Assassins Don't Die in Bed Read online

  "Take your glass, Ed—okay if I call you Ed—see, it won't move a fraction or a hair. That's steadiness. These big ships have stabilizers maybe eleven feet high that eliminate rolling. The gyroscopes are automatically set one exerting pressure up and another down. Like the fins on a fish. I tell you—"

  I told him it was okay if he called me Ed, and his wife laughed. The Warrens laughed, too. Meanwhile, I was training my eyes on the Hallmark table. I could see that Gilda Tiger and Bhudda were similarly occupied. There was no sign of the white-sheeted Surat Singh among all the dinner jackets and boiled shirt fronts filling the crowded dining room.

  The Pernod was exquisite. I could feel my tongue undress itself, lie back, and enjoy the flavor. It made me experience a sense of well-being and security that is one of the magic results of traveling by boat under royal conditions. There was no sense of time. Just the music, the luxurious atmosphere, the lights, and the bubbling spirits all around. I had to fight a strong tendency to let my guard down.

  But it was too early in the game anyway for overt mobile tactics, so I just sat still and took my medicine, which turned out to be one of the greatest dinners of all time.

  Even if George Mendelman made it one of the noisiest, gushiest ones. The man was a monument to the brainwashing text of all the guides, brochures, and pamphlets extant in relation to the Francesca. As young as they were, the Warrens got his pitch right away, and long before the meal ended we were in a mutual conspiracy of shared smiles, polite talk, and indulgent kindness for poor George and his overdressed wife. Vivian Warren was slender, big-breasted, and had the sort of eyes that makes a man do his damnedest not to hurt her. Like Bambi in the woods running from the flames. Jack Warren was obviously nuts about her, a fact worth remembering in case I drank too much Pernod or got playful ideas. I was all for him. I like men who are in love with their wives. They keep the score even, somehow.

  By dinner's end, I was certain that the Mendelmans and the Warrens were not the enemy. The type-casting was too good; the dialogue too ordinary and right for it to be otherwise. So I relaxed. At least I wasn't nursing any vipers under my own table. Chances were good we would be sharing it all the way to London.

  "Ed," Vivian Warren said with a laugh, "what's your big secret? We know George is in real estate, and Jack told you he's a tire salesman, but what do you do?"

  I looked up from a delicious slice of Double Gloucester cheese to find them all smiling at me expectantly. I shrugged. "I'm a private detective on vacation, so help me Mickey Spillane."

  They all roared at that. They didn't believe me, naturally. I let it ride and got back to my coffee and cheese, ever mindful of the mixture of serenity and calm battle tension that surrounded the table where Henry Hallmark and Company sat.

  Things were too quiet, even for me.

  I had a solitary smoke on the promenade deck. A ceiling of stars twinkled on high. The Mendelmans and the Warrens had gone on to the game room to see about keeping the night alive with some gin rummy. I parked myself in the shadows of an enormous shrouded lifeboat and chain-smoked. I had time on my hands and a lot of mental wood to burn.

  For a moment, it was as if I had the whole ship to myself. Just me, the silent deck, the shadowed superstructure, the gigantic funnels, the stars, and the bright lights from the various lounges, salons, and staterooms. It was an illusion fostered by the vast ocean and the tremendous canopy of darkness closing in from beyond.

  Even smoking a cigarette had taken on all the aspects of a fresh experience. Something had been added: the enchantment of untroubled space and trackless time. I was lost in the stars.

  "Henry," a familiar voice said behind me, "there he is." The voice had all the privacy of a stage whisper. I turned easily.

  Esme May Cody Hallmark, swaying but still clinging to her dignity in a black dress with net bosom and a wide splash of corsage, was staring up at me. Her thin arms were interlocked in the affectionate grasp of the tall, stern white-haired man at her side. For a heartbeat, the world-famous face of Henry Hallmark appraised me closely, astutely. It was as if his deep blue eyes, set in the massive,' unforgettable face, were trying to read me all the way down to my shoelaces. His expression was keen yet friendly; shrewd and not apologizing for anything. Henry Hallmark had lived for years in a world of stand-up-and-be-counted.

  "You are Mr. Noon?" he inquired pleasantly, without taking off any of the silvery frosting. "My wife calls you her newfound friend."

  "I'd like to be that," I admitted.

