My curiosity, as we stood in the living room under the oil portrait’s cool watchful gaze, was piqued about something else.
“Never mind the Incas,” I said. “What’s the story on the elephants?”
With the exception of those rooms given to primitive Peruvian artifacts, it seemed everywhere you looked was a statue of an elephant-from tiny as a beetle to big as a horse, these gold, silver, ivory and wooden pachyderms ruled the estate, trunks held high.
“It’s the Electrolux symbol, silly,” she said. “My boss made his fortune by inventing, and selling, vacuum cleaners, and those elephants signal his triumph.”
“Oh.”
“A lot of them came from the estate of Florenz Ziegfeld-he collected elephants, too.”
“Ah.”
“You notice their trunks are erect, every single one of them? Can you guess why?”
“They’re glad to see me?”
Her smile settled on one side of her pretty face. “No, you fool. An elephant with its trunk down is a symbol of bad luck.”
“So is an elephant with his foot on your head.”
She took my arm and sat me down on one of two facing, curved couches that fronted the unlighted fireplace. In the Bahamas I would imagine you wouldn’t light it often.
“You’re in a smart-alecky mood,” she said, almost scolding me; she looped her arm, bare in the white silk gown, in mine. She had been treating me like an old friend-or even, old lover-since I’d gotten here. Complaining would have seemed ungracious.
“It’s just that I feel awkward in a monkey suit,” I said.
I was wearing a black tuxedo that I’d rented from Lunn, the tailor kitty-corner from the B.C.
“Balls! You look elegant, Heller.”
“I’m going to be mistaken for a waiter.”
“I don’t think so. My waiters are too distinctively attired.”
“Oh, yeah-I saw that. Why in hell is the help wearing those Navy uniforms? And frankly, all those blond boys do look like Nazis. Don’t you have any native help?”
She was shaking her head, but smiling. “You are bad. Of course we have native help-the boy who brought you over in the launch, for one. But our house staff wears the same uniforms as on the Southern Cross.”
“Oh-your boss’ yacht.”
“Exactly. And those blond boys are five Swedes and a Finn.”
“One of my favorite vaudeville acts.”
“Bad,” she said, laughing. “I don’t know why I’m helping you.”
“Actually, neither do I-but I’m glad you are.”
She fixed her Bahama blues on me, serious now. “Nancy’s just about my best friend in the world. I’d do anything to help her get her Freddie back.”
“A true romantic.”
“I am. Are you, Nate?”
“A true romantic? I don’t know.”
“What are you, then?”
“A true detective,” I smiled.
“Well, you’ll get your chance tonight,” she said, looking away from me, leaning forward to a coffee table and popping open a gold cigarette box on the top of which an elephant reared-trunk erect.
“Thanks to you, Di. I do appreciate it. Very kind of you.”
She shrugged, as she lighted her smoke with an elephant lighter, flame bursting from its trunk. Its erect trunk.
I shook my head. “If your friends figure out why you’ve invited them here-that is, to be grilled by yours truly-you may drop off the social register with a thud.”
“Heller,” she said, and despite the blood-red bruised lips her grin was almost mannish, “if you have enough money, you may behave as insufferably as you wish.”
“Hell-I’ve managed that without the money.”
She leaned her head back, blew smoke out through her mouth and nose, and chuckled.
I thought about kissing her, but it was too easy. And too soon. She was blond perfection; trouble was, I was still possessed by a darker girl. As impossible as that was, as over as that was, I was still full of Marjorie Bristol….
The band in the ballroom-which with its high ceilings, Gobelin tapestries and crystal chandeliers seemed to belong in some other house-wore tuxes like mine while playing jazz-tinged renditions of, mostly, Cole Porter. Classy as hell-you could dance to it or listen to it or ignore it. My kind of music.
The guest list, I understood, ran to around fifty people: twenty couples and five singles who could bring an escort. I didn’t recognize most of the people in this room-lots of older men with slightly younger wives, black tie and black jacket or sometimes white jacket, gowns and glittering jewels. The guests had names like Messmore and Goldsmith and Merryman; the Duchess of Leeds here, Sir Fredrick Williams-Taylor there. Winding among them, blond boys in blue naval-style livery carried alternating trays of brimming champagne glasses and mixed drinks. I wasn’t out of place. Not any more than Marlene Dietrich in a convent.
Occasionally I spotted someone I recognized. Over at an hors d’oeuvre table-where cracked crab, caviar and shrimp mingled with fruit under the supervision of a tropical centerpiece-Harold Christie, in a wrinkled black tux, spoke briefly with an attractive blonde in a green gown before moving nervously on.
The blonde was Dulcibel Henneage-Effie, to her pals, and Christie’s reputed married-lady lady friend. They weren’t here together; he merely had a furtive moment with her before joining a group of men who were chatting and smoking over in one corner.
What the helclass="underline" time to mingle.
“Lovely evening,” I said, joining her as she filled a small plate from the table of goodies.
She smiled sweetly; her blond hair was marcelled, and she was definitely too pretty for that iguana Christie. “Yes it is-we’re lucky to have such a cool breeze.”
“We haven’t met, Mrs. Henneage, although I recognize you from your appearance at the preliminary hearing the other day.”
She gave me a sharp look, though her smile didn’t falter. “You must have got there early, to get a seat.”
“I have connections. My name’s Nathan Heller.”
She put the little plate down to offer her hand for me to take by the fingertips-anyway, I hope that’s what I was supposed to do, because I did-and said, “That name sounds familiar….”
Then her smile fell, and her eyes went glazed and damn near frightened.
“You’re the detective….”
“That’s right. I’m working for Nancy de Marigny, on behalf of her husband, and his attorney, Mr. Higgs.”
She backed away, till the table stopped her. “Mr. Heller, I don’t mean to be rude, but…”
“I’ve been leaving messages for you for days now. Could I impose on you for a minute or two? I need to ask a few questions.”
She was shaking her head, no. “I’d really rather not….”
“Please. If at any time you’re uncomfortable, I’ll just go. Why don’t we go out on the patio and see if we can find a table….”
Reluctantly she allowed me to escort her outside, onto the balconylike patio that overlooked, and led down to, a fountain in the middle of which a cement elephant rose, erect trunk high and spouting water; around this was an open grassy area where couples could stroll along the edges of a tropical flower garden. The night indeed was cool, the sky as clear as a sociopath’s conscience. Wrought-iron tables and chairs were scattered at left and right, and there were two more tables of appetizers and a well-stocked bar with one of those blond naval cadets playing bartender-Aryan boys in the glow of Japanese lanterns. Just being here seemed unpatriotic, somehow.
We sat. She didn’t look at me, instead studying her little plate of caviar like a head doc’s inkblot she was trying to find meaning in.
“I suppose you want to ask me about having dinner at Westbourne, the night Sir Harry was killed. But I’m afraid there’s really nothing much to say about that….”
“What I want to know, Mrs. Henneage-and I mean no disrespect-is if it’s true that you and Mr. Christie are…friendly.”
She looked up sharply, and she wasn’t smiling this time. “Well…of course, we’re friends. Acquaintances.”