Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 Page 16

  He was thinking that over. “All right. I’ll take it under advisement.”

  “Thanks.”

  I was halfway out the door when he called, gently, “Mr. Heller…before you go…stop in and say hello to Captain Sears.”

  “Captain Sears?”

  “Two doors down the hall. He’s superintendent in charge of traffic. I understand he may have seen something…interesting…the night of the murder.”

  I grinned. “Are you giving me a tip, Colonel?”

  “Well, let me put it this way…you may mention my name in this regard to Captain Sears himself—but no one else.”

  “Got ya,” I said. “You’re okay, Colonel.”

  “‘Okay’ is something I’ve always dreamed of being,” he said dryly, and gestured toward the door. I was being dismissed.

  Sears was in his office—which was almost identical to Lindop’s, except for a few additional wall maps, some of which had pins in them and were sectioned off into patrol areas—and saw me at once.

  “Close the door,” he said, and I did.

  A squarely built Britisher with small, slate-gray eyes under bold black strokes of eyebrow, Sears stood behind his desk and offered his hand for me to shake, and I did that, too. He sat, motioning for me to do the same.

  His hair was dark, combed smoothly back; his mouth was a determined line. His khaki uniform looked flawless. His forceful, confident manner made you want to take his orders without question.

  “You’re Nathan Heller,” he said, “the detective.”

  “You’re Captain Sears,” I said, “who saw something interesting the night of the murder.”

  I was almost surprised when he smiled; it was a closed-mouth smile, not rupturing the thin line of his mouth, but it was definitely a smile.

  “I am,” he said, “and indeed I did. What I would like you to do, Mr. Heller, is convey to Mr. Higgs that I am ready and willing to testify for the defense.”

  “Why are you?”

  “Because I saw something that is of the utmost importance to the defense, and it is, after all, my duty to see justice done; and because I am dismayed by the clumsy investigative technique of the Americans in charge…no offense to you, sir.”

  “Hey, those guys make it clear why American cops are called dicks.”

  Now he laughed, just a little, but it proved he had teeth.

  “You have a refreshing lack of pretension, Mr. Heller,” he said stiffly.

  “Glad you appreciate it. What did you see?”

  “Frankly, I would prefer to speak to Mr. Higgs.”

  “Well, that’s fine—but I’m his investigator. We’re going to have to talk, you and I, sooner or later, and sooner is right now.”

  He nodded, eyes bright under the black slashes of eyebrow. “Your point is well taken.” He leaned back in his chair. The wind was rustling the silk-cotton tree in the square in the open window behind him. “When I left the station that night, a few minutes before midnight, it was raining lightly…a heavy squall had just passed.”

  He had driven down Bay Street and had just turned onto George Street when he saw a station wagon coming from Marlborough Street onto George.

  “Harold Christie was sitting in the front seat.”

  “You’re shitting me!”

  “I assure you I’m not. As our car passed, we were right under a bright streetlight—the new type they have on Bay Street now.”

  “Christie wasn’t driving?”

  “No. Another person was.”

  “You didn’t recognize the driver?”

  “No. For all I saw, could have been colored or white, man or woman. But I did see Christie quite clearly—our cars were going only fifteen miles an hour or so.”

  “Christie has a station wagon,” I said. “In fact, he claims he had it with him that night at Westbourne. Could it have been his?”

  “Possibly. But, frankly, Mr. Heller, I couldn’t make a positive identification, and I didn’t see the license number. There was no reason to note it.”

  “But you’re sure it was Christie?”

  He smiled mildly. “I’ve known Harold since grade school. I’ve known him nearly all his life and mine.” He was quietly forceful, enunciating each word clearly: “It was Harold Christie, all right, shortly after midnight, in downtown Nassau.”

  “And what direction was he headed?”

  Sears shrugged. “He might well have been on his way to Westbourne.”

