I left him with that to puff on and located a phone.
It was fun talking to Melissa Mercer again. She was so glad to hear my voice that all my misanthropy of the night and morning dissolved in the radiance of her tone. I caught up on all that had happened in three days. Scott Jordan had contacted old man Stillwell, and the missing daughter was about to be returned to the family roost. I had known I could depend on Jordan. Stillwell was settling a staggering sum on his services. Outside of that, all was quiet on the investigation front.
"I miss you," Mel sighed. "You stinker, you."
"I'm unforgettable," I agreed.
"Back soon?"
"Depends. You'll be the first to know."
"All right." I could hear the sudden wistfulness in her voice. "Gee, this is like having a kid away in the country, wondering how he's getting on, whether he's eating properly—I'm getting kind of maternal, aren't I?"
"Not so it doesn't look good. Take care, Mel, I'll be talking to you."
"You take care. Good-bye, Ed."
The connection died, and a little bit of me did, too. Damn all good-byes everywhere. I slid out of the private booth, my insides clamoring for coffee.
It was like old home week in the main foyer. I ran into Jack and Vivian Warren coming out of the bookstore. Vivian was hanging on tightly to a thick copy of In Cold Blood. Her long hair, sad eyes, and you-know-whats were all properly showcased this morning in a blue frock that had a roll collar of spotless white. She looked merely marvelous. Jack had gone casual again, the picture of the carefree tourist in slacks, sport shirt, and sport coat. He looked good, too.
"Hey Ed—don't you eat breakfast or dinner or anything? Where you been?"
Vivian knew. The sad look sprang from her eyes. A little smile showed on her mouth. "He's avoiding us, that's what. He holds the Mendelmans against us."
"That's not true." I laughed. "I missed George. No fooling. I miss him now. Where is he?"
Jack chuckled. "Showing Mrs. Mendelman the engine room. Now. there's a treat."
I suddenly remembered something. "You two went to dinner last night?"
"Sure." Jack looked surprised. "Weren't we supposed to?"
"Sure you were. Tell me. was any announcement made about a lottery being won by one of the passengers? A ten-thousand-dollar lottery?"
Jack stared at Vivian. She shook her head, baffled. I eyed them closely. "You're sure now? It's important."
"No, no lottery. No announcement." Jack Warren was adamant. "Who'd forget a thing like that?"
Vivian tried to scowl at me. It didn't come off.
"Where are you off to now? Let's all have a drink in the bar. All right?"
"Sounds fun. Let's go."
Going up in the lift, I sounded them out about the excitement last night when the ship had stopped, turned around, and hooted all those horns. Jack didn't know a thing about it. Seems he'd had too much vino after dinner, and turned in early. Vivian hadn't, though. I could tell by her quiet stares at me. She knew I'd fallen into the Atlantic. And for her own reasons, she had not said anything to Jack about it. Curious girl, all right. Too curious, but I adored her. It was that damn look of hers. The soft, tender expression that melted all my suspicions. It was good to know that everybody and his uncle hadn't pegged me as the drowning rat.
But Vivian had found me knocked out on the floor of my stateroom. She could add things up. Like me and Gilda and my strange occupation. She worried about me. Nothing disloyal or unfaithful to her love for her husband. She just kept worrying about me. There are women like that.
"We'll be in Southampton before we know it," Vivian said, still sadly.
"Not soon enough for me, Viv. You can take just so much of this easy living. We still have—what—two more days."
"Tuesday," I said. "We dock Tuesday."
That sobering thought carried us all the way into the plush midships bar. The joint was jumping already. It is amazing how, no matter what the hour, the human animal must find his watering hole and slurp away the hours.
We took a quiet table by the wall. Jack ordered a round of drinks. His tab. He insisted. I should have had coffee to start the day, but I was in the mood for a pick-me-up. I ordered a Bloody Mary.
"How about some swimming after lunch?" Jack suggested. "They have a great pool. Give you a chance to see Viv in her bikini. I don't need movie stars. I have Vivian."
She blushed and stared at her fingernails.
"You're a lucky man, Jack. I kind of think she's something special, too."
