Assassins Don't Die in Bed Read online

  "Forget it, Gambarelli. Forget the whole thing. But do remember one item."

  "Yes—"

  "Make deals with the devils and you have to watch your neck from that day forward. Capisce?"

  "You mean—" He was startled now. Really frightened.

  "Yes, that's exactly what I mean. Don't take any midnight strolls on deck all by your lonesome, and always have someone taste the soup and wine for you. That's it, Gambarelli."

  "But, but—you are joking!"

  "Sure I am. I hope you don't turn up in the obituary columns." I hung up. The mystery about the check was cleared, but now I had something real occult to wonder about.

  Gambarelli was probably safe but it hadn't hurt to warn him. Just in case.

  Gilda Tiger, unique lady and God alone knew what else had in her hands some fantastic kind of explosive that could ignite on contact with the air of a room.

  And she was dining tonight with Henry Hallmark. An invited guest, no less.

  The Chief, if he had known about that, would have spent a very restless night in the White House or wherever he was.

  16. After-Dinner Killer

  Six bells came.

  Seven o'clock, Francesca time. The maritime system of tolling one bell for every half-hour interval of the four-hour watch let me know what time it was. Every eight bells marked off four hours. During this set of eight, six bells meant seven o'clock. And the captain's dinner was at seven thirty.

  The gray sky had darkened starlessly as I made my way along E deck, properly guided by instructions from one of the uniformed stewards. I'd finally gotten acquainted with my own man that afternoon, when he had brought me a proper lunch and about a gallon of coffee. By the time I ventured out on E deck, complete with tuxedo and bow tie, I was that laughable cliché, a new man. I felt like one, anyway. Federico, the steward, also ran a letter for me to the Warrens conveying my regrets about missing dinner with them. I knew Vivian would be disappointed, but I couldn't help that. Spying came first, having fun ran a poor second.

  I almost changed my mind about that when I was ushered into the captain's private salon. Red-faced, hawk-nosed, bald Donelli lived like a king. His dining room was right out of a millionaire's catalogue, Texas style with Italian flavor. It was a veritable banquet hall. Octagonal mahogany table with ornately carved legs, embossed leather chairs, oil paintings gleaming down from fine wooden panels that had to be more mahogany. The bright, wealthy shine of the wood was like glass. The table itself, spread with a tablecloth of white-on-white and laden with delicacies and delights in the cuisine department, could have fed an army of gourmets. Gourmands, too. High red candles poking from solid silver bases provided all the lighting.

  The room was filling as I came in. I spotted Henry Hallmark, broad, tall and majestic, holding court with Captain Rodericko Donelli as I came in. Donelli's red face was patient and attentive. His uniform was starched white and showing gold all over. Hallmark's white lion head, mounted on a dress suit that seemed welded to his body, was never more impressive. Mrs. Hallmark was clinging to his arm, looking smaller, more pathetic, and more birdlike than ever. Behind them Tom Faulkner, Richards, and Barroni, all looking like death warmed-over in their monkey suits, were busy making some selections from a side table banked high with hors d'oeuvres. Surat Singh, whom I was not surprised to see on hand, was fingering a black olive as if he expected to find a scorpion inside. His bony brown face regarded me seriously as I came in. His teeth flashed within the confines of the short, dark beard. Conversation was low all over the room, but it was vibrant and alive. A lean man in a steward's jacket, whose hair was a black patina on his head, moved about quietly, arranging things on the banquet table. Not so much as a fork rattled. It wouldn't dare.

  For a second I thought Gilda Tiger and Bhudda hadn't shown up yet. Until I came farther into the room and several of the guests all paused in the middle of what they were saying or doing either to nod or wave or murmur a greeting. Gilda was ensconced on a settee in an alcove to the left of the table, where the host's back was to her. She had come in her war paint for the occasion—or her working clothes, depending on the point of view. A clinging sheath of silk texture that changed color every time she shifted her lounging body was cross-banded up to her delightful throat. Her marvelous figure was hugged lovingly by the dress. Bosom, hips, and thighs. The sheath was slashed up one side, riding almost to her derriere. It was a daring garment to wear even if you were Gilda Tiger. She had taken her long hair and piled it like the topmost towers of Ilium into a skyscraper crown on her head. She held a cocktail glass in both hands, and was revolving it slowly between her strong, tapering fingers. Her eyes were almost wistful. Almost. Bhadda stood directly behind the settee, arms folded, face jolly again. He had his working clothes on again—the boxer trunks, short jacket, and thin sandals. His rolls of fat muscle looked as solid as stone.

