Crime of Their Life

by Frank Kane

  Liddell grabbed at the wrist of the hand holding the knife, tried to force it back where he could smash the knuckles against the floor. Perspiration beaded his forehead, ran down into his eyes and blinded him. He could smell the sour breath of the other man as he sucked in air in gasping sobs. With his free hand he was trying to reach Liddell’s eyes to claw him.

  Liddell had to relax his pressure on the knife hand to protect his eyes, his fingers on the other man’s wrist grew slippery and wet.

  Seizing his momentary advantage, the other man threw his entire weight into an effort to dislodge Johnny and succeeded in throwing him off.

  He got to his knees and Liddell struggled to his feet. As the man with the knife started to move in for the kill, Liddell threw himself forward, shouldered him back against the wall, his hand straining to keep the point of the blade away from his body. They wrestled there for a moment, panting and thrashing. The grunting and gasping grew louder.

  Suddenly the other man’s foot landed on Liddell’s gun on the floor. It flew out from under him and clattered across the room. Both men crashed to the floor, Liddell on top.

  The man with the knife twitched uncontrollably for a moment, then lay still. Liddell struggled painfully to his feet. The other man lay on his back, leg folded under him. He stared up at Liddell with wide open eyes. The small, white teeth were still bared in a baleful snarl, a thin dark red stream glistened from the corner of his mouth to the point of his chin. The handle of the knife projected from just below his breastbone like an obscene horn. Surrounding it, a spreading stain was dyeing the front of his shirt a dark red.

  Liddell pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, swabbed at the perspiration on his face. He stepped across the dead man, walked over to where his gun lay against the wall. He had just picked it up, was about to replace it in his waistband when a voice barked.

  “Put the gun on the floor.”

  He turned at the sound of the voice, saw the man in the olive drab uniform leveling his service revolver. He dropped the gun, straightened up.

  “Don’t move,” the uniformed man advised him. The officer’s eyes took in the hanging man, the dead man on the floor. “Who are you, what are you doing here?” he snapped.

  “My name’s Liddell. I’m a private detective from the United States. I came here to see Reynders.” His eyes sought out the contorted features of the hanged man. “This man was hanging here when I came in. I must have walked in on him”—he nodded to the dead man on the floor—“while he was setting it up to look like a suicide. He jumped me, we struggled—” He shrugged. “He tried to swallow the knife and didn’t make it.”

  The officer kept his eyes on Liddell, walked over to the man on the floor, dropped his eyes to the man’s face. “Groever.” His eyes flashed upward. “You know this man?”

  Liddell shook his head. “We didn’t have time to be introduced.”

  The man in khaki ignored the remark. “This man is Erik Groever. He is well known to us. Have you had dealings with him before?”

  Liddell shook his head. “I am a passenger on the Queen Alexandra and—”

  “The Queen Alexandra will not be here until tomorrow,” the officer cut him off coldly.

  “I know. She’s docked in La Guaira. I flew over here by private plane, arrived less than a half hour ago. A car brought me here from the airport. You can check all that.”

  Doubt clouded the officer’s eyes. “You have identification?”

  Liddell bobbed his head. “My cruise membership card, my private detective’s license.”

  The officer’s finger whitened on the trigger. “Let me see them. Only remember this—anything but a wallet comes out of your pocket and you’re a dead man. Bring it out with two fingers.”

  Liddell reached into his breast pocket, caught his wallet with thumb and forefinger, lifted it out. He flipped through it until he came to the facsimile of his license, held it out to the officer. The man in uniform nodded. “Now the cruise card.”

  Liddell brought it out of his pocket, held it out. Some of the doubt dissolved in the officer’s eyes. His finger relaxed on the trigger, his eyes sought out the hanging body. “Reynders was like that when you came in?”

  “If that’s Reynders.”

  The officer nodded. “It’s Reynders.”

  “The body was swinging a little. It didn’t occur to me then, but your friend here must have brushed against it when he flattened himself against the wall.” He snapped his wallet shut, returned it to his pocket. “How come you made like the U.S. Marines?”

