So that’s the infamous Axel Wenner-Gren,” I said. Tall, white-haired, hefty, blandly handsome, with a pink complexion, apple cheeks and a small white smile, the blacklisted billionaire stood leaning against an armchair, gazing at me with pale blue eyes that radiated a cold intensity.
“Yes, that’s the notorious Nazi sympathizer you’ve been hearing about,” Di affirmed in her wryly British way.
The huge oil painting in its glorious gilt frame hung over the fireplace in a round living room otherwise decorated with primitive artifacts of some kind.
Di saw me looking at the grotesque clay masks, garishly decorated pottery and gold-and-turquoise ceremonial daggers, displayed on walls and on shelves, and said, “Inca.”
“Dinka Doo,” I said.
That made her laugh; she put a hand on my shoulder, shook her head, making her shoulder-length silver-blond hair shimmer. “No, seriously. My employer’s avocation is anthropology. He’s made countless expeditions, to the remotest digs in Peru. Simply everything you see here is museum-quality.”
She sure didn’t look like she belonged in a museum: white silk gown with shoulder pads and silver-sequins collar that plunged to the wide matching silver-sequins waistband. She was ready for this evening’s party-a dance to be held here at Shangri La, in my secret honor.
Our absent Swedish host’s estate on Hog Island was a sprawling white limestone hacienda affair set against a lush tropical garden, with enough rooms to give the British Colonial a run for its money. The place was filled with antique mahogany furniture and polished silver pieces, trays, bowls, plaques, platters; the dining room I glimpsed must have been sixty feet long with a twenty-foot mahogany table.
Right now a lot of the mansion was closed off, however; as Di had explained, Wenner-Gren’s staff of thirty servants had been cut to a meager seven, when he had been forced to relocate to Cuernavaca for the duration.
“That’s one of the reasons why we’ll have such a grand turnout,” Di had told me earlier, as she’d helped me settle in at my guest cottage, which was a single room but larger than my entire suite at the Morrison back home.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, I’ve thrown several parties since Axel’s departure, but all of them were at hotels in town. This is the first opportunity Nassau society has had to see Shangri La, post-blacklist. Their curiosity will bring them around.”
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 hell: 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.”
“Please don’t pretend to misunderstand my question. I don’t mean to embarrass you. I’ll be discreet.”
She began to rise. “I’m feeling uncomfortable. One of us should go….”
I touched her arm, gently. “Mrs. Henneage, Mr. Christie is going to great lengths to place himself adjacent to the murder room. His story is incredible-nobody in Nassau believes him.”
She sat back down, and swallowed. “I don’t think Mr. Christie would lie about something like that.”
“Rumor has it he’s protecting a woman. That woman is you, isn’t it, Mrs. Henneage?”
“Please…Mr. Heller…I’m going to go now-”
I held my hand up in a gentle stop gesture. “If Count de Marigny is acquitted…and I have reason to believe he will be…then the police will start looking for another suspect. If you care about Mr. Christie, your alibi would prevent him from being the next innocent man to stand trial.”
Her eyes were as earnest as they were beautiful. “Do you…do you believe Mr. Christie is innocent in this?”
“I don’t know. I know he was seen driving at midnight in Nassau, the night of the murder. Was he on his way to see you?”
She frowned, but it was a hurt frown. “Mr. Heller, I’m a married woman. I love my husband. I miss my husband. I have children, and I love them, too.”
“I appreciate that. But just answer this question: did Harold Christie spend the night of July seventh at your home?”
“No,” she said.
But her eyes said something else.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, please,” she said, starting to rise again.
“No, I’ll go. Enjoy your hors d’oeuvre-I won’t bother you again, tonight.”
She smiled tightly and nodded, relief and irritation merging, and I wandered back toward the ballroom.
Damn! She was lying, but her eyes had told the truth. That son of a bitch Christie had spent at least part of the night with the lovely Effie. Which meant he wasn’t the murderer, or at least, his hand wasn’t on the murder weapon….
As I entered the ballroom, Di was suddenly on my right, touching my arm. “Here’s someone you should meet, Nathan.”
She was standing chatting with a handsome little woman in white and gold, down to her gold-trimmed white gloves; her gold necklace and earrings collectively probably weighed more than she did.
Wallis Simpson looked more attractive than her photographs-what I had always taken for rather plain features were, when animated, beautiful: luminous violet eyes; high cheekbones, broad brow, firm jaw, but most of all a wide, generous smile, her lipstick startlingly scarlet against flesh too pale for the Bahamas.
“Your Royal Highness, this is Nathan Heller,” Di said. “Nathan, the Duchess of Windsor.”
“Quite a thrill for a Chicago boy,” I said, taking the fingertips she offered, returning her smile, though mine couldn’t compare.
“A pleasure for a girl from Virginia to meet up with another American,” she said. Her Southern accent had a tinge of British; mannered, perhaps, but not without a certain charm.
“I’ve heard impressive things about your work with the Red Cross, Duchess. And a canteen for soldiers of both races….”
“Why thank you, Mr. Heller. Who’s been telling you these stories about me?”
I smiled. “I don’t know if I should say.”
The wide smile twisted whimsically. “Come now, Mr. Heller-you’re among friends.”
“Well, actually, it was Sally Rand.”
For just a second the Duchess seemed shocked, her big violet eyes frozen; then she laughed ripplingly. Di was already laughing.
