Crime of Their Life

by Frank Kane

  “Had?”

  The big man bobbed his head glumly. “We just got word that our man cannot be found aboard and must be presumed to have been lost at sea.”

  Liddell considered it soberly. “Couldn’t have been an accident?”

  “You know Harry Landers?”

  “Landers was your man?”

  Michaels nodded.

  “It was no accident,” Liddell grunted. He took a swallow from his glass, set it back on the table. “Okay, so let’s talk about these problems of yours.”

  “Diamonds,” the heavy-set man told him. “Somebody’s been smuggling diamonds in, dumping them and kicking hell out of prices.”

  “I thought you boys controlled the output. Where are they getting them to smuggle?”

  Michaels drained his glass, set it down. He managed to look unhappy. “We do control practically the whole world output. Every place except South America. And that’s where the damn things are coming from.”

  “South America?”

  “Brazil.”

  Liddell looked puzzled. “I thought South American diamonds were industrial diamonds.”

  “A lot of it is industrial stuff. They call it carbonado. But a lot of valuable gem diamonds show up down there, too. Half their output is gem quality. The Star of the South they found down there weighed 261 carats and the President Vargas was even bigger. Weighed over 725 carats.” He caught the eye of the waiter, signaled for two refills. “But those big babies we’re not worried about. We’re worried about the two-, three-, four- and five-carat stones that have been flooding the market. They’re murdering us.”

  “That serious, huh?”

  Michaels reached into his pocket for a balled handkerchief, swabbed his face and jowls. “Serious enough that if we don’t find a way to put the cork in the bottle there could be a complete price collapse.”

  The waiter was at the table, removed two empty glasses, replaced them with fresh drinks. Liddell waited until he was again out of earshot.

  “And you think they’re being brought in on this cruise ship?”

  “Harry Landers did. He’s been working on the case for over a year. Three weeks ago he showed up at the Exchange all excited. He had finally gotten a break through some of the lines he had out. He was confident that by the time the Queen Alexandra returned home, he’d have the whole thing wrapped up.”

  Liddell considered it, nodded. “He give you any idea of what the break was or how he was handling it?”

  “You said you knew Landers? Then you know how he worked.”

  “So we start from scratch.”

  The big man reached out for his drink, swirled the liquor around the side of the glass. “Not entirely from scratch. We know he must have been onto something and that something was on the boat. She’s due to arrive in Barbados on Sunday. I’ve made arrangements for you to pick her up there and finish out the cruise. Maybe with luck you’ll latch onto what Landers was working on.”

  “That gives me how many days?”

  Michaels drew an envelope from his breast pocket, squinted at the scribbled notes on its back. “She docks back here a week from next Tuesday. That gives you roughly nine days aboard.”

  “What am I going to do with all my spare time?”

  Michaels sighed, returned the envelope to his pocket. “I know it’s a pretty tough assignment, Johnny, and I know you don’t have much time. But we’ve never been this close to them up to now. Before the people on that ship can scatter to all comers of the country, I want to take a crack at bagging them.” He eyed Liddell glumly. “You willing to take it on?”

  Liddell took a swallow from his glass, shrugged. “Hell, for a chance to get away from this weather and get a look at the sun, I’d sign to find a spit in the ocean.”

  The big man nodded his satisfaction. He held his glass up in a silent toast. Liddell clinked his against it, they drank.

  “I can’t tell you what a load that is off my mind,” Michaels told him. “From now on I’m dumping it right into your lap. Just so there can’t be any possibility of a tip-off from this end, I don’t think we should get together again before you leave.”

  “You think there’s someone working from this end?”

  “Somebody fingered Landers. Somebody who saw him coming or going from our office. This is no petty larceny operation, Johnny, and these boys play for keeps.”

  Liddell managed to look unimpressed. “How about my transportation, cruise tickets and stuff?”

  The man across the table grinned. “I had all that sent over to your office this afternoon.”

