had been in Nassau only since this morning, but I already could tell that was rare behavior.
The dust led back to the eastern road, where I caught sight of the Lincoln, turning west. My watch said half-past four, so de Marigny ought to be going home, and if my reading of the Nassau Street map was close to correct, that was the way we were headed.
It was. The Lincoln turned off on Victoria Avenue, and that jibed with the address I had on the Count. The sea at our backs, we were going up the hill now, moving along a quaint side street flung with palms where little pastel houses built on the incline had stone garden walls with bougainvillea and creepers trying to climb over them, even as flowering trees on the other side peeked over.
Soon the black touring car pulled into a driveway and drew around to the side of the house to the closed doors of a double garage. Curtis got out and so did de Marigny, not waiting for his driver to come around and open his door for him. What a guy.
De Marigny’s house reminded me of places I’d seen in Louisiana: a good-size, two-story, vine-crawling pink affair with green shutters and a screened-in veranda above and porch below, and exterior stairs along the driveway side of the house. Unlike many of the neighbors’, with their limestone walls, de Marigny’s garden, to the left of the house, was defined by high, manicured bushes.
I drove on by, found a place to turn around a couple blocks up the hill, and came back to park on the opposite side of the street, about half a block from the house. The street was so narrow you had to park on the lip of sidewalk.
De Marigny’s Lincoln rolled out less than half an hour later. I assumed he was in the car, and took leisurely pursuit. As I passed his house, I could spy, through the open windows, servants scurrying. One of them was Curtis.
We were back on Bay Street soon, and I was able to put several cars between the Lincoln and the Buick and still keep de Marigny in my sights. It was dusk now, and we both had our lights on. In the thick of the shopping district—it was after five, but shops were still open—he found a parking place. I glided by, found one myself, and was getting out of the Buick when I saw him—in a brown sport jacket, lighter brown pants, cream-color shirt with no tie, and tan-and-white shoes, no socks. Very spiffy. He strolled toward the Prince George Hotel, pausing to light a cigarette beneath the flutter of Allied flags that adorned the entry.
I noticed that the upstairs office over the storefront next door said H.G. Christie, Ltd., Real Estate, Since 1922. Small world. Anyway, small town….
De Marigny didn’t go inside the hotel, but walked under an archway between it and the adjacent building, to the Coconut Bar and its beach-umbrellaed tables scattered on the terrace to wharf’s edge, where small boats, sails furled, swayed uneasily in the restless sea. The ceiling of this bar was a broodingly overcast sky.
Few of the tables were taken, but the Count was immediately waved over by a plump, dark-haired guy of about thirty-five in a handsome pale green suit with wide lapels and a dark green striped tie.
“Freddie! I want you to meet the most gorgeous girls in Nassau!”
“Impossible,” de Marigny said, massaging each syllable in his Boyer way, “I know them all…oh! I see I was mistaken.”
He was: the women sitting with the glad-handing American were lovely young women in their twenties, a brunette with a sexy overbite and a lanky blonde with a nice wide smile. They wore summery dresses and sat with their legs attractively crossed, sipping tropical drinks out of fruit-bedecked coconut shells.
The American was making introductions as the Count joined them, but their voices were lowered to a normal range now and I couldn’t make anything out. I risked a table within earshot, ordered myself a Coke with lime and watched the lead-gray sea ripple while I eavesdropped.
“Freddie,” de Marigny said, putting the
The dust led back to the eastern road, where I caught sight of the Lincoln, turning west. My watch said half-past four, so de Marigny ought to be going home, and if my reading of the Nassau Street map was close to correct, that was the way we were headed.
It was. The Lincoln turned off on Victoria Avenue, and that jibed with the address I had on the Count. The sea at our backs, we were going up the hill now, moving along a quaint side street flung with palms where little pastel houses built on the incline had stone garden walls with bougainvillea and creepers trying to climb over them, even as flowering trees on the other side peeked over.
Soon the black touring car pulled into a driveway and drew around to the side of the house to the closed doors of a double garage. Curtis got out and so did de Marigny, not waiting for his driver to come around and open his door for him. What a guy.
De Marigny’s house reminded me of places I’d seen in Louisiana: a good-size, two-story, vine-crawling pink affair with green shutters and a screened-in veranda above and porch below, and exterior stairs along the driveway side of the house. Unlike many of the neighbors’, with their limestone walls, de Marigny’s garden, to the left of the house, was defined by high, manicured bushes.
I drove on by, found a place to turn around a couple blocks up the hill, and came back to park on the opposite side of the street, about half a block from the house. The street was so narrow you had to park on the lip of sidewalk.
De Marigny’s Lincoln rolled out less than half an hour later. I assumed he was in the car, and took leisurely pursuit. As I passed his house, I could spy, through the open windows, servants scurrying. One of them was Curtis.
We were back on Bay Street soon, and I was able to put several cars between the Lincoln and the Buick and still keep de Marigny in my sights. It was dusk now, and we both had our lights on. In the thick of the shopping district—it was after five, but shops were still open—he found a parking place. I glided by, found one myself, and was getting out of the Buick when I saw him—in a brown sport jacket, lighter brown pants, cream-color shirt with no tie, and tan-and-white shoes, no socks. Very spiffy. He strolled toward the Prince George Hotel, pausing to light a cigarette beneath the flutter of Allied flags that adorned the entry.
I noticed that the upstairs office over the storefront next door said H.G. Christie, Ltd., Real Estate, Since 1922. Small world. Anyway, small town….
De Marigny didn’t go inside the hotel, but walked under an archway between it and the adjacent building, to the Coconut Bar and its beach-umbrellaed tables scattered on the terrace to wharf’s edge, where small boats, sails furled, swayed uneasily in the restless sea. The ceiling of this bar was a broodingly overcast sky.
Few of the tables were taken, but the Count was immediately waved over by a plump, dark-haired guy of about thirty-five in a handsome pale green suit with wide lapels and a dark green striped tie.
“Freddie! I want you to meet the most gorgeous girls in Nassau!”
“Impossible,” de Marigny said, massaging each syllable in his Boyer way, “I know them all…oh! I see I was mistaken.”
He was: the women sitting with the glad-handing American were lovely young women in their twenties, a brunette with a sexy overbite and a lanky blonde with a nice wide smile. They wore summery dresses and sat with their legs attractively crossed, sipping tropical drinks out of fruit-bedecked coconut shells.
The American was making introductions as the Count joined them, but their voices were lowered to a normal range now and I couldn’t make anything out. I risked a table within earshot, ordered myself a Coke with lime and watched the lead-gray sea ripple while I eavesdropped.
“Freddie,” de Marigny said, putting the
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