  The cunning alcove, portholes bordering it for a lovely view of the Atlantic, with Gilda and Bhudda framed within it, would have made a great cover for Mad magazine.

  When she saw me, she made a kiss with her lush lips and sipped her drink. And that's all she did.

  At that moment Esme May Cody Hallmark left the safety of her husband's arm. She laid a bony hand on me, her little eyes opening wide with affection. The night was young and she wasn't drunk yet. That was good. I didn't like to see her drunk.

  "Edward," she said firmly. "You sit next to me at dinner. Promise."

  "Promise. Good evening, Mr. Hallmark." He had come forward, breaking off what he was saying to the captain. His broad hand mashed mine. "Thanks for inviting me," I said. "It's an honor."

  "I'm working on you, young man." He laughed heartily, the crow's-feet at his eye corners multiplying. "You strike me as a proper constituent type. Eh, Tom?"

  Tom Faulkner smiled. "Mr. Noon is a liberal, I think," he said.

  "Liberal?" Henry Hallmark chuckled. Richards and Barroni looked on impassively. "Dear me, that won't do. I don't hold with these loose definitions of the day, Mr. Noon. Liberal, conservative, right-wing, left-wing. A man is either a Republican or a Democrat, and no two ways about it."

  I smiled in the spirit of the occasion, and the steward gliding by paused to let me take a cocktail glass off his hands. Donelli nodded approvingly, and the guy flitted over to where the Great Gilda was lounging.

  "Oh, Faulkner's not all that right," I said. "Some friends of mine would have you believe I'm a liberal conservative, and others say I'm a conservative liberal. When all the double-talk is put in a corner, I'm really just an American taxpayer."

  Tom Faulkner scowled. "That's evasive."

  "Sure it is. You want to make something of it?"

  Hallmark boomed his amusement, but Esme Hallmark shook her head sulkily. "Politics, Henry. Always politics. And here Captain Donelli has made a party for us. Shame on you, Henry."

  He accepted the rebuke in good style. "You see, gentlemen? The woman behind the man behind the party. Always it is so. Ask Surat Singh. How is it in India, Mr. Singh?"

  The tall, silent Hindu had found another olive to toy with. His face was enigmatic. That curious half smile was there again. "Women in my country have little to say. Unless, of course, fate makes them the wives of great men."

  Captain Donelli's hawk nose butted in at that point. "Women have their place in everything," he said. "Even seamen refer to their ships as she and her. I suppose they have a place in politics, too."

  Surat Singh pinned him with a cold stare. "A romantic notion at best, dear Captain. But come. Why not ask a woman? A unique woman. I refer, of course, to—" His sheet-covered arm extended toward the alcove, where Gilda Tiger was queen of all that she surveyed. Henry Hallmark rose quickly to the bait. I could see the sudden keen interest in his manner.

  "What about it, Miss Tiger? You said when you came in that you thought a woman would be lost amidst all this political mob. Still feel left out?"

  Esme May Cody Hallmark actually sniffed as she looked toward t
he alcove. Gilda made friends wherever she went.

  The lady was sitting back on the settee, arms outspread along the wooden arms of the couch. Her bold, breathtakingly beautiful face was a mask again. Only the eyes shone with the real spirit of the woman behind them. Her dress shimmered, catching the candlelight.

  She was on her best behavior, too. None of the sidewalk language she used with me. From out of her red mouth poured a lilting, velvety stream of words that was worthy of those Hepburns I mentioned.

  "Women are the greatest people in the universe, gentlemen. That is my considered opinion. I think the proper woman could rule the world, given the opportunity to do so. Now, how is that for a prejudicial viewpoint?"

  The men roared with laughter. Not derisive, but genuine amusement. Only Barroni and Richards and I were sour pusses. Oh, I grinned like a tomcat, of course, but I didn't mean it. Richards almost choked on an anchovy.

  "Well, well," Henry Hallmark stated firmly. "The woman speaks her mind. Here's to that." He saluted her with his cocktail glass. The rest followed suit. I took out my Camels and lit one.

