Assassins Don't Die in Bed Read online

  Then she saw me. I grinned and stepped out from behind the funnel. She flung her arms wide like a high priestess calling a halt to the ritual procedure, and Bhudda froze in a forward crouch, staring at me. His face, grimly serious during the business of avoiding mayhem at the hands of his mistress, took on its practiced jolly smile again. He took a step toward me, though. Unlike most Japanese, he was not the bowing kind.

  "Bhudda!" The word exploded like a whiplash across the small areaway they had found for their little exercise.

  "He wouldn't really hit me, would he?" I said easily, reveling in her stunning face and body. "He's about twice my weight, and America did win the war, didn't it?"

  She stood her ground. Her breasts, despite all the gymnastics, were hardly moving. She was like a solid statue of one's dreams that one wanted to come alive. Her green eyes took my measure.

  "Who the hell are you, mister?" As brassy as the words were, as unfriendly the tone, she didn't have a prayer with her intended effect. Her voice was one you hear only on the great stages of the world. A Cornell or a Hepburn—Katharine and Audrey both—sounds like her.

  "I'm only allowed to give my name, rank, and serial number to strange women."

  "Sure," she agreed crisply. "And I have no need to listen to Alecs, smart or otherwise." She gestured to Bhudda, and he rapidly handed her an enormous terry-cloth towel, which she wound about her shoulders like a fur stole. "Buzz off." She turned her back on me, and Bhudda glowered. He was a full head taller than his mistress.

  "Tiger, Tiger," I said admonishingly. "Do you really burn so bright? Thought you were made of sterner stuff . . . Your stern is something I only saw once. And that was on a statue in Ravelli's garden in his villa at Nice."

  That turned her about. Her smile was deadly. "You read that somewhere. Ravelli doesn't know any Americans. He hates Americans."

  "Really?" I eyed her without amusement, not looking anywhere but at her eyes. "Next time you see him or write him, ask him who got the Mafia off his back in New York. They wanted to send him parcel post in one of his own cement overcoats for what he did with his statue of that gangster's wife."

  She watched my mouth, and her tongue flicked. It was red and alive. "I posed for the statue in Ravelli's garden. "Naked Dawn." Ravelli's a genius. If he could only work his hands on a woman the way he does marble—" She broke off. "Good-bye for now. See you around."

  "Sure," I said dryly. "And maybe you'll give me your autograph. No thanks. Bye-bye, sister. So long, Bhudda. Try not to break each other's necks."

  I didn't give her a chance to decide anything about me. I left them both without looking back. Darkness was closing in over the decks, anyway. The sun had sunk out of sight. A breeze washed over the Francesca.

  The day had been far from a loss, I reflected. I tried not to think about Gilda Tiger's alarming body. There should be a law passed about women built like her. She was unfair to the rest of the human race.

  I tried to concentrate on the important things I had learned:

  Mrs. Henry Hallmark was an alcoholic, A very disturbed one. Cloche hats to one side, wives of great men always have some reason for hitting the bottle. Nobody becomes a drunk because they like the stuff.

  The young secretary's name was Tom Faulkner. And dear old Esme May Cody Hallmark was still thinking about her dead son, Richard. A boy who had left this earth some twenty years ago.

  And Gilda Tiger and Bhudda could each hreak a man in two with their bare hands.

  Just before I turned into the split of the passageways that led to my own cabin, I glanced back. A casual, ordinary glance.

  A tall, skinny wraith in a Ghandi costume was conferring with Gilda Tiger while Bhudda stood with Gibraltar solidarity behind them, arms folded. Even from a distance I could recognize the man in the winding sheets.

  He was Surat Singh, the number one man of the Indian organization in the Far East that was trying to lead millions of starving Hindus out of the economic gutter into the gold-lined precincts of the far, far Left. Color him red for China.

  That bothered me.

  The plot, like the folds of the covering swirling about Surat Singh's thin, dusky body, appeared to be thick.

  What the hell was he doing on the same ship that was bearing his greatest enemy, Henry Hallmark, toward Europe?