He laughed happily, enjoying his wife's response to his wit. "Well-—what about the swim?"
"Not today, thanks. I promised Mrs, Hallmark I'd play some backgammon with her."
Jack showed his wonder. "You're playing backgammon with her? Hear that, Viv? Ed is moving with the mucky-mucks, all right. You must know somebody."
"Sure I do. I know the Warrens." I sipped the Bloody Mary, enjoying the company of two of the simpler people in the universe. People who weren't spies, didn't carry guns, and weren't out to rule the world. If Vivian Warren turned out to be a Mata Hari, I'd turn in my license for all time.
After one drink I excused myself, promising I'd see them at dinner. I felt like going back to my stateroom, ordering some food, and reassembling a plan of battle. I had made some headway, but not enough. Though Henry Hallmark was still alive and in one piece, and that was the main consideration.
Vivian Warren watched me go, shaking her head like a reproving schoolteacher. Maybe I would saunter down to see her in the swimming pool in that bikini.
A bit of their information bothered me, though. Mr. Gambarelli the purser bothered me. He had delivered a check; there had been an explosion; and according to the Warrens, no announcement had been made that evening. Gambarelli had said there would be one. Of course, he might have skipped it seeing as how I wasn't on hand to take a bow. But I still hadn't solved the mystery of the check. How had it blown up the way it did, and who had rearranged my room after the explosion, which certainly would have upended at least an inkwell?
Gambarelli. Hadn't he said he knew everybody in First Class, knew all their histories? Hadn't he prided himself on his intimate knowledge of every First Class passenger on the Francesca? Yes, he had. Didn't that make him a man who knew too much?
And hadn't Mr. Gambarelli, at our very first meeting, indicated exactly how much he would like to throw a wrestling hold on Gilda Tiger? Yes, he had. I remembered the Valentino roll of his eyes, the talk about hips and breasts and thighs—
Signor Gambarelli's life expectancy grew shorter and shorter the more I thought about it. I was mentally picturing him as a wooly lamb gamboling with the wolf.
Gamboling with a tiger.
It was high time to have a long heart-to-heart talk with Signor Gambarelli.
His own number was coming up on the board.
15, Armed Truce
Gambarelli was not to be found. His assistants in the purser's office, a lovely Italian brunette who filled out her tight black dress like Sophia Loren, and a lanky young guy with a hard face, hadn't seen him all day. There was no point in calling his stateroom, they said, as a purser's duties were manifold, and he could be on any part of the ship. I didn't want Gambarelli paged so I just left a message for him, thanking them for their cooperation.
I wasn't the only one who was looking for Gambarelli. As I came out of the paneled office I almost collided with Tom Faulkner. He hadn't changed a tick. The pince-nez, the Beatle mop, the calm, cool, and collected Brooks Brothers suit.
"Small world," I said. "Getting smaller all the time."
He half smiled. "Is the purser in?"
"Out. You have business with him, too?"
Faulkner shrugged. For him, that was tantamount to a show of friendship. "It can wait. Fact is, I'm glad I ran into you."
"That sounds ominous. People who start off with that sentence usually bring bad news."
He was in a good mood. He smiled. "Call off the dogs, Mr
. Noon. I come in peace. Fact is—"
"There. You said it again."
"Let's walk," he suggested calmly. "I'll tell you on the way. Where are you headed?"
"The general vicinity of my stateroom."
"Fine. Not much of a day for weather, is it?"
"No, it isn't."
We skirted some oncoming passengers. Faulkner bowed out of the way as we bread-and-buttered. We headed down the corridor, mindful of a throng of noisy youngsters zooming toward us. I recognized some of the kids. They were still waving Bhudda's assorted rabbit-and-monkey creations.
"You were saying, Mr. Faulkner."
"Yes—Mr. and Mrs. Hallmark have invited you to dine with them tonight. The captain is hosting a select dinner for them in his private salon. You understand?"
"I'd be delighted. Formal?"
"Why not? There will be the ladies, of course. And I'm sure you'll want to cut a dashing figure."
"Ladies? Who else besides Mrs. Hallmark?"
