The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) (23 page)

48.

Stafford Hotel

Thirty Minutes Later

              Jacob’s dinner invitation notwithstanding (or perhaps because of it), Gurt planned to return home as soon as possible. If she was, in fact, the subject of surveillance, the sooner she left the UK, the better. James and his people would not be keeping up with her out of mere curiosity. Rather, they had something in mind for her, something  decidedly unpleasant. Not that she was excessively apprehensive but experience had taught her avoiding a confrontation was better than participating in one, particularly in foreign countries where the local police took umbrage to the carnage that frequently resulted.

              She picked up her key from the desk. When she reached her room, a cart on wheels was parked in front and the door was ajar. A quick inspection showed the cart to be loaded with the various items associated with hotel housekeeping: Fresh towels, wash cloths, soap bars, various brooms, brushes and cleaning rags.

              Gurt stepped inside.

              The door slammed behind her the instant she realized it was not the maid in her room.

              An arm circled her throat just under her chin while the other hand grabbed her left wrist, twisting the arm up painfully.

              “Do something funny, lady and I’ll tear it off at the socket.”

              The voice smelled of beer and tobacco but was frightening in its softness.

              Held as she was, she had no choice but to stare ahead where another man had emptied her suitcase on the bed, the same man from the airport. “He means what he says, dearie. You can save yourself a lot of pain if you just hand it over.”

              “Hand over what?” Gurt spoke through teeth gritted against the pain.

              The man took a single quick step from the bed, using his momentum to put extra force into the blow to Gurt’s stomach.

              It was as though she had been kicked by a horse. Not only had it that much force, it had been totally unanticipated. Had it not been for the arm around her neck, she would have fallen. As it was, her knees buckled, throwing her entire weight against the restraint. For an instant she couldn’t breathe.

              He assailant stepped back, flexing the fingers that had made the fist. “Don’t fuck with me, woman! You would not have gone to see the Jew, Annulowitz, without having something to show him or he having something to tell you!”

              As to emphasize, her arm was snatched up further, sending a bolt of agony across her shoulders like an electric shock. She could not suppress a gasp.

              “Show him what? Tell me what?” she managed.

              This time, she was ready.

              As the man lunged forward for another blow, Gurt went limp. The man holding her loosened his grip to get a better one. Only for a half second but long enough.

              Gurt planted both feet, meeting her attacker with her skull, a head butt that would have made any rutting ram proud. Except the crown of her head met his chin.

              She thought she could hear teeth shatter along with a grunt of pain.

              She was certain the grip of the man behind her loosened further.

              Her right heel, the hard plastic of those sensible shoes, crashed down on his instep as her right elbow pistoned into his solar plexus accompanied by a whoosh of expelled breath.

              This time it was
her
arm around
his
neck over her shoulder as he bent double. She stooped, jerking down on the neck and used her body as the fulcrum, levering him airborne into his partner, sending that one stumbling backward. Not a perfect
Dai Ikkyo
, one of the sixty-seven
Kodokan
of Judo, she noted, but sufficient.

              From long ago training, she knew once gained, the initiative of attack must be maintained. She could not have stopped had she wanted to. Gurt was one of those rare persons who could be filled with the red rage of conflict while making all the mechanical moves that bring victory in hand to hand combat. She hated her opponents with all the fury within her while at the same time hearing the words of her instructor across the years: “One: Balance your body while unbalancing your opponent’s. Two: Get his mass moving in the direction. . .”      

              The two men were sprawled across the bed in a tangle of arms and legs. The first one to his feet was the one whom she had just thrown. No Judo here. Snatching a brass bedside lamp from its socket, she put her entire upper body strength into a swing for the fences. The blow to his head sent her antagonist reverse summersaulting over the queen sized bed and slumping into a corner. From the sound of the impact, he would no longer be a participant in whatever followed. 

              The man with his lower face a mask of blood, the one she had butted, had a hand in his jacket pocket. She had no intention of finding out what he might have there. Feinting with an open handed jab with her left, she landed the heel of her right just in front of his left ear, a blow intended to stun and disorient.

              She succeeded.

              In the instant in which he shook his head to regain equilibrium, she landed a right cross to the already badly injured jaw, swiveling his head and exposing his neck. The next blow, the virtual
coup de grace
, was dealt by the heel of her hand smashing his trachea.

              He was on all fours, so desperately gasping for breath that he did not notice her quick but efficient search of his pockets. She repeated the procedure for the recumbent form on the other side of the bed. He might or might not be breathing: she had curiosity only for whatever she could find that might identify these two unfortunates.

              Which was exactly nothing.

              Which was something.