  “I’m a little shaky, yet, on my Nassau geography…. When he came up from Marlborough Street, could he have been on his way from the wharf?”

  He nodded. “He might well have picked up someone at Prince George’s Wharf, had any boat been foolish enough to be out in that weather.”

  But an hour later, according to eyewitness Arthur, a station wagon at Lyford Cay had been picking up two men who had moored there, despite the storm. Could Christie have picked somebody up downtown, possibly at the wharf, first? And then gone to Lyford Cay to gather the two men who sounded so much like Meyer Lansky’s Biltmore bodyguards?

  As I left, Captain Sears said, “By the way, Mr. Heller—if I were you, I’d watch my back.”

  “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

  He smiled tightly, shook his head as if to say he’d said more than he should already.

  I thanked him for his courage and honesty, and headed back to Bay Street. It was time to drop in on Harold Christie, who I had any number of questions for, particularly in light of a long-distance telephone conversation I’d had first thing this morning.

  I had caught Eliot Ness having breakfast at his Washington, D.C., home. We went back many years, and I suppose it says something about the honesty of Chicago cops in general that Eliot had, during his war on Al Capone, considered me one of the few cops he trusted. I’d been an information source for him, in those days, and after I went into private practice, he became my ear in the government.

  He still was, though his stint with the Justice Department was long since over. More recently his successful tenure as Cleveland’s Public Safety Director had led to a post as Chief Administrator of the Federal Security Agency’s Division of Social Protection. What that meant was, he was America’s top vice cop, for the duration.

  “Still fighting VD?” I asked him.

  “With a vengeance,” he said.

  “I hear Capone’s fighting the syph, himself.”

  “In his own way,” Eliot said. “Say, I’ll be in Chicago next month, checking out the neighborhoods around defense plants. See you then?”

  “No. I’m calling you from Nassau.”

  “Nassau? You mean the Bahamas? Don’t tell me you landed the Oakes case!”

  “Okay, I won’t. But I did.”

  He laughed. “And they say I’m a publicity hound.”

  “Yeah, well. It may prove more of an embarrassment than a feather in my cap.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The Duke of Windsor called in a couple of Miami cops to handle the case, and they’ve got my client, de Marigny, fitted for a noose.”

  “Is that who you’re working for? That slimy count I’ve been reading about?”

  “That’s him. He’s an utter asshole, but I kind of like him.”

  “Well, maybe you have things in common.”

  “Thanks, Eliot. That vote of confidence means a lot. Actually, technically, I’m working for the wife.”

  “I’ve seen her picture in the papers. Hubba hubba.”

  “With you fighting vice, Eliot, America’s in knowledgeable hands. These Miami cops, I want you to make a few calls for me…check out their background.”

  “Sure. Why not? You’re a taxpayer and a war hero.”

  “I buy bonds, too. Their names are James Barker and Edward Melchen—both captains. Barker passes himself off as a fingerprint expert, but I doubt he knows how many digits are on the average hand.”

  “Okay. Got it. Their names don’t ring any bells, but I’ll check around.”

>   “There’s another guy—a real-estate magnate who was Sir Harry’s best friend, and claims he slept through the killing, with just a room between ’em.”

  “Sure. Harold Christie. I’ve read the papers.”

  “Well, run a check on him, would you?”

  “No need,” Eliot said matter-of-factly. “I know all about him.”

  “Well, then, spill! But why in hell should you know anything about a Nassau real-estate king?”

  “Because he was pals with Capone’s boys—their chief contact in Nassau back in rum-running days. Chicago was a big client of the so-called Bay Street Pirates, you know—that’s how Christie made his fortune. Early on, he started sinking his booze money into land.”

  “Eliot…could Christie have done business with the East Coast mob, as well?”

  “No ‘could’ about it. He did.”

  “Any chance he might have done any business with Meyer Lansky?”

