Amidst tall exotic trees with whorls of feathery leaves, among colorful tropical gardens exuding a scent not unlike vanilla, stood the big pink stucco building that was the Porcupine Club. I’d been warned not to go inside the clubhouse of this exclusive facility, but instead to walk directly to the white beach beyond, where Nancy de Marigny would be waiting.
This was Hog Island, much of which was owned by the black-listed billionaire Axel Wenner-Gren. I’d taken a launch over to the nearby public beach-a five-minute ride-and now was at the private beach next door, winding through striped beach umbrellas and wooden deck chairs, looking for my client among various rich folks, mostly women of various ages, who were soaking up the midmorning sun under a clear blue sky that they probably thought belonged to them. Or anyway should.
She was at a round metal table under a large green umbrella with a leaf design that made it look like a big cloth plant; she sat back in her deck chair, looking tan and lovely, ankles crossed over red-and-blue-and-yellow-and-green leather open-toed sandals, her face further shaded by a colorfully banded straw hat that tied with a yellow sash under her strong jaw, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Her slender body was wrapped in a short terry-cloth robe, under which was a glimpse of lime-green swimsuit. Her fingernails were painted candy-apple red, and so were her toenails.
There was a little-girl-playing-dress-up quality about her that didn’t diminish her allure-nor did the bottle of Coca-Cola she was sipping through a straw, which made a kiss of her full red-painted lips.
“Mr. Heller,” she said, and smiled, sitting up. “Please sit down.”
She gestured to a straight-backed wooden chair at the table; there were two of them, as if another guest were expected.
I sat. “I have a hunch you should keep your voice down, when you’re using my name.”
She cocked her head. “Why’s that?”
“This place is restricted, isn’t it? Isn’t that why you had me avoid the clubhouse?”
She removed her sunglasses; the big brown eyes were earnest and her expression was almost contrite. “It is. I’m sorry. You must think I’m awful, even belonging to a place like this.”
I shrugged. “A lot of people belong to places like this.”
She shook her head. “You’d think people would change their attitudes…because of this terrible war-the way the Jewish are being mistreated by those horrible people.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but that’s not exactly your fault. You know, frankly, Nancy, I never felt very Jewish before this war came along. Back on Maxwell Street, I was a shabbes goy.”
Her pretty face crinkled. “Shabbes goy?”
“Yeah. My mother was Catholic and died when I was little, and my father was an old union guy who didn’t believe in anybody’s God. I wasn’t raised in either faith. Anyway, on Friday nights, the Jewish families needed some non-Jew to do their chores after sundown.”
Her smile was sad. “So to the Jews you’re a ‘goy.’”
“And to the Irish Catholics, I’m just another heathen.”
Now there was embarrassment in her smile, and lipstick on her soda straw. “I feel like the heathen, inviting you here….”
I shrugged again. “Hey, obviously, a private club like this is a good place for you to get away from the reporters and other pests.”
“It is. Do I seem simply ghastly, sitting in the sun, sipping a Coke, when my husband is rotting away in a filthy cell?”
“No. You’re under a lot of pressure, and I don’t blame you for relaxing a little. On the other hand, you’re paying me three hundred dollars a day, so I’m inclined to cut you a little slack.”
Her smile was so genuine, it underscored the phoniness of the heavy lipstick. “I like you, Nate. And I think Freddie likes you, too.”
“It’s not important he likes me. What’s important is we get him sprung. Which is why I wanted to see you today….”
Two days had passed since Arthur’s murder, and in those two days I’d run up against a stone wall. A number of stone walls.
“There are people I need to talk to who are simply unapproachable,” I said, then laughed, once. “They’re probably all members of the Porcupine Club.”
Her brow was knit. “Such as?”
“Well, the Duke of Damn Windsor, for starters. I actually went up to Governor’s House and managed to talk to the Duke’s majordomo…”
“Leslie Heape?”
“That’s the one. He said that under no circumstances would the Royal Governor see me or speak to me. The reason he gave was that the Duke was keeping his distance from the case.”
Her big eyes got bigger. “Keeping his distance! Why, he’s the one who brought in those two Miami detectives!”
“I know. And when I pointed that out to Heape, I got shown the door in a hurry.”
She placed her Coke on the table. “Who else is giving you a hard time?”
I dipped into the jacket of my white linen suit for my little black notebook; I thumbed to a specific page. “On the night of his murder, your father dined at Westbourne not only with Harold Christie, but also a Charles Hubbard, as well as a Dulcibel Henneage.”
She was nodding. “I don’t know Mr. Hubbard very well-he was just an acquaintance, and neighbor, of Daddy’s.”
“He lives near Westbourne?”
“Oh yes. Those Hubbard’s Cottages where those two women Freddie dropped off live? He owns those, and lives there himself, but not in a cottage. I believe he’s from London-Daddy said Mr. Hubbard made his money in ‘dimestores.’”
I sighed. “Well, he’s not responding to messages I left at his Bay Street office, or with his housekeeper. This Mrs. Henneage I’ve left messages for, also-with her housekeeper, and with one of her kids, apparently. She doesn’t respond, either.”
