“Is that so?” the Duke said pleasantly but skeptically. “Do you know Charles?”
“Once upon a time I did,” I said. “I haven’t seen Slim in years.”
His eyes flickered. I’d just used a nickname only Lindbergh’s closest friends were privy to.
“Duchess,” Di said, “Rosita Forbes has been dying to say hello, all evening.”
“Oh, well, I’d love to chat with Rosita. Lead the way, dear.”
And that left me with the Duke, standing to one side of the bandstand, where the musicians were taking a break while a piano player noodled Gershwin. We were standing near a potted palm and a pedestal with a bronze statue of an elephant with the mandatory erect trunk.
“Would you mind if I asked you a question, Your Highness?”
“By all means,” he said, and smiled, but his eyes were cold.
“Why did you call Melchen and Barker in to handle the Oakes murder, rather than go to Scotland Yard, or just leave it to your own local police?”
He twitched another smile as he plucked a glass of champagne off the tray of a blond waiter. “Mr. Heller, we had a riot here last year-perhaps you’ve heard about it.”
“Actually, yes,” I said, wondering what this had to do with my question. “I understand natives, hired to help build airfields, discovered they were being paid much less than the imported white American laborers doing the same work. Am I close?”
“More or less. Things got out of hand, Bay Street was a shambles, a pity all the way ‘round. As it happened, I was in the United States on a diplomatic mission…and, frankly, I was, and am, unhappy with the performance of the Nassau police in that matter. If they had been tougher, they might have contained the problem.”
“I see.”
“In addition to which, our police department does not have the proper fingerprint equipment. Captain Barker is an acknowledged expert, you know. And, frankly, the Nassau department is simply altogether too black.”
He sipped his champagne.
“With all due respect, sir, Scotland Yard isn’t ‘too black.’”
“Very true. But this is wartime-with the transport problems we have, Mr. Heller, it might have taken weeks for a London detective to reach Nassau. I knew Captain Melchen to be reliable-he’s been my bodyguard in Miami, on several occasions-and I knew he was literally minutes away.”
“I see.”
He smiled again, tightly. “Now, I simply must circulate. I wish you luck with your inquiries, despite my own antipathy toward the Count de Marigny.”
“Your Highness-forgive me. But I’ve tried to make appointments to see you, and haven’t gotten anywhere. Could you chat with me for just a few minutes more?”
The smile was lost in the folds of a face that for all its boyishness seemed prematurely old. “This is hardly the place for such a conversation.”
“Who else but you can explain why I’ve been denied access to official records of those coming and going to Nassau? And why I’ve been stopped from searching for a blowtorch? And…”
“My dear fellow, you are not an official investigator on this case. Your role is to aid the defense of Count de Marigny-a gentleman who I personally find indefensible, but that’s of no consequence. Excuse me….”
He moved away, and there was no following him. Soon he was at his bride’s side again, as they chatted pleasantly with Di and several other guests.
Out on the patio I spotted Christie and Mrs. Henneage, down by the elephant fountain, having a heated little discussion; she seemed worried, he was placating her. I’d rattled them. Good.
She came up the stone stairs first, while I faded into the background; but when Christie emerged onto the patio, I approached him.
“Mr. Christie-beautiful night. Speaks well of these islands of yours.”
He frowned. “Yes. It is a lovely night. Excuse me.”
I put a hand on his arm. “Let’s just step over here and talk for a moment.”
“You’re hurting my arm.”
I guess I was gripping it a little tight. I let go. “Sorry. Say, you remember my mentioning a fellow named Lansky, in your office last week?”
“Not really. Excuse me….”
I grabbed his arm again; just as hard as before. “You’re not still denying you know him, are you? I have friends in Washington, D.C., who say otherwise.”
He shook free of me, then smiled perhaps the least convincing smile I’ve ever witnessed. “Perhaps I did run into a man of that name, back in my rum-running days.” And now he chuckled just as unconvincingly. “You know, a lot of people around here prefer having lapses of memory where those days are concerned….”
“I hear Lansky’s Hotel Nacional in Havana is running into some trouble. Seems his dictator pal Batista is on shaky ground, lately.”
“I really wouldn’t know.”
“Expanding into the Bahamas with gambling would be a nice way for Lansky to hedge that bet….”
He sighed heavily. “Gambling will come into the Bahamas after the war, Mr. Heller. But if you think any of this has anything to do with Sir Harry’s death, I’d say you’re gravely mistaken.”
“You mean, Sir Harry wasn’t against gambling here?”
Christie snorted. “He couldn’t have cared less about it. Now, good evening, sir.”
And he moved quickly into the ballroom.
I stood in the breeze, wondering what the hell Lansky could have to do with this, if casino gambling wasn’t in the picture. Of course, Christie might be selling me swampland; wouldn’t be the first time for a real-estate agent like him.
By shortly after midnight, the guests had all gone home, and I’d found my way to the guest cottage that was my Nassau home, now. The cottage was one big room with bath, not unlike Marjorie Bristol’s, but bigger, with a living-room area, a fancy console radio and a fully stocked wet bar. I got out of my tux and sat on the soft cushions of the wicker couch; I was in my shorts with my shoes and gartered socks on, drinking a rum and Coke of my own design, and figured the night was over. I’d already thanked Lady Diane for possibly the hundredth time.
But I’d had a few too many drinks tonight to make much sense of the various conversations I’d had. What the hell had I accomplished? Christie seemed guilty of nothing more than boffing Mrs. Henneage; HRH David Windsor actually had acceptable reasons for bringing in the Miami dicks; and Harold Christie claimed Sir Harry didn’t give a shit if gambling came to the Bahamas.
“Heller?”
She was silhouetted in the side doorway.
“I’m not decent,” I said.
“I know that,” she laughed, and came on in, a bucket of iced champagne in her arms, two glasses in hand.
She was wearing a sheer robe over a sheer nightgown; you could see everything and nothing, the swell of her breasts, their rosy tips, sort of, a dark blond triangle between her legs, maybe. She came over, set down the bucket on the bamboo coffee table before us, and poured herself a glass.
“There was bubbly left. Want some?”
“No thanks.” I raised the rum and Coke. “I’m all set.”
She clinked her glass against mine, turning my gesture into a toast.
“How did you do tonight, Heller?”
“I’m not sure. Anybody indicate they were unhappy with you for having me as a guest?”
“No one dared. Not even David. I’m a law unto myself, you know.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
She smelled good; it was a familiar scent.
“What’s that perfume?” I asked.
“My Sin.”
Marjorie had worn that, the day we met.
I stood. I walked over to the double glass doors along one side of the cottage and studied the dark shadows of the palms and ferns. Listened to the caw of exotic birds and the roar of the ocean beyond.
Then she was at my side, touching my arm. “You look charming in your shorts, Heller.”
“The shoes and garters are a nice touch, don’t you think?”
She slipped an arm around my waist. “You’ve got a nice body.”
I swallowed. “All the girls think so.”