Crime of Their Life

by Frank Kane

  Liddell leaned an elbow on the rail, fumbled through his pockets, brought up a cigarette. It was one of those thousand-to-one shots that scored against him for her to recognize him. If it were only the captain that Robin Lewis intended to alert, it could still work out, but there was no way he could be sure.

  Liddell scratched a match, touched it to his cigarette, watched the few sparks that flew into the black void and quickly extinguished themselves.

  A couple rounded the end of the deck, arm in arm. The girl’s giggle was shrill and unmusical as they passed Liddell, engrossed in each other. They headed for the companionway, disappeared.

  The door to the forward companionway opened, spilled a yellow geometric shape onto the darkened deck. A couple crossed the deck to the rail, stood gazing at the stars. Liddell recognized the lankiness of the man and buxomness of the woman as the honeymooners.

  Their name was on Landers’s list, but it was painfully apparent that this was their first cruise. Since most of the passengers tapped to sit at the captain’s table or the cruise director’s were old-timers on the run, he decided it was their winning the contest that drew them the coveted table booking.

  Liddell leaned his elbows on the rail, stared down at the lace-capped waves that were rushing by the ship’s side. Mentally he reviewed the findings of his first day, admitted glumly to himself that they were something less than spectacular.

  Landers must have pinpointed the people who were smuggling in the diamonds. He must have had some idea of where the delivery was to be made and to whom. Otherwise how could he have been so confident that he could smash the ring the minute the Queen returned to New York? From what happened to him, he must have been right, Liddell conceded sourly, but characteristically Landers had left no hint of what he had found, what he suspected or what he intended to do.

  Liddell swore softly under his breath, mentally counted the days left to him. The diamond syndicate in New York, alerted that the shipment would probably be smuggled in by the Queen, would see to it that the ship was searched from stem to stem. Liddell had the uneasy conviction that no matter how carefully it was searched, there would be no trace of contraband diamonds. The mob behind the smuggling wasn’t made up of amateurs.

  He flipped the cigarette over the rail, watched the pinpoint of light until it drowned itself in the water below. The only thing he had to go by was the fact that of all the addresses in Landers’s book, only one related to a stop on the cruise. The probability was that the diamonds would be brought aboard in Curaçao. The captain’s guess that it would be easier to make the transaction in a free port than in another South American port made sense. Liddell toyed with the idea of asking the captain to have every passenger searched on his return from the shore visit, realized how ridiculous it would sound.

  He debated the advisability of another cigarette and a nightcap, knew no amount of liquor would shake him out of the mood he was in, voted it down. The honeymooners were still merged into one shadow at the other end of the deck. The occasional couples who had been making their pre-bedtime circuit of the deck had given up. Liddell headed for the aft companionway, rode the elevator down to B deck.

  He was heading for 321 when he saw the tall, broad-shouldered crew cut figure of the third officer tapping discreetly at a doorway at the far end of the companionway near the ship’s beauty shop. The three gold bars on the sleeve of Weston’s formal jacket glinted metallically in the subdued light.

  The door to the stateroom opened, Liddell could vaguely make out the features of the redhead he had noticed coming out of the beauty shop earlier in the day. The door opened wider, the third officer slipped past the redhead, the door closed behind him.

  So much for young love, Liddell grumbled. Crew Cut had put in his time with Fran Eldridge, and now that he had safely tucked her away for the night, he could turn the meter off. The rest of the night could be spent wiping Fran’s eager amateurish kisses off his lips, blocking out the sound of her shrill giggle from his ears, forgetting the vision of her boniness in the ample curves of the redhead.

  Liddell sighed. He wondered if he was getting old. He wasn’t even taking the morning papers to bed with him.

  CHAPTER 11

  Johnny Liddell lay flat on his back, sprawled across the bunk in his stateroom, fully clothed. His mouth was open, he was snoring lightly. The door opened, Henrik, his cabin steward, stood in the doorway, stared at him with a worried expression that etched a V between his brows. He checked his wristwatch, the frown deepened. Finally, as though reaching a decision, he walked over to the side of the bunk, caught Liddell by the shoulder and shook him roughly.

