Read Online Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 by Carnal Hours (v5.0) - Free Book Online
Authors: Carnal Hours (v5.0)
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which was barely visible as I went by, lights ablaze on the upper floor, the Lincoln pulled in past a post with a hanging wooden sign that said hubbard’s cottages.
It seemed to be a small development of rental properties. I went on by, but I could glimpse the Lincoln, stopped, and the two young women making a mad dash for the front door of a cottage. De Marigny was sitting with the motor running….
When I had found a place to turn around and coasted by the cottage again, the Lincoln was gone.
I could only sigh. Tonight would definitely not be the night to get the goods on the Count. De Marigny, like a proper host, had merely driven his two female guests home. There were red taillights way up ahead of me—probably his—but I didn’t bother trying to catch up.
It was after one a.m. and this long, long day—and night—was over; even at a thousand bucks, I’d earned my pay.
Thunder shook the sky like barrages of artillery and made my night a fitful hell of delirious combat dreams. I awoke half a dozen times, prowling the hotel room, looking out at the roiling sea and the turbulent sky, wishing I had a smoke. Below, palms bent impossibly, black silhouettes that became blue in the lightning. The goddamn storm kept turning itself up and down, like some ungodly radio tuned to station HADES, a squall followed by gentler wind and pattering rain and then another squall, with pealing thunder….
I was finally dreaming about something else, something peaceful, something sweet, swaying in a hammock while a native girl wearing nothing but a grass skirt held a coconut out for me to drink from. She looked like Marjorie Bristol, but darker, and when I’d finished sipping the coconut milk, she soothed my brow with a hand soft as a pillow and, boom boom boom boom, an artillery barrage rocked me awake.
Sitting up in bed, breathing hard, sweat-soaked, I heard the sound again and realized it was just somebody at the door. Somebody insistent and knocking in an obnoxious manner, yes: but not artillery fire.
I threw off the sheet and went to answer it, pulling my pants on over the underwear I’d slept in. If this was the maid wanting to make up my room, I was prepared to be indignant—at least, until I glanced at my watch and realized how late I’d slept in: it was after ten o’clock.
Cracking the door, I said, “Yes, what is it?” before seeing who was out there.
It was a black face in a white helmet with a gold spike.
“Nathan Heller?” a Caribbean voice asked.
I opened the door wider. There were two of them, two black Nassau cops in their sun helmets, white jackets, red-striped trousers and polished boots. They might have stepped out of a light operetta.
“I’m Heller,” I said. “You fellas want to step in? I just woke up.”
They marched in, shoulders straight. Why did I feel silly?
“You’re to accompany us to Westbourne, sir,” one of them said, standing at attention.
“Westbourne? Why?”
“There has been a difficulty involving your employer.”
“My employer?”
“Sir Harry Oakes.”
“What sort of difficulty?”
“That’s all we’re at liberty to say, sir. Will you come?” The lilting Bahamian accent, added to the formality of what he was saying, gave the officer’s words a stilted poetry.
“Well, sure. Give me five minutes to brush my teeth and get dressed?”
The spokesman nodded.
“I can meet you in the lobby,” I suggested.
“We’ll wait outside the door, sir.”
“Up to you.” I shrugged, but it was obvious something serious was afoot.
My police escorts rode in front and I had the backseat to myself as we traveled a West Bay Street slick with rain, sandy with mud. Gutters were clogged with palm leaves. The sky was overcast, making midmorning more like dusk, and the winds were humid and high, blowing an occasional branch across the police car’s path.
I leaned forward. “Come on, fellas—what’s this all about?”
They didn’t seem to hear me.
I repeated my
It seemed to be a small development of rental properties. I went on by, but I could glimpse the Lincoln, stopped, and the two young women making a mad dash for the front door of a cottage. De Marigny was sitting with the motor running….
When I had found a place to turn around and coasted by the cottage again, the Lincoln was gone.
I could only sigh. Tonight would definitely not be the night to get the goods on the Count. De Marigny, like a proper host, had merely driven his two female guests home. There were red taillights way up ahead of me—probably his—but I didn’t bother trying to catch up.
It was after one a.m. and this long, long day—and night—was over; even at a thousand bucks, I’d earned my pay.
Thunder shook the sky like barrages of artillery and made my night a fitful hell of delirious combat dreams. I awoke half a dozen times, prowling the hotel room, looking out at the roiling sea and the turbulent sky, wishing I had a smoke. Below, palms bent impossibly, black silhouettes that became blue in the lightning. The goddamn storm kept turning itself up and down, like some ungodly radio tuned to station HADES, a squall followed by gentler wind and pattering rain and then another squall, with pealing thunder….
I was finally dreaming about something else, something peaceful, something sweet, swaying in a hammock while a native girl wearing nothing but a grass skirt held a coconut out for me to drink from. She looked like Marjorie Bristol, but darker, and when I’d finished sipping the coconut milk, she soothed my brow with a hand soft as a pillow and, boom boom boom boom, an artillery barrage rocked me awake.
Sitting up in bed, breathing hard, sweat-soaked, I heard the sound again and realized it was just somebody at the door. Somebody insistent and knocking in an obnoxious manner, yes: but not artillery fire.
I threw off the sheet and went to answer it, pulling my pants on over the underwear I’d slept in. If this was the maid wanting to make up my room, I was prepared to be indignant—at least, until I glanced at my watch and realized how late I’d slept in: it was after ten o’clock.
Cracking the door, I said, “Yes, what is it?” before seeing who was out there.
It was a black face in a white helmet with a gold spike.
“Nathan Heller?” a Caribbean voice asked.
I opened the door wider. There were two of them, two black Nassau cops in their sun helmets, white jackets, red-striped trousers and polished boots. They might have stepped out of a light operetta.
“I’m Heller,” I said. “You fellas want to step in? I just woke up.”
They marched in, shoulders straight. Why did I feel silly?
“You’re to accompany us to Westbourne, sir,” one of them said, standing at attention.
“Westbourne? Why?”
“There has been a difficulty involving your employer.”
“My employer?”
“Sir Harry Oakes.”
“What sort of difficulty?”
“That’s all we’re at liberty to say, sir. Will you come?” The lilting Bahamian accent, added to the formality of what he was saying, gave the officer’s words a stilted poetry.
“Well, sure. Give me five minutes to brush my teeth and get dressed?”
The spokesman nodded.
“I can meet you in the lobby,” I suggested.
“We’ll wait outside the door, sir.”
“Up to you.” I shrugged, but it was obvious something serious was afoot.
My police escorts rode in front and I had the backseat to myself as we traveled a West Bay Street slick with rain, sandy with mud. Gutters were clogged with palm leaves. The sky was overcast, making midmorning more like dusk, and the winds were humid and high, blowing an occasional branch across the police car’s path.
I leaned forward. “Come on, fellas—what’s this all about?”
They didn’t seem to hear me.
I repeated my
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