  His smile shifted ever so slightly, or maybe it was a trick of lighting, the shadows on the deck. A firm, leathery hand extended and closed over my own. "Tom told me about you, sir—he warned me, that is to say. Tom is very protective for such a young man. You are rather young, too, Mr. Noon. But more seasoned. I can see that. It's in your eyes, sir, and the way you stare back at a man."

  The strong grip of his hand told me more about him than all the books I had read in the New York public library. He was pushing seventy, but he wasn't going to let that bother him. My knuckles cracked. I cased him quickly. Six feet two, two hundred pounds easy, and unless he was wearing a corset his waistline was a miracle.

  "I didn't mean to stare." I smiled at Mrs. Hallmark, who, having delivered me into the hands of her husband, was swaying a little more and smiling benignly in the manner of all drunks the world over who are convinced they hold the key to inner happiness. "Did you enjoy your dinner, Mrs. Hallmark?"

  "You must call me Esme," she said. "I call you Edward. He's a very dear boy, Henry. So like Richard."

  "Yes, my dear, yes." Henry Hallmark patted her hand, not taking his eyes from my face, as if inviting me to be offended by his wife's alcoholic state, "My wife sees Richard in all the fine young men of this country. You were in the army, Mr. Noon?"

  He knew I had been, but I said, "Yes, three years. War Two."

  "The cavalry, I believe?"

  "Mechanized. No horses. Reconnaissance outfit."

  "Yes. Attached to the Twentieth Armored. Tom told me, with his usual protective efficiency. Then you were on the same ground where our son died."

  "Yes, Mr. Hallmark."

  "Oh, ask him—" Mrs. Hallmark suddenly whimpered. "Please ask him."

  "Esme," I said gently, "you can ask me yourself. You can talk to me."

  Henry Hallmark stiffened. I saw it in the way his proud head arched. But he patted his wife's hand, still gently, and murmured, "My dear, if Mr. Noon knew anything of our Richard I am sure he would tell us. Isn't that so, Mr. Noon?"

  "It is, indeed. I'm sorry I didn't know your boy. I read about his death, of course. He set a fine example for his men. I can tell you something, though. It may be of help."

  Mrs. Hallmark's eyes opened wide. Those lost eyes, at once so pitiful and imploring. Her mouth worked. I chose my words carefully as I tossed my cigarette into the Atlantic. I was very mindful of Henry Hallmark's nearly rigid attention and the glow of shirt fronts in the darkness of the deck passageway. The Secret Service men were on the job all right. Doing what came naturally. Hiding, waiting, and watching.

  "When a soldier dies, he's in a drugged state. Moving at top speed, top activity, at the peak of his powers. When you get hit at a time like that, I think it's a safe guess to say there is very little of pain or agony. Just like turning off the lights in a room. It's quick, sudden, and has no degree of sensation."

  She drew herself up proudly. "You are trying to tell me that old cliché. He didn't feel a thing—anything—"

  "Yes, I am. But it's true."

  "How do you know?" she asked bitterly. "How can you be sure of a thing like that? My Richard . . . my poor baby—I see him all blood-covered and—"

  "My dear," Henry Hallmark said, tightening his grip on her arm.

  "It's true." I pressed my advantage. "Dying like that is like lightning or a stroke of the clock. the moment passes. The rest, like Hamlet, is silence."

  She nodded wearily, but a pale smile warmed her face. "Yes. Ye
s, that is it, isn't it? Thank you, Edward. I somehow find it easier to believe when you say it. You are Richard's age. You were of his time. You would know."

  Henry Hallmark's eyes bored in on me. A faint smile tugged the corners of his famous orator's mouth. "Thank you, Mr. Noon."

  "There's nothing to thank me for, Mr. Hallmark."

  "Will we see you on the games deck tomorrow? Mrs. Hallmark and I will be trying our hand at shuffleboard. Though she has a positive passion for backgammon."

  "I think so. Yes, I'll be there. If only to get some sun on this pale New York complexion of mine."

  "You are not pale," Mrs. Hallmark said firmly. "You're fair-skinned and quite handsome."

  "You, ma'am," I said with a laugh, "are a doll."

