"Hello, my boy," Henry Hallmark boomed. "Met Mr.Noon, have you?"
"I have had the pleasure," Tom Faulkner said.
"Indeed," I agreed.
We measured each other in a short stare and did not change our minds about each other. Faulkner, very businesslike, looked at Henry Hallmark.
"It's time for the reading, sir. You wanted to call some notes from those reports—" It was a reminder rather than a rebuke. Gentle, soft-spoken, and wary.
"Oh, blast," Henry Hallmark said, annoyed. Then he flashed me an apologetic smile. "Our match is postponed, Mr. Noon. Give me a raincheck?"
"Sure. I'll play a round with Mrs. Hallmark if she likes."
Esme May Cody Hallmark nearly clapped her hands. "Oh, good. Do you play backgammon, Edward?" Henry Hallmark placed his shuffleboard stick on the deck, brushed off his hands, and nodded vigorously at his young secretary. I moved forward to take his wife by the arm, thinking of leading her toward the game tables placed against a bulkhead just before the towering funnel. It was then, with all the people in focus, that the strange thing happened. The very thing that I was on this trip to prevent.
Behind us you could still hear the bleats and cries of the kids made happy by Bhudda's performing magic.
Overhead the blue sky with its careening white clouds and golden sun warmed the games deck.
Suddenly there was a slight wrenching sound. A protest of strain and a things-not-quite-right noise that alerted me. My glance shot upward. Henry Hallmark and Tom Faulkner. perhaps three feet apart, had paused at the very base of the bulkhead to wave good-bye. It was then that I saw the odd outline of a falling object hurtling down from somewhere along the width of the funnel. It was dark, painted green and quite large. Large enough to crush a man's skull.
A man doesn't forget the habits of long training, Henry Hallmark had said. Maybe he was right, I never moved faster in my life.
I cried out—something, anything—to arrest their movement, to alert them. They saw me coming. The agents climbed out of their chairs in one swift movement. I kept going. And then Henry Hallmark flung a startled glance upward and saw it too.
By that time I had reached him. bowling him backward with a headlong tackle that was more football than soccer. Tom Faulkner blurted an angry oath, his right hand streaking toward his shoulder holster for the gun I knew he carried there. The agents behind me murdered the deck with their pounding feet.
Then there was a crashing, thudding, stunning sound as the heavy object plummeted to the deck, rebounded like a carom for all its weight, and shattered against the bulkhead. Everybody nearby froze—the agents Torn Faulkner, and the gamesters and funsters along the deck Even Bhudda's excited audience of children had hushed into silence.
I rose to my feet, helping Henry Hallmark erect. "Sorry, sir. I saw it first—"
"Mr. Noon—" he stammered. Henry Hallmark stammering. There was a strained look on his patrician face He could only stare as one of the agents walked over to the fallen object and knelt to examine it. Tom Faulkner was motionless, but he was breathing hard. Mrs. Hallmark was moaning.
"Stop it, my dear," Hallmark commanded brusquely. "I'm all right. Thanks to Mr. Noon. What is it, Richards?"
The agent straightened, turning. In his hands he held a long, thick green bar of metal. He was shaking his head, confused, scanning the exterior of the funnel far above.
"Pipe of some kind—Must have torn loose. The winds maybe—"
He was groping in the dark, and he knew it. He scowled at me, his eyes suspicious. "Quick thinking, Mr. Noon. You saved Mr. Hallmark's life."
I smiled. "He can do the same for me anytime. But pipes or whatever don't just come loose on boats like this one. I'd check on it, wouldn't you?"
"Will do," he agreed, and his partner and he conferred over the smashed pipe. "Thing weighs at least forty pounds-—"
Tom Faulkner, his face a mask, nodded at me. Henry Hallmark was laughing now, shaking his massive head. His wife had rushed to him, her thin, frail body burrowing into his protective hugeness.
"Oh, Henry—Henry—"
"There, there." He beamed at me above her gray head. "Wouldn't my enemies have loved to see me set down for a count of ten even before I had begun to fight?"
"It was an accident," Tom Faulkner said stiffly. "It had to be."
"Why not?" I agreed mildly enough. "Who would want to kill Henry Hallmark?"