The Duchess arched an eyebrow. “How is it you know Miss Rand?”
“We go back to the Century of Progress together-where she first made fans with her fans. I was arresting pickpockets.”
“She did give a charming performance for the Red Cross,” the Duchess admitted, “although, frankly, I’m afraid David was a little embarrassed. But I was impressed by the funds she helped raise.”
“She should be doing another benefit right now.”
“Really? Where?”
“Cleveland. She opens there tonight, according to a postcard I just got from her-and I know her policy is that the first Saturday of every engagement is a Red Cross benefit.”
“What a sweet girl,” the Duchess said.
A description Helen deserved but rarely got.
“Diane tells me you’re a good friend of Evalyn Walsh McLean,” the Duchess said.
I nodded, smiled sadly. “I haven’t seen her in years-but we were close, once. Close enough that I petted her pooch while he was wearing the Hope Diamond around his neck on a dog collar.”
She laughed again. “Ah, poor Evalyn. How did you happen to meet?”
“The Lindbergh case.”
The violet eyes narrowed. “Ah…she was fascinated by that, wasn’t she? I hear from a mutual friend that she’s similarly fascinated by our local Oakes tragedy.”
She turned to Di, took one of her hands in both of hers.
“Lady Medcalf, I must thank you for opening Shangri La’s gates once again-giving our hot little island a cool breath of sea air. You know, I keep expecting to turn and see Axel and that wonderful smile of his.” She sighed. “Since Harry’s death, social functions have been at a standstill. I must say, New York will be a relief.”
The band suddenly shifted from its Cole Porter kick and went into a lilting waltz. The Duchess’ face, already radiant, lit up.
She said, “You’ll have to excuse me-they’re playing ‘The Windsor Waltz’….”
Then she moved gracefully away, going near the bandstand to join the sandy-haired sad-eyed little man in a double-breasted white jacket and black tie who used to be the King of England.
And they waltzed, with the dance floor to themselves as the other guests looked respectfully on, two tiny celebrities smiling at each other in what might have been great love or just a practiced public pose. Either way, there was something bittersweet about it.
I turned to Di. “You had the perfect opportunity to tell her what I’m doing here.”
“You mean, by saying Evalyn McLean recommended you to Nancy?”
“That’s right. Don’t you think the Duchess will be irritated with you, when she finds out who I really am?”
She smirked and shrugged. “I can get away with murder where those two are concerned. I’ve known David longer than Wallis has, remember.”
“Well, when this waltz is over, would you introduce me to ‘David,’ and then spirit Wallis away? I want a word with the Duke.”
“You have but to ask.”
“Lady Diane, why are you so good to me?”
“No offense, but it’s not you, Heller: it’s Nancy. I want her to get her husband back. I lost mine a long time ago, and it still hurts.”
“Sorry. Where is Nancy, anyway?”
“She wasn’t invited; neither was Lady Oakes. It’s easier for you to do what you have to without those two around reminding the room about what they’re all here to forget.”
When the waltz was over, and the applause had died down for the Duke and Duchess, who nodded their recognition of the crowd’s kindness, Di took me over to them and said, “Your Royal Highness, this is…”
“Nathan Heller, isn’t it?”
His voice was soft, gentle.
“That’s right, Your Royal Highness.”
He extended his hand and I took it and the handshake was so brief it seemed almost not to have happened.
He turned his disappointed little boy’s gaze on his wife. “This is the detective whom Sir Harry hired to follow de Marigny. He’s working for Nancy Oakes, now.”
Not Nancy de Marigny: Nancy Oakes.
Wallis winced, ever so slightly, at this news, and when she smiled at me, it was a little chilly.
“Mr. Heller and I met, but he didn’t mention that fact.”
I tried to smile it off. “Seemed an unpleasant topic of conversation, Duchess. Forgive me if I seem to have misled you.”
“Not at all. David, Mr. Heller worked on the Lindbergh case for Evalyn McLean.”
“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.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
She took me by the chin and reached up and kissed me; it was a hot, sticky kiss, lipstick and booze and cigarette smell, kind of sickening and wonderful at the same time. Those soft, bruised lips of hers played my mouth like a cornet.
When the kiss was over, I said, “It’s just too soon, Di.”
“Too soon for us?”
“You don’t understand. I’m…I’m not ready. I’m trying to get over somebody.”
“Well, you know, my brother used to play rugby.”
“Really.”
“And he told me what a good coach always says.”
“What’s that?”
“Pick yourself up, get back into the game.”
She dropped to her knees and her hand slipped inside the front of my shorts and she took me out and held me. Stroked me. Kissed me.
“Oooo,” she said. “What a sign of good luck this trunk makes….”
“I…I’m not sure you should…”
“Shut up, Heller.” Stroking me. “I just love a man on the rebound.”
And then I was in her mouth. And then more of me was in her mouth, and she worked me, and worked me, and worked me some more….
Then I was panting like a winded runner, looking down at her and she was looking up at me smiling whitely, and it wasn’t her teeth.
She stood, smoothed her robe out primly, withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket and touched it to her lips, dabbing politely, as if she’d just finished a petit four.
Then she regarded me with amused eyes.
“They say once a woman does that for a man,” she said, “she owns him.”
I could hear the surf crashing out there. A bird cawing.
“Okay,” I said.