  In the brief mingling of our collective chuckles, Henry Hallmark nodded his farewells and escorted his wife down the deckway. The white shirt fronts moved in the darkness, materialized as the two quiet-faced owls on constant alert trailed along behind. I wondered where Tom Faulkner was off to. I supposed he had a lot of paper work to do.

  As I stood by the shrouded lifeboat, thinking about the Hallmarks, there was a sudden whistling sound. A shaft of cold air shot right by my cheek, and then came a sturdy thuck of noise. I turned my head a few inches to the left. Cold chills played tag with the vertebrae in my spinal column.

  Sticking out of the wooden frame of a lifeboat-instructions notice poster and quivering like a thing alive, was the hilt of a knife. The handle was crude rubber studded with a mother-of-pearl button. More important was the piece of paper dangling from the handle on a thin white string.

  I didn't bother with the knife.

  It was an intentional miss.

  You don't send messages to a dead man.

  I undid the scrap of paper and read it by the light of the moon washing down on the deck; I stepped out from the shadows of the lifeboat to do so. The darkness had swallowed up the knife thrower.

  The message was a straight right cross to the intellect. Short and to the point:

  HOW LONG DO YOU WANT TO LIVE?

  7. High Calamity

  The First Class games deck was large enough to accommodate a Boeing 707 if it had decided to make an emergency landing. There was room for shuffleboard, deck tennis, and all the strolling your heart desired. The less ambitious of the passengers, sun worshippers in full bloom, had stationed themselves in batteries of deck chairs. There was a festive atmosphere of gaiety and well-being as I came up from the lower level. Towering over the tableau was one of the enormous funnels of the Francesca, striped with the official Italian colors—green, red, and white. I spotted Henry Hallmark and his wife and their retinue occupying the farthermost corner of the deck. The lounging secret agents, for all their casual slacks and Panama hats, still looked extremely obtrusive.

  Mrs. Hallmark, leaning on a shuffleboard stick for support as her husband deftly guided the disk across the smooth floor, saw me and waved. The wave, though feeble, looked heartfelt.

  Tom Faulkner was nowhere in sight. I ambled over to join the Hallmarks, stepping clear of two energetically swinging tennis stars—a long-legged girl with hair to match and a crew-cut kid with a fine tan.

  It was a beautiful day. The placid Atlantic was sleeping, the absorbent cotton clouds were busy running past a blazing sun, and it was hard to believe that winter was coming.

  "Edward," Esme May Cody Hallmark quavered, "you look so nice this morning. Brown is your color."

  She didn't. Her face was parchment and tired-eyes. A hangover had strained her skin to the breaking point. Not even an up-to-date outfit of pullover sweater, corduroy skirt, and loafers had dissolved her look of mustiness and antiquity.

  "And how are you?" I asked, nodding toward Henry Hallmark. He walked back toward her, the cue held like a rifle. The disk was neatly deposited on a high-marking square on the deck.

  "Good morning, Mr. Noon." His orator's voice was rich and deep. The mane of white hair seemed to fly in the breezes washing across the ship. His own bulky sweater, cream-colored slacks, and cordovan shoes did little to rob him of his stateliness and massive appearance of power. In the sunlight you could see the fine network of wrinkles on his face, but the blue eyes, rugged nose, and mobile mouth were as impressive as ever. "I am beating Esme handily. She can't possibly win."

  I smiled. "Sounds ominous." Remembering the knife memento of the night before, I asked, "Sleep well, sir?"

  "Fine, fine. I love the sea. You know those smoke-filled rooms, don't you? They are not legendary, I assure you." He showed me his large white teeth. "Care for a game after I dispose of my dear wife?"

  "You're on. But do finish up. My shuffleboard is rusty."

  Mrs. Hallmark took her position on the firing line, favoring me with a woebegone look. I know that look. She needed a drink. Needed one real bad. The hair of the dog that bit her.

  "Promise not to laugh, Edward," she said with a sigh. "I'm not good at games that require the use of coordination and physical effort. I prefer to lift nothing heavier than a pasteboard, and to push nothing harder than a backgammon peg."

  "A girl after my own heart." I stood to one side to watch, feeling naked in my tan flannel sport shirt and sharkskin trousers. No place to carry a weapon. Only the loaded wristwatch and a few unusual items in my wallet.

  The lounging agents had grown accustomed to my face. They took their careful appraisal of me, seeming not to do so.

