"Ed! By George. what are you doing here—?"
It was the Mendelmans, George and his overdressed wife. I rose wearily to my feet, forcing a smile I didn't feel. as I invited them to join me in a drink.
By George again, that was right up George Mendelman's alley. It was a small world, wasn't it, and why didn't I hang around last night to watch the gin rummy excitement? I didn't tell him.
The Mendelmans had evidently come around to believing that I really was a detective, and they were excited about me. They had met a real live private eye, right out of the paperback novels and the hard-boiled TV shows. And you know somethings—he was such a pleasant guy: you'd never believe he killed anybody, talked out of the side of his mouth, or carried a gun.
Oh, yeah.
That came out, "Oh, yesh," so I knew I'd had too much to, drink. For such an early time of day, this was downright silly.
"Heard there was a little excitement on the games deck," George said reaching for his Bloody Mary. "Henry Hallmark was nearly killed by a falling pipe or something. You see it?"
"No," I said. "I was too busy making a date with a lady for tonight. I'm on the prowl, you know." I winked at Mrs. Mendelman. She pouted huffily and drew her fur stole tighter about her shoulders.
"Well," she tried to be big about it, "if that sort of thing is what you wish—" She let the phrase dangle, hoping I'd pick it up, but I let it lie. Mrs. Mendelman had forgotten all about sex outside of the marriage bed the day she married George.
Her price was luxury, fur stoles, the Mrs. in front of her name, and the solidity of community acceptance. All the rest of it could go fly a kite.
George Mendelman laughed. His well-oiled laugh. "You bring back memories, Ed. Why, there was a time when no woman was safe, when I was young and full of beans "
Beans? I had a substitute for that.
"Well"—I rose from the table—"if you good people will excuse me, I have to go write a letter to my uncle. He worries about me. Treats me as if I was still a kid, you know."
"How sweet," Mrs. Mendelman said, somewhat mollified now that I was a considerate nephew.
"Sure!" George roared. "You go right to your uncle and ask her if she's got a friend."
On that brilliant sally, I left them.
There was a lot to be done before I sashayed forth into the great Gilda Tiger's lair.
She might be a sleeping tiger, she might not be. Whatever she was, I was in the mood to pull her tail.
9. Lady or Tiger Lily?
I spent the better part of the afternoon in my stateroom. I drew the curtains over the portholes, draped my sport coat over the keyhole, and made some arrangements for the evening rendezvous with Gilda. Some catching up had to be done on my homework as a confidential agent. I did it.
There was a radio in my stateroom, a beautiful squared box of mahogany. I turned it on loud, finding a station that was playing the best and loudest rock 'n roll music I could find.
Then I went into the gleaming tiled bathroom, taking the false pack of Camels with me, the one that contained a compact transmitter and sending device. I spent a full five minutes checking the walls, medicine cabinet, and other likely spots for bugging devices. That was the one boring procedure of any spy operation. It is the simplest ABC in the espionage rule book and just about as routine as breathing. Something you always had to bother with. I was pretty sure my cover was good, and my front a fooler, but you never could be too sure. Especially after a close shave with a thrown knife and a pretty near miss on the target you were supposed to protect. Somebody on board was gunning for Henry Hallmark already, so I had to play according to the rules and regulations.
The bathroom was clean, so I put the transmitter in to business, thumbing the ON lever. It would give me a direct line to the Chief. If he was in, his red, white, and blue phone would receive the electronic buzzer. If he wasn't, all I'd get would be a lot of static.
He was in.
I waited maybe forty-five seconds before his familiar voice bridged the miles between the Francesca and the White House.
"Yes, Ed?"
"Hello again. Thought I'd talk to you."
"Go on."
"I've contacted the Hallmarks, Fact is, his wife has taken a liking to me."
There was a welcome laugh in my ear. "Not hard to do. Is Henry all right?"
"Yes. But you hit the nose about this trip. They've tried to make Mrs. Hallmark a widow already." His slight gasp was as close as if he were standing in front of me. I took advantage of that to tell him the story from beginning to end, including a report on Tom Faulkner. Richards and Barroni, Gilda Tiger, Bhudda, and Surat Singh. The mention of Singh's name bothered the Chief. Small wonder. The sheet-dressed Hindu was enough opposition for an army.
