“How did he know to bring me here?”
He had finished changing the dressing, and pulled down my nightshirt and covered me back up, like a loving parent. “I don’t know. Your friend Fleming isn’t much on volunteering information.”
When the doctor had gone, I asked Marjorie if Lady Oakes objected to my presence.
Her smile was mischievous. “Lady Eunice, she doesn’t know about your presence. She’s in Bar Harbor.”
“What about Nancy?”
“She doesn’t know, either.”
“I killed a woman.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Oh God, I killed a woman. Jesus….”
She climbed onto the bed gingerly and held me in her arms like a big baby, which is exactly what I was crying like. I don’t know why-later, in retrospect, killing Lady Diane Medcalf seemed not only logical but necessary and even admirable. She was at least as evil as any mobster I ever knew.
But right now I was crying. I think I was crying for the death of the funny, bitchy society dame I had thought she was-not the slum girl who clawed her way into royal circles, though maybe she deserved some tears, too.
Marjorie never asked me what I meant; she never asked me about the woman I said I killed. She had to have wondered, but she knew what I needed was comfort, not questions, let alone recriminations.
She was a special girl, Marjorie-one of a kind, and when I look back, I wonder why I didn’t drag her off to some out island and raise crops and kids, black or white or speckled-who gave a shit, with a woman like this at your side?
Which is why I cried so long. At some point the sorrow or guilt or whatever the hell it was I was feeling for Di merged with the overwhelming bittersweet ache I felt knowing that this sweet woman who was holding me, comforting me, nursing me back to health, was as lost to me as the dead one.
My tears weren’t just for Di. They were for both the lovely women I’d lost in the Caribbean.
Fleming appeared in the doorway that evening like a pastel illusion-light blue sportcoat, pale yellow sport shirt, white trousers. He looked like a tourist with exceptional taste.
“Back in the land of the living, I see,” he said, smiling faintly. Marjorie had only one small lamp on, and the near darkness threw shadows on his angular face.
Marjorie stepped to the door, glanced our way shyly. “I’ll just walk outside in the moonlight while you gentlemen are talkin’.”
Fleming turned his smile on her, melting the girl. “Thank you, my dear.”
Beaming, Marjorie slipped outside.
Fleming’s smile settled in one cheek. “Lovely child. You’re fortunate to have a nurse with such exceptional qualities.”
“She thinks you’re sweet, too.”
He withdrew a smoke from his battered gold case. “Most women do. Would you like one?”
He meant cigarettes, not women.
“No thanks. The mood’s passed.”
“How
“All right, considering. Hurts a little.”
“Your side or your psyche?”
“Choose your poison. Why did you bring me here, Fleming? How did you know to bring me to Marjorie?”
“You really don’t remember?”
“Remember what?”
His smile crinkled. “Asking me to bring you here. You were barely conscious, but you clearly said, ‘Marjorie Bristol,’ and when I asked where to find her, you said, ‘Westbourne guest cottage.’ Then you put a period on the sentence by spitting up some blood.”
“What about Diane? She is dead, isn’t she?”
He nodded. “There are services tomorrow. Nancy is quite crushed, poor girl. You see, Diane died in a boating accident-went down with the craft that bore her name. Body wasn’t recovered-lost at sea.”
I laughed without humor. “You secret agents really are good at ‘tidying up,’ aren’t you?”
“We have to be, with the likes of Nathan Heller making messes. Besides, you’re
“So that’s how you stumbled onto me.”
“Yes. Now-tell me how it happened.”
“How I killed, her, you mean?”
He nodded again, blowing smoke through his nose like a dragon. “And what led up to it, if you don’t mind.”
I did, including dropping in on Lansky and Christie, and my theory about the Banco Continental being a Nazi repository.
“Very insightful, Heller. Banco Continental is indeed where much of the Nazi spoils of Europe are cached. Of course, the Banco is much more than that.”
“Isn’t that enough?”
He shrugged. “Among Banco Continental’s other significant investments and holdings is its funding of a syndicate supplying Japan with oil, as well as platinum and other rare metals. That same syndicate has cornered the market in hemp, copper and mercury as well-crucial war materials for the U.S.”
“And you agree with me that Harry got royally pissed off when he got wind of all that?”
“Not only do
“Jesus. I ought to go into the detective business.”
“Or the spy game. That was an impressive showing, the other night-quite a savage beast lurks beneath that relatively civilized exterior of yours.”
“Gee thanks. Tell me-do you think the Duke knows his precious Banco is an Axis operation?”
“I would imagine not. At least, I would hope not. My thinking is that Wenner-Gren kept certain of the members of his consortium in the dark about various aspects of Banco Continental’s activities. Trust me when I say the Duke will soon be briefed in detail, and cautioned to curtail these activities in the future.”
“Where does that leave me?”
“As pertains to what?”
“As pertains to the Oakes case. Nancy de Marigny hired me to stay with it, you know!”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question. Neither your government nor mine needs the sorry scandal of the Duke’s activities publicly aired. Perhaps when the war is over.”
“What do I tell Nancy?”
“What did you promise her, exactly?”
I told him about seeing Hallinan and Pemberton; about the letter they’d requested from me.
“Write the letter,” he said. “If I were you, however, I would not be specific about the new evidence…hold that back for another day.”
“Because on this particular day, the Duke will quash any investigation?”
“Certainly. But by writing that letter, your pledge to Mrs. de Marigny will be fulfilled. I think with the imminent deportation of her husband, and the tragic death of her best friend coming upon the heels of the loss of her father, Nancy Oakes de Marigny will be ready to get on with her life.”
He was probably right.
“This still isn’t over, you know,” I said.
“I should say from your standpoint it is.”
“Not hardly. There’s still that son of a bitch Axel Wenner-Gren to deal with. If I have to paddle a canoe up the Amazon, I’ll find that fucker and put a bullet in his brain.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because he masterminded the whole goddamn affair!”
“Perhaps he did. Or perhaps Diane Medcalf took it upon herself to do these things. The answer to that
