by Frank Kane
“I think she looks lovely,” Belle Doyle disagreed. “All she needed was someone to show her how to dress and make up. I’d like to see that sailor boy’s eyes when he sees her now.”
Jack Allen was thinking something along the same line. He had figured that Larry Weston would be earning anything in the way of a dowry he could get from old man Eldridge. But now it could be that he was really getting a break. The old man’s money and a girl that wasn’t hard to take, and one that hadn’t learned any bad habits. Put a little fat on her bones, break her in the right way, and with her father’s money she mightn’t be too bad.
Johnny Liddell watched the expressions on the faces of the people at the captain’s table. Herrick’s sudden interest in the girl was being lost on nobody. The captain seemed amused, Carson Eldridge was pleased, Fran Eldridge was verging on delirium. Robin Lewis watched with approval while the expressions of the other two women ranged from the amazement of Laura Conway to the surprise of Myra McDowell. Only Tom Conway seemed unaffected as he moodily ate his dinner with the absorption of a man who had problems on his mind. Alvin McDowell was wondering if they could do so much for that ugly duckling, why did they find it so impossible to make any improvement in his wife. His eyes rolled over to Tom Conway, and he wondered how Conway was making out with the blonde Ingrid with whom he had seen him with heads together. He wondered if he was too old to have one last fling, decided regretfully that he might find it embarrassing at best and disastrous at worst. He sighed, started to eat his dinner.
As Liddell watched, the girl reluctantly tore her attention away from Lew Herrick, leaned across the table to talk to Robin Lewis, jabbing with her fingertips at the unfamiliar feel of the hair spray as she talked. From her expression, one thing looked pretty sure. Any reservations the girl might have had about the actress were washed away in the flood of her gratitude. Liddell had told Robin that he was sure she could handle herself and land on her feet. He couldn’t have been more prophetic.
Tonight the theater had been converted from its nightly movie to a live performance. The Ship’s News described it as a “Concert of Musical Comedy Hits” with the Alexandra Concert Ensemble providing the musical background and Lauri Michel and Frank Green appearing as guest stars.
Johnny Liddell wandered into the theater, winced at what the Alexandra Concert Ensemble was doing to a still recognizable musical comedy tune, listened to the assist given the ensemble by Lauri Michel in its melodic mayhem and retreated toward the smoking room.
Fran Eldridge was sitting at a corner table with Larry Weston, listening to him with half an ear. It was obvious from the annoyed expression on the third officer’s face that he wasn’t used to having Fran listen with half an ear and had no intention of getting used to it. He caught the girl’s arm, turned her around to face him.
Fran jerked her arm free of the third officer’s grip, opened her bag, brought out a folded envelope. She threw it on the table in front of him, got to her feet. Before he could stop her, she stalked away from the table, headed for the promenade.
Weston stared after her for a moment, then he picked up the envelope, lifted a folded sheet from it. He read it slowly, then balled the note and the envelope, jammed both into his pocket. He got up, followed Fran out onto the deck.
Chalk up another first for Fran, Liddell told himself. Probably her first lover’s quarrel where the man followed her in an attempt to patch the rift. He wandered on in the smoking room, flagged down a steward, was about to order a drink when he discovered that in changing his clothes he had neglected to change his wallet from his slacks. He debated the advisability of having the steward let him sign a chit, decided he could use the exercise.
He headed for the staircase to the lower decks.
On B deck, he headed for his cabin, noted absently that the steward was off duty, apparently having his dinner. He let himself into his cabin, transferred his wallet to his pocket. Then he walked out into the companionway, closed his cabin door behind him.
Down the corridor, he could see Third Officer Weston pounding on the door to the redhead’s cabin. Liddell checked his watch, surmised that the lover’s quarrel hadn’t been patched up. He was about to head for the elevator when the door opened, the redhead stood framed in it. As he watched, the third officer reached out, pushed her back into the cabin and followed her in.