"Good work, Ed. You'll have your hands full. I know Richards and Barroni. Completely trustworthy. Faulkner is a strange young man who may have some grandiose ideas of his own importance, but he is absolutely devoted to Henry Hallmark. So Esme is still drinking? I had hoped she had grown away from that."
"Is there anything you can send me on this Tiger woman that might be worth knowing?"
He paused for a moment. Then his crisp voice indicated that he had thought of something. "I'll check her out with the F.B.I., C.I.A., and Interpol. There have been rumors about her, though to all appearances she's exactly what she seems—an international playgirl. But it is odd that she should be on the ship at this point. One of her husbands was involved with Surat Singh at one time. That may not be anything, of course, but keep it in mind."
"She's a hunk of woman, Chief."
"I have seen pictures of her," he admitted, "but I leave all to your intelligence. If she turns up traitor, how you handle her is your affair."
"Check."
"Any other untoward developments?"
"Negative. Everybody's having a fine time. It's a great ship."
"Yes, it is. Anything else?"
"No. That about does it. Should we set a time for these calls? Might help your schedule."
"I think not. If I expect to hear from you and I don't, it would be something else to worry about. No, let's leave it as it is. Call when you feel it's important."
"Will do." I lit a cigarette. "How's the weather in D.C.?"
"Like a golf score. In the low seventies." He chuckled, but he couldn't quite eradicate the note of grimness in his voice. "I'll sign off now. Good luck. Ed."
"Thanks, Chief."
The radio was blasting as I reentered the stateroom proper. I lowered it. I walked to the covered portholes and drew the curtains to let some daylight in. For a moment I blinked. Surat Singh, tall, bony, and grotesque in his winding sheet, was walking past the circular window. His profile, beard-filled and hawk-nosed, was staring straight ahead. He was out of view in a second. Coincidence or evasion? I wondered if he had been planted outside my stateroom, trying to catch a peek or a listen For his sake, I hoped he was a rock 'n roll fan.
While I was thinking about that, there came a gentle knock on the door. I slid to the panel and asked aloud, "Yes?"
"Signor Noon? It is I. Gambarelli the purser." I had a fast picture of the dainty little man with the matinee-idol moustache, the clean hands. and a better brand of English than I used. Opening the door testified to the accuracy of my memory. Signor Gambarelli fairly minced into the room, as if he were about to go into a dance. His wavy black hair gleamed, his olive eyes sparkled. There was a white carnation in the lapel of his Petrocelli suit, which was right out of Cesar Romero.
"Mr. Gambarelli." I said.
"Pardon the intrusion." He smiled. "It is just that I wish to convey some news to you. Good news. It will delight your heart."
"That's nice."
His smile widened. "You will be surprised, Mr. Noon. No, you will be delighted."
I shrugged. "Delight me."
I watched warily as he reached into his inner pocket and drew forth a long envelope. It was sealed. I could see that as he waved it under my nose.
"It is the duty of the personnel of a ship to come up with amusements and entertainments to make a crossing even more satisfying to the traveler. You understand? You have heard, of course, of ship's totalizer boards where bets are wagered on how many miles the vessel attains each day—and of the auction pools where horse racing is done with mere cards. Well, the Francesca has always prided itself on bettering even those divertissements. You understand me?"
"Sure. I'll buy a bet. How much?"
His eyes widened as if I had insulted him. He waved the letter under my nose. It was blue, and crinkled like onionskin. I remember that much about the envelope.
"But you misunderstand me! There is nothing to bet! You have won our lottery contest already! Your passage ticket, number seven-nine-seven-aught-two-four, was the winning ticket from our purser's list. My dear Mr. Noon, here is our check for ten thousand dollars!"