  “You were pretty damn sure I was going to accept,” Liddell growled.

  “Why not? With all that slush and cold out there, if I wasn’t so damn fat and old, I’d go myself.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Queen Alexandra dropped anchor in the harbor outside Bridgeton in Barbados early on Sunday morning. When the natives awakened and wandered down to the dock from Literary Row, Flower Pot Alley and the other sections of town, she lay bobbing and swaying at anchor out in the blue waters. Already preparations were being made to take off her passengers by tender. In a few hours, the regulars at the Paradise Beach Club, the Coral Reef Club and Sam Lord’s Castle would be complaining bitterly about the vulgar clothes and the loud talking of the cruisers. The island merchants would be agreeing with them, but would be less critical of the tourists’ equally vulgar squandering of money.

  By 9 a.m., the first tender was loaded and headed for the dock. Men in shorts and slacks, all sizes, all shapes, with weird and wild straw hats protecting their bald pates from the beaming sun, lined the deck of the tender. Their feminine counterparts in halters and short shorts or gaily colored blouses and slacks two sizes too small were clotted in little groups busily comparing plans for the day in shrill and strident tones.

  Johnny Liddell stood on the dock at Bridgeton, squinted out at the Queen. She was painted gray, her superstructure a pure white. Her two funnels were tilted at a rakish angle, the slight swirl of smoke rose lazily toward the blue of the sky.

  Liddell watched the tender slowly draw away from the big boat and head toward shore. Overhead the cottony white clouds seemed to hang motionless in the blue sky. It didn’t seem possible that only twenty-four hours before he had been ankle-deep in slush, that the breeze that now cooled the perspiration on his body had been cold and cut through him like a knife. Instead of the blue skies and white clouds, New York had been in its tenth consecutive dark, dreary day with skies the color of lead.

  When the tender had been secured in her berth, its chattering cargo scurried off, determined to pack as much activity into the day ashore as they could. Johnny Liddell walked over to a thin, darkly tanned man in summer whites.

  “My name’s Liddell. I’m joining your cruise from here. Can I take my gear aboard?”

  The man in white smiled, wrinkles dug deep trenches in the tan of his face, carefully capped teeth gleamed whitely. “Sure thing. I’m Jack Allen, cruise director for the Queen Alexandra.” He stuck out a heavily corded hand, gave Liddell a firm shake. “I’ll have one of the crewmen bring your stuff out. That it over there?” He indicated the two suitcases and the attaché case on the dock bench.

  “That’s it.”

  The man in the white uniform motioned for one of the crewmen to bring the luggage aboard the tender, turned his attention back to Liddell. “You’re pretty lucky to be picking us up here. Had quite a blow couple of nights back. We should have clear sailing from now on.” He squinted up at the sky. “Couldn’t ask for anything better than a sky like that, could you?”

  “Looks pretty good to me,” Liddell conceded.

  The cruise director nodded. From close, it was obvious that he was older than he had appeared at first glance. “Been having a pretty good stretch of weather down here the past few weeks?”

  Liddell grinned. “Couldn’t prove it by me. I only flew in a couple of days ago from New York. Got my business cleaned up faster than I expected
, so I figured I’d combine business and pleasure and take the long way home.”

  The man in white nodded, raised his hand in salute to the tender captain who split the silence with two toots of his siren.

  “You coming back to the ship, Mr. Liddell, or you planning on doing a little sightseeing? If you feel like it, you can stay ashore and catch a later tender.”

  “Think I’ll get myself settled, get things squared away. I’ve already seen the island.” He followed the man in the white uniform on board. Slowly, imperceptibly, the tender started to pull away from the dock. Sluggishly, it felt its way past the breakwater to the deeper water of the channel. The shoreline began to fall behind, the people and liquor shack on the dock became smaller and smaller. The drone of the engine was steady, soothing.

