Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 Read online

  I repaid Helen by agreeing to keep her company for a few days at the Miami Biltmore, during her engagement that opened midweek. I’d have had a better time if the horses and dogs had been running, but we played a little golf, sat on the sand so I could take a tan home with me (Helen hid her precious white skin under a beach umbrella), and, well, reminisced.

  When Helen returned from backstage, she came around through the hotel; wearing a floral sarong-style dress, she was a knockout, but few people recognized her, out of the spotlight, as anything but another of Florida’s many beautiful women: her makeup was toned down and the long, platinum-blond tresses were gone, a wig left behind in her dressing room, her own darker blond locks tucked up in a braided bun.

  As she skirted the edge of ringside, heading for our little table, high heels clicking, she was recognized by one customer: that little businessman with the redhead and the bodyguards. Helen stopped and chatted with him for some time; she didn’t sit, but he rose, politely, and they seemed to know each other.

  It was all very cordial, and when he gestured for her to join him, causing the redhead’s eyes to tighten, Helen gave the little man a wide, gracious smile and declined.

  I pulled the chair out for her and she sat. “Who’s your friend?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding?” she grinned. She withdrew a pack of Camels from her clutch purse. “I figured you guys must go way back.”

  So he was a mobster.

  “He isn’t from Chicago,” I said. “So he isn’t Outfit. East Coast?”

  “East Coast,” she said, nodding, amused. She blew out smoke. “That’s Meyer Lansky, Heller.”

  “No kidding.” I let out a soft laugh. “So that little monkey-faced shrimp is the New York syndicate’s financial wizard….”

  I glanced over at him, trying not to be obvious, and I’ll be damned if he wasn’t looking over toward me. Or us. I hoped it was Helen he was gazing at, but somehow I didn’t think so, because his two brawny bodyguards were leaning over in conference with him, and were also glancing my way.

  I hoped Lansky didn’t read lips.

  Whatever, I didn’t watch them watching me. I told Helen how much I’d enjoyed her show, to which she said, Oh, you’ve seen it a million times, and I said, It never gets old for me, and it went on like that for a while.

  “Sure didn’t take you long to add the Duke and Duchess to your intro,” I said.

  “When did you ever know me to miss a beat, Heller?”

  A waiter approached and I was about to order another rum and Coke when he said, “The gentleman would like to see you.”

  Somehow I knew what gentleman he meant.

  I glanced over at Lansky and he smiled a wide, tight, not unpleasant smile and nodded.

  My stomach sank.

  “Looks like I’ve been summoned,” I said.

  Helen blew a smoke ring through kissy lips. “Try to behave yourself.”

  “I may have a smart mouth,” I said, “but I know when to play dumb,”

  I wandered over, and on my way, a gorgeous brunette who looked like Merle Oberon but prettier gazed at me intensely. She had luscious lips painted blood-red and large, widely spaced brown eyes that bored through you. Her chin was raised patricianly; her hair—which had auburn highlights—was up. She wore a black pants suit with a white shirt underneath, top two or three buttons undone, the mannishness of the outfit offset by the pink swell of her bosom.

  She smiled warmly. Sitting alone at a table for two….

  I nodded as I went past, returned the smile. My God, I was popular tonight!

  As I approached, Lansky rose. “Mr. Heller?”

  He was impeccably dressed: that tailored brown suit had set him back three C’s easy, and that white silk shirt hadn’t come in a Cracker Jack box, either. His tie was green and brown and wide and tasteful. There was none of the flashy jewelry so many mobsters affected.

  “Mr. Lansky?” I said.

  His smile seemed genuine; he was one of those homely men whose smile transformed him. Like Harold Christie, he could turn on the charm.

  “I hope you don’t mind my imposing,” he said. His voice was surprisingly rich and resonant for so small a man. “But I know you by reputation, and wanted to pay my respects.”

  Meyer Lansky, paying his respects to me? At least it wasn’t over a coffin.

  “You’re…very kind.”

  “Please join us,” he said, and gestured to an empty chair.

