Max Collins - Carnal Hours

She sipped champagne. “You’re talking nonsense, Nathan.”

“I don’t think so. I think Harry was just patriotic enough-and wealthy enough-to tell Wenner-Gren and Harold Christie and the Duke of Windsor to kiss his big fat rich behind. He’d been making plans to move to Mexico City, and had made several trips there in recent months, and on those trips he got a better picture of what was going on at Banco Continental. And he didn’t like what he saw.” I sat forward. “Sir Harry was going to blow the whistle, wasn’t he? On the whole sordid scheme!”

She threw her head back and shook her hair and laughed her brittle British laugh. “There is no such scheme, you silly man. Banco Continental is a legitimate financial institution, and while the Duke and others may be moving some money around in a questionable, even unpatriotic manner, as you might put it, there’s nothing truly sinister going on.”

I had a sip of champagne myself. Smiled at her. “Remember that dark unidentified fluid in Harry’s stomach that the prosecution never managed to identify?”

“Yes. So?”

“You know what I think?”

“What do you think?”

“I think when Christie had dinner at Westbourne that night, he drugged Sir Harry’s drink, or maybe his food.”

She smirked. “Now why would he do that?”

“Not to kill Harry-his dear old friend. Just to subdue him; make him easier, safer, for you to handle.”

“For me to handle?”

“You.” I laughed, once, harshly. “You know, every single one of the red herrings you threw my way-Harry chasing women, the stolen gold coins, Lansky’s casinos-had a grain of truth. The gold coins probably were stolen the murder night-by you. After all, you’re the one who saw to it that that native had a gold coin to sell us.”

“Me? Are you insane?”

“Don’t knock it-it got me out of the service. And the Lansky/Christie connection obviously is very real, even if the casinos they eventually hope to open together weren’t anything Harry gave a damn about. And I think maybe Harry did have an eye for a pretty face and well-turned ankle, which, added to his grogginess from being drugged, is what made it safe for you to invade his room that night, even if he did have a gun at his bedside.”

She gestured to herself with cigarette-in-hand. “And why would I do that?”

I pointed to the oil painting over the fireplace. “Your boss, Axel Wenner-Gren, may have ordered it…or it may have been your own play, looking after your employer’s interests. I’ll never know the answer to that-unless you care to tell me.”

“I’d rather you continue telling me-sharing these strange, imaginative fantasies of yours. For example, tell me, would you, Nate, how a delicate creature like myself might accomplish such a brutal act as the murder of Sir Harry Oakes?”

I threw my hand out and clutched the air; she flinched.

“By reaching out,” I said, “to the Banco Continental’s own Harold Christie. You had him get you a couple of mob thugs to lean on Harry. To scare him. You had them rough him up, threaten to give him more and worse if he didn’t keep his trap shut; but Harry only spit blood in your eye-swearing he’d go public, taking Wenner-Gren, Christie and all the King’s men down with him.”

“Nonsense.”

“He was on the floor, on his face or on his knees, damn near beaten to death. Your thugs had gone too far-so you finished him off: shot him behind the ear, four times, close-range, with small enough caliber a gun that the bullets didn’t even pass through his head. Maybe you even used his own bedside gun-it’s missing, after all, and a.38 fits the profile.”

Bingo! The Bahama blues flared just a bit when I mentioned Harry’s gun; she had used it.

“Then you made a makeshift blowtorch out of the flit gun, using denatured alcohol from the toolshed, setting the bed on fire. After which, you and your mob help flipped the corpse onto the burning bed, and played voodoo. A scorched corpse, a few feathers, and presto-an obeah kill.”

She laughed, shook her head, lighted up a new cigarette. “Really, Heller. You should be writing for radio. Inner Sanctum , perhaps.”

“You may have really intended to set a fire and burn Westbourne down, but I doubt it. I think you just mutilated the corpse to muddy the waters. Maybe you stole the gold coins to back up the voodoo angle, or could be you’re like Harry: you just plain like gold.”

She sucked smoke; looked at the ceiling, playing bored and disgusted.

“Anyway, after you’d taken your time doing a thorough, sick job of it, you and Lansky’s boys left. Christie had left long before, after paving the way for you and your thugs by drugging Harry; he’d also picked up your two assistants when they docked at Lyford Cay, getting spotted by the unfortunate Arthur. Then Christie dropped off his unpleasant passengers at Westbourne and went to spend the night with his mistress. But either in the middle of the night, courtesy of a phone call from you, or when he returned in the morning, he found how tragically wrong the attempt to coerce Sir Harry had gone. Christie quickly changed his story, pretending to have been asleep next door all the time. He was too much the gentleman to involve his lady friend, who he prompted to say nothing.”

Now she was shaking her head, smiling patronizingly. “I do so hate to disappoint you, but this is all the most ludicrous pipe dream. Nancy de Marigny is my dearest friend-even if I had done this dastardly deed, her husband is the last person I’d have ever framed for it.”

“I never said you framed Freddie. Your half-ass voodoo cover-up was meant to suggest some nameless black boogie man. The frame was courtesy of Barker and Melchen with a nudge from the Duke-whose role in this, I believe, was limited to taking Christie’s advice to call in those two very special Miami cops.”

“Oh, that was Harold’s idea?”

“Probably. Could have been yours. At any rate, somebody told the Duke to bring in these two corrupt, mob-connected coppers. Somebody told him that by doing that he could contain the crime. And he did as he was told. After all, he’s involved in Banco Continental up to his royal white Nazi-loving ass.”

Di’s head was back; she was smiling coolly, eyes glittering, apparently amused. “So, then-what is it exactly you imagine I am? Some Nazi dragon lady?”

“No. I think you’re just June Sims from the East End-poor white British trash who fucked and schemed and cheated her greedy little way to the top. How did your husband die, anyway?”

Her face went blank. The moral void behind her pretty mask was frighteningly apparent, for an instant; then she managed a part-seductive, part-sarcastic smile.

“Well-I take it that question, which I don’t intend to dignify with a response, is the conclusion of your ‘bedtime story’?”

“Almost, although I’m not sure everybody lives happily ever after. I’m also not sure whether you had poor Arthur killed or not-Christie could just as easily have had that done. So we’re up to the part where you call that two-man goon squad back in to finish the job. That is, finish me.”

“Oh, I tried to have you killed? Why, that simply slipped my mind-now, why did I do that, again?”

“I started making noises about keeping the case alive beyond the de Marigny trial-that made me a loose end that needed tying off.” I grinned. “You want to know something funny?”

She shrugged; her breasts stirred beneath the pink silk. “Sure. I like to laugh.”

“I know you do. You’re a fun girl. What’s funny is I didn’t completely tip to this till your ‘boy’ Daniel started making like Willie Best.”