A black face was peeking around the Chinese screen.
“The Governor is on the phone for you, sir.”
We went back down-except for Harry-with Lindop requesting I stay on for a few more minutes. I said sure, and stood idly near the foot of the stairs with several of the Bahamian bobbies; I glanced around, hoping to catch sight of Marjorie Bristol.
Instead, I saw a dazed-looking Harold Christie, in the hallway nearby, pacing bleakly, like a father in a maternity waiting room expecting twins from Mars.
“Mr. Christie,” I said, approaching him. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
Christie, who was dressed in the same rumpled manner as the day before, seemed not to recognize me at first, but maybe he was just distracted. “Uh…thank you, Mr. Heller.”
“I understand you found Sir Harry. Have you been here all that time?”
He frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Since you stopped by this morning, around seven, wasn’t it?”
Now his confusion was gone, and his expression seemed almost one of embarrassment. “I was here, last night.”
“What?”
He flipped a dismissive hand. “I frequently stay over with Sir Harry. He had a small dinner party that went on fairly late, and we had an appointment first thing this morning regarding his sheep.”
“Sheep?”
Irritation began to edge around his eyes and mouth. “Sir Harry bought some fifteen hundred sheep from Cuba. For food production purposes? The meat shortage, you understand. He’s been letting them graze on the country club greens.”
That sounded like Sir Harry, all right.
“Now, Mr. Heller, if you’ll excuse…”
“You weren’t in the bedroom next door, were you? That looked unslept-in to me.”
He sighed. “You’re right. I was in the room just beyond that.”
“Well, still, that’s only sixteen feet. Did you hear anything? See anything?”
Christie shook his head no. “I’m a sound sleeper, Mr. Heller, and that storm last night must have drowned out any commotion…”
“You didn’t smell smoke? You didn’t hear a struggle?”
“No, Mr. Heller,” Christie said, insistently, openly irritated now. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.”
“Phone call?”
Very irritated. “Yes. I’d just been trying to compose myself when you seized upon the moment for conversation. You see, no one as yet has called Lady Oakes.”
Behind him, the front door flew open and Alfred de Marigny stormed in.
Dark hair falling over his forehead like a comma, his eyes wide and almost wild, the bearded Count said, “What’s going on here? Who’s in charge?”
None of the black cops answered, so I told him.
“Colonel Lindop,” I said. I wasn’t tailing him anymore. No need to keep a low profile….
“Harold,” de Marigny blurted at Christie, “what the hell is this dirty business? John Anderson stopped me outside his bank and said Sir Harry’s been killed!”
Christie nodded numbly, then pointed to the living room and said, “I have a long-distance call to make.”
Then he walked into the living room, with de Marigny-casually dressed, blue shirt, tan slacks, no socks-tagging along.
I moved to the doorway, to eavesdrop on Christie’s side of the phone conversation with Lady Oakes, but couldn’t hear much. There was too much chatter in the hallway-not from the cops, but from a group of well-to-do-looking whites who were gathered down near the kitchen. Probably a mix of government officials and Oakes’ business associates.
Far too many people on hand for a crime scene. This was as bad as the fucking Lindbergh case, everybody and his damn dog tramping through the place.
I watched the silent movie of Christie speaking on the phone to Lady Oakes, de Marigny standing nearby, somewhat impatiently. Finally the Count tapped Christie on the shoulder, like a dancer cutting in.
De Marigny took the receiver.
Christie watched with obvious distaste as de Marigny spoke to his mother-in-law; he spoke louder than Christie, but his thick accent kept me from catching much of it. Obviously he was paying his condolences and asking what he could do to help.
And at least three times he asked her (and this I could hear-he was insistent) to have his wife, Nancy, get in touch with him as soon as possible.
De Marigny hung up the phone and looked at Christie, who turned his back on the Count and headed toward the hallway, and me.
“Why wasn’t I called, Harold? Why did I have to hear about this on the street?”
Christie mumbled something, brushing past me. De Marigny was on his heels.
“Count de Marigny,” Lindop said.
The Colonel was positioned in front of them like a traffic cop, as if to make them stop.
They stopped.
“I regret to inform you that Sir Harry Oakes is dead. Foul play is indicated.”
“When exactly was the body found?” de Marigny asked.
“At seven this morning.”
He scowled. “My God, man! It’s almost eleven o’clock-this is my father-in-law who’s been murdered! Why wasn’t I contacted?”
“No slight was intended. We’ve been busy. A crime has been committed.”
De Marigny’s wide lips pressed together sullenly. Then he said, “I demand to view the body!”
“No,” Lindop said, softly but flatly. “I would suggest you go home, Count. And make yourself available, should we have any questions.”
“What sort of questions?”
“I can’t say any more.”
“Why in hell not?”
“I’m afraid my hands are tied.” A pained expression crossed Lindop’s hound-dog countenance. ‘The Governor is calling in two police detectives from Miami, who should be here shortly to lead the investigation.”
What was that all about? Why call Miami cops in on a murder in a British colony? That “Governor” Lindop was referring to was none other than the Duke of Windsor, England’s ex-King himself. That was the phone call that had interrupted us upstairs….
As I was thinking this through, two splendid-looking Bahamian officers came down the curving stairway with a stretcher bearing the bedsheet-covered body of Sir Harry Oakes. Other officers held open the door while they carted him out to a waiting ambulance.
De Marigny watched this, frowning, nose twitching like a rabbit’s, and followed them out, as if to press once more for the right to view the body.
I stood on the porch and watched the Count pull his gleaming Lincoln across the rain-soaked lawn to avoid the parked cars blocking the drive. He even passed the ambulance, on his way out the gate.
“You may go,” Lindop said, tapping my shoulder. “Those officers over there will drive you. Where will you be?”
“At the British Colonial.”
“Fine. We’ll contact you there, later today, for a more formal statement.”
Then he shut the door.
What the hell. It seemed like a good time to leave Westbourne, anyway. After all, Sir Harry wasn’t home.
7
By noon the overcast sky had transformed itself into something pure and blue, with a bright but not blazing sun, a reprieve that sent sunbathers scurrying in surprise to the white beach of the British Colonial. During the early morning hours, minions of the hotel had obviously cleared the branches and debris from the sand; the beach was pristine again, shimmering in the sun. The emerald sea rippled peacefully. It was as if the storm had never happened.
Davy Jones’ Locker, the hotel cafe overlooking the beach, was stone-walled, low-ceilinged, slate-floored. A black bartender in a colorful shirt mixed drinks before a mural of Davy himself, fast asleep while nubile mermaids and a school of quizzical comic fish gave him the once-over.
I got myself a hamburger with rare, sweetly marinated meat, a side of conch fritters and an orange rum punch the smiling barman called a Bahama Mama. Then out on the patio, I found a round wooden table under a beach umbrella and ate my lunch and watched the pretty girls on the beach. Occasionally one would even venture into the water.