  The officer frowned. “Please?”

  “Showing up here right at the crucial moment,” Liddell interpreted.

  “Neighbors reported a fight going on in here.” He considered for a moment. “I’d better call this in.” He waved the muzzle of his service revolver at the .45 near Liddell’s foot. “Kick your gun over this way, please.” He waited while Liddell sent the gun skidding across to him, then bent down, picked it up. He weighed it in the palm of his hand, nodded appreciatively. “That’s a lot of gun.”

  “I never send a boy to do a man’s job,” Liddell told him. The officer stuck the .45 in his waistband. “You’ll have to tell your story to the superintendent, of course.”

  Johnny nodded. “Ask him to notify the American consulate that I’m in his office. The boys at the consulate are expecting me.”

  The officer nodded. He crossed to the telephone on the wall. He dialed police headquarters, turned to stare at Hans Reynders’ contorted features as the phone started ringing at the other end.

  CHAPTER 19

  Johnny Liddell squirmed uncomfortably on the hard bench in the anteroom of the police superintendent’s office. He sat sprawled, his legs extended out in front of him, his hands balled in his jacket pockets. He was engaged in a fruitless study of the toes of his shoes when a man in a blue silk suit, wearing white shoes and a panama hat walked into the room. He walked over to where Liddell sat.

  “Are you Mr. Liddell?” His voice retained traces of a Boston nasal accent.

  Liddell nodded.

  “Sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced,” the man in the blue suit apologized. “I’m Nat Simons of the consulate. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “I flew in by private plane from La Guaira. As it turns out, I might just as well have stayed with the ship.” Liddell got to his feet, offered the man his hand, received a firm handshake in return.

  “I just heard about Reynders.” Simons shook his head.

  “He almost had company. The guy who strung him up was tidying things up when I arrived. He almost fixed it for Reynders to have a gin partner. Me,” Liddell grunted. “It didn’t work out quite that way, but Reynders’ got company just the same.”

  Simons bobbed his head. “So I understand. Let’s go in and meet the superintendent and get this all cleared up.” He walked over to a uniformed clerk sitting at a desk, spoke to him for a moment. The clerk bared big, square teeth in a smile. He pointed to a door with the stub of the pencil he was using.

  Simons walked to the closed door, stuck his head inside. He turned, motioned for Liddell to join him.

  Superintendent Hans Gervaert looked as if he had been jammed into the oversized chair behind the desk. He made no effort to get up as the two men entered the room, studied them from expressionless disks that were half hidden by heavily veined, discolored eyelids. His yellowish white hair matched the thick eyebrows and the drooping mustache, his complexion was a bright red tinged with gray. The left breast pocket of his tunic was decorated with three rows of brightly colored campaign ribbons, his heavy jowls almost obscured his collar.

  He motioned to two chairs across the desk from his with thick beefy paws.

  “Sorry to be so long, Superintendent,” Simons told him. “My office didn’t know where to reach me as I had a couple of stops on my way in.” He turned to Liddell. “This is Superintendent Gervaert of the Antilles Police, Mr. Liddell,” he turned back to the fat ma
n. “This is Johnny Liddell, Superintendent, a New York private detective.”

  The superintendent favored Liddell with a jaundiced look, turned to Simons. “We do not like visitors abusing our hospitality, Mr. Simons. Your office assured me it could explain all this.” His voice was guttural, hoarse. “I’m listening.”

  Simons turned to Liddell. “Would you explain to the superintendent why you’re here and what happened, Mr. Liddell?”

  “I have been hired by the diamond syndicate in New York to uncover a ring smuggling Brazilian diamonds into the United States. We had reason to believe Hans Reynders might be a member of that ring—”

  “Why?”

  Liddell considered. “I was put on the case after another private detective disappeared from the Queen Alexandra during a storm. He had assured his clients that he would expose the smuggling ring upon his return from this cruise.” He shrugged. “He didn’t make it.”

