Assassins Don't Die in Bed

by Michael Avallone

  The man said nothing. Another coin appeared in the five sausage fingers. I was about to move back for a reappraisal when a voice tinkled behind me.

  "Bhudda!" The voice Was slightly angry, but it tinkled all the same, the tinkle of cold, imperial silver. The fat, tall giant suddenly revolved like a top, bowing toward me. The bow was not for me, of course, but for the voice beyond me. Again I stared. It was like a circus sideshow. He mumbled something and stepped past me, narrowly missing crushing my left foot.

  The noisy crowd still hemmed in Henry Hallmark, the barrage of cameras and questions dinning. But before them, the mountainous fat man was skipping like an agile monkey in the wake of someone to write home about. I had a flash of a totally stunning feminine figure, swathed in a furry sheath skirt of some kind. A white cashmere sweater puffed like a ball of silky fluff. Hip-length black hair danced down a back that put several sex symbols of the world to shame. Her derriere, out of a satyr's lewd imagination, shivered and shook and rolled as if a discotheque had opened for business. Then the apparition was gone, disappearing around the bend of the superstructure. The Japanese giant, trailing in her rear, vanished with her. Something stirred in my memory, but I couldn't pin it down for analysis. I wasn't thinking about Beauty and the Beast. There was something a lot more pertinent than that.

  A ravishing woman. A monster bodyguard. Wasn't there a—

  The gongs clanged and echoed all over the ship. A funnel let loose a blast of sound and a high hiss of steam. There was a frenzied rush of movement and stentorian sound from the vicinity of the group surrounding Hallmark. I turned my back on it and headed amidships. I found a crowded stairway leading down to D deck. When I spotted a blue uniform with brass buttons, I halted the officer and made an inquiry. He told me where the purser's office was.

  All over the Francesca voices collided, hands waved, laughter mingled with tears, children raced and shouted. There was a festive madness to the moment; New Year's Eve on Times Square. But it was just a murky day in fall, and another ocean liner was on its way to Europe.

  The big difference for me was that this one was carrying the man of the hour.

  I found the purser's office at just about the time that the mooring lines were cast off and the energetic little tugs began to tow the big ship out of the low waters into the depths of the Hudson.

  The purser was Italian, too. An almost dainty little man with scrupulously clean hands, as if he had washed them too many times. His thin moustache was neatly placed between a peaked nose and two eyes like black marbles. His hair was very nearly marcelled, but he had gone to Rutgers and spoke a perfect brand of unaccented English.

  "Signor?" he began, turning on the Italian charm.

  "My name is Noon. Stateroom 119, E deck."

  "Welcome to the Francesca." He relaxed, recognizing the sound of me. "I hope you enjoy your trip with us."

  "That depends."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Come—I beg your pardon, Mr. Noon?"

  I spread my hands to show him how much I needed him. "I've been planning this trip for a long time. A much-needed rest, you understand. Well, just a few minutes ago I saw somebody on E deck. And if I'm not mistaken, and it is who I think it is—well, I'm not so sure I'm going to enjoy this voyage."

  The purser smiled, and drew a bottle of Chianti from an elaborately set-up bar behind him. "Come, it can't be as bad as all that. To whom do you refer? I pride myself on my intimate knowledge of our First Class passengers and their backgrounds. E deck happens to be the most select location on the Francesca. Surely you do not object to traveling with so distinguished a fellow passenger as Mr. Henry Hallmark?"

  "Not at all. I'm as proud of him as any American. But I saw that gigantic Japanese fellow, and once in Tokyo I had a troublesome encounter with a man called Takama. A very dangerous knife artist. I hope—"

  The purser laughed happily as he took out two glasses. "Put it from your mind. Have a glass with me, Mr. Noon. It gives me great happiness to relieve your mind."

  "You mean that isn't Takama—"

  "No, it is not." He handed me a glass filled with red fire. The open porthole gave a fine passing view of the Palisades. The purser beamed, sniffing the salt air to come.

