Free Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 by Carnal Hours (v5.0)

the Flit.”
    I was looking out the ajar door to the northside porch—which gave access to an outside stairwell—when Lindop commented, “That door was unlocked.”
    “So was the front door yesterday, when I showed up. Security here was pretty damn loose. Have you talked to the night watchmen?”
    “I wasn’t aware there were any.”
    “There are two. One’s named Samuel. Sir Harry’s household head, Marjorie Bristol, can fill you in.”
    He nodded again, eyes on the corpse. “She’s downstairs. Taking it hard, I’m afraid. Haven’t been able to properly question her.”
    I went over to have a better look at Sir Harry. I was well past the nausea; cop instincts had long since kicked in. I leaned close. Something behind Sir Harry’s left ear explained a lot.
    “I didn’t figure he was burned to death,” I said. “Not with all this blood around.
    Lindop said nothing.
    Four small wounds, fingertip-size, roundish but slightly triangular, were punched in the man’s head, closely grouped; if you were to connect the dots, you’d have a square.
    “Bullet wounds?” I asked. I wasn’t sure: there were no powder burns.
    “That’s the doctor’s initial opinion. And Christie called it in that way, too. I would tend to agree.”
    “The body was moved,” I said. “At the very least, turned over.” I indicated lines of dried blood running from the ear wounds across the bridge of Sir Harry’s nose. “Gravity only works one way, you know.”
    Lindop grunted noncommittally.
    A nightstand between the beds had a lamp whose celluloid shade was unblistered by heat, thermos jug, drinking glass, set of false teeth and a pair of reading glasses—undisturbed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in this bedchamber the night before.
    “It’s wet under his hips,” I said, pointing. “Bladder released on death, probably. Has your photographer been here yet? There’s a newspaper Sir Harry’s lying on you might want to note.”
    “We have no departmental photographer. I sent for two RAF photographers, who are developing their photos now, and a draftsman, who drew a floor plan.”
    “Jolly good.” I moved away from the bed, gestured around us. “But you’d better seal off this crime scene before you compromise all this evidence.”
    Lindop moved his mouth as if tasting something—something unpleasant. “Mr. Heller—much as I might appreciate your insights…I did not ask you to Westbourne as a police consultant.”
    “What, then? A suspect? I hardly knew the guy!”
    He cocked his head back again. “You were one of the last persons to see Sir Harry alive. I wish to know the nature of your business with him.”
    I glanced over at my employer; he was staring at the ceiling with his eyes burned out. He seemed to have no objection.
    “His business with me was to have me shadow his son-in-law, which I did yesterday afternoon and evening.”
    That perked up the Colonel; he took a step forward. “For what reason?”
    I shrugged. “Suspected marital infidelity on the part of the Count. Sir Harry wasn’t fond of him, you know.”
    “Damnit, man—give me the details!”
    I gave him the details. From picking up the Count’s tail at the Yacht Club, to driving the RAF wives home after the party.
    “Hubbard’s Cottages,” Lindop said, narrowing his eyes. “That’s near here….”
    “Almost next door.”
    “Then de Marigny drove right past Westbourne!”
    “So did I. Around one, one-thirty.”
    Now his eyes widened. “You didn’t follow him back home to his house on Victoria Street?”
    “No. I figured he wasn’t getting laid, so my night was over.”
    Lindop heaved a disgusted sigh. “Perhaps it would have been better for all concerned if you’d kept Count de Marigny in your sights a while longer.”
    I shrugged again. “Yeah, and I should’ve bought U.S. Steel at a nickel a share.”
    A voice from the entry area called, “Sir!”
    A black face was peeking around the Chinese screen.
    “The