Carnal Hours

He gave her a scolding look, and she smiled and shrugged.

I asked him, “Does Freddie have another set of keys?”

“Not that I know of.”

“All right. Thanks.”

He frowned; the cigarette holder was in his teeth now, at a raffish FDR angle. “Is that useful information, Mr. Heller?”

“It means Freddie couldn’t have moved or used the Chevy without entering your apartment and fishing the keys out of your pants.”

“Oh-well, he most certainly didn’t do that.”

“It would’ve woken Georgie,” Betty affirmed.

“I know,” I said. “By the way, this is Erle Stanley Gardner, the famous mystery writer. He’s covering the case for the Hearst papers.”

De Visdelou’s face fell and Betty’s lit up. He looked like he was about to whimper, and she looked about to squeal.

“Everything we’ve said is off the record,” I said, “but I’m sure he’d love to arrange an on-the-record interview.”

“That’s right, kids,” he said.

She grabbed de Visdelou’s arm; the cat on her lap seemed bored. “Oh, Georgie, can we?”

“We’ll discuss it,” he allowed.

“I’m at the Royal Victoria,” Gardner said, scribbling in his note pad, tearing out a page. “There’s the number of my room phone.”

She grabbed it eagerly, and, leaving the Marquis behind on the couch with his cigarette holder and his pussy, walked us to the door; she took my arm. She smelled good-like Ivory soap.

“Don’t be a stranger, Mr. Heller,” she said.

I didn’t know if that was a come-on, or just sheer friendliness. But either way, I didn’t pay much attention to her.

Unlike the Count and his cousin, I pretty much drew the line at dating teenagers.

13

Marjorie Bristol stood in the moonlight, as silent and still as a statue-a lovely statue, at that. But if she were a work of art, the artist was God-the breeze blowing the hem of her dress gave her reality away.

I pulled the Chevrolet-de Marigny’s spare sedan, a two-tone-brown number-into the graveled parking lot of the country club; there were a few other cars, and the lights of the clubhouse off to the right indicated activity. But at the moment, no one else was around as she stood waiting for me, on the nearby grass, unblinking, despite my approaching headlights.

I had called her earlier today-using one of several numbers the late Sir Harry had provided me-and asked to see her.

She seemed embarrassed, but said all right; the Westbourne gate was locked, she said, but I could park in the adjacent country club lot and walk over-no wall or fence separated the estate from the country club grounds. She would meet me here.

I locked the car and went over to her; a palm tree was a silhouette behind her. The moon was full. Stars glittered in a sky so clear and blue it should have been day. The breeze was balmy and scented of sea; a perfect evening, but for humidity that hung on you like a woolen overcoat.

I’d almost forgotten how pretty she was-uniquely so, with the huge dark eyes, lashes longer than even de Visdelou’s; petite nose; wide sensual mouth, full lips painted a redundant red.

The blue maid’s uniform was absent; tonight she wore a white short-sleeve blouse, a wide black buckled pirate’s belt, tropical-print skirt and sandals. I’d taken to wearing my white linen suits with sport shirts; it was nice being able to work without wearing a tie. We were as casual, and as ill at ease, as a couple on a blind date.

“Hello, Mr. Heller.”

“Hello, Miss Bristol. Thanks for seeing me.”

She gestured and the wooden bracelets on her wrists clinked. “The house, we’re keepin’ it closed up right now, while my Lady stays with friends. We could go to my cottage….”

“That would be fine, as long as it doesn’t make you…uncomfortable or anything.”

She smiled gently. “I trust you, Mr. Heller. I can tell you’re an honorable man.”

That was a new one.

“But you may not consider me very honorable.” She looked at the ground. “I promised you I wouldn’t tell anyone you were a detective.”

“And then you went and told Nancy de Marigny.”

She nodded. “I thought she deserved to know. They killed her daddy.”

“They?”

“I don’t know who. But I don’t think it was Mr. Fred. He’s many things, you know, but a killer ain’t one of them.”

“You’re probably right. Where’s your cottage?”

She pointed. “Just the other side of the tennis courts. You’re not mad at me?”

“No. But it’s starting to sound like it was your idea to have me give Nancy a hand on this.”

We were walking now, toward the tennis courts. The sound of the breeze blowing and the rush of the surf made soothing background music. Her jewelry provided the percussion.

“Maybe it was a little my idea,” she said, looking away almost shyly. “I just…knew somebody had to do somethin’, you know, and I knew Sir Harry, he hired you for all that money, and you only worked one day for it….”

“My Caribbean conscience. Are you Catholic, Miss Bristol, or Church of England, perhaps?”

“Neither. Methodist.”

“Ah. Well, whatever the case, the Christian thing to do, after getting me into this, is give me a hand.”

I thought that might make her smile, but instead her face tensed.

“I would do anything I could to help find the murderers of Sir Harry,” she said. “I know he was a rough man, but to me, he was always fair, and kind.”

“You keep referring to his killers in the plural. Why did you think there were more than one?”

Her big eyes were as wide as a naive child’s. “I saw the room. Do you think one man could do that?”

Of course, I didn’t, and it struck me that we were walking much the same path as the murderers likely had; they had probably parked in the country club lot, as well.

Her cottage was a small square white stucco building with typical Nassau shutters and a brown-tile pyramid roof; it fronted the beach, which sloped gently from the sandy grass that was her front lawn; the sand looked ivory in the moonlight, the sea a shimmering blue-gray.

“I have a teapot on the stove,” she said. “Would you care for a cup?”

“That’d be nice,” I said.

She opened the door for me and I went in. Neat as a pin, the cottage’s interior consisted of a single room and bath; the plaster walls were a subdued pink, the wooden floor covered by a braided blue-and-white oval throw rug. A kitchenette was at my right, and at left was what seemed to be a sleeping area-dresser with mirror, even a nightstand with Bakelite radio and streamlined little black-and-white clock, but no bed. Hidden against the wall to the left of the door, however, was a walnut-grain metal cabinet-a foldaway. I knew all about those. For a lot of years I slept on a Murphy bed in my office.

Despite a few rattan chairs here and there, there was no couch or sitting area, other than a round table with four captain’s chairs in the middle of the room; pink and white and yellow flowers were arranged in a bowl at its center. Homemade plank-and-brick shelving, under the window along the far wall, brimmed with books, mostly the twenty-five-cent pocketbook variety. The bookcase and its contents were the only aspect of the room (other than