  "Our Japanese guest is the very famous Bhudda. In Tokyo, his feats as a sumo wrestler made him rich. But then—tell me, you have never heard of Miss Tiger?"

  I was getting what I had come for. The pussycat On deck with the rear view. I shook my head.

  "Your trip will have a few surprises for you. Bhudda, apart from his great strength, is the personal bodyguard and man-of-all-purposes to Miss Gilda Tiger, who is also traveling on E deck. The great Gilda. When you see her, you will see one of the world's most beautiful women. No one can tell you for certain how many times she has been married or exactly how many millions of dollars she owns. Ah, Gilda Tiger." For a moment the purser relaxed, and the dormant Valentino within him permitted him to let out a long, amorous sigh. "Her breasts, her hips—a complexion like the Madonna . . ."

  I sipped the Chianti. "I don't care about her. As long as this Bhudda isn't Takama, I'm happy."

  "This Takama. He sounds interesting. What exactly did he do?"

  "It would turn your stomach and sour the Chianti."

  "Tell me. Please, do."

  "He was a Jack the Ripper. Once chopped up a family of seven sisters. He liked to cut off their noses and ears and then mail them around to other deviates in Tokyo." I headed for the door before I tripped over the story. "Thanks for your help. Bhudda, eh? Sounds like an interesting man, too."

  The purser was turning faintly green around the gills as I closed his door. The Chianti sat untouched on the desk.

  Going to my stateroom, I thought about his information. The high brown-green bluffs of the Palisades were receding in the distance as the river mouth widened to the Atlantic. The waters lay like a sheet of unbroken glass on the far horizon.

  There would probably be the standard printed passenger list of the Francesca lying on my bed in the stateroom, but the purser had told me more than a boxful of memos could have. Miss Gilda Tiger and the mountainous Bhudda were two characters I had never really heard much about, but if they were anywhere in the vicinity of the Hallmark entourage, they had to be worth knowing.

  Seen from the rear, Miss Tiger was very interesting, indeed. If the front matched, this trip was not only going to be necessary but rather stimulating. Then I remembered how easily Bhudda destroyed Kennedy half-dollars, and tried not to shudder.

  Henry Hallmark and Company was the next move.

  He was decked with Secret Service men and garlanded with special agents. How could an assassin get close enough for the kill? In fact, how could I ever get a chance to talk with him without being screened, frisked, and thoroughly gone over by that fine-tooth comb?

  I unpacked my suitcases after I had locked the door of 119, and sorted my special equipment and accessories. I forgot about Melissa Mercer, Miss Tiger, Bhudda, and the purser.

  If there was to be malice in Wonderland, I had to be ready.

  4. Came a Tiger

  The Atlantic Ocean is a big drink of water. You can take it or leave it, depending on your mood. But even for the most oceangoing passenger in the universe, large, limitless expanses of the briny deep are impressive when your view of the shoreline is only a memory. Just as the sun lost interest in warming the combination green-blue-purple waters, I wandered out from my cabin and took up a position at the starboard railing. I had a quiet cigarette, thinking.

  The Francesca moved along steadily, a floating city of noise, bustle, and activity. Happy laughter rippled along the deck. White-uniformed ship's personnel marched smartly about. I kept an eye peeled toward the Hallmark staterooms, just twenty yards away. Two solemn, silent owls were lounging in deck chairs, their hats tilted over their eyes. They weren't kidding anybody. They wore their special duties like second nature. Lazing, relaxing, but you just knew that if a loud noise went off they'd be bounding fr
om their chairs, guns flashing. I drew on my Camel and wafted a blue cloud leeward, watching the steady breeze disintegrate it into nothingness.

  I had changed my formal Brooks Brothers charcoal gray for a pair of brown gabardine slacks, an open-throated tan sport shirt, dusky brown loafers, and a black blazer with gold buttons down the front. The picture of sporty good health. I hoped the portrait took. I think it did because two matrons, all feathers and happy smiles, waved cheerily to me as they strode by discussing the respective merits of French and Italian ocean liners. The Italians were winning, hands down, as the matrons disappeared around a bend midships. I looked out to sea again, liking the swaying rhythm of the waves.