She made a tch-tch sound. “I see.”
“I thought, before I went around banging on doors, showing up uninvited on rich people’s doorsteps, I should see if you could pave the way, at all….”
“Mr. Hubbard shouldn’t be a problem,” she said, frowning. “But I’ve got a feeling Effie will be another matter entirely….”
“Effie?”
“Mrs. Henneage. That’s her nickname-Effie. You see, Nate, Effie is a married woman.”
“Well, I gathered that from the ‘Mrs.’”
“I mean, she’s not a widow or anything.”
“I’m not following you, Nancy.”
She spoke slowly, patiently, as if to a child; a backward child. “She’s married to an officer stationed in England; she has two children here with her, and a nurse, who’s probably the one you spoke to on the phone.”
“So?”
“So-Effie is widely rumored to be…friendly with a certain unmarried man of some local prominence.”
“Hubbard, you mean?”
“No! Christie. Harold Christie. Oh! Look who’s here! You’re late-I was starting to worry!”
My mouth had dropped open like a trapdoor at this latest Harold Christie revelation, but it would’ve been that way anyway, because the party approaching our table was one of the most stunning examples of womanhood this ex-Marine ever had the privilege of feasting his lecherous eyes upon.
She looked a little like Lana Turner, facially, and had other things in common with that famous sweater girl, including ice-blond hair that cascaded to soft, smooth shoulders; but unlike Miss Turner, this lady was a tall one, taller even than Nancy de Marigny. I would say five ten, easy, and lanky, slim-hipped, almost too bosomy for her frame, but as faults go, that was easily overlooked. So to speak.
Her skin was pale, improbably pale for the tropics, and the effect of her white one-piece bathing suit, white open-toed sandals, was that she looked like a seductive ghost. The only hint of something darker was the shadow of her pubic triangle beneath the suit. Her eyes were almost exactly the light blue of the Bahamian sky, rather small but seeming larger thanks to the framing of thick brown eyebrows and long, apparently authentic lashes. Her lips had a puffy, bruised look, and were painted blood-red, under a tip-tilting nose; apple-cheeked, but not at all wholesome-looking, she had a white terry robe like Nancy’s over one arm and white-framed sunglasses in the opposite hand.
You had to look close to tell, but she was not the twenty-some-year-old she seemed at first glance; gentle crow’s-feet, extra smile lines, the way her eyes sat deep in their sockets…I put her at thirty-five.
“I simply must get out of this sun,” she said. Her voice was thin but not unattractive, a brittle, British wind chime of a voice.
Nancy was beaming, half-standing. “Di! You look fabulous in that new suit. Schiaparelli?”
“Travella.” Her smile was surprisingly wide, her teeth the dazzling white Pepsodent promised, but rarely delivered.
And now she had turned that smile on me. “You must be Nancy’s charming private eye.”
I was standing, straw fedora in hand. “Nathan Heller,” I said.
She arched an eyebrow. “You must be good at what you do.”
“Why’s that?”
“To sneak in here with a name like that.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh politely or slap her.
“You’re outrageous, Di,” Nancy said, almost giggling. “Don’t mind her, Nate. Di’s the least prejudiced person I know.”
“But then most of your pals belong to the Porcupine Club,” I reminded her.
“Touche,” Di said. She took a seat, got herself in the shade to protect that Aryan skin of hers. “We’re not going to be enemies, are we?”
“You tell me,” I said.
“Nate, this is Lady Diane Medcalf.”
Lady Diane extended her pale white hand to me and I said, “Do I kiss that or shake it?”
“Handshake will be fine,” she replied. Then her smile settled wickedly in one dimple. “We’ll save the kiss for later…perhaps.”
Nancy turned earnestly to me. “Di is my best friend. She’s a fabulous person, you’re just going to love her.”
“I already love her swim suit,” I said. “Travella, huh? I was going to say Macy’s.”
To her credit, she chuckled and said, “You are bad. I understand you’re going to clear Freddie of this ridiculous charge.”
“Fred’s got the deck stacked against him,” I said. “I was just explaining to Nancy how some of Nassau’s social lions are ducking my inquiries.
“Really,” Lady Diane said, and her brow creased and she seemed honestly troubled. “We can’t have that, can we? Why don’t I arrange a little soiree out at Shangri La?”
“Pardon?”
Nancy said, “Shangri La is Axel Wenner-Gren’s estate…it’s over there…fabulous place.”
“And Axel won’t mind?” I asked dryly. “Being as he’s in Mexico and all?”
Lady Diane’s laugh was brittle, too, but it had a certain musicality. “I’m sure Axel won’t mind. Who does a girl have to fuck around here to get a drink?”
“Oh, Di,” Nancy said, giggling, a little embarrassed, “you’re awful.”
“I’ll get you a drink,” I said. “You can pay up later.”
“You are b-a-d, Heller,” Lady Diane said. “Gin and tonic, darling.”
I went over to the portable bar, where a white guy in a tuxedo was bartending under the hot sun, and bought her a drink and myself a rum and Coke; it only cost me about half what a week’s rent did back home at the Morrison Hotel. This rich bitch appealed to me, for some strange masochistic reason. If my heart didn’t belong to a dusky native girl, I might have done something about it.