Faulkner had nothing to say to that. "Sir?" he murmured to his god.
"Yes. of course. Tom. Mr. Noon"—Hallmark's mighty hand squeezed mine—"I owe you a debt Call on me at any time. For anything."
"I'll take you up on that. I promise."
"Consider it done. Come, Esme. You come back to the cabin with me. You've had a shock."
"Yes, dear. Edward, I don't know how to thank you."
"You already have. Now let's say no more about it. I blush very easily."
Richards and his crony were still bent over the pipe, trying to puzzle it out, as the Hallmarks and Tom Faulkner left the deck. I dug out my Camels and lit one up, looking in the direction of Bhudda and Gilda Tiger. The Japanese had returned to his occupation, if he had ever left it at all, heedless of the buzzing adults who were staring back toward me. For the kids, the falling pipe was already ancient history. Miss Tiger still seemed to be lost under her sunglasses, face turned toward the sun.
I no longer had any doubts about the necessity of the trip across the Atlantic. Mr. President had been right, as always.
It was open season on Henry Hallmark.
"Look here." I heard Richards telling his fellow agent. "Saw marks. The damn thing's been sawed through. Weakened enough to give and fall like it did. No wind did that."
"Ain't it the truth?" I said to myself, wafting some cigarette smoke windward. I'll windward.
8. Bhudda and Tiger
I walked back to the far end of the games deck, still smoking, watching Bhudda and the kids. I edged past the moh and took up a position close to Gilda Tiger. The most magnificent body in the world lay remote and spectacular on a deck chair, still facing the sun. I caught sight of the Warrens watching in amusement as Bhudda fashioned a very presentable rabbit out of a gay silken scarf. I could tell from the lack of concern on their faces that they hadn't been present for the near-hit on Henry Hallmark. Vivian Warren waved at me, dragging Jack over to say hello. They were both dressed as they should he. Vivian, her slender, large-breasted body encased in a becoming dress, topped off by a bolero jacket of rich red hues, still looked excited. Jack was calm, already the experienced world traveler.
"Ed," Vivian said. "Isn't he something?"
"A sideshow," I agreed. "With rabbits and warrens complete."
Jack chuckled.
Vivian's tender eyes banked low. "Who is that absolutely gorgeous woman?"
"Somebody I'd like to meet in a dark bedroom," I said. Jack Warren chuckled again.
"If Vivian wasn't with me—" he began a lame comeback but I changed the subject. "How did the gin rummy go?"
"The Mendelmans trimmed the pants off us. George not only talks, he makes the cards talk."
"Jack!" Vivian said reprovingly. "Be fair."
"What be fair? All I said was that he's a good player. Isn't that fair enough?"
"Don't fight, folks," I said. "You want to scare the kids?"
Vivian watched Bhudda's amazing, tireless fingers fold some silver dollars into neat halves. "He is good, isn't he?"
"Slightly fantastic," I agreed. "And the real thing, even if he was 'made in Japan.' Former sumo wrestler, I understand. Champ and all that."
Vivian glanced slyly at the reclining Gilda Tiger, her eyes mischievous, her voice low.
"And she—what's she the champ of?"
"Everything from tea to tiddlywinks, they tell me."
"Come on, Viv." Jack was suddenly restless. "We have to send that cable, don't we? The folks will be wondering. See you at dinner, Ed?"
"Done. So long, you two."
Vivian lowered her lashes, not coquettishly, just in that feminine way of hers, and allowed her young husband to drag her off. I waved at them, trying to remember how long ago it was that I first started to wonder about girls and love.
The mob had thinned around Bhudda, tired parents finally lugging their offspring away. The giant was nodding toward them and doffing his Panama. Then he settled down happily in a deck chair alongside his mistress. He didn't lie, he just sat, his jolly face wreathed in smiles. He wasn't sweating a bit today. His shiny face was an oasis of serenity. I guessed that he liked kids or liked to show-off.
I thrust my hands into my back pockets and sauntered away from the rail. Bhudda saw me coming, and his lips moved. Gilda Tiger didn't stir, but he must have passed her some message.
I stopped just before her chair. Her bared toes seemed to reach out and caress my trousers. Bhudda stared up at me, face still jolly, waiting for me to speak.