  The superintendent made a face as if he had a sour taste in his mouth. “Where does Reynders enter into it?”

  “In the private detective’s address book, there was only one name from any of the ports the ship was due to hit. Hans Reynders in Willemstad.” He pursed his lips. “It was a thin clue, granted. But a clue.” He turned to Simons. “I had a New York agency check out some people for me. They called me to tell me you’d have the material by today, so I decided to fly over and spend the day here checking things out before the Queen got here.”

  The consulate man lifted his briefcase, opened it and brought out a large manila envelope. “This came late last night.” He tossed the envelope on the desk.

  The superintendent leaned forward, read the return address. “Acme Agency?” He rolled his expressionless eyes up to Liddell’s face. “These are the reports?”

  Liddell nodded.

  The superintendent leaned back. Some of the hostility seemed to have drained out of him. “Go ahead.”

  “I decided to have a talk with Reynders, drove directly there from the airport.” He shrugged. “He was dead when I got there. I stepped into the room and this guy with the shiv jumped me. I was lucky and he wasn’t.”

  The fat man in the uniform touched the tips of his fingers together, blew bubbles between his pouty lips. He turned to Simons. “We have checked his story. The captain of the Queen Alexandra verifies that he left the ship this morning; we have found the man who drove him to 25 Vervoort.” The discolored lids hid the eyes for a moment. He seemed almost to have gone to sleep. He opened his eyes. “You verify the fact that a package was awaiting him here.” He sighed. “I have no other alternative but to believe the rest of his story.”

  Simons managed to look relieved. “Thank you. Superintendent.”

  The superintendent turned to Liddell. “You’re a pretty lucky man, Mr. Liddell.”

  “You said yourself everything checked out—”

  A brief flash of annoyance clouded the fat man’s face. “Not that. Erik Groever—the man you killed. He was not exactly an amateur.” He sighed at the need for movement, pulled himself up in his chair, reached for a folder in his basket. “We know him very well.” He flipped open the folder, ran a stubby index finger down the typewritten page. “He is a known hired killer. He came here from the Netherlands in 1956. We were warned to keep an eye on him, but we have never been able to prove he was responsible for several unsolved murders.” He flipped the folder closed. “Suspect, yes. But witnesses had a habit of developing bad memories when we tried to prove anything.” He tossed the folder at his basket, leaned back. “We won’t have that trouble anymore.”

  “And Reynders? Do you have anything on him?”

  The fat man pursed his lips. “He, too, came to the Antilles from the Netherlands. He was a diamond cutter in Amsterdam. Since he has been here he has posed as a curio dealer. He spends much of his time on Heeren and Brede streets—”

  “The main jewelry and shopping center,” Simons put in. He looked thoughtful. “You think that ties in with the diamond smuggling?”

  The superintendent shrugged, displaced his jowls. “This is the first I hear of the diamond smuggling,” he grunted gutturally. He eyed Liddell with no show of enthusiasm. “Your principals, why did they not contact the Antilles Police? Did they think we couldn’t handle it without bringing in an outside detective?”

  “We weren’t aware of the tie between Willemstad and the smugglers until Landers stumbled on it. He didn’t pass the information along and the only way I got onto it was the notation in his address book.”

  The fat man seemed mollified. “If Reynders was connected with the gang, it was as a cutter. The diamonds probably come in here in a raw state and an expert like Reynders would be needed to give them the proper cut. But why would they eliminate one of their most valuable men?”

  Liddell shrugged. “Maybe they were afraid he would talk.”

  The superintendent considered it, bobbed his head. “That could be,” he conceded. “Reynders was a weakling. He might have talked so they made it look like he had committed suicide. There would be no suspicion. This is the kind of a thing that might be expected of a professional like Groever.” He massaged the side of his jowl with a pudgy hand. “You have no clue to the others involved?”

  “I have a couple of ideas,” Liddell conceded. He picked up the envelope containing the reports from Acme. “I’m hoping that what’s in here will give me what I need to prove them.”

  The fat man nodded. “If the smuggler is on your ship, you will make him talk?” he asked.