Liddell frowned, reversed his direction, headed for the redhead’s door. He could hear the sharp smack of a slap, a muffled cry. He tried the door, pushed it open. ,
Inside the cabin, Weston stood with his back to the door. His open hand described a short arc that caught the redhead across the side of the face, knocked her head to the side. He backhanded it into position, knocked her sprawling to her knees. He had buried his fingers in her hair, was pulling her to her feet when Liddell caught him by the arm and spun him around.
“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Liddell growled.
“Go back where you belong, mister. You’re asking for trouble. Real trouble,” Crew Cut spat at him. He tugged his arm loose from Liddell’s grasp.
“You don’t know what trouble is, junior.” He ignored the raging third officer, turned to Meg Corbett. “You want me to throw him out?”
The redhead stood massaging the side of her face with the tips of her fingers. “Yes. Throw him out,” she begged.
“You heard the lady, tough guy. Out. Or I throw you out.”
Weston went into a crouch, hands high, chin tucked behind his shoulder. He slowly circled Liddell, got between him and the door. “Just for the record, mister, anybody gets thrown out, it’s you. Then I’m going to drag you to the captain’s office and tell him you broke in here and roughed her up.”
“And what will she be doing all this time?”
“What I tell her to.”
Liddell watched Crew Cut shuffling toward him, then the younger man made his move. He threw a rock-hard fist at Liddell’s head, took a sharp right to the midsection in return. Crew Cut grunted like a stung bear, started moving in again. He caught Liddell on the side of the head with a solid blow that started bells ringing in Johnny’s head. Sensing his advantage, the third officer threw caution to the winds and moved in, fists flailing, to finish Liddell off.
Johnny started back-pedaling, sidestepped Weston’s rush. He caught the third officer under the ear with a blow that carried his full strength. Weston staggered, a dazed expression on his face. Liddell planted his right to the elbow in Crew Cut’s midsection. There was a strangled gasp, Weston’s eye glazed. He tumbled to the floor, a tangle of arms and legs. Liddell stood over him, wiped his mouth with the side of his hand.
The redhead stood looking from Liddell to the man on the floor and back. “You’re pretty good. Larry was heavyweight champ of the Merchant Marine Academy in 1956.” Liddell explored the spot where the third officer’s fist had caught him on the side of the head with cautious fingers, winced. “He was outclassed. I was flea weight champion of P.S. 64 in 1930,” he growled. With his toe, he turned the unconscious man over onto his back. “Why the shellacking? Or doesn’t he need a reason?”
The redhead massaged her cheek. “That’s the first time he’s ever hit me. And it’ll be the last time.”
“Why?”
The redhead’s jaw was set stubbornly. “That’s our business. His and mine.”
Liddell shrugged. “Maybe the captain will think it’s his business that his third officer tried to beat you up.”
The girl shook her head. “No, you can’t do that. The captain would throw him into the brig for the rest of the trip and he’d never get another ship.” She grabbed Liddell’s arm. “Don’t do that to him.” She glanced down at the man on the floor. “You’ve done enough to him.”
“Then why did he tee off on you?”
The redhead licked at her lips. “I—I had it coming. He had a good deal set up to make a killing on this trip. I spoiled it for him.”
Liddell’s eyes narrowed. “Did Curaçao have
anything to do with it?”
The girl’s eyes widened, she backed away. “How did you know?” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t have gone through with it, mister. He just liked to talk big.”
“Where and when?”
The redhead searched his face for some sign of mercy, found none. “I—I don’t know. I—”
“Where and when?”
“There’s a small hotel, just outside Willemstad. It’s called the Rotterdam Huis. He knows the owner.”
“How does he bring it in?”
A look of honest bewilderment clouded the girl’s face. “What are you talking about?”
“How does he bring them in?”
The redhead stared at him, her lips framing his words. “How does he bring what in?” She seemed to be seeing Liddell clearly for the first time.