  The cabin door of the Hallmark stateroom opened. A tall, thin, well-dressed young man emerged, nervously brushing his hands through a Beatle mop of yellow hair. The pince-nez told me once again who he was. He conferred briefly with the lazing Secret Service men and walked in my direction. He'd changed from his Brooks Brothers suit, too. But he couldn't afford to go sporty, obviously. His garb was a sober blue outfit without a crease or bulge showing. He was the young guy who'd run interference for Henry Hallmark during the press interview at sailing time.

  As he drew abreast of me his gaze swept over me. Behind the rimless pince-nez, intelligence and rapid character analysis were working overtime. Somehow I bothered him. I could see that. Well, there's never any time like the present. I took the plunge, giving him the sort of "Peace, Brother," wave that Dave Garroway did for ten years on early-morning television.

  "Hi," I said. "Great day for sailing, huh?"

  "Yes," he murmured. His voice was soft and unhurried, a precise instrument that conflicted with the slight tension of his movements. For a moment I thought he would stop and put me in my proper category so he could make his own mind easy, but he didn't. He smiled, not meaning it, and moved on. I didn't try to stop him. From the corners of my eyes I could see the two owls on duty in front of the Hallmark cabin regard me casually from beneath their hats. I restrained a grin and went back to my Camel.

  The Hallmark door opened again. The elderly little woman with the net gloves and cloche hat made a beeline for the railing, looking neither to the left or right. Her thin-as-a-pencil body found support against the white tubular rail. She fastened both hands to it and stared moodily across the waters. At first I thought she was going to toss her cookies. But it wasn't that. She was taking deep breaths, filling a flat chest that must have made her miserable all her life. The woman's profile was to me. She looked more birdlike than ever, an ancient sparrow whose nose, mouth, and chin were firm, tight little lines of tight-skinned architecture. I couldn't see her eyes.

  Mrs. Henry Hallmark obviously wasn't happy. She was one of those women who always seem to be mourning the dead. She reminded me of widows who wear their grief like clothes, long years after the unhappy event.

  She suddenly did a startling thing. She took her hands from the railing, seized the brim of her cloche hat and tugged it off, shaking her head free of its hold as if it had been some sort of restraining object. Then she flung the hat far out over the railing into the sea.

  We both watched the hat hit the waves, splash daintily, and then rapidly fall away in the plunging wash of the Francesca. It was swept astern in a fine spray. The next thing I heard was the sound of a high, hysterical, brittle laugh, the kind of laugh you might hear in the dead of night when a person has lost everything. I flung a glance at Mrs. Hallmark when the laugh stopped. She was staring at me from a distance of 30 feet or so, head held high, chin tilted, as if daring me to call her foolish. Her eyes were thin slits, like slots in a mailbox. They told me nothing. So I smiled and waved, as if cheering an exuberant what-the-hell gesture from a fellow passenger. The owls in the lounge chairs watched, not moving, saying nothing. Mrs. Hallmark came down the railing toward me, holding it with her left hand, gaze fixed on me. She walked steadily, head still held high. I waited for her.

  "Young man," she said. It wasn't a question or a demand or a salutation. Just an opening. Mrs. Hallmark's voice was shadowy, wispy. It would fade away before she did.

  I bowed slightly. "I've always wanted to fling a hat into the ocean. Such a large body of water demands some kind of salute. If mine wasn't in my cabin, I would have followed your example."

  Up close, the slot eyes were two black marbles of grief and bafflement. A heavy aroma of eau de something emanated from Mrs. Hallmark, but a gallon of the stuff wouldn't have hidden the fact that she was swacked to the gills. Nevertheless, she regained an innate dignity that was genuine. She stared up at me. The top of her bouffantly styled gray hair shone dully in the rays of the sun dipping beyond the western horizon of water.

  "I am Esme Hallmark, young man."

  "Of course you are. And I'm pleased to meet you. Your husband is a great man."

