by Frank Kane
HOW WOULD IT LOOK,” LIDDELL ASKED, “IF YOU GOT SHOT WITH YOUR OWN GUN?”
“No, don’t, Liddell!” Handel crawled over to him on all fours. “Give me a break. You can have everything I’ve got. Money, her, anything. But don’t kill me. Don’t.”
The voluptuous redhead looked down at the man cowering on the floor. She tossed her white sweater onto a chair, reached back and pulled down the zipper of her gown.
“All right, Liddell. He’s being so generous.
Be my guest”
FRANK KANE
CRIME OF THEIR LIFE
This is a work of fiction and all characters and events in the story are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental.
© Copyright, 1962, by Frank Kane
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About Frank Kane
Bibliography
CRIME OF THEIR LIFE
CHAPTER 1
The cruise ship Queen Alexandra caught the storm full-on less than a hundred miles off Hatteras. The companionways were laced with ropes, most of the passengers hadn’t shown from their bunks since the afternoon tea. By dinner time, the saloons were deserted, the bar crowd had dwindled to three hardened passengers and the bartender. He stood at the far end of the bar, made no attempt to erase the boredom from his eyes as he stared out onto the rain-lashed deck. Most of the crew of the Queen welcomed an occasional spell of bad weather because it kept the passengers occupied and out of their hair. Not the bartender, whose take depended on a heavy play from the passengers and their tips.
On the bridge, Captain Delmar Rose was scowling as he watched the build-up of the black walls of water that were buffeting the ship. She was beginning to creak and groan as the waves grew in strength and size. There was no danger that the old girl couldn’t ride this one out as it had ridden many others out in its day. The captain’s main regret was that when the storm had finally blown itself out, he’d have to face the complaints of the passengers at the daily cocktail parties and explain how “unusual” this weather was. He burrowed his balled fists into the pockets of his heavy-weather coat, gave orders to reduce speed.
In the glass-enclosed lounge that adjoined the bar, a thick-set man with an unruly shock of white hair sat chewing on the stem of a battered bulldog briar. The drink on the table in front of him was untouched, he seemed to be devoting his full attention to the lace-capped waves that rushed by the side of the ship to congeal in a thrashing wake at her stem.
He gazed up at the heavy, black clouds overhead that writhed and twisted like something alive, something in ferment. It would be dark in an hour or less, he estimated. But tonight very few of the passengers would be in condition for a game of musical beds. Tonight, most of them would be grateful to stay in their own beds and suffer.
He sucked absently on the pipe-stem, the juice in it rattled, he realized he had allowed it to go out. He tapped the bowl against the heel of his hand, dislodged the dottle into the ash tray.
Tonight would probably be an excellent opportunity for him to check out a few impressions he had formed of his fellow passengers in the short time they had been aboard. There wouldn’t be too many curious onlookers to wonder what he was doing, prowling in parts of the ship where he had no obvious business.
As darkness started to enfold the ship, the screech of the wind reached the pitch of a stage-struck banshee. The high and heavy seas were battering at the ship with sledgehammer blows. But her high, knife-edged bow cleaved through the high waves, tossing mountainous billows to either side, exploding cascades of spray that drenched the decks, turned the covers of the lifeboats black with dampness.
Some place, a telephone shrilled.
The man at the table was reloading the bowl of his pipe when the white-jacketed barman lurched in from the bar.
“You’re Mr. Landers, aren’t you, sir?” The bartender steadied himself on the back of a chair.
“That’s right.”
“I have a call for you at the bar, sir.”
Landers frowned briefly, stuck the pipe into his jacket pocket. He pulled himself to his feet, followed the bartender’s rolling gait and bowlegged stride that testified to years at sea.
There was only one die-hard at the bar now. He eyed Landers with a lack of curiosity as the thick-set man walked to the end of the bar, picked up the telephone.
“Landers,” he told the party on the other end.
The voice was muffled. “I know who you are, Mr. Landers, and what you want. I think I can help.”
Landers frowned, his eyes rolled up from the bar to meet the incurious eyes of the lone bar patron. “Who is this?” he asked gruffly.
“This is no time to talk. Meet me tonight at twelve on the sports deck aft. I have the information you’re looking for.”
“Now wait a minute—” Landers started to argue. There was a click at the other end as the connection was broken. He tapped the crossbar on the phone with a spatulate index finger, ignored the mild look of curiosity on the bartender’s face.
“Order, please?” a heavily accented voice answered.
“I just had a telephone call here at the bar. Can you tell me from what room?”
There was a slight pause. “126 on A deck, sir.”
“Who has that stateroom?”
There was another pause, then the accented voice was back. There was a puzzled note in it. “That’s funny. 126 on A deck is vacant. We’re picking up the passenger at our first stop at Antigua on Saturday.” His voice died down to a murmur as he rechecked. “It was 126, sir. I got it logged right here.”
Landers said, “Thanks,” dropped the receiver back on its hook, squinted at it for a moment. He checked his watch, decided the only thing he could do would be to wait, signaled to the bartender.
