That made Higgs chuckle. “All right-I’ll grant you your expert witness is damn near the backbone of our case…between what you came up with regarding the time limitations of the crime, and what Professor Keeler will have to say about the fingerprint evidence, we may well be able to clear Freddie.”
“Let’s not forget Captain Sears,” I pointed out. “His placing Christie in downtown Nassau when Christie says he was sleeping at Westbourne diverts suspicion from our client.”
“No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have generalized. It’s just so damned frustrating that so much of what you’ve dug up isn’t going to make it into court….”
“Like what?”
He hauled his feet off his desk, brushed his hair back in place, shrugged, just a little. “The crime syndicate connection. Everything you’ve put together linking Lansky and Christie…we simply can’t establish relevance.”
I sighed. “If that caretaker out at Lyford Cay hadn’t ‘accidentally drowned,’ we could.”
“What we need to discredit Christie,” Higgs said, “is for your friend’s letter to show.”
He was referring to the letter Eliot had sent me over two weeks ago, containing the certified copy of the federal records indicating that outstanding warrant against Christie; but it had not yet arrived.
And we now knew it most likely wouldn’t: Eliot’s letter, like any letter arriving in Nassau, was subject to wartime censorship; it seemed likely the censorship board-populated with Christie cronies-was withholding it. Contacting the censors directly about the letter was against regulations, and there was not time, before the trial, to have Eliot run the red-tape hurdles for a second time.
Higgs asked, “You haven’t had any luck establishing that Sir Harry was a rounder, either, have you?”
I shook my head no. “I’ve asked some questions, but here’s where my limitation as an outsider really hurts us. You might be better off putting a local dick on it.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Frankly-no offense meant-but I have. He’s come up with nothing, either. He runs into the adultery rumor, now and again, but no substantiation. And as for the gold coins…” He shrugged again. “Another dead end.”
I had checked with Nancy, who asked her mother about the coin collection; Lady Oakes was unconcerned about its being missing, saying that Sir Harry liked to move the little treasure chest from here to there, and it would most likely “turn up” at one of their many residences-they had four homes in the Bahamas, after all, and three more in the United States, another in Canada, and two in Great Britain.
“You could ask Lady Oakes about the coins on the witness stand,” I said. “She’s going to testify, isn’t she?”
He nodded. “I certainly could do that. But she’ll only reiterate what she told Nancy-that the collection is
“It might seem pretty darn valuable to a native.”
He shrugged elaborately. “Then why didn’t that native take anything else from Westbourne? There was cash in Harry’s desk; valuable objects everywhere-from a gold nugget paperweight to Lady Oakes’ jewelry box.”
“It is thin, isn’t it?”
“Yes. So the horde of gold, like Meyer Lansky, like Sir Harry’s randy reputation, stays out of court. On the other hand, assuming Adderley doesn’t spring too many surprises on us, I think we have a formidable case.”
“Hell, Godfrey, all you have to do is fillet Barker on the stand.”
He arched an eyebrow. “He’s a damn good witness, Nate. He’s no virgin when it comes to giving expert testimony.”
“He’s no virgin, period. Godfrey, you can nail him-no fingerprint ‘expert’ can justify those bullshit methods.”
Higgs sighed, smiled in a less weary fashion, lifted his suitcoat from the back of his chair and slipped into it.
“My wife is waiting dinner on me. Care to stop by? The kids have been asking about you.”
I dragged myself off the couch. “I won’t impose. You guys put up with me enough, when I was staying with you. I’ll grab a bite at Dirty Dick’s.”
“How’s life at Shangri La?”
“Swell. I’m a Ronald Colman kind of guy, you know.”
“Where’s Di?”
“Oh, she had to fly to Mexico City for a few days, to confer with her boss.”
He was opening the door to his outer office for me when he narrowed his eyes and said, “If you don’t mind my asking…when did you start carrying that weapon around?”
“I thought this new suit Lunn made me disguised the fact.”
“It does, fairly well. You’re on shaky legal ground-would you like me to try to get you a temporary permit?”
We were walking through the outer office now.
“No thanks. I’ll just plead ignorance, which is something I’m used to. If we ask permission, they’ll only take it away from me.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Why am I heeled, as we say back in the States? I don’t know. With Lansky involved, with Barker and Melchen beating the shit out of witnesses, with voodoo and jealous husbands and burned-to-a-crisp millionaires, it just seemed…”
He opened the door. “Prudent?”
“Prudent,” I said.
We headed down the stairs to the street with Higgs in the lead.
“At least they’re not following you around anymore.” Higgs grinned. “With those practical jokes you played on them, and wild-goose chases you sent them on, I would imagine our local constabulary-and their Miami advisers- have learned their lesson.”
We stepped out onto Bay Street; the balmy Bahamas breeze felt good-not hot, not cold.
“I’m not so sure, Godfrey. The last couple days I’ve felt like they had a tail on me again.”
“Really?”
“Yeah-a couple times I’ve spotted a guy. Tall. White. He’s good-in a car, he turns off on a side street before he gets made; on foot, he disappears into the nearest store or restaurant, and doesn’t reemerge…but it’s the same damn guy every time.”
“Could be a reporter, you know. They’ve been streaming in of late.”
“I don’t think so. This one’s a cop of some kind.”
Higgs shook his head. “Well-with the trial coming up in a few days, it’ll be over soon. This harassment will end.”
Higgs nodded and headed toward where his car was parked, and I turned the other way; Dirty Dick’s was just two blocks down. I’d gone half that distance when I noticed him.
He was across Bay Street, keeping half a block behind me; tailing me from the opposite side of the street was a good touch, but with all but a few of the stores closed, and hardly anybody on the sidewalks, painfully obvious nonetheless.
For a tail, he just wasn’t anonymous enough: tall, lean, dapperly touristy in a powder-blue jacket, yellow shirt and tan pants; a long, cruel, handsome face interrupted by a nose that had been broken at least once, with high cheekbones and sunken cheeks; dark hair falling in a comma over his forehead; cigarette dangling from tight, thin lips.
I unbuttoned my jacket and crossed the street; he kept walking as if he hadn’t seen me. I was walking toward him now, and when I passed him, I turned on a dime and came immediately up behind him and put the nine-millimeter’s nose in the small of his back.
“Let’s talk,” I said.
“Why don’t we?” he said, blandly British.
“The alley should do.”
“It should do nicely,” he agreed.
I walked him to the alley; an American sailor and a woman who was probably some RAF pilot’s wife walked by arm in arm, smiling at each other. My shadow-who I was sticking to like his shadow-marched calmly into the
