Assassins Don't Die in Bed Read online

  "Says who," Barroni growled.

  I withered him with a cold grin. "So you talk, too. Okay. But can't you see this would be all too pat if I was your man? I could have gotten Hallmark a thousand times already if I'd wanted to."

  Faulkner's hand was too close to the .38 I knew he carried. He checked his hand as he saw me look at it. He almost blushed, but he controlled himself. It was obvious he could keep all the books in the world, make appointments balance, and send out memos by the ton, but he didn't care for espionage and sudden death. He looked pale.

  "All right. Let's say I trust you for now. What do you suggest we do about the others? Miss Tiger, her manservant, and Surat Singh?"

  I shrugged. "Right now. you couldn't prove that today was Sunday. Anybody could have fouled up that herring. Did you search anybody for poison? No. Did you detain anyone for questioning? No. All you did was decide that little Noon was your pigeon and you cooped him up right off the bat. So it's too late now, and when the doc diagnoses what he pumps out of that famous Hallmark stomach, you still won't know anything worth knowing. The killer missed again, and you let him slip off into the night."

  Richards coughed, "Those ship's officers—"

  "Forget them." I growled. "And Donelli. You work for one of these ships for a long time and you don't know anything else and you don't care about anything else. They're more incorruptible than the Constitution. Look no farther than the Great Gilda and Singh. They're the ones to watch. Did you see Donelli's face? He wanted to hide under the rug, he was so embarrassed."

  Tom Faulkner nodded. "What would you suggest?"

  "Do your jobs and leave me alone. Hallmark is your obligation, not mine. You birds have loused up my vacation plenty. I'll have to start all over again."

  Richards looked at Faulkner, then at me. "You got pushed into the drink last night by Tiger. I still want to know what that was all about."

  "Ask her."

  "I'm asking you."

  I shrugged. "I already told you. She thinks I was hired to get something on her to save money for one of her ex-men. It's as simple as that."

  Barroni shifted his feet. "Is it true, though?"

  "It's true enough. Ask her yourself. Can I get out of this chair now, or are you going to play rough again?"

  Tom Faulkner stepped back, flinging off his subordinates with a commanding gesture. "You can go. Thanks for your help. You may have saved Mr. Hallmark's life. I'm not sure about that just yet. But I'll thank you just the same. And we will check on the lady and Mr. Singh. This is a very important trip, Noon. It's not going to be fouled up if it takes my last breath."

  "Right." I rose from the chair, stretched, and swept a cigarette out of Barroni's hand as he was about to insert it in his mouth. I put it to my lips and lit it with a silver lighter from the desk. I figured this was Faulkner's room. There was a world globe, books, lots of folders and briefs. The only light in the room came from the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling.

  "Noon," Faulkner said, "don't discuss this with anyone."

  "I'm not exactly the town crier, Faulkner."

  "You're a nosy cop,'' Barroni opined.

  "Sure," I said, going to the door. "But I'm also a man who can handle his own line of work. I can't say the same for you guys. See you."

  I left them with that, keeping the poker smile on my face until I cleared the cabin. I really didn't feel like smiling.

  It seemed Henry Hallmark's peace tour of the world was doomed from the start. If he ever reached England alive I would be a surprised and delighted guy.

  Vivian Warren, eyes aglow, saw me first. Then her husband Jack did. Which was followed by the gutty laugh of George Mendelman. They sort of targeted in on me as I stood in the midships bar, thinking into a double martini. George's overdressed wife was missing.

  "Knew we'd find you here," Vivian said, her sad eyes sending messages again. She was wearing a new dress. It suddenly occurred to me I hadn't seen her in the same outfit twice. "Detectives, like birds, flock to bars."

  "Missed a fine movie, Ed," Jack said, signaling the bartender. "Nutty spy picture. Plenty of girls and guns and secret agents."

  "Saw it in New York." I lied, not wanting to discuss fantasies. "And where is Mrs. Mendelman, George?"

  "Headache." George winced, trying to smile a that's-life smile. "Stayed in the cabin. What are you drinking?"

  "Don't you know an olive when you see one?" I asked dryly.