  5. More Than a Secretary

  New York already lay one hundred miles behind as I dressed for dinner. The Francesca was capable of about four hundred nautical miles a day, thanks to a streamlined engine room that resembled a launching site. My First Class stateroom was more than ample. There was only one bed, a desk, and some chairs, but the space between these objects stretched wide and roomy. If I was the pacing kind I could have trained for the Olympics. Two round portholes gave a good view of the deck. Beyond the railing, the wilderness of sea flowed by. The night was full of stars. I laid out my formal dinner jacket with black bow tie and trousers to match. Apart from my real reason for the ocean voyage, it promised to be a pleasant crossing.

  The glass-topped mahogany desk was piled high with circulars, broadsides, menus, and ship's activities pamphlets, the sort of things calculated to make a traveler feel part of one big happy family. The only reading matter I was interested in was a brochure of cream-colored paper, printed in black script lettering, which listed all the passengers on board. I scanned it carefully. As I somehow expected, Gilda Tiger and her pet Bhudda were located on the same deck as the Hallmark entourage. None of the other names made a dent in my memory. Surat Singh was not bunking on E deck.

  I examined myself in the full-length mirror tacked to the back of a closet door. I had extracted the arsenal for the evening from a suitcase. The gold-plated cigarette lighter that also served as a .22 pistol went into my side pocket. I placed a pearl button stud on my shirt front. If anyone pushed me too far all I had to do was twist it counterclockwise and it, like my investigator's permit, would emit a vesicant gas that would sting, smart, and blind an attacker. There was no need, I felt, for the homing devices or the explosives in the dummy clip of the .45. Tonight was a night just for casing the ship and sizing things up. I locked the suitcase. If anyone tried to open it the normal way he'd be in for the shock of his life. It would set up a battery of caterwauling sounds that would wake the dead. I adjusted my bow tie and closed the closet door. I put a fresh supply of Camels into my flat cigarette case—the one whose false top concealed a camera that could take fifty pictures in rapid sequence without so much as a click of a shutter.

  I strapped on my wristwatch. Another marvel, courtesy of Uncle Sam. If I ever wanted to stop the sweep hand from moving, the timepiece would become a miniature hand grenade. There was never any danger of the watch malfunctioning normally. The beat of the pulse in my wrist guaranteed perfect working order. I'd have to be dead for the thing to go off while on my wrist.

  The time was seven fifteen. People strolled past my porthole windows on their way to the dining room. Lilting, happy voices carried over the sound of the waves washing the steel hull of the Francesca.

  There was a muffled knock at the door.

  "Come in," I called.

  The young secretary had dressed for dinner, too. He was stiff and elegant and formal in a black dress suit. The only difference was a cummerbund wound tightly about his waspish waist. The pince-nez twinkled, but his face was merely polite.

  "Mr. Noon?"

  "That's me."

  "I'm Tom Faulkner, Mr. Hallmark's secretary. I wonder if I might speak to you for a minute or two?"

  "Make it three if you like."

  His smile was forced as he stepped into the cabin, but the nervous movements that typified most of his gestures were absent, as if he had dosed himself solidly with tranquilizers.

  "If you want a drink before dinner," I said, "I haven't got any. What can I do for you?"

  Tom Faulkner poked a forefinger between the circles of his pince-nez. "I understand you and Mrs. Hallmark met today."

  "She's a fine woman. Her
husband is a great man."

  "If I didn't know who you were, Mr. Noon, I'd say that remark was truly Democratic." Faulkner's smile was easier. "I hope Mrs. Hallmark and you hit it off."

  I eyed him curiously. "Are you more than a secretary?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Well, you're acting like a son might if he thinks his mother hasn't behaved like a lady. Or are you really Santa Claus, making a list and checking it twice, going to find out who's naughty and nice?"

  The secretary shuddered. A shudder that ran down his whole body. He shook his head and sighed. "I was afraid of that."

  "Afraid of what?"

  "I'll be frank with you. Mrs. Hallmark drinks. Rather more than is good for her."

  "It wasn't noticeable in the way you mean. She seems a nice old bird to me. Tell me, Faulkner." I stared him down. "Did you come to see me on your own hook?"

  Now Tom Faulkner showed the steel he obviously owned. After all, you didn't become the right hand of a demigod like Henry Hallmark just because he liked you.