Tom Faulkner came as close to a leer as a face like his can. I saw the edges of his teeth.
"Miss Gilda Tiger is honoring us with her presence. So of course, that giant manservant of hers will be on hand, too. Fact is, he will provide an entertainment of sorts. Karate and all that."
I thought about it. "Whose idea to have the Tiger?"
"Mr. Hallmark. She intrigues him. He has heard and read so much of her—he would like to know firsthand. Of course, Richards didn't like the idea. You know Richards?"
"Bosom pals. Can't say I blame him." The hooting, gabbling kids raced by us, followed by a tall, helpless-looking children's counselor.
"What does Esme think of the whole thing?"
"Mrs. Hallmark," Faulkner said pointedly, "does whatever he thinks best. It's always been that way."
I changed the subject. "You've been with him a long time, haven't you?"
"Ten years. Ever since I left college. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I don't know. You're devoted, persevering. Aiming at a political career yourself some day?"
"I have a political career. Henry Hallmark is the greatest living American today."
"I'll tell the President that the very next time he has me down to his farm."
He made a sour face, thinking I was being my usual clownish self.
We reached E deck. The sky hadn't changed much. The same slate-gray anger pervaded the heavens. The ceiling was low, too.
"Then I shall tell the Hallmarks you're coming?" Faulkner said, using it as a way of leading up to a good-bye.
"Righto. And I'll make a deal with you. I won't wear my forty-five if you don't wear your thirty-eight. You know, you ought to get a better shoulder holster. That bulge, besides being a dead giveaway, is wrinkling the hell out of that perfectly good suit."
He started to say something, shrugged again, and moved on to the Hallmark stateroom. He knocked, and then stepped hastily over the threshold.
I had a quiet smoke at the railing, regarding the Atlantic soberly, trying not to think about the evening before. The chilling, killing waves were rising like breakers. A seagull wheeled in low, swooping, and then soared aloft.
I stared up at the mighty funnels of the Francesca, at the vast superstructure with its rails and pipes and grilles. Yes, it was a fine ship. A very fine ship. A person could get killed on such a fine ship.
It was getting chilly. A cool, biting wind now swept across the starboard rail, fanning me. I could feel the sleeves of my coat blouse as they filled with air. The Bloody Mary had stalled my appetite. I kept on smoking.
I guess I must have been waiting for the very two people who suddenly materialized from the direction of the stern. Bhudda was walking his lady Tiger.
They were looking for me, too. I could tell by the way they made a seemingly casual beeline in my direction. The Great Gilda had all her various curves and sex appeal hidden in the loose folds of a black leather trenchcoat with buttons the size of baseballs. Bhudda was seersuckered as ever. The Panama hat rode stiffly on his broad head. His eyes were oblique. He fell a step to the rear as Gilda sashayed up to me, taking a position beside me at the rail. She stared out over the choppy waters, letting the wind pick up her long, dark hair and play with it. She wore no makeup, as usual. Bhudda stood patiently behind us. I looked out over the waters again.
"You ought to quit when you're ahead, lover," Gilda said with no inflection in her voice. "You couldn't always be as lucky as you were last night."
"Surat Singh says luck had nothing to do with it. He said it wasn't my time yet."
"Time for what?"
"To die."
She still wasn't looking at me. Her profile, unforgettably classic and perfect, was engraved against the gray-skyed backdrop.
"That dried-up old mummy is a fool," she hissed, her voice low. "When he comes up for reelection, I'll settle his clocks for keeps."
I flipped my cigarette out to sea. watched it sail in the slipstream before the waters engulfed it.
"Aren't you afraid I'll have you arrested when we dock? You know—attempted murder and all that kind of thing?"
She still didn't look at me. She put her hands on the rail, balancing herself on her toes, her dark hair flying. "What can you prove? Everybody knows my reputation. I showed you some skin, maybe asked you to do something perverted, and you ran out of my room like a scared mouse and pitched over the rail in the dark. You want to bet?"
"No. I won't bet."
"Smart boy, Noon. Just remember the facts, and maybe we won't be bothering with each other anymore. I still think you were tied onto my can by Von Tappen. But I'll forget it if you stay out of my way."