  “I think he’ll be singing like a stage-struck canary.”

  “Good. Then you will notify us and we will take care of the others at this end.”

  Liddell got to his feet. “A pleasure to be doing business with you Superintendent. I’ll be in touch.” He looked from the fat man to Simons and back. “I’m free to go now?”

  “Why not? The only fingerprints on the knife belonged to Groever. Reynders was dead before you got there. There is no reason to inconvenience you further, Mr. Liddell.” He blinked owlishly. “You will be staying in Willemstad until the Queen Alexandra leaves tomorrow night?”

  “We’ve arranged lodging for Mr. Liddell, Superintendent,” Simons put in.

  The fat man bobbed his head. “I ask for only one reason. Groever may have had friends, associates even. They may resent what happened to him.” He shrugged. “There is no accounting for tastes. Violence is not good for the tourist business. You understand?”

  Liddell grinned glumly. “I understand. If I’m going to get myself murdered, please do it someplace else. That it?” Gervaert considered, nodded. “Rather bluntly put. But that’s the general idea,” he conceded.

  Jack Allen and his assistant, Ingrid Sorenson, sat on the Lido Deck, watched the day dying. From where they sat, they could see the thin trickle of passengers who had returned to the ship to change clothes for an evening of pub-crawling, piling into cars on the pier. Allen stretched, shook his head. “They never get enough. They paid their money for this port and they’re going to get their last dollar’s worth. You hear what that Gobbler told me last night at the buffet?”

  The blonde shook her head.

  “She says to me ‘I never ate so much in all my life, and all of it bad.’ Can you imagine?”

  “Seems real nice and peaceful with them all ashore.” The girl nodded and glanced idly out across the water. “I didn’t see Liddell on any of the tours today.”

  Allen frowned. “Come to think of it, neither did I. Haven’t seen him aboard since we’ve been back, either.” The frown deepened. “I wonder if he’s been sending any messages? Sparks told me he got a call from New York last night.” He managed to look a little worried. “You know, it could be we’re underestimating this guy.”

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to find out if he has sent any messages. Why don’t we just ask?”

  Allen considered it, nodded his head. He checked his watch. “The day operator is just about going off. What say we pick up a bottle
and pay him a visit?”

  Ralph Rogers, day operator in the radio shack, had just stepped out of a shower, was sprawled on his bunk in his robe. His head was cradled on his arm, he was staring at the ceiling, when the knock came at the door.

  “It’s open,” he called out.

  His eyes widened when the door opened and Jack Allen stepped in, Ingrid Sorenson following him. He sat up. “Well, to what do I owe the honor?” He managed to look even more pleased when Allen produced the bottle of scotch, set it down on the table.

  “Ever feel that if you had to talk to one more passenger you’d throw up?” Allen wanted to know. “That’s us. We’ve had it. We feel like doing a little drinking, but by ourselves.”

  “Why here?”

  The blonde grinned at him. “They go looking for us to entertain the passengers, where do they look? My cabin or his cabin. They’d never look for us here. Of course, if you’re too tired or—”

  The radioman jumped out of the bunk. “Not a bit.” He disappeared into the lavatory, came back with three paper cups. “Never too tired for a blonde and a bottle.” He eyed Ingrid appreciatively while Allen opened the scotch. “You know something, doll? I had the feeling you didn’t like me.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  Rogers shrugged. “You never gave me the right time. I had it figured you had no time for anybody but the passengers.”

  The blonde grinned. “I’m not the demonstrative type. Passengers? You can have them. I’ve had them up to here.” She held the flat of her hand under her chin.

  Allen poured a stiff slug into each of the glasses. “Want a little water in these?”

  “Not mine,” the radioman told him. “It’s against my religion to drink waterlogged scotch.”

  “Better put some in mine,” Ingrid told the cruise director.

  “I guess I’m a sissy too,” Allen grunted. He walked into the lavatory, out of sight of the couple in the cabin, spilled most of the scotch down the sink, filled the cups with water.