  "I'm glad we had this talk, Mr. Noon. You've been a detective too long. I can see that. Always looking for causes and effects. Very well. I'll give you a few. You read the newspapers. You know where Mr. Hallmark is going what he plans to do. You also know we have him well guarded. I saw you at the rail this afternoon. I also saw you and Mrs. Hallmark cutting up touches. That hat business was ridiculous. The sort of thing I always have to sweep under the rug. The Hallmarks are a devoted couple, but Mrs. Hallmark's drinking is a cross for her husband to bear. Am I making myself clear?"

  "Sure. I promise I won't drink with her."

  That made him fume. "Listen, cut the glibness. I happen to know the old lady has already taken a shine to you. She's been telling Mr. Hallmark all afternoon about the nice young man she met on deck. I suspect before this trip's done she'll wangle a chair for you at our table. Or ask you to play backgammon with her. She's crazy for backgammon, too. Now, let me explain my position again. I'm in effect screening you without asking our special agents to do it. I hope you understand."

  He was trying to look apologetic, but it didn't work. His face was too lean and hard, his eyes too intelligent and coldly shrewd. The Ivy League look was a fraud. Oh, he'd gone to college, all right, probably graduated with honors, but he wasn't rah-rahing me. He was giving me orders.

  I took out my cigarette case, the one that took pictures, and took a cigarette instead. "I get the idea."

  "I'm glad."

  "You want me to stay away from Mrs. Hallmark."

  "That's rather a Victorian way of putting it, but—well, yes."

  I laughed. "Shall I put your mind further at ease?"

  Tom Faulkner raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

  "My name is Noon, I'm on my way to Europe to try my hand at the wheels and tables of all the casinos on the Continent, and I have absolutely no interest in politics. I approve of your god's trip, of course, but beyond that I am on vacation. If you wire back to New York, you will discover I have solved many murders in my time, but when I relax, I relax. Now, would you like to see my driver's license or a picture of me when I was a baby with a cute behind?"

  "You're offended."

  "A little, but not so's I'll toss you out of the room. So run along. Message received and duty noted."

  I had him biting his lower lip, something he had probably schooled himself against doing a long time ago, and he didn't like that, the idea that his skin was something that could still be gotten under.

  He paused at the door, lean, immaculate. A portrait of a young executive of wealth and power.

  "Mr. Noon," he said quietly, no longer biting the lip.

  "Yes, Mr. Faulkner?"

  "All of Mrs. Hallmark's trouble dates back to the death of her son Richard. I know that you served in the European theater the same spring he was killed. Mechanized Cavalry, I believe."

  "You are more than a secretary. You're a fact finder."

  "I'd further appreciate it if Mrs. Hallmark never learns that fact. If she ever does, the chances are very good that shell want to talk all about your war experiences. It's typical of war mothers and widows. I wish to spare her that, too."

  "You were just leaving," I reminded him, finding an ashtray.

  "So I was. Good-bye, Mr. Noon."

  He vanished like Mr. Clean. I stared at the door, thinking. So Mrs. Henry Hallmark's drinking was a problem, and Tom Tom the Diplomat's Man had to do all the dirty work. Interesting. What was even more interesting was that in less time than it takes to trace a set of fingerprints, Faulkner had cabled back to Washington and obviously gotten a complete dossier on me.

  But he'd helped me with something.

  I might have thought of it myself, but now it was staring me right in the opportunistic kisser. Richard Hallmark had died with the Twentieth Armored Task Force, the last armored division to push across Europe into Hitler's vaunted redoubt area. I had been with that task force, too. Not with the tanks like poor Richard, but with the cavalry reconnaissance arm. Tom Faulkner didn't know it, but he had given me a flying wedge into the mind and soul of Esme May Cody Hallmark,

  I had been on the same killing ground as her beloved son. There wasn't a better way to get closer to Henry Hallmark than that.

  I was whistling as I left the cabin and hit the deck. The main dining room was closer than a menu card is to a waiter. The Francesca rode easily on the quiet ocean. The stars and the moon looked bigger than they ever did in New York. Vastness was the proper setting for such luminaries.

  Throngs of passengers, ornamented with their dress suits and evening gowns, bustled and surged toward the lighted doors of the dining room. Bright conversation clamored and trilled, voices fighting each other for attention. The high excitement of the first night at sea dominated the atmosphere. It would pass, but right now the sky was the limit.