“What’s he’s going to pick up at the hotel.” He watched the play of emotions on the girl’s face. “Look, a minute ago you were being smart. But if you’ve decided to change your mind—”
Her eyes hopscotched around his face seeking evidence that he was toying with her. When she failed to find it, her nails cut into his arm. “You think he’s going to pick something up at the hotel?” She shook her head. “He’s taking the girl there. The Eldridge girl. He’s going to get her into bed with him so she’ll have to marry him.”
Liddell’s jaw dropped. “You’re leveling?”
The redhead’s head bobbed. “I loused it up by sending her a letter telling her what the score was. She showed it to him tonight and told him to get lost. That’s why he was so sore.”
Liddell raked his fingers through his hair, swore softly. “I guess I see too many television shows,” he growled.
“You’re not going to—to make any trouble?”
Liddell shook his head. “I’m willing to forget what happened if he is.” He glanced down at where the third officer was beginning to moan his way back to consciousness. “But you’d better convince him to leave the Eldridge girl alone. My guess is that her father would not be as broadminded.” He stepped over the fallen man’s legs, opened the door and stepped into the companionway. The room steward, who had just returned from dinner, peered at him, shook his head. The redhead didn’t like passengers. He’d never seen one make it into her room. He sighed philosophically at the realization that there’s always a first time for everything.
CHAPTER 17
Johnny Liddell sat disconsolately at a comer table in the Midnight Sun bar, nursed a scotch on the rocks. In his mind, he was checking out the names on the list found in Harry Landers’s belongings.
Maurie Handel and his wife, traveling as the Keens, had eliminated themselves to all intents and purposes when they jumped ship at Grenada. Besides, knowing Handel’s fear of discovery by the organization, Liddell was inclined to discount the possibility of the disbarred lawyer being involved in anything that might concern the underworld.
He was ready to scratch Martin Sands and his “niece” but decided to withhold judgment pending the report from Acme. Traveling as a married couple without benefit of clergy could be an effective cover-up.
He found a cigarette, stuck it in the comer of his mouth, touched a match to it. He gazed over to the table occupied each night by Carson Eldridge and his party.
Tonight there was no attempt being made to cover the fact that Carson and Robin Lewis were engrossed in each other. Both had been frequent passengers on the Queen in the past, both were in an ideal position to be the smuggler. His daughter’s obvious frumpiness during the early days of the cruise, the use of Lewis Herrick as a beard to disguise Carson Eldridge’s interest in Robin Lewis, all could have been part of an elaborate misdirection, like a magician calling attention to what he was doing with his right hand while he set the trick up with his left.
His eyes continued their circuit of the smoky barroom. Harry and Belle Doyle were sitting where they had sat the night before, heads together, oblivious of the other passengers. It seemed highly improbable that they could be good enough actors to play the parts of such out-and-out farmers on a first cruise. That was a point that could be easily checked when the report came in. He’d be surprised if they were anything but what they appeared, two young people from Three Rivers, Wisconsin, on the first trip away from home and anxious to get back.
Mrs. Hilda Phelps, with her preoccupation with young men, her henna hair and bad make-up, had made enough trips on the Queen to qualify. But there was the question of Harry Landers’s murder and the improbability that she could have been responsible for his going over the side.
That left the Conways and the McDowells, both of whom had been passengers on previous cruises. Liddell found the “I” trouble of the oil man increasingly annoying, and was able to sympathize with the henpecked Conway. The two men appeared to dislike each other and the two women seemed to have trouble hiding the fact that they loathed each other. This, too, could be a bit of legerdemain to conceal the fact that they were working in concert. It would be interesting to see if their paths had ever crossed before this trip.
Liddell sighed, balanced his cigarette on the edge of an ash tray, lifted his glass to his lips, took a deep swallow. The evening had begun to drag. He debated the advisability of getting some sack time. Ingrid hadn’t shown at the Midnight Sun tonight and by now, the fourth night out, the oil and water among the passengers had separated, little cliques had formed. He had consciously avoided getting entangled too closely with any group, had preferred to stay on the perimeter as an objective observer.
