“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’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,
“I’m sorry,” I said, not believing my ears, “but I just can’t. I’m
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, “
“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.
9
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?
“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
“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.”
