Max Collins - Carnal Hours

I mimicked her: “Such as?”

“Such as convincing the Duke and Sir Harry to go along with Mr. Lansky’s plans to build casinos in Nassau and on Grand Bahama Island.”

Back to square one!

“Is it possible,” I asked, “that Sir Harry would have balked at that prospect?”

“Very possible. I would say probable. Harry didn’t much care for tourists-and the casinos, and modern resort hotels that would make stiff competition for his B.C., would’ve gone up in his very neighborhood. Right on Cable Beach.”

“But I understand Sir Harry didn’t have the power to block the casinos….”

That made her smile. “Sir Harry and Harold Christie were in all sorts of financial beds together. The Duke, too. I think to underestimate Harry’s power in that regard would have been a serious miscalculation.”

Now we really were back to square one: who needed gold-stealing voodoo-killer cuckolds with Harold Christie around? Or had Christie hired some native to perform a ritualistic-style killing? Or had those two Lansky goons, at Christie’s behest, tried to leave a misleading obeah-style calling card?

Whatever the case, we were back to a Harold Christie who was so tied to Sir Harry Oakes that the only way to get around him was to remove him.

She was still smiling, but more pleased than amused, now. “Heller-suddenly you don’t look so confused.”

She began unbuttoning her blouse. She undid her artillery-shells bra and unleashed those impossible breasts, round, firm, tiny coral tips inviting kisses; my mouth accepted the invitation.

“What about Daniel?” I asked, as she loomed over me.

The bridge was closed off, but he was right up a few steps, on the other side of the door.

“Let him get his own girl,” she said, stepping out of her slacks, then her panties.

The yacht’s motor thrummed as she buried her face in my lap, reclaiming her ownership, and before long, in the near-darkness of the cabin, her flesh a ghostly white, she sat on top of me, grinding, head back, eyes shut, hair swaying, moving hypnotically, as lost in herself as I was, moaning and gasping and shuddering, her slim, top-heavy body undulating like a dancer on drugs, working herself to a fever pitch and animalistic cries that put those natives around the bonfire to shame.

After hours in Godfrey Higgs’ modest Bay Street second-floor office, his secretary long gone, the affable, athletic-looking lawyer sat behind a battle-scarred desk with his feet up, vest unbuttoned and tie loosened, jacket over the chair. His hands were locked behind his head, making wings of his arms and elbows.

He was smiling, but it was a frozen smile, a crack in his oval face; his parted-in-the-middle dark hair, usually slicked back, fell wearily over his forehead.

“Perhaps I’m no judge,” he said, “this being my first major criminal case…but I can’t imagine a better, more diligent, thorough investigator than yourself.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was reclining on his leather couch against a pebbled-glass-and-wood wall. His offices were not unlike those of A-1’s back home. The only light came from the green-shaded banker’s lamp on Higgs’ desk; that, and some neon glow from busy Bay Street outside the window behind him. It was close to eight o’clock and neither of us had had supper.

“However,” he began.

I groaned. “I knew there would be either a ‘however’ or a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

“However, very little of what you’ve come up with is usable, or even admissible, in court.”

“Well, now, I wouldn’t say that,” I said, doing a serviceable imitation of Peavy on The Great Gildersleeve.

That made Higgs chuckle. “All right-I’ll grant you your expert witness is damn near the backbone of our case…between what you came up with regarding the time limitations of the crime, and what Professor Keeler will have to say about the fingerprint evidence, we may well be able to clear Freddie.”

“Let’s not forget Captain Sears,” I pointed out. “His placing Christie in downtown Nassau when Christie says he was sleeping at Westbourne diverts suspicion from our client.”

“No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have generalized. It’s just so damned frustrating that so much of what you’ve dug up isn’t going to make it into court….”

“Like what?”

He hauled his feet off his desk, brushed his hair back in place, shrugged, just a little. “The crime syndicate connection. Everything you’ve put together linking Lansky and Christie…we simply can’t establish relevance.”

I sighed. “If that caretaker out at Lyford Cay hadn’t ‘accidentally drowned,’ we could.”

“What we need to discredit Christie,” Higgs said, “is for your friend’s letter to show.”

He was referring to the letter Eliot had sent me over two weeks ago, containing the certified copy of the federal records indicating that outstanding warrant against Christie; but it had not yet arrived.

And we now knew it most likely wouldn’t: Eliot’s letter, like any letter arriving in Nassau, was subject to wartime censorship; it seemed likely the censorship board-populated with Christie cronies-was withholding it. Contacting the censors directly about the letter was against regulations, and there was not time, before the trial, to have Eliot run the red-tape hurdles for a second time.

Higgs asked, “You haven’t had any luck establishing that Sir Harry was a rounder, either, have you?”

I shook my head no. “I’ve asked some questions, but here’s where my limitation as an outsider really hurts us. You might be better off putting a local dick on it.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Frankly-no offense meant-but I have. He’s come up with nothing, either. He runs into the adultery rumor, now and again, but no substantiation. And as for the gold coins…” He shrugged again. “Another dead end.”

I had checked with Nancy, who asked her mother about the coin collection; Lady Oakes was unconcerned about its being missing, saying that Sir Harry liked to move the little treasure chest from here to there, and it would most likely “turn up” at one of their many residences-they had four homes in the Bahamas, after all, and three more in the United States, another in Canada, and two in Great Britain.

“You could ask Lady Oakes about the coins on the witness stand,” I said. “She’s going to testify, isn’t she?”

He nodded. “I certainly could do that. But she’ll only reiterate what she told Nancy-that the collection is not missing, merely misplaced; that, at any rate, it isn’t very valuable, anyway.”

“It might seem pretty darn valuable to a native.”

He shrugged elaborately. “Then why didn’t that native take anything else from Westbourne? There was cash in Harry’s desk; valuable objects everywhere-from a gold nugget paperweight to Lady Oakes’ jewelry box.”

“It is thin, isn’t it?”

“Yes. So the horde of gold, like Meyer Lansky, like Sir Harry’s randy reputation, stays out of court. On the other hand, assuming Adderley doesn’t spring too many surprises on us, I think we have a formidable case.”

“Hell, Godfrey, all you have to do is fillet Barker on the stand.”

He arched an eyebrow. “He’s a damn good witness, Nate. He’s no virgin when it comes to giving expert testimony.”

“He’s no virgin, period. Godfrey, you can nail him-no fingerprint ‘expert’ can justify those bullshit methods.”

Higgs sighed, smiled in a less weary fashion, lifted his suitcoat from the back of his chair and slipped into it.

“My wife is waiting dinner on me. Care to stop by? The kids have been asking about you.”

I dragged myself off the couch. “I won’t impose. You guys put up with me enough, when I was staying with you. I’ll grab a bite at Dirty Dick’s.”