A uniformed page entered the bar, walked over, whispered to the bartender. The man in the white jacket pointed to where Liddell was sitting. The boy worked his way through the tables.
“Mr. Liddell?”
Johnny nodded.
“There’s a radio telephone call for you in the radio shack, sir. Can you take it?”
“Be right with you.” Liddell drained his glass, set it on the table, dropped a bill alongside it. He nodded to the page, got up and followed him to the door leading out onto the deck. He slid his hand under his jacket, felt the reassuring touch of the butt of the gun he had tucked in his waistband. He followed the page down the deserted deck, his eyes searching the shadows, his ears attuned for any sound.
The boy pushed open the door to the aft companion-way, stepped through. Liddell followed him to the waiting elevator cage. The boy pushed a button, the doors closed noiselessly, the cage whooshed gently to the upper promenade deck. When the doors slid open, the boy pointed to a closed door on which was stenciled Radio Telegraph. He accepted the folded bill Liddell handed him, waited until Johnny had pushed open the door to the radio shack before he took the cage down.
Inside the room there was a small waiting area, a glass partition behind which a man sat with a green eye-shade on his forehead. He looked up from the sheaf of telegraph blanks he was checking as Liddell closed the door behind him.
“My name’s Liddell. You have a call for me?”
The man with the eyeshade looked back to where two engineers were fussing with dials, trying for a level. He turned back to Liddell, nodded. “Yes, sir. But we’re having a little trouble with transmission. An awful lot of static tonight.” He used a pencil to point at a closed door. “If you’ll wait in there, sir, we’ll put the call through as soon as we can clear some of the static.” His eyes dismissed Liddell, he went back to his sheaf of blanks.
Johnny walked to the door, opened it. The room beyond was soundproof, empty. Two telephones were visible in two partitioned booths, there was no window in the room. Liddell stepped in, closed the door behind him. He took up a position against the wall where he could cover the door, waited. It seemed he was waiting hours, but it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes when the buzzer in one of the booths sounded. He started at the unexpected sound, then backed into the booth, kept the door covered as he lifted the receiver off its hook.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. We have your call now,” the disinterested, metall
ic voice of the operator came through.
“Liddell?” a familiar voice greeted him. “Red Daniels at Acme.”
Some of the tension drained out of Johnny. “You scared me half to death. What’s the idea of phoning at this hour of the night?”
“I got lonesome sitting here with your secretary on my knee,” the Acme operative told him. “Besides, you’re paying for it.”
“That’s what’s got me scared half to death. How you coming with the report?”
There was a screeching and yowling of static that made the other man’s voice inaudible. When it died away, “What was that?”
“Static. I didn’t get a word you said. How about the report?”
“On its way. Should be in Curaçao by morning.”
Liddell nodded his satisfaction. “Good. Anything interesting?”
The static was back. It reached for a high note, died away. Red Daniels’s voice was back. “Sounds like a real dull bunch. Why you’d leave something like Pinky here for them—” In the background. Liddell could hear a girl giggling.
“Cut that out. This is costing money. I’d better hang up. See you when I get back. If I get back.”
“Even you wouldn’t go to that extreme? Getting yourself killed just to stiff us out of our bill.”
“Tell Pinky if she thinks I’m paying her overtime to sit holding your hand this hour of the night, she’s crazy. So long.” He dropped the receiver on its hook, stepped out of the booth. He walked to the door, opened it a crack.
The anteroom beyond was empty, the man behind the partition was still working on his forms, the engineers fiddling with their knobs.
The man with the eyeshade looked up as Liddell walked out into the anteroom.
“Everything okay, sir?”
Liddell nodded. “A little noisy. But okay.”
The man behind the partition shrugged. “Must be a storm between here and New York. Been like that all night. The boys haven’t been able to clear it up completely.”