“Novels, radio shows, columns-hell, Erle…how will you manage all that out of a Nassau hotel room?”
“Well, it’ll be dicey at first,” he said, “but my girls will be following me down in a few days.”
“Girls?”
“Secretaries-three of ’em. Sisters. Cute as buttons and smart as whips. I dictate everything. Haven’t used a typewriter in years.”
We fell into silence for a while. The stewardess came by with coffee, which we both took. I was chewing on whether or not to reveal to him that I was working the Oakes case. Before I’d decided, he spoke.
“So,” he said, “you’re working for de Marigny.”
“Pardon?”
“Look, son-stands to reason you’re not working for the prosecution. They’ve supposedly got a couple Miami dicks working the case. What else would Nate Heller be doing in Nassau right now but helping de Marigny’s lawyer collect evidence?”
I just looked at his wide, farmer face and shook my head and laughed. Who was the detective here?
“Actually,” I said, and I kept my voice down as much as possible so none of these other possible reporters could hear, “I’m working for Nancy de Marigny.”
“The poor little rich girl! Is she as cute as they say?”
“As a button.”
His brow creased with thought, but he kept smiling; he usually was. “So how the hell did a Chicago op get pulled in on an exotic crime like this?”
I gave him a condensed version, which he ate up eagerly.
Now his expression was wistful. “If I made up a yarn like that…gold miner becomes the world’s richest man…murder in a tropical storm…voodoo kill…cradle-robbing count and beautiful child bride…I’d either make a million or get laughed out of the business.”
“Don’t forget the part where the victim’s best friend in the bedroom next door sleeps through the killing.”
“Oh, I haven’t. I’ve read every news report I can, and in a case that smells a hundred ways, that part smells the worst. What do you say we team up?”
“Mr. Gardner…Erle…I don’t think that would be appropriate. I don’t think my client would want me working hand in hand with the press.”
He scowled; even his scowl seemed affable. “I’m not the goddamn press! Look-these other reporters are going to go check in this afternoon and then head to the hotel bar and start guzzling booze out of hollowed-out coconuts. But you and me, we can go right out to Westbourne and have a look. I bet you could get us in.”
I thought about it.
“I’ll go with you or without you,” he said, head to one side.
“You got a car lined up?” I asked. Nancy had promised to have either a rental or family car for me, by tomorrow, with a ration book full of stamps. But for this afternoon and tonight, I had no wheels.
“Hearst’ll have one waiting. I’m at the Royal Victoria. Where are you staying?”
“The British Colonial.”
“Sir Harry’s own hotel.” He clapped his hands, once, like a sultan summoning his harem. “All right, after we’re both checked in, I’ll swing by, and we’ll go see what’s up out at Westbourne.”
One of Nassau’s finest was on the Westbourne gate, late-afternoon sun gleaming off the gold spike of his white helmet.
Gardner was behind the wheel of the black rental Ford and left it running as I stepped out to speak to the bobbie.
“Is Colonel Lindop inside?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“Damn!”
“Something wrong, sir?”
“I was supposed to meet him here.”
“Meet him, sir?”
“I’m one of the American detectives working the case. Damn.”
“Well, he’s not here, sir.”
“Hell. Well…I guess I’ll just have to go on in and wait, then.”
He thought about that for a long couple of seconds, then nodded, and swung the gate open. Several more of the spiffy black coppers were standing around inside the front entry. I told them I was meeting Lindop and they seemed to buy it; then I said I needed to have another look at the murder room.
One of them asked me who Gardner was and I said, “My assistant.”
That was explanation enough. Even with Sir Harry dead, security around here stunk.
The air, however, no longer stunk; with the murder a little over a week old, the place was aired out, only the faintest bouquet of the aftermath of fire remained. But Gardner, following me up the curving staircase, was taking in the scorched wood and walls with wide eyes.
The Chinese screen was gone, but the bedroom otherwise seemed the same-the scorched circular area as we stepped into the room, the burnt face of the wardrobe, the blood on the phone book by the French phone on the writing table, wind whispering in the open window, ruffling the frilly curtains.
But as we stepped into the portion of the room where the murder bed waited, we saw an incredible tableau; I couldn’t have been much more surprised-or outraged-if I’d interrupted Sir Harry’s murder itself.
Kneeling on the floor, in their perfect uniforms, wearing their goddamned spiked helmets, were a pair of Bahamian cops who had, between them, a soapy bucket and two sponges.
They were cleaning the blood off the walls.
Specifically, they were removing-erasing-the small, now-dried bloody handprints by the windows overlooking the north porch.
“What the hell are you men doing?” I yelled.
Gardner was frozen, too; he seemed horrified. It was like finding a couple kids with gum erasers removing Da Vinci’s Last Supper off the wall.
They looked at us mildly; we hadn’t even startled them.
“We’re removin’ the bloodstains,” one of them said, even as he was doing so.
“Why, in God’s name?”
The other one said, “Because dey is not de Marigny’s prints…too small.”
He was right, of course; they looked like the palm prints of a woman or an adolescent.
“So?” I asked, numbly.
The first one spoke again. “So de Miami detectives say dese only confuse de evidence. Why get some innocent guy in trouble? Wash down de walls, dey say.”
“Holy Christ,” I said. “Stop it!”
But it was too late.
“Who are you?” one said, standing.
The other said, “He’s not from Miami. He’s dat guy who saw de Marigny. What are you doin’ here, mon?”
“Supposed to meet Colonel Lindop,” I lied.
“He’s not here.”
“I know. But he’s on his way.”
They looked at each other, and the other one got up; their uniforms remained spotless. So, now, were the walls. As they went out, the one carrying the bucket said, “Don’t touch anyt’ing.”
“Right,” I said. “I’d hate for you boys to have to scrub the room down again.”
They gave me blank looks that managed to seem nasty, and left.
“We’d better make this quick,” I told Gardner. “I don’t know how long my story’s going to hold.”
He looked properly astounded. “What the hell’s going on here, Heller? What sort of criminal investigation is this?”
“One of these days you’ll meet Barker and Melchen and find out.”
I began filling him in on what the crime scene had looked like on my previous visit: the Chinese screen, the state of Oakes’ burned and feathered body, including such details as the four wounds behind his ear, and the shreds of blue-striped pajamas hanging down from the scorched flesh….
Gardner was on his knees, looking under the bed, like a husband searching for his wife’s lover. “The cloth covering the box spring is burned away-have a look.”
I got down and did. “You’re right-completely gone….”
We stood.
“Meaning,” Gardner said, his broad face gleeful, “the fire on that bed was blazing, at one point. Those torn pajamas should have incinerated.”
Damn near the entire surface of the bed was burned black, except a small area under where his hips had been, where Oakes’ bladder had put out the fire.