“That’s quite a vote of confidence.”
“It is. Even better is Freddie’s assurance that if at any point in the case I’m less than convinced of his innocence, I may withdraw.”
Our breakfast arrived; mine was scrambled eggs and toast, but Higgs had grits with jelly-coconut milk.
“Mr. Heller,” Higgs said, spooning his grits, “I’m pleased to have your aid. An investigator of your reputation is going to make my first major criminal case somewhat easier, I think.”
“I’ll try. If it won’t spoil your breakfast, I’ll share some of my thoughts on the murder room…I was out there again yesterday with a reporter friend of mine.”
“Reporter friend?”
“A well-known mystery writer from America-Erle Stanley Gardner.”
Higgs beamed. “Perry Mason! I could use some pointers. Nonetheless, let’s be selective about what we give Mr. Gardner access to, in our investigations. The case is already receiving incredible attention in the American press-let’s use him to put our best face forward.”
“Agreed.”
He pushed his half-eaten grits to one side, touched his lips with a napkin. “Why don’t you fill me in about the murder scene, on our way.”
“Our way?”
“Yes-I think it’s time you met our mutual client….”
The warden was a polite, mustached Canadian named Miller; in khakis and pith helmet, he led Higgs and me in a three-man safari down the narrow, clammy corridor. Then, at the last of four cells, he turned the key, admitted us, and turned it again and was gone.
The best thing you could say for de Marigny’s cell was that it wasn’t a dark dungeon; it was a blindingly bright dungeon. Two light bulbs-five-hundred-watt jobs, easy-were at the apogee of a high domed ceiling and made torture out of the illumination that bounced off the whitewashed walls of the eight-by-twelve cubicle. The floor was unevenly set stones and opposite the door was a barred window-too high to see out of, even on tiptoe, but it kept the warm cell from being stuffy.
The furnishings were limited: an army cot against the wall, a stool on which rested a battered enamel basin of water, and in one corner, a big, uncovered galvanized bucket that served as the incarcerated man’s toilet, and gave the cell its distinctive aroma.
De Marigny-in yellow silk shirt and tan pants, but without belt-was standing; with his beard, he looked like a tall, sorrowful devil. He was obviously much too big for the fold-up cot he’d been provided, to which he now gestured.
“Please have a seat, gentlemen,” he said. In these surroundings his thick, suave accent seemed very much out of place. “I prefer to stand.”
“How are they treating you, Fred?” Higgs asked.
“Well enough. Captain Miller is a fair man. Who is this?” He was referring to me, and now he spoke directly to me. “I’ve seen you. I saw you at Westbourne. You’re one of the police!”
“No,” Higgs said, patting the air with one hand. “Freddie, this is Nathan Heller, the American detective your wife hired.”
Now the Count smiled; his lips were wide and sensual, so there seemed something wicked about it.
“You’re the one who placed me at Westbourne’s front door,” he said.
“Actually, I did you a favor.”
“Oh? Perhaps you might explain.”
I shrugged. “I backed up your story. Those two RAF dames might’ve just been covering for you.”
He thought about that, and his smile turned almost friendly. “I never thought of it that way. Had you, Godfrey?”
Higgs said, “Yes.”
“Sit, sit!” de Marigny said, suddenly a fussy host.
We sat on the cot.
“Have you a cigarette, Godfrey? I’ve run out.”
Higgs provided one, and lighted it with a silver, crested lighter. De Marigny sucked in the smoke hungrily, and shook his head, in relief.
“Bring me more. Even if they’re American.”
“All right, Freddie,” the attorney said. “I thought you and Mr. Heller should meet. He’s going to be a vital member of our defense team.”
“From hiding in my bushes,” de Marigny said, his smile smug now, “to beating the bushes for me-searching for clues, searching for the real killer. Quite a turnabout.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Count,” I said, “I find it interesting that you’re so unperturbed by all this.”
He moved the water basin off the stool and sat; he was all legs, a gawky farmer who misplaced his milk cow. He frowned, mildly. “First of all, Mr. Heller-may I call you Nathan?”
“Nate.”
“Nate. First of all please don’t call me Count. I’ve never used the title, and I’ve constantly requested the local press not to refer to me as such. Only my wives seem compelled to use it.”
“What woman doesn’t see herself as a countess?” I said.
“Very perceptive, Nate. Second, I’m unperturbed because I’m innocent of this crime. It should be easy enough for you good men to prove it.”
“Not with the deck stacked against you and us.” Higgs shook his head. “Hallinan and possibly the Duke himself are obviously pulling strings….”
“Four-flushers,” de Marigny said bitterly. He sucked on the cigarette. He laughed at me. “You’re squinting.”
“It’s too goddamn bright in here,” I said.
“All this light does serve a purpose-I can keep track of the rats, spiders and cockroaches more easily. Of course, sleeping is difficult, since they stay on all night. I must apologize for the foul fragrance…I’ve never had to sleep with my own excreta before.”
“What the hell,” I said. “I’ve never heard the word ‘excreta’ used in a sentence before.”
He studied me a second, and laughed. “Charming sense of humor. Your manners are questionable, but then of course, you’re an American.”
“Of course. Why did Harry Oakes hate you?”
I’d thrown him a curve, but he hit it like DiMaggio.
“Because he resented my having sex with his daughter,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “Before or after you married her?”
His smile was wide and wicked again. “It never came up before the marriage.”
That was a straight line if I ever heard one, but I kept quiet; trying to improve my manners.
“A few months after we wed,” he was explaining, “we were in Mexico City, when Nancy fell ill with typhoid fever-she also was in need of extensive dental surgery. Our blood type is the same, and I was able to supply blood for transfusions. A few months later, on the advice of her doctors, due to her continued ill health, a pregnancy was terminated.”
He paused to inhale on the cigarette again; his jauntiness was absent now.
“Apparently Eunice and Harry somehow got the idea that I had raped Nancy in Mexico City-crawled onto her hospital bed between transfusions, perhaps, and ‘violated’ my wife. Oakes raved and ranted-called me a sex maniac. Nothing Nancy could say would dissuade him. He was a very uncouth man, you know-rudely eccentric.”
“I see,” I said, thinking all that was pretty fucking bizarre.
“That’s only the beginning,” de Marigny said, bleakly amused. “Before long, Nancy went to New York for some further dental surgery; at the same time, I was in need of a tonsil operation. So we checked in simultaneously, took adjacent rooms. Sir Harry discovered the arrangement, charged in like a bull, expecting an orgy no doubt, threatening to kick me out of the room. I told him to get the hell out, or I’d bash his head in.”
“A poor choice of words, considering,” I said.
That hadn’t occurred to him; he sighed and continued: “That was when relations between the Oakes family and myself deteriorated into what was at best a chilly truce. Last March Sir Harry charged into my house to remove his teenage son, Sydney, who is quite fond of both his sister and me, and whose affections Harry felt I was stealing.” He shrugged. “That was the last time I saw Sir Harry.”
“You know those Miami cops say they have fingerprint evidence,” I said.
“Nonsense,” he said, with a wave that was like a fly swat. “I hadn’t been in Westbourne in over two years. If they found any prints, I left them there during my questioning.”