  "Thank you. Henry—Mr. Hallmark—does his best. .. ." Her eyes blinked at me, intoxication blurring her thought processes. "Haven't we met? There is something so familiar about your face. Your manner. Then again, I am an old woman. My memory is not all it used to be. I thought I saw you with Tom on deck a moment ago—Tom Faulkner."

  I shook my head. "Tom? The young fellow with the pince-nez? We merely said hello to each other."

  "Pince-nez?" Her eyes almost twinkled. "Silly, aren't they? Like cloche hats and long net gloves. The past. Richard never needed glasses. He never would have, you see. He was such a marvelous physical speci—" She paused, as if to gain control of herself. "When you throw your hat into the Atlantic, please call me. I'd like to see that, I would."

  "You have a deal, Mrs. Hallmark."

  She nodded fervently, drunk as she was, and smiled. Fine white teeth, which could have been her own, they were so small and natural looking, lit up her tired face.

  "You are—"

  "Noon. Call me Ed if you like."

  "I shall call you Edward. And we are friends." We had drawn a crowd. Behind us I could hear a rustle of feet, a murmur of voices. The great Hallmark's wife was on deck, conversing with a fellow passenger, and that was occasion for gossip. Or maybe they'd seen the flying cloche hat. It didn't matter. Mrs. Hallmark was her own woman again. She smiled faintly. A good-bye-for-now smile. "Good day, Edward."

  "Good day, Mrs. Hallmark."

  She went back toward the cabin, still using the hand rail and making a sharp right turn only when she was abreast of the on-duty agents outside the stateroom door.

  A couple of smiling, interested women and a fat, cheerful example of American tourist were ogling me. I kept my face blank and walked past them, heading for the prow of the Francesca. A shuffleboard game and a volleyball match were going full blast. Tanned girls and Bermuda-shorted boys were going all out, working up appetites for the first-night-at-sea dinner. A ship's bell clanked somewhere. Nobody had really settled down yet. The first six hours out had been preparation. Everybody was milling around, using the ship's facilities, watching the ocean from the railings, examining the enormous lifeboats with their tarpaulin-covered tops. I didn't see anyone of interest until I reached the forward part of the vessel. The most forward part anyone could go without being chased by the crew or captain. The Atlantic yawned hungrily before the Francesca, like a mammoth maw ready to receive a sacrifice.

  I walked right into a judo match.

  Cut off from the rest of the passengers and any nosy observers, two of the people in whom I was most interested were having a roughhouse all to themselves. They had spread out a large square of canvas, accoutered themselves in appropriate togs, and were giving it a go. It was the old roughhouse, fall and tumble, try this hold and that one and see whose back gets broken first. I positioned myself behind a convenient funnel and watched.

  The opponents were Gilda Tiger and Bhudda. Together, they represented a picture no artist could ever paint. Not paint and be believed, that is.

  Bhudda was in shorts; his mammoth, oily, mountainous torso was an obscene conglomeration of muscles, rolls of flesh, and naked streng
th. The ferocity and padding crouch of his bulk would have scared off Tarzan.

  Gilda Tiger was the apogee of the other extreme. Nowhere on earth, not in this life, have I ever seen such a perfectly formed and outrageously sexy female. She wore black leotards that might have been her top layer of skin. Her breasts and hips and every undulant curve of her tall body were stark and magnificent. The slender fingers of her hands writhed like a ballerina's. The long, flowing mane of midnight black hair was a waterfall cascading to her spine. And even more impressive than all of that was the workout she was giving her man-mountain bodyguard. He was sweating like a pig running from the big bad Wolf.

  She zipped and darted, and I heard a meaty thuck of sound as her stiffened right hand sledged into Bhudda's ribs. He grunted explosively, and in spite of his vast weight, nimbly hopped around the full drive of her hand and flailed with his pudgy hands. Gilda Tiger laughed harshly, her hips dancing, and dodged around him, sneaking another jab into his wide middle. Bhudda let out a bleat of agony.

  Gilda Tiger's face, bronzed and flushed, lush lips parted, teeth clenched, eyes sparkling like green lights, looked like a man-killer. In bed or out of it.