I have seldom been surprised in this life. I used to count birth, the first bullet, and the first love the penultimate in shock and wonder. But standing in that stateroom with the dancing Italian waving a ten-thousand-dollar check under my nose was crowding for first place. It wasn't the money—it was the unique unexpectedness of such a windfall in the midst of a secret service caper. Sort of like finding two apple pies in the bread box when you're a kid I wasn't ready for it. I got corny and let my guard down, blinded by the oddness of the timing.
"You're kidding," I said. "I never entered any lottery Nobody took a dime from me for a bet."
Mr. Gambarelli was beginning to get exasperated with me. "Again you don't realize what I am saying You see for each passenger we take, the Amadeo Line donates one dollar to the lottery. Your ticket won. Capisce—don't you understand? You have won ten thousand dollars!" In his pique, he was getting his Italian and careful English twisted.
"Show me."
He handed me the envelope. I opened it carefully. He hadn't been kidding. There was a very official-looking check, properly printed on watermarked paper, from the Amadeo Steamship Lines, Inc., made out to Edward Noon, for ten thousand dollars. I felt the back of my neck get warm. It was insane, but it was obviously true.
"See?" he crowed. "You have won a small fortune!"
"Ten thousand smackers, as nice as you please. Christmas came early this year." I smiled at him, and he looked happier about the whole thing. "Who do I thank for this besides you, Mr. Gambarelli?"
"That is up to yourself. Tonight at dinner, the announcement will be made. You will stand up and take a bow. That is all there is to it."
"For ten thousand bucks, I'll do a striptease."
"That won't be necessary, I assure you. Well, I'm glad you are pleased." "That I am. Thanks again."
Prego," he murmured. Then he bowed and minced toward the door, a jolly Santa even if he wasn't dressed for the part. I noticed his shoes—pointed black leather shoes with spats. Spats! I hadn't seen a pair of those since my last Edward G. Robinson gangster movie. I felt a little nuts myself. Celebration and personal ego were shredding the normal functions of my usually fairly clear-thinking brain. I should have suspected something was wrong with the whole picture. Something had to be. But what gimmick could there be in my winning a check for ten thousand dollars? I didn't know.
And in the not knowing lay the great error.
"Mr. Gambarelli," I said again.
"Come—yes, Mr. Noon?"
Dainty hand on the doorknob, his eyebrows and moustache rose in unison.
"Thank the captain for me. What's his name?"
"Captain Rodericko Donelli."
"Captain Donelli. I'll buy him a drink tonight. You, too."
"I would be honored. Good day, Mr. Noon."
"Arrivederci."
When he had gone, I walked to the combination table and writing desk and put the check down on the blotter. It lay there, blue, very inviting, a completely unexpected gift from the gods. Gods of what? I flicked on the cobra-headed table lamp, casting a full light on the subject.
I tried to think. Something bothered me about the check. It couldn't be kosher. The curse of this business is that it makes everything suspicious, makes all things not what they seem. I lit a Camel and pondered the problem. What price not being careful?
I rummaged in my luggage in the clothes closet and found the small, boxlike contraption I wanted. It was a fluorescent device, which applied over any object, would show any items therein not apparent to the naked eye. I don't know what I was looking for. Secret messages in invisible ink, the check to curl up and vanish, or what. I didn't know anything except the unalterable fact that I was not ready to accept the check at face value.
It would only take five seconds to find out whether or not the check was anything more than a mere rectangle of paper. Right now, it was a rectangle of doubt. The darkest kind of doubt.
The box was of lightweight metal with a mirrored bottom through which I could inspect the check. I merely had to adjust the glass for distance and focus.
I can remember only one thing about that tiny interval of time during which I was crossing from the clothes closet to the desk. The stateroom was hushed and silent. There was hardly a roll to be felt beneath your feet as the Francesca breasted the waves of the ocean cleanly.
There is also a faint memory of ship's bells tinkling in the distance, of someone giggling on the deck outside the stateroom, of the air conditioners in my room throbbing softly—a low rhythm of power, luxury, and comfort.
That is all I remember.
For the explosion, when it came, was a tremendous, mushrooming slam of violence which turned the world upside down. The gates of Hell had swept open.