  Liddell stood at the rail of the tender, watched as the distance to the shore grew. The combination of the balmy air, the warm sun and the soothing sound of the motor made it difficult for him to realize that he was here to catch a murderer. It was hard to think of murder in connection with these surroundings. But somewhere behind them in the ocean, Harry Landers’s body was irrefutable proof that it could happen. And if he got careless, Liddell might find himself playing gin with Landers in Davy Jones’s locker.

  It was still better than having wet feet and chills in New York!

  The tender captain expertly maneuvered the small craft to the gangway on B deck forward, made it fast. Inside the open hatchway another load of impatient cruisers was lined up waiting to rush down the gangplank for their trip to the island.

  The man in the white uniform signaled for one of the crewmen to transfer Liddell’s luggage onto the Queen. Liddell climbed the gangplank, ducked his head as he stepped aboard. The long line waiting to board the tender looked at him curiously. Some of the women stared and whispered. The men just stared.

  The cruise director brought over a plump, sweating little man in an officer’s uniform. “This is Andy Gartner from the purser’s office, Mr. Liddell. He’ll take care of you from here in.” He signaled to the steward at the head of the line to start loading the tender. “I’ll see you around.”

  Liddell turned to the short, fat man. “My name’s Liddell. I’m joining the cruise here, booked through to New York.”

  The assistant purser stuck out a damp, pudgy hand, gave Liddell’s a wet squeeze. “Glad to have you with us.” He reached for a clip board that hung from a hook on the wall, ran a sausage-shaped forefinger down a list of names, underscored with his nail one that had been written in longhand. “Liddell. You’ll have stateroom 321 on this deck. Will that be satisfactory?” he asked anxiously.

  Liddell nodded. “Any accommodations will do. I’m not planning to spend much time in my cabin.”

  “Hardly anyone does,” the purser agreed sadly. He consulted his watch. “The captain would like to meet you as soon as it’s convenient. He was on the bridge until almost five this morning so he’s still resting. Would noon be satisfactory?”

  Liddell nodded. “Gives me a chance to wash up and get settled.”

  The purser chewed on his lower lip. “Of course. I’ll have your baggage sent up directly.” He snapped his fingers, a uniformed page boy stepped up. “Take Mr. Liddell to cabin 321. See that he meets his steward.”

  The page boy bobbed his head, turned and led the way into the companionway. They skirted the staircase leading to the upper decks, headed down a narrow passageway. He stopped outside a door on which the numerals 321 were painted in gilt.

  A doorway marked Beauty Salon opened at the end of the corridor. A tall, well-stacked redhead in a white nylon uniform that clung to curves that showed signs of being worth clinging to stepped out, locked the door behind her. She wasted an incurious glance on Liddell and the page boy, headed for a stateroom a few doors from the salon. She opened it with a key, disappeared through the door without a backward glance.

  Liddell grinned his approval. “Well, I can see I’m going to be real comfortable. Especially with such nice neighbors.”

  The page boy managed a lewd grin. “That’s Meg. She runs the beauty shop. She tops a lot of the boys’ lists, mister. But you got to sport some real gold braid on your sleeve to rate.”

  A wizened little man in a white jacket and dark trousers materialized at the head of the corridor, hustled down to where they stood. He stopped in front of them, rubbing his hands.

  “This is the new passenger, Henrik,” the page boy told him. “Purser says make him comfortable.” He turned to Liddell. “Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  Liddell shook his head, held out his hand. The folded bill changed hands, the page grinned his thanks, turned and headed back toward the loading ramp.

  “Welcome on board, mister.” Henrik grinned. Even when he was showing the brown stumps of his teeth, the steward had a worried expression by the V etched between his heavy brows. “Your baggage is coming?”

  “They’re sending it up.”

  The steward unlocked the door, pushed it open. “I bring it in and hang your things up as soon as it arrives.” He flicked on the light in the lavatory, walked over to check on the air conditioning. “Something else I can do for you?”

  Liddell shook his head. “Not right now, Henrik. Give me a little time and I’ll think up something.”