  “You all right, mister?” he asked. He shook again. “You all right?”

  Liddell shrugged off the hand, twisted onto his side. A thin stream of saliva glistened on the side of his mouth, made a damp spot on the pillow.

  “You wake up now, please?” The steward shook him again.

  Liddell opened sticky eyes, was aware of a throbbing headache and a mouth full of cotton. He groaned softly, rolled onto his back, tried to focus his eyes on the man bending over him. After a moment, he recognized the steward, tried to nod. He regretted the impulse, groaned and closed his eyes again. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he grunted thickly.

  “I don’t know what to do,” the steward apologized. “I think maybe you just take a nap, catch a late tender, but now the last tender from shore is back and you still sleeping.” Henrik shrugged elaborately. “I start to worry.”

  “What time is it?” Liddell wanted to know.

  “Almost three. We getting ready to sail.” He studied Liddell’s face with concern. “You sure you okay? You want some tea or coffee, maybe?”

  “I’ll be all right,” Liddell assured him. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk, felt a surge of dizziness. He wondered if it would help if he put his head down between his knees, vetoed the idea. He was afraid his eyeballs would fall out. After a moment, the giddiness passed, he was able to straighten up.

  “Must have been something I ate.” He grinned weakly, pulled himself to his feet, tottered to the lavatory. He held his head under the tap until the cobwebs in his brain cleared.

  He toweled his wet head, took a look at himself in the mirror. He wondered if he’d dare let the red-eyed apparition that stared back at him get close enough to him with a razor to shave. He walked out into the cabin where Henrik stood waiting.

  “I think I’ll take you up on that coffee, Henrik,” Liddell told him. “I may be going to live after all.”

  The steward flashed a relieved smile, backed out of the cabin, closed the door after him.

  Liddell dropped into a chair, raked his fingers through his damp hair. He tried to recall what had happened the night before. Piece by piece he put the night together— the session in Maurie Handel’s cabin, the drink with Ingrid in the bar at the Midnight Sun, the drink at Carson Eldridge’s table and the conversation with Robin Lewis just before he had come down to his stateroom.

  It had been a long time since he tasted one, but Liddell knew the feel of a Mickey Finn when he got one. And last night, someone had fed him a Mickey, with highly effective results.

  He felt through his pockets, brought out his wallet, riffled through it. He couldn’t tell whether anyone had gone through it, but if they had the question of who he was no longer was a secret. His license and credentials were prominently displayed behind the cellophane covers. From his breast pocket, he brought the envelope with the penciled name and address in Curaçao that he had copied from Landers’s address book. He swore softly, pulled himself to his feet, walked unsteadily over to the dresser. He pulled out the bottom drawer, checked to make sure his .45 was still in its holster, nestled under some sport shirts.

  He tugged the gun loose from its holster, took it over to the porthole, examined it. He breathed on its polished surface, held it up to the light. There was no indication of any fingerprints on it—his or anybody else’s. He snapped the magazine out, examined
the bullets one by one. The first three bullets in the magazine had had the lead nose removed, had been rendered useless. Liddell swore again, snapped the shell out of the gun’s chamber. It, too, had been turned into a blank cartridge. It meant that if it came to a showdown, Liddell would be spotting his opponents four free shots. The chances were that he’d never reach the fifth one.

  It also meant that someone had prowled his stateroom, did know his identify, and had taken into consideration the possibility that it might be necessary to deal with him.

  He removed the blanks from the magazine, replaced them with fresh shells. He slid the gun back into its holster, replaced it in the drawer.

  There was a discreet knock at the door, Henrik came in with a tray and a pot of coffee. He set it down on the table under the porthole. “This make you feel better,” he assured Liddell. He filled the cup with the steaming liquid. “You see me come to the cabin last night, Henrik?” The steward shook his head. “I put your bed down around midnight. You not back by then.”

