For all that anyone in Nassau could say with assurance, the man who killed Sir Harry Oakes might even now be sipping a whiskey & soda at the Prince George bar. Or he might be racing a fleet sailboat before the Royal Nassau Sailing Club. He might be talking business in a Nassau office, taking part in a cocktail-party discussion of the mystery—or resting, full fathom five, beneath the clear waters off Hog Island. Or he might not be in the Bahamas at all.
Strange Silence. Few in Nassau had doubted the outcome of the trial of Count Alfred Marie de Fouguereaux de Marigny for the murder of his rich father-in-law.
The evidence of the burnt hairs withered. The fingerprint which De Marigny was supposed to have left somewhere on the screen beside Sir Harry's bed became hopelessly confused with prints which might have been found later on a piece of glassware. The mystery of how the mosquito netting over Sir Harry's bed could burn without smudging the white ceiling was left unsolved. On these and many other points the Crown had seemed strangely listless. But the defense had shown the same caution, left spectators puzzling over its failure to challenge numerous alibis.
Strange Outing. One day in midtrial, Banker John Anderson, friend and confidant of Sir Harry's, took the reporters on an excursion to Hog Island to admire Shangri-La, the fabulous estate of Swedish tycoon Axel Wenner-Gren. U.S. and British black listings keep this nimble friend of Millionaires Hermann Goring, the Duke of Windsor, Sir Harry Oakes and many another in Mexico for the duration, but the reporters found 17 gardeners tirelessly pushing back the lush jungle growth, awaiting the end of the war and the master's return. One or two reporters wondered whether the excursion had a meaning.
Strange Play. Like actors in a well-worn play, the black-robed, white-wigged attorneys had waded through the tangle of circumstantial evidence. Like playgoers, Nassau's lush sun set had paid early rising natives £1 a day for places in the tiny courtroom—unless, like the Baron of Trolle, they chose to have their servants bring their own chairs. Evenings the jurors laughed and joked and went to the movies to wave at their families. Between sessions Count Freddy waltzed by himself in the police station, read books on sailing.
When Chief Justice Sir Oscar Daly finished his summation and the jury retired, Freddy had his chauffeur park his car beside the courthouse. But he managed to look solemn when the twelve brought in their verdict, vastly relieved when the words "not guilty" unlocked the mahogany cage for the last time. In a sea of shrieks and yells and jumping natives, Freddy kissed his wife, Sir Harry's 19-year-old daughter Nancy, and his friend, the Marquis de Visdelou-Guimbeau, whose coat of arms is three wolves with their tongues hanging out. Then he dove into his car, told the driver to race for home. There Grisou, the Maltese "alibi" cat, stood on his hind legs at the window, making strong noises in his throat.
Freddy had not stayed long enough to hear the rest of the jury's recommendation: immediate deportation,