"I see. Does that include tonight's little gathering in the captain's private salon?"
Now she looked at me. Her eyes traveled to my mouth again. She was still looking at it as she answered. "So what? That's a party. No hard feelings there. That mouth of yours. I can think of a lot of things—"
"You thought of them last night." I pushed away from the rail. "Okay. An armed truce." I glanced at Bhudda. "You good people going to give me my arsenal back?"
"Forget it." She laughed. "We threw them in after you. Why don't you go skin diving and see if you can find them? Take a long swim, Eddie doll-baby boy."
"Sure. That figured, too. Bye-bye, Gilda. Try not to have any dirty thoughts."
Bhudda looked as if he wanted to toss me over the rail again. But Gilda growled something, and he relaxed. I went into my stateroom and locked the door.
Everything in the room looked shipshape, in apple-pie order, but I gave it a routine going-over just to make sure. I wondered about Gambarelli again. If he had gotten my message, if he was all right. If, if, if.
The party that the captain was throwing for the Hallmarks promised to be real fun and games. Sitting with the enemy, drinking with the killers, maybe rubbing knees with a woman who had tried to drown me. Peachy arrangement. Ginger peachy. What I call democracy in action. My arsenal was down to the bone. Just the metallic ties that would fuse, my transmitter device, and maybe a stud button or two that could cause a little delaying action. But nothing real satisfactory. Right then and there I would have traded all the technological advancements in the world for one Colt .45.
Even the suitcase which would make caterwauling noises when opened incorrectly had no more than nuisance value. I had to think of something. I don't rely on weapons that much, but you had to have them in cold, silent wars like these.
I got impatient.
I called the purser's office. Mr. Gambarelli had not come back yet. I hung up, muttering to myself. The ten-thousand-dollar bomb was really bugging me. How they had worked that one, I might never know.
It was more than frightening. It was downright hair-raising.
Maybe I could swing a deal with Richards and Barroni. They had hardware, lots of it, probably. Would they loan a gun to a friendly private investigator? I wasn't sure, but I was going to ask the very first chance I got.
The phone whirre
d. I grabbed at it like a drowning man.
"Mr. Noon?"
It was Gambarelli. A Gambarelli I had never heard before. His voice was small, low, and completely lacking in confidence. He sounded like a whipped dog.
"Gambarelli, I want to talk with you."
"I know—I know—Are you alone, signor?" He muttered something in Italian; he was so upset he had fallen back on his mother tongue. He sounded like he needed a mother real bad.
"Yes, I'm alone. Go on."
"About yesterday, signor— You must forgive me— I really don't know where to begin—"
"It's your nickel, and I have all the time in the world. It is about the check, isn't it?"
The sigh that came out of him would have blasted my eardrum if I hadn't been expecting it.
"I have been the victim of faulty judgment signor. It seemed a perfect practical joke at the time. Oh, the lottery is quite bona fide—You see. Miss Tiger had won it . . . and it was she who suggested to me that I go to you as I did—She said you would laugh harder than anyone." He paused. "Signor? I hope you are not too angry with Gambarelli?"
"I love Gambarelli. Keep talking."
He sounded slightly relieved. Not sure, but at least I wasn't calling him names.
"Well—the signorina said you were a millionaire in your own right and you would laugh at the joke. But last night, when you did not appear, and then when I learned of your unhappy accident—well, I began to think. And I did not like what I was thinking. Understand me, signor. I, a purser, should have known better. I betrayed my trust. I beg your pardon. And hope I can make amends."
The poor sap. He would have sold his soul for one hour with Gilda Tiger in the hay, and he obviously had.
"Tell me, Gambarelli. Is she a good lay?"
He sighed again. His tongue stalled. "Signor, I—please pardon me. This could ruin me. My position—I was a fool! Imbecile! I curse the day I set eyes on that hell-woman."
"She got you to make out the check to me?"
"Yes."
"Then she took it for a while and gave it back to you. Right?"
"Yes. But if you know that, then you must—"
Assassins Don't Die in Bed Page 11