  “Then you wouldn’t know if I had company?”

  The steward grinned lewdly. “I don’t see anybody.” He indicated the coffee. “You drink while it’s hot. It much better.”

  Liddell nodded, walked over to the table, dropped into the chair. He picked up the cup, warmed the palms of his hands with its sides. Something about the whole picture bothered him. A mickey strong enough to put him out for twelve hours should have worked a lot faster. The last drink he’d had was at Eldridge’s table. After that, he had walked on the deck with Robin, stayed and smoked for a while after she left. He could remember seeing Weston, the third officer, going into the redhead’s cabin, then coming to his own.

  He took a sip of the coffee, automatically reached for a piece of fruit in the bowl on the table. He stopped with his hand halfway to the bowl, scowled.

  “Henrik, did you clean this table off any time today?” he snapped.

  The steward frowned. “Just the ash tray. And the waste basket.”

  Liddell indicated the two bananas, the tangerine and the apple in the bowl. “Wasn’t there an apple core in it?”

  Henrik concentrated for a minute, then nodded. “Yes. Some cigarettes and an apple core.” He frowned. “Something?”

  “Who sent me that fruit, Henrik?”

  The frown was back. The steward shook his head. “I did not bring it in.” He stared at it curiously. “I do not remember it being here yesterday.” The frown deepened. “I did not see it before.”

  Liddell picked up a banana from the bowl, examined it closely. He tossed it aside, examined the rest of the fruit in the dish. The only thing he could distinguish with his naked eye was a slight bruise on the side of the apple. He set it aside thoughtfully, picked up his cup of coffee.

  “There is something wrong with the fruit?” Henrik wanted to know. His eyes hopscotched from the apple to Liddell’s face and back.

  “No,” Liddell assured him. “I was just wondering who sent it to me.” He took a deep swallow from his cup, burned his tongue, swore under his breath.

  Henrik worked at a smile, but worry still clouded his eyes. “You want something else?”

  “This is fine, Henrik. I’ll drink this, then get up on deck and get a little air. Give me fifteen or twenty minutes to change then you can make it up. Okay?”

  “Sure thing.” The steward turned, hustled out of the cabin.

  Liddell waited until he had closed the door behind him, picked up the apple, walked into the lavatory. He cut the apple in two at the point of the bruise, smelled it. It gave off a pungent odor, not completely disguised by the smell of the apple. He touched the tip of his finger to it, touched it to the tip of his tongue. The taste was so faint as to be undiscernible if he had not been looking for it.

  The taste and smell told the story of how the mickey had been administered. The fruit was loaded with enough chloral hydrate to knock out any two men. And whoever had sent it had gambled that he’d eat a piece before he went to bed. The suspicion he’d formed that the people he was dealing with were no amateurs was now a conviction. Now that they knew who he was, and what he was doing on board, the gloves would be off. He was on the same spot Harry Landers had been on, but with one exception. Liddell knew how far the diamond smugglers would go to protect their racket. Landers had to learn the hard way.

  Carson Eldridge was perched on a stool watching the clotted group of women milling about the counters of the ship stores which sold duty-free watches and jewelry, perfumes and other free-port bargains. He hailed Johnny Liddell as he was working his way through the crowd toward the purser’s office.

  “What’s going on?” Liddell wanted to know.

  “You mean you’ve never watched this scramble? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He used his cigar as a pointer. “Soon as we leave a port, the stores open up and they’re jammed like this every day. We call it the Queen Alexandra runs. They run between the purser’s office and the counters like a bunch of magpies buying up everything that glitters.” He returned the cigar to between his teeth. “There’s one old gal who’s really worth watching. Gets out there on the sun deck, oils herself up like a broiling chicken. Soon’s the stores open she’s in here, working her way in through the crowd. Goes in all oiled up, comes out slick and clean. Nobody seems to notice.”

  Liddell stood and watched for a few minutes. “You mean it goes on like this every day?”