  “I’d be surprised if he hadn’t. Capone had something of a monopoly in Nassau till around ’26, when Lansky and Bugsy Siegel moved in. There was almost trouble over it, but Johnny Torrio apparently settled things down; after all, there was enough English and Canadian liquor on the docks of Nassau to satisfy everybody. You know, I seem to recall Christie doing some business in Boston, too, and having some federal problems there. But I’m vague on it. I can check up on that, too, if you like.”

  “I like. Eliot, this information really helps.”

  “Then you can do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Wear a prophylactic. Help keep vice statistics down.”

  “Hell, Eliot—I’m wearing one right now. Ever since I saw those movies of yours, back at boot camp, I never take it off.”

  The pebbled glass door at the top of the stairs said, “H. G. Christie, Ltd., Real Estate,” but the sounds coming from behind it said much more: it sounded like a rally at the Board of Trade. I went in to find a large outer office that was a packed waiting room, chairs lining the wall filled with every Bahamian type imaginable: prosperous white businessmen in their three-piece suits sat next to shoeless out-island natives; a proper-looking Englishwoman sat uncomfortably beside a native girl in a colorful tropical bandanna and sheath. The only difference seemed to be that the whites, American and English alike, were speaking to each other, the men sometimes rising to approach, loudly, animatedly, one of two female secretaries—a young pretty one at the desk at left, an older handsome one at right—while the Negroes of either sex sat timidly with hands in laps and eyes lowered. The secretaries were dealing frantically with phone calls (“Yes, Sir Frederick, Mr. Christie has the blueprints ready,” “Your roof is leaking? I’ll inform Mr. Christie,” “New York? I’ll see if he’s free…”) while male assistants would emerge from one of the two offices either side of the central pebbled-glass door labeled “H. G. Christie, Private,” to deal with the more impatient clientele.

  None of them were as impatient as yours truly, however, because I didn’t bother to check in with either harried secretary. I walked right past them and went into Christie’s office.

  The bald, homely, rumpled little toad who wielded such power in Nassau frowned at me from behind his desk where he was on the phone, not recognizing me at first; then his face went blank as he did remember me, before an even deeper frown returned.

  “Mr. Christie…I’m sorry,” a voice behind me urgently said. “I’m afraid this gentleman just rushed right—”

  “That’s all right, Mildred,” Christie said, waving her back.

  The older of the secretaries glared at me and I smiled pleasantly at her and she closed the door behind me. Christie was saying into the phone, “Sir Frederick, I’ll have to call you back. My apologies.”

  His inner office wasn’t large or fancy, plaster walls lined with wooden file cabinets, a few framed, hand-tinted photos of lush, lovely Bahamian properties he no doubt either owned or had sold someone; framed photos of himself with the Duke, Oakes and other Bahamian mucky-mucks; some local excellence-in-business certificates. The mahogany desk was large, however, almost massive, resting on an oriental rug. The ceiling fan’s blades whirled shakily, as nervous as the waiting room out there. Bay Street bustled through the open window behind him, horses clip-clopping, bells jangling, horns honking, a voice raised occasionally.

  “Mr. Heller,” Christie said, raising his, “I understand the urgency of the work you’re engaged in. But I’m a busy man, and you’ll have to make an appointment.”

  “I called for one this morning. I was told to call again tomorrow.”

  “Well, you should have. You still should. There are many people ahead of you. But if you have something we can attend to quickly…”

  “I just have a few questions I want to run past you. So we can get Sir Harry’s murder cleared up.”

  His face tightened. “I was under the impression it had been cleared up.”

  “Oh, you mean the arrest of Count de Marigny? I don’t think so. I think Freddie’s arrest raises more questions than it answers.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well…the motive’s a little fuzzy, for instance. Surely you’re aware that Sir Harry had already changed his will, so that Nancy won’t come into big dough till she’s thirty?”

  “I hadn’t heard that. I don’t believe Sir Harry’s will has been probated as yet.”