  "Don't try so hard, dear," Henry Hallmark murmured. "You have the stick. The disk can't resist you."

  "Oh, can't it now?" She laughed nervously and stabbed outward with her hand. The cue stubbed; the disk shot off the board over the foul line and sluiced toward the railing. I dodged quickly and blocked it with my shoe. It backtracked, coming to rest before the Hallmarks.

  The diplomat boomed with pleasure. "These old eyes of mine detect a goalie in our midst. Well done, Mr. Noon. Hockey, sir?"

  I laughed. "Soccer. David Farragut Junior High, I played right end."

  "You haven't forgotten. Old habits are hard to break, aren't they? Just as some countries cannot put aside their native tendency for war as a solution to their—" He broke off, looking surprised at himself for the analogy. "Dear, dear, that won't do. I very nearly launched into the speech I have prepared for my first day in London."

  "I'd like to hear it."

  "Not today, sir. I wouldn't think of it. Esme, are you all right?"

  "Yes, Henry." She had stepped to one side, her eyes almost closed. The bird face was puckered taut. But she smiled thinly and winked at me. "You two talk. I like that."

  Henry Hallmark smiled at me. He shrugged his broad shoulders in a youthful gesture, remarkable for a man of his stature and reputation. He was about to say something when his gaze traveled over my head, and a slight frown pulled at his eyes.

  "And what have we here?" he asked aloud.

  I turned.

  Gilda Tiger and Bhudda were on the games deck, down at the far end. The fantastic pair had drawn a crowd, a veritable army of youngsters. I could see why. Gilda, arrayed in sunglasses and silk kimono, was artfully spread out on a deck chair, face turned up to the sun. A wide picture hat surrounded her striking face. But the kids were too young to appreciate her. They were all eyes for Bhudda.

  The giant Japanese stood in the center of the deck, a few feet from his mistress's chair, performing some of his feats. The big, fleshy fingers were making rabbits and monkeys and other animals out of a colorful assortment of handkerchiefs, babushkas, and scarves. The delighted small fry were crowing excitedly, crowding him in, pressing objects on him and begging him to make them things. I watched in amused wonder, noting again Bhudda's costume of seersucker suit and Panama hat: his mammoth size; the acutely fine, deft performance of his hands. Miss Tiger was oblivious to it all. But Bhudda kept on fashioning animals out of the various materials and even bending coins in half as if he had all the time in the world. Flattered parents hung back as their children came forward, asking t
he giant to make them a miracle. The hubbub was terrific. As if Batman and Robin had put in a personal appearance. Most of the games on deck had been suspended, including the one between the Hallmarks.

  "The children are having a good time," Henry Hallmark observed. "That's good. One doesn't have too long to remain a child."

  "Do you know them?" I indicated the giant and his mistress.

  "Yes. Offhand, I find them decidedly bizarre. But it isn't one world, is it? Miss Tiger is entitled to all the fruits of her many charms."

  "Bhudda is the largest apple I have ever seen."

  He laughed at that as Mrs. Hallmark looked toward the children, her face yearning and sad.

  "Isn't he, though? A former championship sumo wrestler. They tell me that Miss Tiger won him in a card game in Tokyo. Won him from some wealthy libertine. That was some years ago, I believe. Since then, he has never left her side. Through all her marriages and escapades, the Japanese has always been on hand."

  "I wonder what Miss Tiger's stake was in the card game, in case she lost."

  He frowned at me. "An educated guess is all that is needed. For myself, I don't approve of the lady. She gives America a bad name. An international Madame Du Barry isn't fit propaganda for our way of life. It's a pity that so much wealth and irresponsibility go hand in hand, don't you think?"

  "She is very beautiful," I said, "but I see what you mean."

  "Still—the youngsters are having a good time. But evil does come in pleasant disguises."

  His curious manner of reference to larger, more important issues was beginning to get me down. He sidetracked whenever he cared to and picked his own spots, no matter what the other fellow thought or felt. Still, this was Henry Hallmark, and I was merely a taxpayer. Or was supposed to be.

  Tom Faulkner had materialized seemingly from nowhere. The Beatle hairdo shone full and gold in the sun. The pince-nez glinted, and the lean, hard young body was still intact in a Brooks Brothers suit with a blue foulard tie.