“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
“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.”