The man in the white jacket laid his half-smoked cigarette on the upturned end of a glass, shuffled down to where Landers leaned on the bar.
“Scotch on the rocks,” Landers told him.
The man behind the stick made a production of selecting a bottle from the backbar. “Get your party, sir?” He made a halfhearted attempt to disguise his curiosity.
Landers’ grinned at him, winked. “Recognize the voice?”
The bartender looked chagrined. He shook his head. “Sounded like she took real good care I wouldn’t,” he conceded. He glanced out into the gathering darkness. “What a night for it,” he sighed enviously.
By midnight, the Queen Alexandra was in the heart of the blow. Despite her 36,000 tons, she was beginning to pitch and roll. The creaking and groaning meant nothing, she was completely seaworthy, but it was a prerogative she reserved out of deference to her age. She had been built in Rotterdam and launched in 1935. In the twenty-seven years that she had been in active service, she had been a luxury liner, a troop carrier and now, after eighteen months of restoring her from the years of hard usage the troops had given her, she had been put out to pasture on the Caribbean cruise run.
Harry Landers opened the door onto the glass-enclosed lower promenade deck, stepped out. The bulldog briar was clenched between his teeth, his neck was submerged in the collar of his topcoat, he had his balled fists dug deep into his pockets. As he stepped out, the Queen slid down a
large switchback to head into an oncoming wave with an impact that shook the whole ship. Landers swore under his breath, grabbed for the handrail to steady himself.
Outside the spray-spattered glass windows, the jet-black waters with white lace antimacassars of foam capping the waves seemed to be reaching up the side of the boat. A few feet farther out, there was nothing but a black void, the darkness so solid that he had the sensation that he could reach out and touch it, as if a black velvet curtain had been lowered between him and the horizon.
The length of the promenade was deserted as he headed for the aft stairway that led to the upper decks. The open upper promenade was equally deserted as he climbed up and stepped out onto the sports deck.
He looked around, saw nobody. Above him, sparks from the aft funnel streamed into the darkness, volumes of smoke mingled astern with the ship’s foaming wake.
He hunched his shoulders against the chill, walked over to the veranda with its overhang designed to protect the piano used in the sports deck activities from the weather. He didn’t see the two figures that had melted into the shadows of the stairway leading to the sun deck above until it was too late. He tried to get his hands out of his pockets fast enough to protect his head from the murderous blow one of the figures aimed at him.
The belaying pin caught him on the arm, it snapped under the force of the blow. He tried to scream, his voice was lost in the banshee howl of the wind. The second figure was behind him. He was hardly aware of the blow that caught him on the back of his head, knocked him to his knees. He tried to pull himself to his feet, as another blow brought the deck up to smash against his face. He could feel himself spinning into a deep black pool.
The two men straightened up, made sure they weren’t being observed. Then they caught him under the arms, dragged him to the rail. One of the men caught him by the ankles, the other caught him under the neck. At a signal from the man at his neck, they straightened up and flipped the unconscious man. He described an arc over the rail into the darkness beyond. In a moment he had disappeared into the swirling foam of the wake.
There is very little that goes on on a ship that the captain doesn’t know. He has hundreds of eyes working for him in the form of stewards and bar men, stewardesses and the employees of the ship’s beauty parlor. No one takes the trouble to guard his tongue or to hide from his steward or stewardess his peccadilloes. These, in turn, are dutifully passed along to the captain. He requires this information, not to act as a censor but rather so that he can be alert to any situation that might develop to a point where it interferes with the orderly operation of his ship or with the enjoyment of his passengers.
So Captain Delmar Rose of the Queen Alexandra was not unduly alarmed the morning after the storm when Louis Armando, the steward on B deck, reported that Mr. Landers in 321 hadn’t slept in his room the night before. Captain Rose had already heard about the telephone call to the bar for Mr. Landers and the assignation that had been arranged.
But by noon he was beginning to worry. He had checked out his other sources, the other stewards and stewardesses. None of them had seen Mr. Landers and in no case had any of their charges been in the mood or condition for an assignation. Most of them were still in their staterooms, their complexions tinged with green, despite the fact that the wind had died down, the old ship had stopped her chronic creaking and complaining and the sun had shown a cautious face.
By three o’clock, thoroughly concerned, he had ordered an unscheduled fire drill. While the passengers were milling ill-humoredly at their various boat stations, Captain Rose personally instituted a search of the ship. By four o’clock he was convinced that Harry Landers was no longer aboard.
When the man on the telephone switchboard belatedly reported to him that the call to Harry Landers had come from stateroom 126 and that the passenger for 126 was not due to board until the Queen reached Antigua, Captain Rose marched into the radio shack and reported the incident in full detail to his home office.
CHAPTER 2
Johnny Liddell yanked irritably on his coat collar, drew it closer to his face to stave off the cold drizzle that had replaced the big-flaked, wet snow that had been coming down since early morning. The slush was almost up to his ankles, his feet were wet and cold, and it seemed every cab driver in New York had suddenly gone deaf and blind. He took a deep drag on the soggy cigarette he held cupped in his hand and delivered a colorful diatribe against New York, its people and especially its cab drivers.