  A white-coated steward, dark face all teeth and patient never-ending smile, was herding the passengers through the high, wide glass doors. Tables gleamed, candelabra glowed from the ceiling, the polished floor shone like bronzed wood. An orchestra waited, mounted on a circular stage. It was difficult to believe that you were aboard a ship at sea. The whole effect was of the grand ballroom of a high-priced hotel. The steward was nodding proudly, smile fixed in position, murmuring a veritable army of "Buona seras."

  His smile lost its uniform architecture when he saw Gilda Tiger and Bhudda. You could hardly blame him. Arm in arm, they might have stepped out of the pages of Mad Comics.

  Bhudda wore a monkey suit, and what it did to the mammoth bulge of his muscles was laughable. One deep breath and the material had to split and fly off. His round, jolly face looked mounted on top of the starched collar and black bow tie. His mighty mass of smooth skin gleamed slickly in the electric lights.

  Miss Tiger came on like Gilda the Great, as if she was about to tame lions or make elephants curtsey before her. The long-legged, fantastic body was encased in a sheath of black silk evening gown. A vertical slash down the right thigh revealed a priceless amount of tanned leg. The black waterfall of hair, free, primitive, and all pagan, swirled with abandon. Her mouth was a red fire, her brilliant eyes said I am who I am.

  She was about 5 feet 9, and Bhudda towered beside her. They both glanced at me as they swept by. I had remained at the salon door, finishing off another Camel. Bhudda's smile was a mockery. Miss Tiger might have hissed as she brushed by me. I'm not sure.

  All I do know is that had I planned it I couldn't have used the needle any more smartly. What I had been whistling since I left my cabin and still was when Gilda Tiger and Bhudda showed up was that old Rodgers and Hart classic "The Lady Is a Tramp."

  Her derriere shook its sensuously marvelous rhythm as she sashayed into the dining room. No buttocks past or present have ever had such coordination of movement. For all his great height and weight, Bhudda flowed deftly beside her.

  I doused my cigarette in the Atlantic Ocean and followed them in. I found my des
ignated table, but I had already located the captain's table.

  The great white-haired mane of Henry Hallmark rose above the group surrounding the circle of white tablecloth. Mrs. Hallmark was sitting on his left, smaller and more birdlike than ever. Tom Faulkner was on his right, pince-nez gleaming. I spotted the captain of the Francesca, a bald, red-faced, hawk-nosed man. I didn't know the backs of the other three people at the table, but they were all men and all sitting stiffly. I marked them off as special agents and got back to my menu.

  My own table was filling. I rose, with smiles, to introductions. The next few moments were lost in a babble of small talk and easy jokes about ships and voyages and strangers meeting for the first time.

  The orchestra woke up, leading easily into a Strauss waltz. Glasses clinked and conversation stalled.

  First night out, and Henry Hallmark looked as safe and sound as the American dollar.

  6. Death's Night Out

  ". . . the last word in seamanship," one of the people at my table was saying. "You know, there are maybe ten 'captains' on the bridge. Every one of them holds a master's certificate. Now, how can you beat those odds for safety?"

  "You just can't, George," his wife said proudly. The woman sitting next to him, middle-aged, well cared for and overdone in elegance and yards of Bergdorf Goodman, just had to be his wife. There was the telltale giveaway of loud voice, open admiration and ownership of the robust, dynamic New Yorker on her left.

  I nodded into my menu in agreement when she flung me a look for confirmation of George's statement. I was busy deciphering Filets de Turbotin pochés, Ris de veau des Gourmets, and a lot of totally delectable-sounding entrées and apéritifs. A Pernod for a starter seemed like a good idea. I started something by ordering first. Everybody at the table decided to have a Pernod. Which gave George a further opportunity to regale us with his knowledge of the Francesca. Us being his wife, a much quieter younger couple named the Warrens and me. Jack and Vivian Warren were from Denver and quite obviously traveling first class in a marriage that couldn't have been more than two years old. They were holding hands and drinking in everything George—his name was Mendelman and he was a real estate biggie—had to expound on the subject of the Francesca.