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She shrugged. “He just shushed him, and they hurried out.”

My laugh was hollow. “They fly up from Nassau on the plane together, they’re partners in this all the way, and Barker doesn’t even mention to Melchen that he found the accused’s fingerprints in the murder room?”

She seemed confused, as well she should be. “What does it mean?”

“Well, the bad news is they’re working up a frame.” Then I smiled. “The good news is, they’re incompetent dopes.”

She was still confused. “But…why would they frame my husband?”

“Could be plain old-fashioned bad police work. A true detective accumulates evidence until it leads him to a suspect. A lousy detective finds a suspect and accumulates only the evidence that fits that suspect.”

“And even creates evidence?”

“Sometimes,” I said, making two words of it. “Does Freddie have any enemies in Nassau?”

She smirked humorlessly. “Quite a few, I’m afraid. He doesn’t play by the rules; he’s his own man, Freddie is.”

“These clowns, Barker and Melchen, they were brought in by the Duke. What was your father’s connection to the Duke?”

“They were friendly. David and Wallis are…were fairly frequent guests at Westbourne…even stayed there, for several weeks, when they first arrived in Nassau, while Government House was being redecorated to Wallis’ specifications. My parents attended many social occasions where the Duke and Duchess were present. Daddy and the Duke played a lot of golf together. And, of course, they had certain mutual business interests.”

“Such as?”

She winced in thought. “I’m not really sure. I know that Harold Christie and Daddy and the Duke were involved in some business deal or other…oh, and so was Axel Wenner-Gren. He’s a Swedish industrialist.”

“Is that the guy who bought Howard Hughes’ yacht?”

“The Southern Cross, yes.”

“Axel Wenner-Gren.” I was sitting up again. “Isn’t that guy a Nazi? The Duke and Duchess got bad publicity having him chauffeur ’em around in his yacht. The papers were full of it-the American authorities wouldn’t let him dock, a couple times.”

She was shaking her head and smiling at me like I was a kid who’d just repeated some wild, unbelievable schoolyard story. “Axel a Nazi? It’s preposterous. He’s a charming man, Nate.”

“Well, if you say so.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s true that he’s been blacklisted from the Bahamas, and the United States, for the duration.”

I snapped my fingers. “That’s what I thought! For suspected collaborationist leanings, right?”

“Right,” she allowed. “But it’s nonsense.”

“Where is the charming Axis what’s-his-name now?”

“It’s Axel and you know it. Cuernavaca-sitting out the war on one of his estates.”

I was grinning. “So there’s a Nazi in the woodpile…that’s real interesting….”

“Nate-don’t bother going down that road. I know Axel isn’t a Nazi.”

“How could you ‘know’ that?”

Her gaze was boring holes in me again. “Because Daddy wouldn’t have been friends with him if he was. Look-Daddy wasn’t very political…like a lot of wealthy people, he considered himself above politics, I suppose. But he hated Nazis. He’d sooner do business with the devil! He was active in all the local war efforts, and when Hitler declared war on Britain, Daddy immediately donated five Spitfires to the RAF! And he’s given his airfield to….”

“Okay, Nancy…okay. You made your point. What about a guy named Meyer Lansky? Ever hear of him?”

She shrugged. “No.”

I described him to her. “Ever see anybody who looked like that come around to talk to your father?”

“No.”

“Any Americans come around who didn’t seem like somebody who’d typically do business with your dad? Somebody…suspicious. Somebody with bodyguards, maybe.”

“A gangster or something? Hardly.”

I didn’t want to get into it with her, but I wondered what interest, or connection, Meyer Lansky might have to the murder. Last night his questions had been pointed, and knowledgeable; so knowledgeable that I wondered if he might not have been, in an oblique fashion, warning me off the case….

A knock at the door summoned Nancy, and I stayed and sipped my coffee, watching golfers golf, pondering Lansky’s possible warning. I heard Nancy’s voice, then another voice, but higher-pitched, and that of an older woman; both voices were raised in something approaching anger.

I went to have a look. Probably none of my business, but I’m a snoop by nature and profession….

“Mother,” Nancy was saying, “I did not sneak away. I left word where you could find me, and under what name, or else you wouldn’t have! Correct?”

Lady Eunice Oakes was tall, handsome, dignified, and royally pissed off. She was also just a tad stout, with a firm jaw and thin wide lips, her hair of medium length and graying blond. She was in black, of course, but stylishly so, with a black fur piece, black soupdish hat and dark glasses and black gloves. Even her nylons were in mourning.

“Don’t speak to me in that tone of voice,” Lady Oakes snapped. “I don’t appreciate having to come running after you…chartering a plane at all hours…”

“You didn’t have to come ‘running after’ me, Mother. I’m of age. I’m a married woman.”

“You would have to remind me of that.”

Lady Oakes rustled in her purse-also black-for a hanky-white. She lowered her face into the hanky as Nancy tapped her on the shoulder.

“Mother,” Nancy said, nodding toward me. “We’re not alone….”

She put the hanky away and removed her sunglasses; her eyes, though bloodshot, were a clear, sky blue. Once upon a time, she could have given Nancy a run for the money in the looks department.

Studying me, she said, not unpleasantly, “And who are you, young man?”

A funny way to address me, since she probably only had five or six years on me.

I told her, and expressed my sympathies.

“You’re the detective my husband hired,” she said, and beamed. She strode over to me and offered me her gloved hand. I shook it, not knowing why this welcome was so warm.

“You provided valuable evidence in the case against my husband’s murderer,” she said, “and I would just like to thank you personally….”

“Mother-Mr. Heller is working for me, now. He’s going to prove Freddie’s innocence.”

She let go of my hand as if it were something disgusting. She looked at me the same way.

“I fail to see the humor in that,” she said.

“Me either,” I said.

“Mr. Heller,” Nancy said, “was paid ten thousand dollars to investigate my husband’s activities. I’m keeping him on the case. He’ll investigate, and prove Freddie’s innocence.”

Lady Oakes smiled, and it was a sly, smart smile.

“Am I to understand,” she said, addressing us both, looking from Nancy to me and back again, “that you intend to have Mr. Heller continue investigating…using up the money that your father paid him?”

“Yes,” Nancy said, indignantly.

“I think not,” Lady Oakes said. She looked at me. “I’ll speak to our attorney, Walter Foskett of Palm Beach, and fix your little red wagon, Mr. Heller.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You can’t both threaten me with the same lawyer!”

“Mother,” Nancy began, and the two were arguing. Not yelling, but heatedly talking over each other’s words.

I put two fingers in my mouth and blew a whistle that would have brought Ringling Brothers to a standstill.

The two women looked at me, startled.

“I have a suggestion,” I said. I looked at Nancy. “Your mother has a point. My client here, in a very real sense, is your late father.”

Lady Oakes smiled smugly and nodded the same way. She folded her arms across a generous matronly bosom.