  “Well, Nancy says she was informed of this by her father, months ago. So why should de Marigny kill Sir Harry now? What’s to gain?”

  “Mr. Heller, even assuming you’re correct, the blood between Fred and Sir Harry was bad, to say the least.”

  “But you and Freddie are friends yourselves, aren’t you? Didn’t he invite you to dinner at his place the night of the killing? And you declined so you could dine with Sir Harry?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Freddie says he did.”

  “He’s a liar.”

  “What were you doing driving around downtown Nassau at midnight, that night? I thought you were supposed to be at Westbourne.”

  He sat up huffily; beneath those shaggy eyebrows, he was blinking as if he had something in his eye—both eyes. “I was at Westbourne—all night. Anyone who claims to have seen me elsewhere is a damn liar. Who is making this claim?”

  I shrugged. “Just something I heard. You know, even an out-of-towner like me hears things. By the way, do you know a man named Lansky? Meyer Lansky?”

  He stopped blinking; his eyes were cold and hard, now. But also a little scared.

  “No,” he said. “That name is unfamiliar to me. Mr. Heller, I’m a very busy man…”

  “I just have a few more questions.”

  “No,” he said, standing as he buzzed his intercom, “I’m afraid you don’t. And I don’t have any interest in speaking further to you, at this or any time. Sir Harry Oakes was my dearest friend, and I do not intend to aid the man who murdered him.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Freddie de Marigny, of course! Mildred—show Mr. Heller out.”

  Well, I’d rattled him, anyway. The danger, of course, was that I might be rattling Meyer Lansky, too. If the East Coast syndicate was involved, I might not be getting paid enough for this job, even at three hundred bucks per day. Funeral costs weren’t something I wanted my heirs to have to list on my posthumous expense account.

  Down on Bay Street, I headed toward Dirty Dick’s, figuring a rum punch would hit the spot about now. But I’d barely started ambling down the sidewalk when I noticed I’d picked up a tail.

  And an incredibly obvious tail, at that.

  This guy was white, about thirty, with a leathery tan but otherwise ordinary-looking, wearing a colorful tropical shirt—tourist-style—and pressed tan pants and the well-polished black shoes of a cop. Which is what he was, pretending to be a tourist. They should have invested in sandals and sunglasses, as well.

  So this was what Captain Sears meant when he advised me to watch my back….


  I walked three blocks down and he stayed with me, half a block behind. If I paused to look in a store window, he did the same. He was as subtle as the mumps. I crossed the street, walked back three blocks, and so did my shadow.

  Ducking into a pharmacy, I asked the pretty, freckled redheaded girl behind the counter if they had any chalk.

  “Like kids use?”

  “Right—it doesn’t have to be colored or anything.”

  “I think we do.”

  “And you wouldn’t happen to have a magnifying glass?”

  “Like Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Exactly.”

  She smiled; nice dimples. “I think we have that, too.”

  I bought both items, while the cop in the bright shirt pondered the varieties of aspirin on a nearby shelf.

  Back outside, I found the nearest alleyway and ducked in. I stood before the brick wall that was the side of the pharmacy and studied it; out of the corner of my eye, I watched for the cop to peek around.

  He did.

  I studied that wall carefully, like I was an art critic and it was a would-be Picasso. Then I began examining portions of the wall with the magnifying glass. Touching the brick here and there…

  “Hmmmm,” I’d say from time to time, rubbing my fingers together, as if examining a suspicious substance.

  Finally I drew a large chalk circle on the brick wall, put my chalk and magnifying glass away and stood smiling at my artwork, rubbing my hands in satisfaction.

  “Yes!” I said. “Yes.”

  The shadow stayed behind as I walked back to the B.C., where I called Marjorie from the phone in my room.

  “Nathan,” she said. “Before we go out doing things tonight, I was thinkin’ about makin’ some supper for you….”

  I heard a click on the phone line.

  “Marjorie, that’s great. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

  “That’s a little early, but I don’t mind….”