  The captain’s cabin was in actuality a two-room suite high above the foredeck. It was a suite that spoke volumes of its owner’s love of comfort and good living.

  The walls of the outer room, a combination office and den, were paneled in a dark wood that had been polished to a soft patina. The front wall consisted of huge panes of glass which gave an uninterrupted view of the blue-green water stretching between the vessel and the tiers of pastel-colored houses that were tiered around the harbor at Bridgeton. The pull drapes that could be drawn over the glass were obviously hand loomed, of exotic Oriental colors. The floor was covered wall-to-wall with thick-pile wheat-colored carpeting.

  A large desk set catty-cornered was the room’s main concession to its function as the captain’s office. Here, Captain Delmar Rose, master of the Queen Alexandra, did the minimum amount of paper work required of him. Even that minimum he considered of staggering proportions. The loss of the passenger Landers during the storm had been a considerable inconvenience with the mounds of reports and forms to be filled out for his home office and for the officials at his first port of call.

  Set against the glass wall, a large library table groaned under an assortment of choice liquors, brandies and liqueurs. It was here that the captain did most of his VIP entertaining, the guests of his choosing. Others, he greeted and endured at the periodical captain’s cocktail parties, which were penciled in at appropriate intervals during the cruise by the cruise director’s staff.

  The rest of the room was given over to comfortable armchairs, low tables and lamps. On the walls, photographs of celebrities who had sailed with Captain Rose were recessed in indirectly lighted frames.

  The other room of the suite was a bedroom with one huge king-sized bed. It was furnished in strictly functional male style—heavy pieces, comfortable chairs, a personal bar and direct communications to the bridge. Here, too, the captain did some VIP entertaining and again it was guests of his own choosing. On every crossing there was always one or more women whose heels turned to rockers at the sight of the man who held the whole ship’s destiny in his calloused hands and of the uniform that represented power, authority and dauntless heroism. It was the duty of his personal steward to convoy the chosen ones among this group to and from the captain’s quarters with a minimum of exposure.

  Captain Delmar Rose was sitting in one of the easy chairs in the outer room, his feet comfortable on a small ottoman, a glass in his hand, when his personal steward knocked at the door to announce Liddell. The captain waved for the steward to bring him in, dropped his feet to the floor, stood up. He waited until the steward had closed the door behind him, offered Liddell his hand. His grip was firm, sincere.

&n
bsp; “Glad to have you aboard, Mr. Liddell.”

  Johnny frowned. “I thought this was all hush-hush, that no one was supposed to know who I am?”

  The captain shook his head. “No one does. Except me, of course.” He walked over to the table of liquor, reached for a glass, dumped some ice into it. “On board this ship, Liddell, I am the last word. Right or wrong, my decisions stand.” He turned, looked at Liddell. “My home office made a mistake when they did not tell me from the beginning that Landers was a private detective. They are not likely to make that same mistake twice.”

  Liddell rubbed the heel of his hand along his jaw. “Then the radio shack knows who I am and what I’m here for?”

  The captain shook his head. “In matters of this kind, my home office communicates with me only through code. No one has the code book to decipher it but me.” He indicated the bottles. “What’ll it be?”

  “Scotch on the rocks.”

  Liddell watched the back of the captain as he poured the drink.

  Captain Rose was short, squat. His skin was horny, weather-beaten by the gales in winter, burned to a mahogany by the suns of summer. He had the slightly bowlegged stance of a man used to walking a pitching deck. His every movement gave the impression that he was used to giving orders and used to having them obeyed. When he had built Liddell’s drink, he held it out to him with a hand that dwarfed the glass.

  “If I had known Landers was what he was, I might have been able to prevent what happened.” He shrugged, turned back to the table to freshen his drink. “Everything that happens on my ship while I am in command is my business, Liddell. It has to be, because I alone am responsible not only for the ship but for everybody on board.” He turned, walked back to his chair. “Do we understand each other?”