"Hi, Bhudda," I said. "You're pretty good with changing things into rabbits and monkeys. Maybe you can do a trick for me."
"So?" His voice was blurred.
"Disappear. I want to talk to the boss lady."
"You go," he said. His smile was fixed, as if it was plastered on.
"You can't disappear? I'm disappointed. Then maybe you can take a knife I have and change that into a bad dream. Can you do that?"
"You go. No more talk. All done. Go,"
I ignored him, directing my words to the face masked by sunglasses.
"Is that what you want, Tiger? Me to go? You're chicken, Tiger."
Bhudda rose to his feet, dwarfing me. I didn't move. I had broad daylight, witnesses, and unmitigated gall on my side. The giant flexed his shoulders and put out his hands in the approved way that karate fighters say Howdy.
"Sorry, Bhudda. I'm all booked up for the next dance. Some other time." I prodded the naked toes with my knees. "Well, lady? What's it going to be? Do you want to watch your bodyguard bounce me all over the deck?"
Bhudda growled, but Gilda's face suddenly came alive under the sunglasses. Her wide mouth moved, and that low animal voice with all its contrasting culture and bold brass poured out.
"You've got balls, mister. If you want to hang onto them, go away. The store's closed. I'm not interested in anything you have to sell."
"I'm not selling, Miss Tiger. I'm buying."
"Buying?" Her harsh laugh ripped like a buzz saw into my ears. She shot erect quickly, pulling the sunglasses away from her green eyes. The eyes snapped, and hot, passionate lightning flew from them. "Get lost, you jerk, or you'll be using up all your Blue Cross payments."
I stared at her. "How have you kept your teeth so long, Miss Tiger? I'm trying to help you, and this is your happy way of thanking me?"
She put her lips together as if she were counting to ten while Bhudda warmed up. "Look, Buster. This is the last time you talk to me, get it? So make your pitch and then beat it. I'll give you that much time. Now, beat your gums, say what you have to say, and then buzz off and don't ever bother me again."
I took my time because I didn't want her to miss one word or one inflection. I watched her bosom heave against the folds of the kimono, and kept Bhudda in range so that I could see where his hands were. I put the fool smile on my face, out front where she could see it, and chose my words very carefully.
"Fair enough. Here's my message to you. Miss Pussycat. To the question how long do I want to live—my answer is, I intend to live a long, long time. Put that in your bra and smoke it."
With that, I turned my back on her once more and walked away. From a woman who had probably enjoyed a lifetime of men all kinds of men, crawling on their knees and bellies before her. Oh. she loved to say no, all right. But she would have to be the one to say the no. I was gambling on that. I was also playing with the notion that Mr. Bhudda had shaved my ear with the knife last night—and that was something I had to be sure of before the trip was a day older.
I batted 1.000 in the guessing league.
I had gone maybe five steps when a giant hand plucked at my arm and spun me around like a top. I kept my feet, but I felt like a leaf in a storm. Bhudda was smiline at me and poking a pudgy thumb back toward the roclininq man-killer on the deck chair. She was biting the stem of her sunglasses her eyes mocking me over the frames.
"Missy say you come," Bhudda murmured.
I flung her a glance. Her gaze traveled over me from head to foot. She moved her body suggestively, showing me what happened to her pelvic area when she did so. I tried not to goggle my eyes.
"Big mouth." She laughed derisively. "Okay. You come tonight to my cabin. Eight o'clock. Then you show me what you want to buy. If this is just a cute way to make a pass, you'll be the sorriest slob that ever hit the fantail. You understand?"
"Perfectly."
"You still want to come, with those conditions?"
"And how."
"Okay." She put the sunglasses back on matter-of-factly and lay down again. "It's your funeral. Bhudda, I'm ready for my massage now."
He grunted, and I didn't hang around to watch. The tiger that was in Gitda's tank was too stimulating for a grown man to watch from a distance. I hate Bunnies at Playboy Clubs as it is. Look but don't touch.
She had bitten, though; either because of her ego or the fact that Bhudda had thrown the knife and she was involved up to her slick armpits. The matter of the falling pipe that had almost crowned Henry Hallmark king was something else to wonder about, too.