  "Too strong for my blood; I'll have a Scotch and water." George seemed subdued for a change. Vivian and Jack had a Manhattan apiece. There's a lot of variety in the hooch-preference department.

  "How's the book, Vivian?"

  She frowned at me. "Book?"

  "Didn't you have In Cold Blood in your hands this morning?"

  "Oh." She laughed. "Yes. It's very good. Grim but good."

  "Not my speed," Jack Warren growled. "Who wants to read a book about real murders? There're enough in the Daily News."

  George Mendelman sipped his Scotch and took a deep breath. I could see what was coming. It came.

  "Real-life murders? Say, I remember one we had a couple of years ago in the big city. You remember that little girl who was baby-sitting when this old man—"

  About three drinks later we were out on deck, drinking in some of the night now. There was still no moon. The skies were dark. The Francesca hardly rolled. Vivian had linked my arm with hers, and Jack had been cornered by Mendelman, who was telling him the inside story of his biggest deal in real estate. It was a nice folksy session all around, and I didn't mind at all. Vivian was the best kind of female company, a good listener who never rambled on overmuch herself. We all halted at an elbow of deck that jutted over the foam. Jack wasn't the jealous type at all, he was that sure of his wife. Or maybe he was just too simple-minded to look for snakes in his own backyard.

  "How's crime?" Vivian said suddenly, low.

  I lit a cigarette for her and one for myself. "Doesn't pay enough. How's Denver?"

  She sighed, looking up at the dark clouds, hanging onto the rail with both hands. Her proud bosom rose with the movement. "It'll be there when we get back. But you won't. After Southampton, I suppose we'll never see you again,"

  "Life's like that. And a good thing, too. You'd be surprised at how much trouble that's saved a lot of peopie."

  For all her simplicity and naiveté, I think she knew what I meant. She had the decency to lower her eyes.

  "Didn't you ever get married, Ed? Didn't you ever want to?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "And?"

  "I wanted to, I never did, and here I am. Lusting after all the pretty girls in the world. It's a life."

  "You." She shook her head. "A woman could have made something out of you. You just resist order and routine, that's what. Bet you were frightened by a time schedule when you were a little boy."

  "How did you guess?"

  I looked at her. She was a woman all unto herself, but I had met her before, too. She was Alma Wheeler and Fran Tulip and Helen Tucker and Alberta Carstairs and the ghosts of several dozen other wondrous ladies who had either been shot out from under me or run away on their own. It was a lousy night to be thinking about them. I puffed on the Camel.

  "What are you thinking about?" she asked after a while, as George Mendelman's voice boomed something hearty behind us.

  "You remind me of a secretary I have. Melissa Mercer. An extra-special girl. You and she are a lot alike."

  "In what way?" She was really interested now.

  "She worries about me, too. For which, I thank you both."

  "You're such a little boy," she said, almost angrily. "It's that boyish manner of yours. Under all that wiseness and New York way, you really—" She broke off and shook her head.

  I squeezed her hand under mine on the rail. "Little boys don't grow up to be detectives," I said.

  "No," she agreed. "They just get older and older."

  There was no more to be said along those lines. We watched a
lone star trying to break through the clouds overhead. No dice. The dark waves mounted, and fell lapping at the mammoth hull of the ship. Ship's bells tinkled again. The voices of people talking and laughing and having a good time wafted up from D deck, just below us.

  I had seen no point in discussing the captain's private dinner with the Hallmarks. Nobody had asked me, anyway I think Vivian had made it a point not to ask, waiting for me to speak first. Jack and George must have forgotten all about it in the pleasure of the spy movie and their business talk. What happens to you is not that important to everybody else.

  That was Sunday night.

  Monday was just another day to log on the Francesca. The waking up, the stroll around the deck. Meeting the Warrens for a late breakfast, trying to avoid George Mendelman and wife, and generally keeping tabs on things Henry Hallmark was still very indisposed, though Mrs Hallmark sent me a message via a steward, saying how grateful she was for my help. I was so like Richard, her letter said, and it was a gift from the Lord that I had been on hand to help save her Henry's life.