              The absence of wallet, driver’s license, anything was as positive ID as a passport if not as specific. These men were professionals.

              The man with the crushed windpipe was making croaking sounds not unlike some monstrous frog as Gurt stuffed her clothes back into her suitcase. Her sense order recoiled at the idea of wadding up underwear, skirts, blouses, everything in the interest of time. How much of that she had was unknown and she didn’t intend to find out.

              At the desk she asked for her bill.

              With typical British aplomb, the clerk didn’t so much raise an eyebrow at a departure only hours after arrival. “Was all satisfactory, madam?”

              Gurt hastily dumped her copy of the bill into her purse. “You might be a bit more careful selecting your housekeeping personnel,” she replied.

              He started to ask what she meant before he realized he was speaking to her back.

49.

Westbourne

July 9, 1943

              Miami Homicide Detective Captain James Barker was certain he and his companion, Miami Homicide Detective Captain Edward Melchen, were at the wrong place. Either that or someone was going to be in deep shit.

              Just one more fucked-up thing in this fucked-up place.

              It had started simply enough. A year back, maybe two, the Governor General of the Bahamas had come to Miami on some sort of business and Barker and Melchen had been ordered to arrange security, which, basically, meant driving the guy around and making sure nothing bad happened to him. The two had chauffeured more than one blue nose hot shot around, so it would have been no big deal if the Governor General hadn’t also been that Edward guy, the one who had dumped the throne for a dame that wasn’t exactly Betty Grable.

              That would have been OK with Barker, too, but Florence, Barker’s wife, flipped her wig as did every one of her girlfriends, which included Alice Melchen, Ed’s ball and chain.

              Well, naturally, Florence held a hen party and all the girls decided Ed and Barker had to arrange a chance for the women to meet the man who had given up a throne “for the woman I love.”

              Wasn’t that the most romantic thing ever?

              Well, no. Perhaps the stupidest.

              Of course there was no way a couple of lowly cops were going to arrange the affairs of some foreign poobah but there was nothing to stop them from tipping off the girls so they could bring their Brownies and get snap shots.

              Anyway, the visit went off without a hitch. The Governor General, King, Duke or whoever he was, was a little guy, a snappy dresser. And he didn’t sweat. His tailored three-piece white linen suits were as well pressed and dry at the end of the day as they had been in the morning while Barker’s off the rack seersucker looked like he’d slept in it. But then, rich people didn’t seem to sweat. When was the last time you saw a picture of a Rockefeller or Ford dripping sweat?

              This Duke was a nice guy and not at all hoity-toity, shook both cops’ hands when they delivered him to the airport and said he hoped to see them again sometime, same bullshit every visitor said.

              Except this time it wasn’t bullshit.

              Yesterday afternoon, Chief Quigg himself had ordered the two to meet him at the force’s pistol range way out at North West 22d and 10
th
. When they arrived, they stood around, sweating in the suits the Chief required they wear when on duty while the Chief fired his required rounds.

              Melchen was fanning himself with his Panama when Quigg growled, “Barker, Melchen, you boys are taking a little trip.”

              Neither man had said anything. When Chief Quigg wanted you to know something, he would tell you.

              “That fella, the Duke, you guys drove around?”

              “We remember,” Melchen said, running a finger around a collar soggy with sweat.

              Miami was a Turkish bath in the summer.

              The Chief reached into his shirt pocket, extracting a Lucky without showing the pack, a trick every patrolman learned. Exposing the pack and how many smokes were left in it encouraged partners to bum.

              He flashed his Zippo, lit the cigarette and said, “Seems there‘s been a murder in Nassau. He wired me this morning. The Duke wants you two to solve it for him.”

              The two detectives exchanged glances.

              “What if we don’t want to take vacation time?” Barker ventured.

              Quigg snorted smoke. “Whothefuck said anything about vacation time? This is regular duty.”

              The two detective didn’t have to look at each other. The Chief was taking two homicide dicks on the citizens’ payroll and sending them not only out of town but out of the country. Neither would have bet he was doing it as a mere favor. But after the Chief had been acquitted on corruption charges a few years back, it didn’t pay to ask questions.

              Within an hour the homicide cops were on an Eastern Airlines flight to Nassau, an amazing feat since wartime regulations severely limited travel by train and particularly by air. And tires and gas for the family car were strictly rationed on an “as needed” basis. Other than the white-jacketed steward, they were the only men on board not in uniform. That, of course, didn’t count the two broads in hats, blue uniforms and white gloves, the stewardesses.

              The Chief, it seemed, was in cahoots with some very influential people.

              Neither Barker nor Melchen had ever been in an airplane before and neither were eager to fly.