  I sat across from him.

  “This is Miss Schwartz. Teddie. She’s my manicurist.”

  “A pleasure,” I said.

  Miss Schwartz nodded to me and smiled politely. Nice-looking girl—not a moll by any means. And Lansky did have nice nails….

  He didn’t bother introducing the two bodyguards; they were just fixtures, like potted palms. Only these potted palms had eyes, and were keeping them trained on yours truly. They wore identical dark suits that hadn’t cost three hundred per (but then neither had mine), with bulges under their left shoulders that I didn’t figure were tumors.

  One of them, big in both the tall and wide sense, wore a bad toupee and a hairline mustache that was out of date ten years ago; his eyes were small and wide-set and stupid, and his nose was flattened. A former pug.

  The other one, not as tall but even wider, had a round face, curly brown hair, sweet-potato nose, slitted eyes and a white, lightning-bolt scar on the left cheek. Probably not a dueling scar—unless maybe it was a duel with broken beer bottles.

  They were looking at me with open suspicion and near-contempt. Okay, so I wasn’t popular with everybody tonight.

  “Lovely night,” Lansky said. “The Biltmore’s a first-rate hotel.”

  Actually, it was a rambling haciendalike affair, looming behind us; the big attraction was sports—the lawn was a putting green.

  “Last time I stayed here,” I said, “was back in ‘33.”

  His smile was wide. “Really? What was the occasion?”

  “I was one of Mayor Cermak’s bodyguards.”

  He grunted sympathetically. “That didn’t work out too well.”

  What he was referring to was that Mayor Cermak had been assassinated.

  “Well,” I said, “I usually leave that off my résumé.”

  He chuckled. Miss Schwartz was watching the stage, where Ina Mae and her Melodears were getting started again; this time they were doing “I’ll Never Smile Again,” which had couples clutching desperately out on the dance floor.

  “Can I order you a drink?” he asked, gesturing with his own glass.

  “No thanks. I shouldn’t stay away from Helen long.”

  “Helen?”

  “Sally. Helen’s her real name. We go back a ways.”

  “Ah. That’s nice. Long-term relationships…they’re valuable. How was Nassau?”

  The question hit me like the sucker punch it was.

  “Pardon?” I managed.

  For a guy with such a nice smile, he sure had cold hard dead eyes. “Nassau. I understand you were doing a job there.”

  “I, uh…didn’t know it was common knowledge.”

  “Miss Rand mentioned it. You wouldn’t have heard anything about the Sir Harry Oakes killing, would you?”

  Another sucker punch that landed!

  “Uh…why’s that, Mr. Lansky?” I asked, mind reeling, trying not to show the blow’s effects.

  He squinted in thought. “Well, it’s just the Duke of Windsor is censoring all information out of the island, and if that fellow Christie hadn’t called some newspaper friend of his, and spilled the beans beforehand, nothing would have leaked out.”

  One of the first people Christie had called, after finding Oakes, was Etienne Dupuch, publisher of the Nassau Tribune, both because he was a friend and because he and Sir Harry were supposed to meet him that morning. To look at those sheep grazing on the golf course….

  And Dupuch had put some very basic facts about the crime on the wire before the government ban low
ered.

  “Actually,” I said, “I think that gag order was lifted a couple days ago. You probably know as much as I do, from just reading the papers.”

  His smile was enigmatic; also, creepy as hell. “I doubt that. I understand you were doing a job for Sir Harry himself.”

  How the hell did he know that? Would Helen have spilled that much? Why did Meyer Lansky care about Sir Harry Oakes? “I was, but it got cut short by the murder.”

  He was nodding in interest, but his eyes were so damn expressionless. “Well, that’s really something. Isn’t that something Teddie?”

  Miss Schwartz nodded, paying no attention.

  “So—tell us what the papers haven’t. How exactly did Sir Harry Oakes die?”

  Maybe Lansky was just curious—the press was all over the case, after all….

  “It was kind of grisly, Mr. Lansky. I really don’t think it makes for suitable conversation over cocktails.”

