Carnal Hours

I shrugged, “It would have been ruled irrelevant. But once you grasp the fact that de Marigny is innocent, these facts become not only relevant, but crucial.”

“De Marigny’s ‘innocence’ is a legal judgment; it does not rule out his literal guilt.” Hallinan’s expression was one of cold distaste. “I consider the Count, and his amoral companion de Visdelou, to be sorry, irredeemable, reprehensible examples of humanity. I am pleased to say that their deportation is a certainty…deportation, or prison. We have found four drums of petrol, bearing RAF marks, in their mutual possession.”

“De Marigny isn’t my favorite guy in the world, either. But that doesn’t make him Sir Harry’s murderer.”

“You would like to continue investigating the case.”

“Yes-but first I’d like the opportunity to present you with evidence and theories you haven’t been privy to. Would you like me to start right now?”

Hallinan waved a hand, gently dismissive. “No. What I would like is for you to put something in writing… nothing formal, not a statement. But a letter to me, which I can share with His Royal Highness on his return.”

“I see. Without the Duke’s blessing, I’m out of business.”

“You are indeed. However, if your evidence is so persuasive that any man of good conscience could not stand in the way of reopening this investigation, I would say your ‘business’ might well flourish.”

I nodded. “Fair enough.”

Major Pemberton, who’d been a mute participant till now, spoke up. “You would have my full cooperation, as well.”

I grinned. “Glad to see Barker and Melchen didn’t sour you fellas on all American detectives.”

Both of them returned the smile; not exactly warmly, but this reception had been far more positive than I could ever have dreamed.

“I’ll take the weekend to work on the letter,” I said. “You’ll have it Monday.”

Hallinan rose and offered his hand, which I took and shook. “Thank you, Mr. Heller. Good day.”

That evening I dined with Godfrey Higgs and his wife, who had invited me to see Nassau’s fabled Jungle Club at the Fort Montague Hotel. With the ocean on one side, a lake on the other, and a fragrant tropical garden everywhere else, the deliberately rustic structure beckoned us inside its underlit interior, filled with ferns, palms, waitresses in skimpy sarongs, and green tables under thatched umbrellas, at one of which we feasted on plates of food we’d built ourselves from a buffet of (among other things) crab, lobster, fresh fruit, creamed vegetables, and pepper pots of mysterious, delectable contents.

“I’m delighted our Attorney General gave you such a warm reception,” Higgs said, between sipping spoonfuls of creamy soup. “If a bit shocked.”

“It does tell us one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Hallinan wasn’t in on the fix to frame Freddie.”

“Interesting observation, Nate. Who was?”

“Well, Barker and Melchen, for sure. The question is, whose bidding were they answering? The Duke of Windsor’s? Or Meyer Lansky’s?”

“The Duke called them in.”

“True. Which may mean I’m on a fool’s errand writing this letter.”

A steel band was beginning to play.

Higgs arched an eyebrow. “At least you’ll know where you stand.”

“At least I will.”

Higgs put down his spoon and gave me an earnest look. “Nate-with Freddie cleared, I’m no longer an official part of this case.”

“I realize that.”

“Nonetheless, I want you to know you can depend on me and on whatever resources I might provide.”

He smiled, and I returned the smile; and we spent the rest of the evening talking about the case not at all. Mostly I sampled the Jungle Club’s “famous” (the menu said so) rum-and-lime punch. I sampled quite a bit of it, actually.

Alone at Shangri La in my little guest cottage, I slept soundly and well, despite the impending storm moving the trees and sending ghostly wails of wind through the gardens, keeping those exotic birds unnerved.

The next morning, Saturday, I slept in, and it was ten-thirty before I went over to the main house and fixed myself some scrambled eggs and bacon; rationing and shortages didn’t seem to have any effect on Shangri La’s pantry and king-size Frigidaire, which could have kept a hotel dining room going. I sat alone at the table in the big, gleaming white modern kitchen and listened to the approaching storm rattle the windows.

I had that letter to write, and I’d even found a typewriter to write it on in an office of Di’s; but I was letting the back of my mind chew on it for right now. I was ready for a day off.

Daniel took me over to Nassau, where I thought about calling Marjorie, but didn’t. That situation, despite Freddie’s acquittal, would most likely remain unchanged: as Nancy had made clear, Lady Oakes still considered her son-in-law the murderer of her husband.

Besides, I was involved with somebody else now, wasn’t I? My other summer romance….

So I figured the best thing to do was get my mind off the Oakes case, and toward that goal, I took in a matinee at the Savoy. The movie playing was Above Suspicion and the pretty cashier I bought my ticket from was Betty Roberts.

I had a bite at Dirty Dick’s, and spoke with a few reporters left over from the trial, who were lingering on expense account till Monday; and when I got back out onto Bay Street, it was dark before it should be, thanks to the black, rolling clouds. A few tiny raindrops kissed my cheek. The wind was cold and a chore to walk against; with one hand I pulled the collar of my now too-light linen suitcoat around my neck and with the other held my straw fedora on.

The sky finally exploded as Daniel was taking me back to Hog Island; out in the small exposed motor launch, sheets of rain pummeling the sea, artillery-fire thunder splitting the sky and jagged white lightning revealing the cracks in it, I hung on to the sides of the rocking boat, shivering with cold and maybe fear, and getting soaked to the bone.

In my cozy cottage, I got out of the sopped clothes and took a hot shower and toweled off and climbed into bed, naked. I pulled the extra blanket up over me, as the cold was finding its way in, and the double glass doors facing the trees, and the windows of the little cottage, were shimmying like Little Sheba. Outside the palms bent and fronds fluttered, and hysterical birds screeched as they sought cover that wasn’t there. The machine-gun fire of the rain on the roof, and on the windows and one side of the structure, kept pace with the howl of the hurricane-like wind.

Somehow I got to sleep, but it wasn’t sleep, it was a sort of hell, it was a tropical hellhole where land crabs skittered and Japs with bayonets stalked while my buddies and me hid in a trench, hoping they’d just walk by, but they didn’t, they saw us, and they charged and my buddies got shot to shit and skewered by the bayonet blades but I was still alive and firing as torrents of rain fell, only it wasn’t rain, it was blood, I was covered in blood.…

I sat up in bed, gasping. A mortar shell exploded, and I hit the deck.

But it wasn’t a mortar shell, it was thunder, and I was bare-ass on the floor, feeling foolish, sweating like Christie in the witness box.

I crawled back into bed. The sheets were soaking; my perspiration had done as good a job as if I’d been sleeping out in the storm, which continued unabated, shaking the windows, the dark shapes of palms bending impossibly beyond the double glass doors.

Leaving behind a twisted mass of damp sheets and blankets, I moved to the couch, and lay there on my back, naked, panting, as winded as if I’d run a mile, and stared at the blackness above me. Now and then lightning would strobe the room, and the pebbled plaster ceiling would be there, above me, protecting me, reminding me I wasn’t in some tropical jungle, even though I was.

Using breathing exercises they’d taught me back at the psych ward at St. Elizabeth’s, I managed to settle myself down; I was almost asleep when I heard a key working the lock at the side door.

For a moment I thought it was Di, back early from her trip.

But then lightning lit up the room, and there they were, stepping inside: two men, standing in their own