  Gilda Tiger and Bhudda didn't pop out of their cabin all day Small peculiarity in that. It was a stormy day, the sea riding high and great waves washing against the Francesca After breakfast I locked myself in my cabin and talked to the Chief on the sending set. We made arrangements for a car to be made ready for me at Southampton. An American car, with the latest in scientific toys. My arsenal was about to be repleted on a grand scale. Just in time, too.

  Surat Singh strolled the decks like Captain Ahab, waves and all I caught sight of Richards and Barroni once, trying to keep posted on him. As for Tom Faulkner, I noticed he spent a lot of time going in and out of the Hallmark stateroom. Busybody Tom. A secretary's life could not always be a happy one. So many errands to run.

  So Monday folded its tent like an Arab and silently stole backward into time. Tuesday loomed on the horizon. Henry Hallmark's food poisoning was old news, now. Monday segued into the next morning.

  Tuesday—and Southampton.

  18. Meet Me at the Mille Miglia

  Looking back at the Southampton docking now, it all becomes a blur. Maybe because of what happened not long after the Francesca hove in to port. Southampton was scarcely visible once the liner docked. The mooring lines were cast off, and the funnels blasted, announcing arrival at destination on schedule. The towering shed and canopied dockside hid any view you might otherwise have had of the city. All the business of getting ready for debarkation, as well as saying good-bye to a lot of people you might never see again, had its cumulative effect. As calm as I could be about getting my land legs again, there was still a sense of excitement, rush, and don't-miss-the-train fever.

  The English coastline had emerged rocky and stark against the walls of the channel. As the Francesca had plowed closer, the height of the cliffs blocked the view. Across the channel, almost abreast of Southampton, lay Le Havre. Nearly twenty-two years had elapsed since the converted Brazil had dropped Sergeant Edward Noon, ASN32812608, in Le Havre, along with the rest of the Twentieth Armored Task Force. Including Richard Hallmark. It was something to think about. I tried not to think about it, but the world can really be small sometimes. And now Henry Hallmark, his famous father, had a stomachache whose rumbles would be heard around the world if the news ever got out. Although I was sure Tom Faulkner would never let it leak out.

  Gambarelli came to say good-bye, his pursuer's smile penitent.

  "Good-bye, Mr. Noon. Thank you for your consideration of my folly. It has been nice to have you aboard."

  "Ciao, Gambarelli. Why don't you get married and settled down?"

  His shrug was eloquent. "I am too—excitable."

  "You play with any more Tigers and you'll lose your hide."

  He shuddered, and bowed out of the stateroom. I packed my suitcases and gear. The Warrens came in to say good-bye. Jack asked me when I would be in Denver, and I said maybe never, and Vivian reached up and kissed me on the forehead. They didn't ask me where I was going so I didn't ask them. But I missed Vivian Warren's mother hen attitude as soon as we'd said good-bye. The Mendelmans I avoided altogether.

  Captain Donelli stood at the gangway, shaking hands with some of his favored passengers. First Mate Frito was with him. Scores of happy landlubbers started to stream ashore. There was no need to say good-bye to the Hallmark entourage. Or to Tiger and her big chum. I'd be seeing plenty of them. I was sure of it.

  Captain Donelli shook my hand, still looking embarrassed about his dinner. "Good-bye, Mr. Noon. Perhaps you'll sail with us again someday."

  "Perhaps. Captain. Ciao, First Mate Frito."

  Customs took a full hour. The examination, the chalk marks okaying the luggage. And then I was informed that my car was ready. I found it in another shed, shining blue and brand-new, parked with a flock of other automobiles, I spotted three Cadillacs, a Mercedes-Benz, several Buicks. Dodges, and MG's. And one particularly spectacular Ferrari. A firehouse-red Ferrari with a tiger's head painted on its fancy doors. That figured.

  A friendly British porter stowed my gear. I flipped him a five-dollar bill and told him to convert it. He smiled, tipped his cap, and moved off. I got into the car and checked the glove compartment and dashboard. The Chief had filled the bill up to the letter.

  The shed was filling up now. Porters bearing luggage, tourists preparing themselves for the great European adventure. Noisy kids raced, mothers screamed, and governesses yelled for order. Motors roared, engines purred. I had checked the license plates of the Cadillacs. No guesswork. The low numbers and the American plates told me that the Hallmark entourage was going to London Town by Cadillac escort.