  He was nodding again. He didn’t press. “Certainly. I understand. I understand. At any rate, I just wanted to say hello. We have mutual friends, you know.”

  “I’m sure we do.”

  He reached over and patted my hand; his was cold. Like a dead man’s hand. “And I wanted to express my condolences to you over the loss of one of those mutual friends. I know you were close to Frank. And he thought highly of you.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He meant Frank Nitti. I’d done some favors for Capone’s successor, and he for me, and the mistaken notion had grown up that I was in the Outfit’s pocket. Sometimes that came in handy; sometimes it damn near got me killed.

  And tonight it put me, uneasily, at Meyer Lansky’s table for a few minutes.

  “This fellow de Marigny,” he said, shifting back suddenly to his favorite topic, “do you think he did it?”

  “Maybe. There was no love lost between Sir Harry and him, and the Count’s wife stands to inherit millions.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like a murder motive to me. I understand the Miami police are handling the case.”

  “If you want to call it that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” I said. Barker and Melchen were pals of his, for all I knew; better to keep my opinions to myself.

  “Well,” he said, with a twitch of a smile, “I’ll let you get back to the lovely Miss Rand. You know, she hasn’t aged a day since the Streets of Paris.”

  That was where Helen had danced at the Century of Progress.

  “I’m afraid that’s more than I can say,” I said. I’d aged a year since sitting down. “Good evening, Miss Schwartz. Thanks for the hospitality, Mr. Lansky.”

  “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

  “I hope so,” I lied.

  The two potted palms looked at me, coldly, and I walked back toward our table as Lansky and Miss Schwartz headed out to dance to “Tangerine.”

  I risked a look at the beautiful brunette, who stood and said, “Could I have a moment?”

  I stopped. My tongue felt thick as those steaks I used to eat before the war. “Certainly.”

  “I wondered if I might speak to you,” she said. Her voice was a rich alto; but she was young. Sophisticated as she looked, she couldn’t be much older than nineteen.

  “Well…sure.”

  Despite the strength of her eyes, she had a vulnerable look. “I wondered if you might join me.”

  “I’m afraid I’m with someone….”

  “I know. I meant, in my room.”

  I mean, popular.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not believing my ears, “but I just can’t. I’m with someone….”

  She pressed a slip of paper into my hand; hers was warm. The tips of her lovely, tapering fingers were painted the same blood red as her lipstick.

  “Tomorrow morning, then,” she said. “Ten o’clock.”

  And she picked up her purse and swept away from the table, disappearing into the hotel.

  A tall drink of water. Nice shape on her. Someday Elizabeth Taylor was going to grow up and look almost that good….

  “Well,” Helen said, just a little icily, “you’re certainly popular tonight.”

  “Helen,” I said, sitting down, “did you mention to Meyer Lansky that I just got in from Nassau?”

  She was genuinely surprised. “Why, no. We didn’t talk about you at all. I’m sure you’re disappointed….”

  “No. Worried.” I unfolded the slip of paper and had a look.

  “Heller…what’s wrong? You turned white!”

  “Jesus Christ,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got a date tomorrow morning.”

  She laughed; blew smoke. “Well, I’m not surprised.”

  “With Nancy Oakes de Marigny,” I said.

  When I knocked on the door of the penthouse suite in the Biltmore’s central tower, the lush alto of Nancy Oakes de Marigny called, “It’s unlocked! Come in.”

  Apparently the death of her father hadn’t made the Countess tighten up her personal security measures.

  I stepped inside to discover, in the modern, pastel living room of the suite, Nancy de Marigny—slender and shapely in white tights and ballerina slippers—with her leg in the air, toes pointing right at me.

  This was not a new way of waving hello she’d invented: she was doing a ballet workout. She had a hand against an over-stuffed peach-color chair on which she’d piled various thick phone books, using it for a support, in place of a rail. Her free arm arced gracefully in the air.