There were other ways to get downtown, but he preferred to get soaked to the skin waiting for a cab rather than risk certain maiming in the subway at an hour when almost every building in mid-Manhattan was vomiting thousands of workers out its doors to be siphoned into the subway entrances.
Suddenly, one cab swung out of the line that had been passing him for the better part of a half hour. It skidded to a stop at the curb in front of him, sprayed him with a geyser of slush.
Liddell sighed, reached for the cab door, pulled it open.
“Easy with the door, Mac,” the cabbie told him. “It bruises easy.”
Liddell caught the door handle, tugged with all his strength. The door slammed with a bang that shook the whole cab.
The cabbie swung around on his seat, started to say something. He took a good look at Liddell-—the set jaw, the angry ridge between his eyes, the splashed coat—and decided against it.
“You could bust the glass right outta the window, you know?” he complained mildly in a hurt tone. “Glass like that costs money.” He turned back to his wheel, stared forward through the windshield. “Where to?”
“Lüchow’s. On Fourteenth.”
The hurt tone was back in the cabbie’s voice as his eyes met Liddell’s in the rear mirror. “I know, I know. I’m not just pushing this hack since yesterday.” He swung away from the curb, underscoring his resentment that a fare should try to tell him the location of a landmark.
In New York City at the turn of the century 14th Street was the heart of the musical, theatrical, literary and political life of the town. Tammany Hall was located catty-cornered from Lüchow’s. Tony Pastor’s famous variety house was on 14th Street as was the original Academy of Music where Mrs. Fiske, Julia Marlowe, Sothern and others appeared. Steinway Hall was there for the music buffs. Literary greats like Arthur Brisbane, O. O. McIntyre and O. Henry trekked uptown from Park Row to meet their cronies and swap reminiscences and lies.
Today all that’s left of the old 14th Street is the restaurant founded by a German immigrant named August Lüchow. Little has been changed and the old, high-ceilinged, dark-paneled dining room that stretches from 14th Street through to 13th is still the gathering place for The Names of stage, politics, music and finance. Leonard Bernstein has replaced Paderewski; Helen Traubel represents opera as Caruso once did; Billy Rose, rather than Ziegfeld, carries the standard for producers and Bob Considine takes the place of O. Henry. The table where Victor Herbert called a meeting of fellow composers to form ASGAP is still known as the Victor Herbert comer.
Johnny Liddell shucked off his damp overcoat in the checkroom, ambled in toward the back room that was originally an open-air beer garden. As he stepped into the Garden, Julius Richter, the leader of the string trio, tapped his bow on his music stand. The music stopped, then the strains of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” reached out to welcome Liddell.
He forgot his wet shoes and cold feet, waved a greeting. The blond owner of the restaurant, Jan Mitchell, hustled over from a table where he was welcoming an out-of-town columnist.
“Long time, Johnny,” he greeted Liddell.
“Too long. I don’t get downtown as often as I should.” He glanced around the big room. “Connie Michaels get here yet? I was supposed to meet him for dinner.”
Mitchell nodded. “He’s back in the new room. He said you’d want some privacy. The new room doesn’t usually fill up until later.” He turned, led the way through the tables back to what was originally the stables where Lüchow kept his h
orses before Prohibition.
Connie Michaels waved a greeting from a comer table as Liddell walked up. He stuck a beefy hand across the table at Johnny, crushed his hand in a welcoming grip.
“Tough day to drag anyone out of their office,” he apologized. He sank back into his chair, waited until Liddell was seated.
The restaurant man excused himself to greet another newcomer.
“How busy are you, Johnny?” Michaels wanted to know.
Liddell scowled, ordered a scotch and soda from the waiter who had materialized at his elbow and then hustled away.
“I could be a helluva lot busier and still qualify for unemployment insurance,” he growled.
“Good.” The man across the table nodded his satisfaction. “I want you to handle something for us. Something big.”
Liddell waited until the waiter had slid a drink in front of him then shuffled back toward the bar. “That what you wanted to see me about in such a fever? You have an office on 47th Street and I have one on 42nd Street, so we make a meet on 14th Street?” He tasted the drink, approved. “Not that I’m complaining. But why?”
“I didn’t want anyone around the Diamond Exchange to see you with me,” Michaels told him. His face was heavy, serious. In the ten years Johnny Liddell had known the man, he had changed very little. The jowls were a little heavier, the network of lines under the eyes had become more intricate, the hair had receded farther on the pate of his head. But Connie Michaels’s jaw was still strong, his eyes direct and commanding. “How would you like to take a Caribbean cruise, Johnny? At our expense?”
“Sounds interesting,” Liddell conceded. “What’s the gimmick?”
The heavy-set man across the table picked up his glass, stared down into the amber liquor. “We’ve got some man-sized troubles, and we think the answer to them could be found on this cruise.” He looked up, frowned at Liddell. “It won’t be just a junket. We had a man on the ship I want you to take—”