10. Something-Blue Hell
There is an old theory about dynamite that no one has ever really put to the test. After all, you're only allowed one mistake. As with a parachute that doesn't open, you can't go back to the manufacturer and ask for another one or file a complaint to sue the company. The dynamite theory for what it is worth: if a person stood next to a stick of same in an open, unconfined place, say a field, the resulting blast could literally blow that person out of harm's way without a scratch, while the dynamite stick tore up the cabbage patch. I don't know but what I think that the exploding blue check was a lot like that.
When I woke up, face down to the carpeted floor of the stateroom, it was the first thing I could think of. That plus the fact that whereas I had been standing by the desk when the explosion came, I was now clear across the room, close to the bathroom door.
It hadn't been dynamite, of course. Just some rare and incredible explosive that had detonated when the check had come in contact with the atmosphere of the room. Probably timed for three minutes after dear Mr. Gambarelli had left the room. Gambarelli. He and I were going to have a very long talk when I pulled myself together.
I don't know how long I stayed on the floor, fighting to keep the throbbing agony behind my eyes from making me scream out for help. I counted the warp of the rug beneath me, the nape curled inches from my glazed eyes. The room was spinning, weaving, tilting, like a teen-ager doing the Frug. There was a pounding cataract of thunder in my ears. My head was ringing like all the phones in Grand Central Station. One thought and one thought alone kept coming back like a bad song. If I had put the check in my pocket or in my billfold as I was probably supposed to have done, I'd be splattered all around the four walls of the cozy stateroom.
Stateroom.
I tried to bring it into focus, alternately confused about the amount of damage that had been done and why no one had come on the run to see what the thunder was all about. I could only assume that the well-insulated room and the various sounds on the ship had drowned out the explosion.
I stared at the red carpet for a century, trying to clear the glaze off my eyes, hoping I hadn't gone blind. Except for my clanging head I felt moderately intact.
The tiny, multiple, synchronized strands of red carpet fibers began to dance before my eyes. All in a row, dividing, then joining, then playing leapfrog. I pu
t my teeth together, gritting them, trying to count up to ten thousand. Ten thousand bucks' worth of trouble.
"Ed! What on earth!"
I blinked, trying to think, assimilate some sense. None came. Somebody was thundering like a herd of buffalo across the room. A faint aroma of some sweet-smelling perfume tried to waft its way into my nose.
"Ed—Ed! Wake up! Are you all right?"
There was something familiar about the voice and the sweet smell. I tried to place them, but I couldn't. I just couldn't. Then I felt soft, firm hands seize the collar of my flannel shirt, tugging. I tried to help out rising stiffly. The cloud before my eyes broke. Red flashes of carpet and more vermilion hues banged me in the eyes.
The first thing I saw was breasts. Big breasts. They rolled before me, maybe a finger's length away. They were like captive balloons. Bright red, soaring, straining for the skies. A bursting panorama of twin wonders. I had total recall long before the pretty face with the sad eyes above the marvelous breasts unfolded before me.
The sweet smell was pleasant, too. Much better than spirits of ammonia. I shook myself, growling like a hear. Blood started to return to various portions of my anatomy. My ribs ached, and my lungs were on fire now, but I could see. And think a little straighter.
"Ed, say something, for pity's sake! Can't you talk?"
Vivian Warren was kneeling over me, breasts spilling from that cute little bolero jacket, her long dark hair swept to one side of her nice face. Her eyes were like a mother's eyes. Filled with sympathy, close to tears.
I tried to smile. "I—thought—I told you to wait in the car."
"Don't joke, please." She was begging me now, slender fingers pulling at my shoulders. "I came by to pick you up. Jack and the Mendelmans are in the bar having a small party and—your door was ajar. And you—"
"I'm all right now. Let me try to stand."
She did. She was strong, for all her slenderness. I leaned on her because I had to. The room was still slightly canted, like a ship without stabilizers might be. I stared toward the desk. I'm afraid I cursed. Out loud. I don't know what I said, but I could feel Vivian Warren recoil in my arms.
Assassins Don't Die in Bed Page 7