  Captain Donelli, who wasn't past the dangerous age, rubbed his hands together, drinking in his fill of Gilda Tiger. "One thing at least. They'd make much prettier world leaders."

  That got a laugh, too. But a little one.

  Mrs. Hallmark took my hand. "Remember, next to me. We were done out of our backgammon game, but now I've got you all to myself. And if you leave my side for this political talk, I shall never speak to you again, Edward."

  "I wouldn't dare"

  After that the cocktail gaiety trailed off, a dinner gong sounded, and there was a quiet scramble for seats at the decked and garlanded banquet table. I was mindful of the seating because I was just about ready for anything. It was a wonderful way to spend a night aboard ship, but I wasn't sure about the outcome of anything. Even a harmless, innocent dinner party in the captain's private salon. After all, there was no guarantee in that.

  Captain Donelli sat at the head of the table. He looked prouder than a kid with nothing but straight A's on his report card. Henry Hallmark sat on his right. Across from him was Mrs. Hallmark. I was on her left. Tom Faulkner was stationed next to me. Then came Richards and Barroni and Surat Singh.

  On Hallmark's side of the table were Gilda Tiger, Bhudda, and three of the Francesca's officers. Donelli was obviously not a superstitious sailor. There were thirteen of us at the dinner table.

  Thirteen.

  I don't remember all the names of the three ship's officers. First Mate Frito was present, and two other smartly uniformed boys who were obviously high on Donelli's preferred list. Or maybe they had been selected according to rank. I only recalled Frito's name because Donelli mentioned it to me with emphasis when the trio showed up for dinner.

  It was as if Captain Donelli was telling me to be a good boy.

  Mrs. Hallmark was on my right, where she had wanted to be, and Gilda Tiger was sitting directly opposite me. Where I wanted her to be, where I could keep my eyes on her treacherous face.

  The cross-banded straps that swathed her incredible bosom seemed bordered by the two tall silver candlesticks that separated us. There was a dead smile on Tiger's face.

  It was as if she knew something that I didn't.

  I was sure she did.

  It's hard to tell exactly when it happened. The dinner was a marvelous one. There was filet mignon, three kinds of fish, any drink you wanted, and the most delectable vegetables and fruit dishes this side of Eden. It was easy to lose yourself in the fantastic assault on your appetite that such a meal can accomplish. And with Esme Hallmark keeping my ear well occupied with every bit of small talk in the book, I was hard put to keep my eye on Gilda Tiger, let alone everybody else. I relaxed a little because hard-noses like Richards and Barroni were at the table, too, and, of course, come to think of it, wasn't that a helluva place to try anything? Gilda certainly wasn't going to use her explosive wonder gadget—not while she was still sitting as nice as she pleased at the table. Henry Hallmark obviously found her a fascinating wench. As well he might, with a tired, faded, elderly wife. Love has nothing to do with that, either. Esme May was his forever. Gilda Tiger was just his for an hour or so at dinner. I wouldn't have put it past Gilda to rub knees a little with him just to tease. Men are men, after all, and Gilda couldn't have resisted the temptation to sucker the great Henry Hallmark just a little bit. That would have been right down her velvet back alley.

  But it must have happened somewhere between a statement that Surat Singh was making about the Far East and Vietnam and Henry Hallmark's unbridled rise to the challenge. Singh's dig must have been a good one, because Hallmark forgot all about Gilda Tiger and almost boomed down the length of the table.

  Everybody stopped eating to listen. No glasses clinked; cutlery ceased clattering. The sonorous, persuasive voice of Hallmark was filling the four corners of the room.

  ". . . not interfere, you say, Mr. Singh? Come, sir. That is hardly the way to refer to an American policy whose aim is only to aid the cause of justice. Politics be damned!"

  "Henry—" Mrs. Hallmark tugged at her earlobe nervously. "Oh, dear." She shuddered for my benefit, as if Surat Singh was indeed in for a bombastic going-over.

  "Mr. Hallmark, please." Surat Singh held up a restraining hand. It was brown, withered, and skeletal. "America always deludes itself into fancying that it is the savior of the world. Come, come. Must we weary these dear people with our religion? For us it is a religion, this politics. This play for power. No, no. Not tonight. I drink to your health instead." He reached for a goblet of wine set before him.

