowed me to escort her outside, onto the balconylike patio that overlooked, and led down to, a fountain in the middle of which a cement elephant rose, erect trunk high and spouting water; around this was an open grassy area where couples could stroll along the edges of a tropical flower garden. The night indeed was cool, the sky as clear as a sociopath’s conscience. Wrought-iron tables and chairs were scattered at left and right, and there were two more tables of appetizers and a well-stocked bar with one of those blond naval cadets playing bartender-Aryan boys in the glow of Japanese lanterns. Just being here seemed unpatriotic, somehow.

We sat. She didn’t look at me, instead studying her little plate of caviar like a head doc’s inkblot she was trying to find meaning in.

“I suppose you want to ask me about having dinner at Westbourne, the night Sir Harry was killed. But I’m afraid there’s really nothing much to say about that….”

“What I want to know, Mrs. Henneage-and I mean no disrespect-is if it’s true that you and Mr. Christie are…friendly.”

She looked up sharply, and she wasn’t smiling this time. “Well…of course, we’re friends. Acquaintances.”

“Please don’t pretend to misunderstand my question. I don’t mean to embarrass you. I’ll be discreet.”

She began to rise. “I’m feeling uncomfortable. One of us should go….”

I touched her arm, gently. “Mrs. Henneage, Mr. Christie is going to great lengths to place himself adjacent to the murder room. His story is incredible-nobody in Nassau believes him.”

She sat back down, and swallowed. “I don’t think Mr. Christie would lie about something like that.”

“Rumor has it he’s protecting a woman. That woman is you, isn’t it, Mrs. Henneage?”

“Please…Mr. Heller…I’m going to go now-”

I held my hand up in a gentle stop gesture. “If Count de Marigny is acquitted…and I have reason to believe he will be…then the police will start looking for another suspect. If you care about Mr. Christie, your alibi would prevent him from being the next innocent man to stand trial.”

Her eyes were as earnest as they were beautiful. “Do you…do you believe Mr. Christie is innocent in this?”

“I don’t know. I know he was seen driving at midnight in Nassau, the night of the murder. Was he on his way to see you?”

She frowned, but it was a hurt frown. “Mr. Heller, I’m a married woman. I love my husband. I miss my husband. I have children, and I love them, too.”

“I appreciate that. But just answer this question: did Harold Christie spend the night of July seventh at your home?”

“No,” she said.

But her eyes said something else.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, please,” she said, starting to rise again.

“No, I’ll go. Enjoy your hors d’oeuvre -I won’t bother you again, tonight.”

She smiled tightly and nodded, relief and irritation merging, and I wandered back toward the ballroom.

Damn! She was lying, but her eyes had told the truth. That son of a bitch Christie had spent at least part of the night with the lovely Effie. Which meant he wasn’t the murderer, or at least, his hand wasn’t on the murder weapon….

As I entered the ballroom, Di was suddenly on my right, touching my arm. “Here’s someone you should meet, Nathan.”

She was standing chatting with a handsome little woman in white and gold, down to her gold-trimmed white gloves; her gold necklace and earrings collectively probably weighed more than she did.

Wallis Simpson looked more attractive than her photographs-what I had always taken for rather plain features were, when animated, beautiful: luminous violet eyes; high cheekbones, broad brow, firm jaw, but most of all a wide, generous smile, her lipstick startlingly scarlet against flesh too pale for the Bahamas.

“Your Royal Highness, this is Nathan Heller,” Di said. “Nathan, the Duchess of Windsor.”

“Quite a thrill for a Chicago boy,” I said, taking the fingertips she offered, returning her smile, though mine couldn’t compare.

“A pleasure for a girl from Virginia to meet up with another American,” she said. Her Southern accent had a tinge of British; mannered, perhaps, but not without a certain charm.

“I’ve heard impressive things about your work with the Red Cross, Duchess. And a canteen for soldiers of both races….”

“Why thank you, Mr. Heller. Who’s been telling you these stories about me?”

I smiled. “I don’t know if I should say.”

The wide smile twisted whimsically. “Come now, Mr. Heller-you’re among friends.”

“Well, actually, it was Sally Rand.”

For just a second the Duchess seemed shocked, her big violet eyes frozen; then she laughed ripplingly. Di was already laughing.

The Duchess arched an eyebrow. “How is it you know Miss Rand?”

“We go back to the Century of Progress together-where she first made fans with her fans. I was arresting pickpockets.”

“She did give a charming performance for the Red Cross,” the Duchess admitted, “although, frankly, I’m afraid David was a little embarrassed. But I was impressed by the funds she helped raise.”