  My car was a 1966 Chrysler. A real American car. The glove compartment held a .45. boxes of shells, and a batch of technological haymakers, including explosive devices, compounds, and gizmos that should keep my life safe for democracy. There was also a map of Southampton and environs, showing the best road to London. I shouldn't hang around. I had to duck the Hallmark people, and the lady tiger with friend. I put the car in gear, liking the smooth, powerful thrum of the engine, and eased it out of the shed. Porters chased the kids and the mob for me. As I swung toward a passageway leading out I had my last view of the sleek, sleeping giant nestled in the waters, dockside. The Francesca had never looked bigger or more beautiful. I blew Captain Donelli's lady a silent kiss and drove out of the shed, looking for street signs.

  I didn't open the motor as I cleared Southampton It was a modern port, very British, and might have been something from an MGM movie, I expected to see Greer Garson or Maureen O'Sullivan wander out of a shop. The stores and places of business, and the cosmopolitan look of tall buildings, supermarkets, and islands of people waiting for street-light changes, were familiar for all their newness. I found the main roadway leading from town took the crest of a hill, and cut around behind a bower of trees just off the highway to wait. I knew I had beaten the Hallmarks and Gilda Tiger through customs.

  That part was easy. I was only one person and I had skipped early. The early bird catches the worm. Or the chase.

  I sat back in the shining new Chrysler, took out my cigarettes, and waited.

  I wasn't waiting for a tram.

  The Cadillac escort didn't whip by me until another half hour had passed. There was no mistaking the orderly line of three dark limousines as they shot by, glistening in the pale sun of an English morning. No sirens or horns or any of that fuss. Just three smooth-touring beauties taking the country in their mechanical stride. I didn't have a chance to see what the seating order was, they had come on by so quickly. Still I waited. There was no chance of losing them. I knew the route to London, thanks to the map, and the Chrysler could find them no matter how fast or how far they went.

  I was waiting for the lady to show up

  She did.

  The Cadillacs had disappeared up the stretch of road when a red blur streaked by. The Ferrari. Gilda was driving. Her long, dark hair was flying in the sunlight. Next to her Bhud
da was imitating his namesake, arms folded. Panama hat riveted to his skull. I put the Chrysler in gear and joined the chase, allowing the Ferrari maybe a half-mile start.

  The road running parallel to the channel suddenly broke ranks and bore inland. The countryside flattened out, revealing expanses of meadows and draws, broken only by an occasional cottage and farm. The green-brown stretches of England lay like a wide carpet to my left. But then, as I inched the speedometer up the scale, enjoying the feeling of speed, I caught a flash of red ahead. I slowed down. The setting was pastoral and peaceful. But not too far ahead, the red rear of the Ferrari reminded me of who I was and where I was.

  The Hallmark entourage had set out for London, and Gilda Tiger had chosen to tag along. That couldn't mean anything but trouble. I closed the gap between our cars, but not enough so that she would get suspicious or make out my face in her rearview mirror. My porkpie was clamped down over my forehead.

  The road was macadam, but there were strips of dusty patches. Every time the Ferrari's wheels hit them they let off clouds of flying dust. I checked the needle of my speedometer. I was doing sixty, which meant the Ferrari was closer to seventy and the Cadillacs weren't just cruising to enjoy the scenery. There was lots of that. I saw a cow and a couple of youngsters with a picnic basket. Several cyclists came by, pedaling furiously, kerchiefs and scarves streaming. Overhead the sun was climbing and the clouds were thinning. But somehow the day was grayish for all of that. England has that habit.

  There was a mass of road signs and forking lanes, but the route I was taking lay straight ahead. Once the merry chase seemed to bear to the right, but it wasn't an actual turn, just the peculiar topography of the landscape. It looked as though we were settling down for a long run. We were already twenty minutes out of Southampton. The Francesca, the Warrens, the Mendelmans, Gambarelli, and all that had happened had already slipped in to the past.

  The Ferrari's tail got smaller, and I accelerated. The pace was stepping up. The Chrysler's pickup was fabulous. I felt as though I were riding a streamlined cloud. Thick forests of trees began to converge on all sides. Billows of Ferrari dust rose in a whirl, blocking my vision.