“What sort of evidence?” Melchen drawled. His eyes were like cuts behind his wire-frames; the sneer on his pudgy face indicated his opinion of any “evidence” I might come up with.
I told them that Arthur was to have given me the registration number, and name, of the suspicious boat he’d seen; that we were to have met here tonight, at eleven o’clock.
“So somebody tied up here the night of the murder,” Barker said. “So what? Nassau’s a big place. Boats come and go all the time.”
“In the middle of the worst fucking storm since Noah? Are you on dope or something?”
Barker’s face twisted and he raised a fist. “I don’t have to take your shit…”
“I don’t have to take yours, either, Barker. You guys aren’t cops here-you’re advisers. So think carefully before you start in with me.”
He laughed harshly at that; but his hand dropped and his fist turned into fingers.
“Why don’t you drop by headquarters tomorrow, Mr. Heller,” Lindop said blandly, “and we’ll take an official statement. In the meantime, you’re free to go. We’ll handle things here.”
Marjorie had drifted up behind me. “Nathan…excuse me. I wanted to say something.”
Barker and Melchen turned and looked at her wolfishly. They looked from her to me and back, and exchanged knowing glances.
Colonel Lindop said, “Please feel free to speak, Miss Bristol. We understand you were with Mr. Heller when he found the body.”
“I was. I didn’t mean to be eavesdroppin’…but I heard you say Arthur drowned. Well, Arthur, he was an experienced sponge fisherman. I don’t think it’s likely he’d drown in shallow water like this.”
“He might have hit his head, Miss Bristol,” Lindop said reasonably, “if he fell from the dock.”
“Does he have a bump on his head?” she asked.
“We haven’t turned it up yet, but the coroner will make an examination….”
“He was probably drunk,” Melchen said, and laughed.
“Is there any liquor on his breath?” she asked, standing right up to the squat detective.
Barker sighed dramatically, and said, “Colonel Lindop, we only came along because Heller told you this death related somehow to the Oakes case. It clearly doesn’t. Do we have to listen to both his cockeyed theories
“Heller,” Melchen said, dragging it out into two molasses-soaked syllables, looking past her, “why don’t you gather your little nigger baby and go on home?”
I brushed past Lindop and looked right in the fat cop’s fat face. His smile was curdling by the time I said, “Apologize to the lady.”
“For what?”
“Apologize or I’ll feed you your fucking spleen.”
“You don’t scare me…”
“Then don’t apologize. Please don’t.”
He took a step back. In the moonlight his face looked flourwhite, but I had a hunch it would have looked white, anyway.
“Sorry, miss,” he said tightly, softly, without looking at her; without looking at anybody. “I was out of line.”
She nodded and walked back toward the car.
“Oops,” I said, and shoved Melchen.
His feet went out from under him and he landed, splat, in the water. Right next to Arthur.
“You son of a bitch!”
Barker took me by the shirt and said, “You think you’re so goddamn tough. War hero. Silver Star. Am I supposed to be impressed?”
I batted his hand away. “Say, Barker…where were you girls this evening?” I looked at Melchen, who was back on his feet, scowling as he brushed the soggy sand off his soggier suit. “You two got an alibi for Arthur’s murder?”
Both Barker and Melchen were looking at me with burning fury, their posture about to explode into an attack when Colonel Lindop stepped between us.
“Mr. Heller,” he said calmly, “before this gets further out of hand, perhaps you should go. We have a dead body to process.”
“Whatever you say, Colonel.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
He did. And as we walked, he said softly, “Mr. Heller, there is every likelihood that this death will be deemed accidental.”
“But…”
He stopped me with a raised hand. “But if you choose to investigate this man’s death-on the q.t., as they say-I want you to know that if you turn up any linkage between this and the de Marigny/Oakes case, I will be most interested.”
“Colonel-like I said before, you’re okay.”
“Mr. Heller,
“I’m just treating ’em the way they deserve.”
“I didn’t say they didn’t deserve it,” he said, smiled briefly, and saluted with a fingertip to his cap, turned and went.
I drove Marjorie back to her cottage in silence. I went in and sat with her, on the edge of her bed which she folded out from its little metal cabinet. I didn’t stay the night, and we certainly didn’t repeat our earlier carnal activities. I just held her in my arms and she shivered, though it wasn’t very cold at all.
Finally as I was about to leave, she said, “You know something, Nathan?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe they
She closed the door and I was out on the beach, alone.
16
Amidst tall exotic trees with whorls of feathery leaves, among colorful tropical gardens exuding a scent not unlike vanilla, stood the big pink stucco building that was the Porcupine Club. I’d been warned not to go inside the clubhouse of this exclusive facility, but instead to walk directly to the white beach beyond, where Nancy de Marigny would be waiting.
This was Hog Island, much of which was owned by the black-listed billionaire Axel Wenner-Gren. I’d taken a launch over to the nearby public beach-a five-minute ride-and now was at the private beach next door, winding through striped beach umbrellas and wooden deck chairs, looking for my client among various rich folks, mostly women of various ages, who were soaking up the midmorning sun under a clear blue sky that they probably thought belonged to them. Or anyway should.
She was at a round metal table under a large green umbrella with a leaf design that made it look like a big cloth plant; she sat back in her deck chair, looking tan and lovely, ankles crossed over red-and-blue-and-yellow- and-green leather open-toed sandals, her face further shaded by a colorfully banded straw hat that tied with a yellow sash under her strong jaw, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Her slender body was wrapped in a short terry-cloth robe, under which was a glimpse of lime-green swimsuit. Her fingernails were painted candy-apple red, and so were her toenails.
There was a little-girl-playing-dress-up quality about her that didn’t diminish her allure-nor did the bottle of Coca-Cola she was sipping through a straw, which made a kiss of her full red-painted lips.
“Mr. Heller,” she said, and smiled, sitting up. “Please sit down.”
She gestured to a straight-backed wooden chair at the table; there were two of them, as if another guest were expected.