There was the midship bar to do some thinking in. Thinking and fueling up. I found a solitary table in the corner of the plush lounge and ordered a whiskey sour. The shining glass, chandelier, and luxurious decor soothed me until the drink came. That calmed me down even more. The atmosphere was pleasing; it was like being in a lush Manhattan nightclub. The place was full up, too. Couples chattering, ice tinkling, and a low undercurrent of cocktail music.
I had my nose buried in a second whiskey sour when I heard my name spoken low. I looked up. Richards and his crony, the Hallmark bodyguards in person, were fronting my table.
"Hi, fellows. Enjoying the trip?"
"We'd like to talk to you," Richards said. The copper look still hung around his neck like a dog collar. Some men never lose that look. A tired wariness, mingled with a protective curtness and belligerence of manner. Always suspicious, always looking the horse in the mouth. His partner could have been his twin. They were both nondescript in that policeman sort of way.
"Naturally you want to talk to me. Why not? Drinking?"
They sat down, removing their Panamas. "Not on duty," Richards said. "Want a Coke, Pete?"
Pete shook his head. I toyed with my glass, watching the cherry fight with the lemon peel.
"Pete what?" I asked.
"Barroni," he said. "And remember the name."
"All right. Mr. Richards and Mr. Barroni. What can I do for you?"
Richards kept his voice low. "You were on your toes out there. Saved his hide and ours in the bargain. We appreciate that. Same time, we have to be careful. You could have planted the accident so we could trust you, and that way you could get even closer to your man."
"Good thinking," I agreed. "Except it isn't so. I'm on vacation, and I am who I say I am. Do me something."
"We know you, Noon." Richards almost smiled. "Free-swinging, no rules and regulations. Okay. Fine with us. But we want you to know that we know that, so we won't be climbing all over each other in the next three days. After London, I don't care if you go to China in a balloon. Right, Pete?"
"Right," Pete said.
"Go on, Richards. I'm still listening."
"You've been messing after the Tiger dame. We can see that. If you're looking for some action, fair enough. If you're playing your own game, that's fair, too."
I blinked at that. "You lost me on the second part. I admit to the first because she's a dish."
Richards frowned. He looked unhappy. "Tiger's loaded. She gets alimony or blackmail from maybe
half a hundred guys in the world. You could have been rung in by one of those guys to get something on her that will stand up in court. That makes sense, doesn't it? You could be working on this trip, is what I mean, and that's okay with us. All we're interested in is keeping our V.I.P. in good health."
I was beginning to understand why Gilda the Great had run around my tackle since the beginning. It made sense. She must have known I was a private detective, just the way Richards and Barroni did. She could have put the same two and two together and gotten the same four.
"Then you have nothing to fear from me," I said. "Or Gilda Tiger. I'm interested only in the fun and games department. That clear?"
"You'd better be leveling, Noon."
"I won't say it twice, gents. I'm out to sink a plumb bob into the lady. Isn't that awful of me?"
Pete Barroni winced at me and my empty glass. "A playboy. Come on, Rich. Let's get some fresh air."
"A second more, Pete." Richards stared at me. The official stare. "Gilda Tiger has been known to play the game of politics. For your sake, I hope she's just taking a pleasure cruise. You, too. Keep that in mind. If our V.I.P. gets hurt, I'll come after you on my hands and knees, deaf, dumb, and blind if I have to. Right now, I'm saying thanks for this morning."
"You're welcome," I said. "Both of you. And all the little Richards and little Barronis."
"I'm not married," Pete snapped. "And neither is Rich, smart boy. We've got other things to do."
I didn't answer him. I looked down into the glass. They got up quietly and left the table. Two grim characters who had wedded themselves to an important job, using the rationalization that personal life and happiness played second fiddle to such vital work. I shuddered, feeling as though I had just been lectured by a pair of evangelists.
I ordered another sour. I needed it. The job was beginning to assume angles and depths I didn't like. If Gilda Tiger had played the international sweepstakes, I might have left myself wide open. I tried to think of a constructive message I might send via the ship's radio room or my own transmitter. Some information was needed. Maybe a full dossier on Gilda. So far I had been relying only on gossip and conjecture.
Assassins Don't Die in Bed Page 6