  "Hear, hear," Captain Donelli said, reaching for a glass also. Almost everyone else did, too. As I said, it's hard to remember. I do remember that Henry Hallmark ignored his own glass and half rose from his seat, his thatch of white hair slightly awry. His wide shoulder brushed against Gilda Tiger. She leaned back in her chair to move out of his way. He wagged a friendly but aggressive index finger at Surat Singh.

  "Mr. Singh, I can't allow such an affront to our foreign policy to be spoken aloud in front of these good people. Why—" He paused, his face changing expression, one hand going to his midriff. He shook himself and tried to brighten up his smile again, as a person does who fee's he owes it to his public. "You see, Mr. Singh, when we move into a trouble spot like Viet—" He stopped again. There was bewilderment on his face. I pushed my chair back. Mrs. Hallmark cried out in sudden fear.

  Her cry was all that her husband seemed to need. He gave up altogether, his big hands clawing at his middle, his face purpling right before our eyes.

  When he went down he fell backward, taking his chair with him. His chair and what was left of my good faith.

  The party was over.

  17. Southampton Getaway

  Henry Hallmark lay on the carpeted floor of the captain's private salon gasping for air. his face red as a beet, his big hands pawing at his stomach. I've seen that look too many times; he'd clearly been poisoned by something he had eaten or drunk—or both. Everybody was in an uproar; Esme Hallmark was hysterical. Captain Donelli hastily sent for the ship's doctor; everybody else stood around as people do at accidents not knowing whether to salute or run away. I'm an old China hand at poisonings; the old-fashioned remedies still work if you use them in time.

  As Gilda Tiger looked on impassively, her green eyes lidded. I tried out for Dr. Kildare on a street case. I grabbed the mustard pot from the dining table added water and salts, whipped the concoction together, and forced it down Henry Hallmark's throat. Richards and Barroni held his arms down so they wouldn't get in the way. The frightened steward came hustling back with fresh eggs from the refrigerator in the private kitchen. They helped, too. Mustard, eggs, salt, and water. Grandma's panacea for little children who might have been careless with the medicines in the house. Only Henry Hallmark wasn't a child. He was a famous diplomat, statesman, and world leader, and someone had tried to murder him again.

 
By the time Henry Hallmark reached the hands of the little moustached doctor with the black bag, he was out of danger. The diagnosis was food poisoning. It seemed that some of the marinated herring, which Hallmark had partaken of more liberally than anyone else was contaminated.

  Captain Donelli, all the wind gone from his sails, apologized mightily to Mrs. Hallmark and the rest of us, promising drastic consequences for his poor chef, but I wasn't buying any of it. Neither were Richards, Barroni, or Tom Faulkner. Their faces were as cold as arctic ice.

  Gilda Tiger murmured something sympathic, nodded at Bhudda, and they both exited from the room. Donelli looked anxious. The smooth-running routine of his ship had received a severe jolt.

  We carried Henry Hallmark back to his stateroom, his wife crying all the way. Once we had them bedded down and in the hands of the little doctor, Richards and Barroni got their hands on me. Before I knew what was happening, I had been strong-armed into the stateroom next to the Hallmarks. Tom Faulkner closed the door like Captain Bligh, put his pince-nez away, and gazed at me coldly. Richards and Barroni set me down in a leather chair none too gently. I let them. I was outnumbered again, and the third degree was on. The only thing that was missing was the cone of hot light blazing into my face.

  "All right," Faulkner said. "Enough is enough. What the devil is going on?"

  "Faulkner," I said slowly. "I know you're upset—as are these two helpers of yours. But must I point out, immodestly, that I saved the bacon again?"

  "Dodge," snarled Richards. "Every time you're around there's a near-miss on Mr. Hallmark. Come on, Noon. Level with us. What is this all about?"

  "You're wasting your time and mine. Talk to Tiger, Talk to Bhudda. Or Surat Singh. I wouldn't harm a hair of Hallmark's head, and you know it."

  "We don't know anything," Tom Faulkner said angrily. "I go along with Richards, We've had nothing but trouble since you showed up. That pipe business, and now this."

  "I'd do a better job if I was your man," I said. "Two tries, two misses. Come off it, Faulkner. Some one wants to murder Hallmark, all right. But it's not me,"