“Why?”
“There’s no listing for Christie in the federal indexes to indicate any infraction.”
“Hell! Somebody pulled his records, you mean?”
“That would be nearly impossible-removing a number from the index would be one thing, destroying the actual record would be something else again. I’ve got a man going through every number in the indexes, looking for any missing numbers.”
I was smiling. “And if you come up with any, you can request the records the missing file numbers refer to. Ness, you’re a detective.”
“Heller, be patient. Even if I can find these records, there’ll be yards of red tape getting certified copies. There are a few hurdles in wartime that we don’t normally have.”
“Just drive a steel-nosed truck through ’em.”
“See what I can do. How much time do I have?”
“The preliminary hearing’s coming up in a few days. We’re at least a month away from the trial itself.”
“Good,” he said, sounding relieved.
“I can’t tell you how I appreciate this, Eliot…”
“Don’t thank me yet-there’s more. Not about Christie, but I did ask some friends in the FBI, and in law enforcement circles down Miami way, about your friends Barker and Melchen.”
“And?”
“The word is they’re bent.”
“How bent?”
“They climbed through the ranks thanks to corruption and mob ties. Unfortunately, there’s never been any charges brought against them, except insubordination.”
“In other words, they’re not popular with the cleaner cops.”
“That’s it. But it hasn’t stopped their mutual rise to captain.”
I laughed humorlessly. “And here they are in the Bahamas, at the Duke of Windsor’s behest.”
“That’s what stymies me, Nate-why? Why in hell would the Duke of Windsor invite two crooked cops from Miami in to run an investigation of such international magnitude?”
“Eliot, if you were any more eloquent, I’d have to kiss you.”
“I’m glad this is a phone conversation, then. I’ll work on the Christie documents. You keep your head up-those Miami boys play dirty.”
“I’ve been known to throw a punch or two below the belt myself,” I reminded him.
I made a quick call to Captain Miller, the warden at Nassau Jail, and asked if he could arrange an impromptu meeting with Freddie. I already knew Miller was sympathetic to de Marigny’s cause; the warden had made it clear (between the lines of several conversations we’d had) that he thought this was a railroad job.
So within half an hour I was sitting on the stool in Freddie’s cell, while the Count sat on his cot, his long legs akimbo. Cleanshaven now, his chin looked weaker, his nose larger, and he didn’t look at all satanic: just pale and skinny and troubled.
“Whether the cops think so or not,” I said, “we’ve got two murders now: Sir Harry and Arthur. But before somebody silenced Arthur, he described two men to me who resemble a pair of goons in the employ of Meyer Lansky.”
He sat forward. “The gangster?”
“The gangster. Actually, he’s more like an accountant these days, but they say the little guy made his bones by going around breaking legs side by side with Bugsy Siegel. Anyway, there’s little doubt Christie was in bed with Lansky back in rum-running days-and I just learned this afternoon that both Melchen and Barker are connected, too.”
He winced in confusion. “Connected in what manner?”
“I mean, they’re in the mob’s pocket. There’s a lot of mobsters in Florida, Freddie-trust me on that. My question to you is, why the hell would the syndicate have a reason to murder Harry Oakes?”
De Marigny’s eyes were bulging; he seemed bewildered. “I have no idea…though it is no news to me that Harold Christie and Meyer Lansky have done business.”
“Oh?”
“There’ve been rumors for months now that Lansky and Christie are making plans to put casinos in, here in Nassau, and to develop some of the other islands into, what do you call it in America? Tourist traps.”
“Like Lansky’s already done with Havana,” I said.
“Precisely.”
“But isn’t gambling illegal here?”
He shook his head. “No. In fact, it was made legal just a few years ago-however, only for tourists, not residents. Before the war, the Bahamian Club operated openly, with the Royal Governor’s blessing.”
“What was that? A casino, you mean?”
“Yes. For the rich who winter here. But since America entered the war, assigning such licenses has been suspended.”
“But when the war’s over, the floodgate will open.”
He nodded vigorously. “Certainly. Tourism-and, I would imagine, gambling-should flourish.”
I thought about that. Then I said, “Could Sir Harry have been blocking Lansky and Christie, somehow, in their plans to bring casinos to Nassau?”
De Marigny shrugged elaborately. “But why? Is a man who owns the largest hotel in Nassau against tourism?”
“You’re right,” I admitted. “Just doesn’t make sense….”
“Anyway, Harry was powerful on the island, but it only went so far-he bought himself a seat on the legislature, but the real ruling class of Nassau is the Bay Street Pirates.”
“And the head buccaneer is Harold Christie.”
He shrugged facially and gestured with an open hand. “But of course.”
I lifted a forefinger. “Suppose Christie had his own reasons for having Sir Harry killed, and just reached out to his mob associates to help get the job done?”
De Marigny looked doubtful. “Christie and Sir Harry were the best of friends, Mr. Heller.”
“Most murders are committed by friends or relatives.”
That made him nod knowingly. “They did share many business interests…. Should some matter of money go awry, who knows what one friend might do to another?”
“But of course,” I said.
“By the way,” he said cheerfully, “if you need any help, don’t forget my man Curtis Thompson. How’s your petrol holding out in that Chevrolet?”
“I could use a fill-up.”
“Go see Curtis. And he may have some insights into the murder of that native, Arthur.”
“I will. Maybe he can help with something else, as well.”
“Oh?”
“I’m also trying to track down a native named Samuel-Sir Harry’s night watchman. I had Marjorie Bristol checking around for me, but I’ve asked her to limit her inquiries somewhat. After Arthur’s killing, I’m afraid of putting her at risk.”
He sighed appreciatively. “She’s a lovely woman, Miss Bristol.”
“Yes she is.”
His smile was a wavery, sardonic line. “And what did you think of Lady Diane?”
“That’s one beautiful bitch.”
His laugh echoed in the high-ceilinged cell. “New Providence is a horrible little island-but aren’t the women wonderful?”
17
Around dusk, with the weather turned almost cool, I drove east on Bay Street and took the right onto the dirt road that led to de Marigny’s chicken farm. The gas gauge needle was on E, so I hoped Curtis Thompson was around to provide me with “petrol,” or I’d be hoofing it back to town.
When I pulled into the crushed-rock driveway of the almost ramshackle limestone farmhouse, I knew at once something was wrong: six or eight of de Marigny’s native helpers, in their somewhat tattered work clothes and straw hats, were milling around, wide-eyed, looking like a Stepin Fetchit convention.
Nearby was a black police car, parked on the grass near the cut-down oil drum where not so long ago I’d seen the Count and his men scalding the feathers off dead chickens; the fire was unlit today, but something was in the air, even if it wasn’t smoke.
I hopped out of the Chevy and approached the milling men.
“What’s up, fellas? Where’s Curtis?”
They looked at each other, nervously; several were shaking their heads. Fear and anger mingled in their dark faces.
“Where the hell is Curtis? What are the cops doing here?”
One of them, a kid perhaps eighteen with sad, smart eyes, said, “Dose son of a bitches take Curtis out back.”