  Eldridge bobbed his head. “Every day. You’d think they’d buy themselves out. Just you wait until you hit Willemstad in Curaçao. You’ll see the same gang jamming Spritzer and Fuhrmann and all the other shops. Some people are compulsive drinkers, they’re compulsive buyers.”

  Liddell shook his head. “Better them than me when it comes time to bring the stuff through customs.”

  The white-haired man grinned crookedly. “It’s not that tough,” he said cryptically. “It’s like the ‘Purloined Letter.’ You stick it right under their noses and they never see it.”

  Liddell studied the older man’s face, could read nothing in it. Eldridge had returned his attention to the milling mob of women.

  “Well, I’d better get to the purser’s office before he closes.” Liddell consulted his watch. “I guess I was more tired than I thought. I slept right through the stop-over at Grenada.”

  “You didn’t miss anything,” Eldridge told him. “If you’ve seen one old fort with cannons and dungeons, you’ve seen them all.”

  “I guess so,” Liddell agreed. He nodded, turned and headed for the purser’s office.

  The little fat, perspiring assistant purser who had greeted him upon arrival on board waddled over to the railing. His smile dimmed somewhat when he recognized Liddell. “Yes, sir? Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to have a check cashed,” Liddell told him. He brought a folded square of paper from his pocket, slid it across the counter.

  The fat man picked it up, managed to look unhappy. “This is for one hundred dollars, sir,” he told him morosely.

  “I know it,” Liddell told him. “That’s what I want. A hundred dollars.”

  The assistant purser laid the check on the counter, folded his hands in front of him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get the check okayed, sir,” he told him. There were dimples where his knuckles should have been. “If you can wait until tomorrow, the purser will be able to—”

  “I don’t want to wait until tomorrow,” Liddell snapped. “I want it now.”

  The perspiration gleamed on the fat man’s face. His eyes darted from side to side, avoiding Liddell’s angry glance. He shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t cash it without an okay. And I can’t disturb the purser. I have my orders, sir,” he apologized.

  “Who else can okay it?” Liddell stormed. Several people at the counter, writing out checks, looked up at the angry note in Liddell’s voice.

  “Just the purser, sir. The captain, of course, could but—”

  “I want to see the captain then,” Liddell
stormed. “I don’t see anybody else having this kind of trouble.”

  “But you must understand, sir. Most of the passengers embarked in New York, had established credit. But you, sir, you came aboard at Barbados—” He shrugged. “We had no opportunity to establish credit.”

  “I want to see the captain,” Liddell growled.

  “Certainly, sir.” The man behind the counter lifted the receiver of his telephone, dialed with short flicks of his sausage-shaped index finger. His voice was low, there was a pained expression on his face as he murmured the explanation for the call. The perspiration glinted in tiny globules along his hairline and on his upper lip as he talked. He listened for a moment, bobbed his head. He dropped the receiver on its hook. “The captain will see you, sir.” He snapped a finger at a uniformed page. “This gentleman is to see Captain Rose.”

  Without a word, Liddell turned, followed the page toward the elevator. The assistant purser brought a balled handkerchief from his hip pocket, swabbed at his face. Jack Allen, the cruise director, walked over to him, turned, his eyes following Liddell’s back out of sight.

  “What’s with him?” the cruise director wanted to know. The fat man shook his head. “He’s got no credit, nothing. Orders are that he can’t cash a check for more than fifty dollars until we get some kind of a rating on him. He insists on seeing the captain.” He swabbed at his face again. “Better him than me.”

  “How’d he get aboard anyhow? I never knew of Captain Rose picking up passengers with the cruise half finished.”

  The assistant purser shrugged his shoulders, replaced the handkerchief in his hip pocket. “Captain didn’t like it a bit. Orders came from the home office. Seems like he has some friend, a vice president or something. We had an empty cabin.” He shrugged again. “So here he is.” “Funny thing. If the captain didn’t like it—”