But an hour later, according to eyewitness Arthur, a station wagon at Lyford Cay had been picking up two men who had moored there, despite the storm. Could Christie have picked somebody up downtown, possibly at the wharf, first? And then gone to Lyford Cay to gather the two men who sounded so much like Meyer Lansky’s Biltmore bodyguards?
As I left, Captain Sears said, “By the way, Mr. Heller-if I were you, I’d watch my back.”
“What do you mean by that, exactly?”
He smiled tightly, shook his head as if to say he’d said more than he should already.
I thanked him for his courage and honesty, and headed back to Bay Street. It was time to drop in on Harold Christie, who I had any number of questions for, particularly in light of a long-distance telephone conversation I’d had first thing this morning.
I had caught Eliot Ness having breakfast at his Washington, D.C., home. We went back many years, and I suppose it says something about the honesty of Chicago cops in general that Eliot had, during his war on Al Capone, considered me one of the few cops he trusted. I’d been an information source for him, in those days, and after I went into private practice, he became my ear in the government.
He still was, though his stint with the Justice Department was long since over. More recently his successful tenure as Cleveland’s Public Safety Director had led to a post as Chief Administrator of the Federal Security Agency’s Division of Social Protection. What that meant was, he was America’s top vice cop, for the duration.
“Still fighting VD?” I asked him.
“With a vengeance,” he said.
“I hear Capone’s fighting the syph, himself.”
“In his own way,” Eliot said. “Say, I’ll be in Chicago next month, checking out the neighborhoods around defense plants. See you then?”
“No. I’m calling you from Nassau.”
“Nassau? You mean the Bahamas? Don’t tell me you landed the Oakes case!”
“Okay, I won’t. But I did.”
He laughed. “And they say I’m a publicity hound.”
“Yeah, well. It may prove more of an embarrassment than a feather in my cap.”
“Why’s that?”
“The Duke of Windsor called in a couple of Miami cops to handle the case, and they’ve got my client, de Marigny, fitted for a noose.”
“Is that who you’re working for? That slimy count I’ve been reading about?”
“That’s him. He’s an utter asshole, but I kind of like him.”
“Well, maybe you have things in common.”
“Thanks, Eliot. That vote of confidence means a lot. Actually, technically, I’m working for the wife.”
“I’ve seen her picture in the papers. Hubba hubba.”
“With you fighting vice, Eliot, America’s in knowledgeable hands. These Miami cops, I want you to make a few calls for me…check out their background.”
“Sure. Why not? You’re a taxpayer and a war hero.”
“I buy bonds, too. Their names are James Barker and Edward Melchen-both captains. Barker passes himself off as a fingerprint expert, but I doubt he knows how many digits are on the average hand.”
“Okay. Got it. Their names don’t ring any bells, but I’ll check around.”
“There’s another guy-a real-estate magnate who was Sir Harry’s best friend, and claims he slept through the killing, with just a room between ’em.”
“Sure. Harold Christie. I’ve read the papers.”
“Well, run a check on him, would you?”
“No need,” Eliot said matter-of-factly. “I know all about him.”
“Well, then, spill! But why in hell should you know anything about a Nassau real-estate king?”
“Because he was pals with Capone’s boys-their chief contact in Nassau back in rum-running days. Chicago was a big client of the so-called Bay Street Pirates, you know-that’s how Christie made his fortune. Early on, he started sinking his booze money into land.”
“Eliot…could Christie have done business with the East Coast mob, as well?”
“No ‘could’ about it. He did.”
“Any chance he might have done any business with Meyer Lansky?”
“I’d be surprised if he hadn’t. Capone had something of a monopoly in Nassau till around ’26, when Lansky and Bugsy Siegel moved in. There was almost trouble over it, but Johnny Torrio apparently settled things down; after all, there was enough English and Canadian liquor on the docks of Nassau to satisfy everybody. You know, I seem to recall Christie doing some business in Boston, too, and having some federal problems there. But I’m vague on it. I can check up on that, too, if you like.”
“I like. Eliot, this information really helps.”
“Then you can do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Wear a prophylactic. Help keep vice statistics down.”
“Hell, Eliot-I’m wearing one right now. Ever since I saw those movies of yours, back at boot camp, I never take it off.”
The pebbled glass door at the top of the stairs said, “H. G. Christie, Ltd., Real Estate,” but the sounds coming from behind it said much more: it sounded like a rally at the Board of Trade. I went in to find a large outer office that was a packed waiting room, chairs lining the wall filled with every Bahamian type imaginable: prosperous white businessmen in their three-piece suits sat next to shoeless out-island natives; a proper-looking Englishwoman sat uncomfortably beside a native girl in a colorful tropical bandanna and sheath. The only difference seemed to be that the whites, American and English alike, were speaking to each other, the men sometimes rising to approach, loudly, animatedly, one of two female secretaries-a young pretty one at the desk at left, an older handsome one at right-while the Negroes of either sex sat timidly with hands in laps and eyes lowered. The secretaries were dealing frantically with phone calls (“Yes, Sir Frederick, Mr. Christie has the blueprints ready,” “Your roof is leaking? I’ll inform Mr. Christie,” “New York? I’ll see if he’s free…”) while male assistants would emerge from one of the two offices either side of the central pebbled-glass door labeled “H. G. Christie, Private,” to deal with the more impatient clientele.
None of them were as impatient as yours truly, however, because I didn’t bother to check in with either harried secretary. I walked right past them and went into Christie’s office.
The bald, homely, rumpled little toad who wielded such power in Nassau frowned at me from behind his desk where he was on the phone, not recognizing me at first; then his face went blank as he did remember me, before an even deeper frown returned.
“Mr. Christie…I’m sorry,” a voice behind me urgently said. “I’m afraid this gentleman just rushed right-”
“That’s all right, Mildred,” Christie said, waving her back.
The older of the secretaries glared at me and I smiled pleasantly at her and she closed the door behind me. Christie was saying into the phone, “Sir Frederick, I’ll have to call you back. My apologies.”
His inner office wasn’t large or fancy, plaster walls lined with wooden file cabinets, a few framed, hand-tinted photos of lush, lovely Bahamian properties he no doubt either owned or had sold someone; framed photos of himself with the Duke, Oakes and other Bahamian mucky-mucks; some local excellence-in-business certificates. The mahogany desk was large, however, almost massive, resting on an oriental rug. The ceiling fan’s blades whirled shakily, as nervous as the waiting room out there. Bay Street bustled through the open window behind him, horses clip-clopping, bells jangling, horns honking, a voice raised occasionally.
“Mr. Heller,” Christie said, raising his, “I understand the urgency of the work you’re engaged in. But I’m a busy man, and you’ll have to make an appointment.”
“I called for one this morning. I was told to call again tomorrow.”
“Well, you should have. You still should. There are many people ahead of you. But if you have something we can attend to quickly…”
“I just have a few questions I want to run past you. So we can get Sir Harry’s murder cleared up.”