  Without makeup, her hair pinned up carelessly, she was still a ravishing girl—and a girl is what she was: nineteen years old, a child, a woman. The body suit consisted of a white, bathing-suit-like portion that covered her torso, with her legs in white leotards. The outfit left her arms bare and little to the imagination.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I continue my exercises,” she said. “If I miss a day, Miss Graham will tan my hide.”

  “Miss Graham?”

  She turned away from me, working the other leg. “Martha Graham. My ballet instructor. That’s why I’m summering in Maine.”

  “I see.”

  “But now I’m on my way to be where I belong: at my husband’s side.”

  My hat was in my hands. “Mrs. de Marigny, please allow me to offer my condolences on the death of your father.”

  “That’s very kind, Mr. Heller.”

  God, I felt uneasy. She was pointing her toes at me again, and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing here!

  “Would you mind if I locked your door?” I asked. “It makes me uncomfortable, thinking some reporters might get wind of you, and start hounding you….”

  She was bending at the knees, now. “Go ahead. But I’m registered under an assumed name. No one knows I’m here.”

  I locked the door, threw the nightlatch. “Speaking of which…how did you happen to recognize me? And know where to find me?”

  “To answer your first question, the hotel manager pointed you out, at my request.”

  Despite her continued exercises, she didn’t seem to be breathing hard, though small beads of sweat gleamed on her wide forehead like jewels.

  “As for your second question…Mr. Heller, my father owned the British Colonial Hotel. You left the Miami Biltmore as your immediate forwarding address.”

  “True. But how did you even know about me? What do you know about me?”

  “You were hired to get the dirt on Freddie,” she said casually. She might have said, “The Astors will be taking tea with us later.”

  I didn’t know what to say. She had turned her pretty backside to me again, arching her leg at the opposite wall.

  “My husband’s attorney, Mr. Higgs, told me about you,” she continued. “You gave a statement placing Freddie near Westbourne about the time of the crime.”

  “Well, yes….”

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Okay.”

  “Sit on this chair. I
need to do some stretching, and I don’t think those phone books are enough support.”

  I sighed, went over, moved the phone books and sat down. She was looking right at me, her eyes dark and intense and as naive as a four-year-old child’s.

  “Uncle Walter admitted he hired you,” she said.

  “Uncle Walter. Foskett? The attorney?”

  This close up, I could tell that she actually was breathing a bit heavy; just a faint huff and puffing.

  “That’s right,” she said. “I saw him yesterday, at the funeral.”

  “But you were here yesterday.”

  “I arrived yesterday evening. The funeral was in the morning.”

  “I see…” But I didn’t.

  “I wanted to be at my husband’s side as soon as possible…allowing time to make contact with you, of course. I take a Pan Am flight to Nassau this afternoon.”

  “You believe in your husband’s innocence, then.”

  “I have no doubt.” And she didn’t seem to. Her eyes, her expression, were unwavering. Also, unnerving, as she faced me, leaned in to me, while she stretched each long limb behind her, one at a time of course.

  “You see, Mr. Heller, while I may not have made a study of it, I know human nature—I’ve lived with Freddie, and he may not be perfect…but he is my husband, and he is no murderer.”

  “That’s an admirable attitude for a wife to have.”

  “Thank you. I want you to do a job for me.”

  “A job? What sort of job?”

  “I want you to clear Freddie, of course. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or orange juice? I think even Miss Graham would agree I’ve done enough of a workout for one day.”

  She pointed me to an area where picture windows overlooked the Biltmore golf course, and I sat alone at a carved wooden table shaped like a large seashell and sipped coffee she’d provided from a silver service on a stand nearby.

  She emerged in a white terry-cloth robe, belted over her workout clothes, and smiled her multimillion-dollar smile and said, “Would you like breakfast? I can have some brought up.”

  “No. Thank you. I already ate.”

  She sipped her orange juice. She looked calm, poised, but it was a mask. Her eyes had the same red filigree as Marjorie Bristol’s. Yesterday she had reminded me of Merle Oberon; today I was thinking Gene Tierney….