              Their apprehensions were fully realized. Shortly after takeoff, with the DC-3 still climbing to a predicted 7000 feet, Melchen lit up a Chesterfield and watched the steward roll a tray down the aisle and begin serving a hot lunch. Just then, the aircraft hit what was later described as an “air pocket.” Whatever you called it, it felt like a roller coaster ride, leaving Melchen’s stomach a hundred feet or so above him. Green peas were rolling in the aisle as the seat belt light belatedly went on. The guy across the aisle had mashed potatoes in his lap.

              An hour and a half later, the two detectives, independently of each other, resolved that the return should be by sea as they deplaned at Nassau International. This time it was they who were chauffeured out to what the driver referred to a “Sir Harry Oakes’s estate.”

              Once his bags were removed from the trunk (“the boot,” their driver insisted on calling it), Barker’s first impression of Government House was of a large, two-story house on a slight rise overlooking a bay. As he and Melchen got out of the old but well-kept Rolls Royce, his impression changed: Large, two-story house on a slight rise with a line of people going in and coming out, a crowd like someone was giving away red coupons, the ones you had to give the butcher to buy your meat ration.

              “What the fuck?” Barker muttered. “This a murder scene or a circus?”

              “Welcome to Nassau, gentlemen!”

              The two detectives turned to see the Duke himself, cool and smiling in white linen.

              “I appreciate how quickly you came,” he added in that precise English accent Barker was beginning to associate with the British upper crust. “I also appreciate coming straight here before freshening up.”

              “Here?” Barker asked, echoing his partner’s remarks. “This where the murder happened.” 

              “Why, yes, of course. If it
was
murder. Why do you ask?”

              “Because it looks like a traveling freak show, all those people coming in and out. Lord knows what evidence might have been destroyed. And you think we might have a suicide?”

              “Now that you mention it, I see I was wrong in allowing people to walk through the house. Sir Harry was an extremely popular person and I was afraid they might think the government was hiding something if I shut it up. You see, I have no experience in such things. That’s why I called your chief and asked for you two. And, yes, it could be Sir Harry took his own life.”

              “What makes you think that?”

              The Duke shrugged, “As I said, I have no experience in these

Matters, but I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill him.”

              “I think it would be a good idea to get all those people out of the house,” Barker suggested.

              Should he add “sir”? “Your Majesty”? He had never addressed a duke who was an ex-king. Was there a title for that? Not knowing made him uncomfortable, like having to guess which fork to use at the annual dinner and fancy ball given by the Police Benevolent Society.

              A bag in each hand, the two cops followed the duke into the house.     

              Inside, the afternoon sun slanted through louvered shutters, striping the room in light and shadow. Turning on the overhead lights didn’t make things look better, at least for Melchen. He’d seen some pretty gruesome murder scenes but never one like this: The room stank of stale smoke, both wood and an odor Melchen guessed was human flesh. The room where his butcher carved meat (for which he surrendered said red stamps), was a lot cleaner than this. Blood splattered three of four walls and soaked a now water-sodden bed as well as couple of stuffed chairs and a Chinese screen. The victim’s body had been left in place awaiting the arrival of the two Miami cops. It did not require a coroner’s verdict to see the top of the skull had been bashed in and the body set on fire, although blisters on arms and legs could indicate the burning was pre, rather than post, mortem. 

              Melchen looked closer. What was that on the screen, a hand print, smeared in the blood now turning an earthy brown? He stepped closer and squinted.

              “Looks like we might be able to lift at least one print,” Barker said from behind him. “Got enough light for the latent print camera or do we need a flash?”

              Melchen shifted his weight, running a finger around his collar although this time not from the heat. “Ah, we need to talk.”

              The Duke spoke for the first time since entering the room with the two detectives. “Do you need me? I need to confer with a number of people outside.”

              Barker shook his head. “You go ahead. We’ll be fine in here. Just please don’t leave the premises. We’re sure to have questions.”

              The Duke was almost to the door when Melchen spoke. “Er, sir?”

              Edward turned to face him, a question on his face.

              “I don’t think you need to worry about this being a suicide.”

              When the door closed behind the Duke, Barker asked, “OK, what is it we need to talk about?”

              “The latent print camera.”

              “What about it?”

              “We were in such a hurry, I left it back at the station.”

              Barker sighed. “Well, we still have the crime-scene camera.” He reached into one of his suit cases and handed a bulky camera to his partner. “Here, hold this while I slide the plates in.” 

              Melchen watched Barker stack a pair of Cramer dry plates on the floor and attach the flash unit to the old Kodak. He said nothing but he was thinking how few investigations had turned out well when they started so poorly.