side of the house. Unlike many of the neighbors’, with their limestone walls, de Marigny’s garden, to the left of the house, was defined by high, manicured bushes.
I drove on by, found a place to turn around a couple blocks up the hill, and came back to park on the opposite side of the street, about half a block from the house. The street was so narrow you had to park on the lip of sidewalk.
De Marigny’s Lincoln rolled out less than half an hour later. I assumed he was in the car, and took leisurely pursuit. As I passed his house, I could spy, through the open windows, servants scurrying. One of them was Curtis.
We were back on Bay Street soon, and I was able to put several cars between the Lincoln and the Buick and still keep de Marigny in my sights. It was dusk now, and we both had our lights on. In the thick of the shopping district-it was after five, but shops were still open-he found a parking place. I glided by, found one myself, and was getting out of the Buick when I saw him-in a brown sport jacket, lighter brown pants, cream-color shirt with no tie, and tan-and-white shoes, no socks. Very spiffy. He strolled toward the Prince George Hotel, pausing to light a cigarette beneath the flutter of Allied flags that adorned the entry.
I noticed that the upstairs office over the storefront next door said
De Marigny didn’t go inside the hotel, but walked under an archway between it and the adjacent building, to the Coconut Bar and its beach-umbrellaed tables scattered on the terrace to wharf’s edge, where small boats, sails furled, swayed uneasily in the restless sea. The ceiling of this bar was a broodingly overcast sky.
Few of the tables were taken, but the Count was immediately waved over by a plump, dark-haired guy of about thirty-five in a handsome pale green suit with wide lapels and a dark green striped tie.
“Freddie! I want you to meet the most gorgeous girls in Nassau!”
“Impossible,” de Marigny said, massaging each syllable in his Boyer way, “I know them all…oh! I see I was mistaken.”
He was: the women sitting with the glad-handing American were lovely young women in their twenties, a brunette with a sexy overbite and a lanky blonde with a nice wide smile. They wore summery dresses and sat with their legs attractively crossed, sipping tropical drinks out of fruit-bedecked coconut shells.
The American was making introductions as the Count joined them, but their voices were lowered to a normal range now and I couldn’t make anything out. I risked a table within earshot, ordered myself a Coke with lime and watched the lead-gray sea ripple while I eavesdropped.
“Freddie,” de Marigny said, putting the accent on the second syllable and revealing that his plump American friend shared first names with him, “I must insist you bring these charming girls along tonight. My guest list is shockingly scant.”
“I’ve got bad news,” the other Freddie said, mock sad. “They’re married.”
“So am I.” De Marigny shrugged. His smile was as wide as it was casual. “Bring your husbands along! Some of my best friends are husbands.”
“I’m afraid,” the brunette said, “both our husbands are away on missions.”
“RAF pilots,” the American Freddie said.
De Marigny shrugged again. “My wife’s in Maine studying dance. Maybe we old married people, separated from our loved ones, should console one another.”
The American Freddie said, “He’s got a Bahamian cook who’ll knock your socks off, ladies.”
I was willing to bet they’d be eating chicken.
The brunette and blonde looked at each other and smiled; damn near giggled. They nodded first to each other, then to de Marigny.
“Splendid,” the Count said.
The quartet chatted-flirted, I thought, though the American was the most obvious-and soon I decided to fade away. I finished my Coke and went back to the Buick to wait for de Marigny to head back to Victoria Street for his party.
Which, before long, he did.
Nassau at night-at least on this overcast night-seemed otherworldly. Giant silk cotton trees cast weird shadows on limestone houses. Garden walls seemed like fortress battlements, and light slanted eerily through the slatted jalousie shutters, closed in anticipation of the storm that had promised itself all afternoon.
I followed the red eyes of the Lincoln’s taillights and when de Marigny pulled up onto the lawn beside the driveway, I went on by; again I did a U-turn and found a place on the opposite side of the street.
Before long guests began to arrive, notably a puffy-faced, slickly handsome character with a Clark Gable mustache who pulled his two-tone brown Chevy into the driveway and emerged with a sexy little blonde on his arm. She had Veronica Lake peekaboo bangs and a blue dress with white polka dots and a Betty Grable shape and if she was of legal age, I was Henry Aldrich.
I counted eleven guests, a mixed group as to gender but resolutely white and well-off in appearance-not counting the RAF wives (who’d arrived with the pudgy American) and the jailbait cutie, who were plenty white, but not affluent. Their ticket of admission was their own pulchritude.
My window was down and even half a block away I could hear the laughter and chatter coming from the garden patio, so I got out of the car and joined the party. Sort of. The sidewalk was empty and the nearest streetlight was across the way, so nobody noticed me angle around the side of the well-tended bushes to do some professional peeping.
They were having their dinner party outdoors; a long picnictype table was set, and several male Negro servants in white coats were in attendance, though nothing but wine had been served. Three hurricane-shaded candles and two six-candled candelabras were as yet unlit on the attractively set table. Everybody was having a gay old time, but I didn’t figure it would last long. The wind was coming up, and mosquitoes were nipping.
This morning, Marjorie Bristol could smell the rain in the air; right now, any idiot could smell it. I could smell it.
De Marigny had a kitchen match going. Sitting next to him was the blond RAF wife, as he half-stood leaning forward to try to light a candle, lifting a hurricane shade to do so. The wind whipped the flame away from the candle and across the back of the Count’s hand.
“
“What does that mean?” the jailbait blonde asked wide-eyed.
“Shit, my dear,” her suave puffy-faced escort rejoined.
Everyone laughed. Except me. I slapped a skeeter.
De Marigny singed himself a couple more times, but managed to get all the hurricane lamps lit, and even had the candelabras going, their flames leaning like deckhands on the
The guests laughed, some of the ladies squealing in a manner that I’m sure they thought was delightfully feminine.
“Inside, everyone!” de Marigny called, as his black servants quickly removed the table settings.
The guests, pelted with raindrops, were scattering, fleeing for shelter.
In my spot in the bushes, I was drenched already.
And there I sat for a very long time. Machine-gun rain battering the car, drumming on the roof, palm trees swaying, fronds rustling, scratching like sandpaper rubbing together, wind whistling disgustedly through its teeth, carrying sickly sweet floral scents. With my windows up, I was hot in the car, windows fogging up. Heat and rain. Yet I was chilled….