I took my seat again, but Lady Diane was gone.
“She went in for a dip,” Nancy said. “To cool off.”
“With that mouth of hers,” I said, “it’s no wonder.”
“Isn’t she fabulous?”
“Fabulous is the word. Who the hell is she? How do you get to be a ‘lady,’ anyway?”
“In Di’s case, by marrying a lord. She’s the widow of one of the Duke of Windsor’s closest friends…his equerry.”
“The Duke always did strike me as a little effeminate.”
She made a face; a pretty one. “Nate, an equerry is in charge of horses.”
“I know. It was a joke.”
She smirked. “You are…”
“Please don’t tell me I’m bad. Tell me more about Di before she gets back.”
Nancy shrugged, raised her patrician chin. “She’s only one of the most important women in the Bahamas…possibly second only to Wallis Simpson. She’s a professional woman, Nate, which is something of a rarity around here. She’s been Axel Wenner-Gren’s executive secretary for almost a decade.”
“Who pulled the strings to get her a job like that? The Duke?”
“Actually, yes. He and Axel are extremely close friends. Now that Axel’s been blacklisted, so very unfairly I might add, Di is managing the Wenner-Gren assets for the duration.”
“And she’s bunking in at Shangri La?”
Nancy arched an eyebrow. “More than that-she’s running it, maintaining it, with something of a skeleton crew. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. I can’t tell you what it means to have her offer to throw a party for our benefit…no one will decline an invitation from Lady Diane.”
She came running up, as if fleeing from the sun, pulling a white rubber cap off her mane of blond hair, which sprang free, glimmeringly, the supple muscles of her long legs grabbing as her feet caught the sand.
For a moment she stood there before me, though she must have known that brown pubic patch was showing right through; so were small erect nipples on the oversize breasts. She picked up the drink I’d brought her, guzzled it greedily, set down the empty glass and grinned at me. There was something savage about that grin; the look in her eyes was gleeful.
Then she threw the robe around herself, tossed back her hair. With the rouge washed away from the pouty lips, she looked even better. Naturally pretty, instead of calculatedly beautiful.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Nathan Heller,” she said, biting off each word, sitting forward brazenly. “You tell Nancy who you want invited-Harold Christie, the Duke and Duchess, Humphrey Bogart, Jesus Christ, Tojo…and I guarantee you they’ll be there.”
“You understand I mean to corner ’em one by one, and grill ’em.”
“I simply adore barbecue,” she said. “It’s so…American. Got a smoke, honey?”
That last was for Nancy, who pulled a pack of Chesterfields from the pocket of her own terry robe, and gave one to Di, had one herself and offered me one.
“No thanks,” I said.
“I thought all you ex-GIs smoked,” Di said.
“Who told you I was an ex-GI?”
“I did,” Nancy admitted.
“I asked all about you,” Di said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m bored.” She laughed again, a more full-bodied laugh this time. “This must really be paradise for you, Heller…all these young women around without their husbands. You see, an old gal of thirty-six like me has to work a little harder to stay in the game.”
I had missed it by only a year. Mrs. Heller’s son was a detective.
“I would have said twenty-five,” I said.
She liked that; threw her head back regally. “It’s an effort. Why do you think I keep this precious skin of mine out of the sun? I keep telling Nancy, if she insists on tanning, she’ll be as leathery as an alligator’s bum by the time she’s thirty.”
“Di,” Nancy protested, shaking her head, smiling.
“Besides,” Di said, gesturing with cigarette in hand, “I burn like a son of a bitch!”
Considering how Nancy’s father died, that struck me as in bad taste; but Nancy didn’t seem to notice.
“And,” I said to Di, “you swear like a sailor.”
Her mouth made amused little movements. “A lot of men find that attractive.”
“You run into a lot of men around these parts, do you?”
“Not real ones.” Then she smiled enigmatically, or thought she did: there was no enigma about it, as far as I was concerned.
“I’m glad to see you two hit it off so famously,” Nancy said.
“I almost never give beautiful blondes too bad a time,” I said.
“So, Mr. Heller,” Lady Diane said, blowing the air a kiss as she made a smoke ring, “what do you say? Shall I throw a wingding for you? Cracked crab and caviar and all the champagne my well-heeled boss can afford in his absence?”
“Why not?” I said. “Just so long as it’s all kosher.”
Nancy looked shocked, but Di only laughed heartily again.
“Bad,” she said, smiling, shaking her head.
When I got back to the British Colonial, I had a message to call Eliot Ness in Washington, D.C. I caught him in his office at the Department of Health.
“Remember I said I thought Christie had some fed trouble in Boston, years ago?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Come up with something?”
“Oh yeah. My contact there also recalls an outstanding warrant out on the boy, dating back to the early thirties, for false registry of a ship.”
“Hot damn. Eliot, if you can get me copies of the documents, that’ll go a long way toward discrediting Christie as a witness for the Crown.”
“It’s going to take a while, I’m afraid.”
“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?”