Assassins Don't Die in Bed Read online

  "Oh, what's the matter, Ed? Won't you tell me what's wrong? You keep staring at the desk—"

  Sure I was staring at the desk. Because it was just as orderly and as pretty as you please. As if I had really dreamed the whole thing. There wasn't so much as a pencil out of place. Even the green blotter pad was unmarked. The only thing that was missing was the fabulous, gimmicky ten-thousand-dollar check.

  "What time is it?" A frog asked that question. A frog with another frog in its throat.

  "Close to five." She sounded breathless, worried, and just a little frightened. I couldn't blame her. I must have looked and sounded like a wild man.

  "Of course," I said. "Close to five. And you're still wearing the bolero I saw you in before noon. And I'm still in my outfit from this morning. And I had a couple in the midships bar. With George and his wife and some friends. That's great. I must have got back here at about one thirty. Which means I've been pounding my ear for almost three hours." I pushed away from her, pawing the dull agony out of my eyes. At least I wasn't blind. That damn explosive—what could it have been, to mushroom like that, blow me over like a reed, and not leave a mark to show it had been there? Unless someone had come into the stateroom and done a little housecleaning.

  "Very well," Vivian said, with some ice in her tone. "You don't want to talk about it, that's your business. You'd better lie down and get some sleep. I'll tell the others we'll see you at dinner." She started for the door, head high, shoulders back. Proudly, like some damn brand-new marine.

  "Vivian, wait a minute."

  She didn't turn around. "Yes?"

  "Thanks for the assist. I guess I had one too many." She turned at that, shaking her head. Her sad eyes, which always seemed to read me, were disbelieving.

  "You aren't drunk. You never were drunk. You're in trouble of some kind. You said you were a private detective last night at dinner, and we all laughed. I did, too. Maybe I laughed the loudest. But I'm not laughing now."

  I smiled. "Why do you have to be married to a nice guy like Jack?"

  "What's that got to do with it?" She poked her chin in the air defiantly, but it had an unintended result. Her fabulous bosom rose like the tide in accompaniment.

  "Everything. You're a great female feminine dame and I could go for you very large."

  She sighed, lowering her eyes. "Oh—you. You're just a big kid playing games—" She said no more. With that, she flung from the stateroom, closing the door behind her. She did not slam it.

  I shook myself from the nice hold her personality had gripped me in and got back to the heart of the matter. That heart being the well-ordered desk. I spent all of five minutes exploring it from top to bottom. Nothing was disturbed. The whole baffling business came back to me. Alone, I had placed the check on the desk, approached the desk with my box lamp and—The lamp. I looked around for it. I found it under the bed, where it had obviously rolled from my senseless fingers. It, too, was undamaged.

  There was a lot to think about. Sure, I had a headache, I'd had a lot of whiskey sours, but I don't see things, either. As bad as I felt and as desperately as I needed a refreshing shower with the clear, cold water stinging my aching hide, I had to find out a few things. Right away. Sitting down by the bed, I unhooked the telephone, got a polite-voiced reply, and asked for the purser's office.

  While the connection was made, I cased out of my sandals and stretched my toes to see if I still had all ten of them. I wasn't sure I had all my marbles either.

  I got Mr. Gambarelli after talking to one more courteous flunky. The good signor's familiar voice oozed smoothly over the wire.

  "Ah, Mr. Noon. What can I do for you?"

  "About that check—"

  "Yes?" I frowned at the mouthpiece of the phone. He knew what I was talking about. No help there. Did I want it to be a hallucination?

  "I never won a prize before, Mr. Gambarelli. Especially on board a ship. Tell me, do I have to declare it on my income tax returns?"

  Gambarelli laughed knowingly. He was as innocent as the birds in the trees. "But of course, Mr. Noon. Surely that is of little consequence, considering the bounty you have fallen heir to without so much as lifting a finger."

  "That's true," I admitted, feeling ashes in my mouth. Gambarelli had to be a mere bystander. He wouldn't know the first thing about the check that exploded. Nobody could have been so calm and free-minded talking to a man he had planned to kill. I was wasting my time and his.

  "Have no fear," Gambarelli chuckled. "When you deposit the check in your own bank, it will be like a nest egg against your future financial conditions."

  "All too true. Well, thanks, Signor. See you around."

  "Ciao, Mr. Noon."

  I slammed the receiver on the hook and cursed mightily, a stream of bitter invective that told me better than anything else could what my frame of mind was. Lou-zay. In spades.

  When I turned the shower taps on, I felt like drowning myself.

  I locked and double-bolted the door to the stateroom.

  I've received a lot of checks in my time. Some of them bounced, most of them didn't. But none of them had ever exploded before. That was something new under the sun. Another famous first.

  The only other cogent thing I could think about as the needles of cold shower water knifed into my aching back was what I wanted to do to Gilda Tiger and Bhudda if I ever got the opportunity.

  Their forget-me-nots were getting a little tiresome.

  I also squeezed in a fond thought about Vivian Warren. That made me feel a little more human and less irritable. A girl that goes to bat for you without knowing the score is easy to like. Almost easy to love. Even if she was happily married to another guy.

  At six o'clock I dressed for dinner. Not too formally. Just a dark blue suit of sharkskin texture, soft leather shoes, and a handsome red tie to match. I loaded myself with as much equipment from my arsenal as the traffic would bear. The .22 caliber cigarette lighter, the dummy .45, and the P.I. card of chemical magic. Plus the exploding wristwatch that never stopped unless I wanted it to, and the cigarette case-camera. The tie was one of those technological babies that could fuse a steel door if properly ignited. I had no idea what Gilda Tiger had up her skirts, so I wanted to be ready. Bhudda was no laughing matter. He could break me in half like a breadstick if he ever got the notion.

  I heard a rustling sound and whirled just in time to see a white envelope thrust under the stateroom door. I whipped to the porthole and caught a flash of Bhudda ambling majestically down the deck. His hulking figure was casting giant shadows. He wasn't dressed for dinner. His amazing bulk was outfitted in the traditional robes of a Japanese wrestler.

  Before I could measure the worth of being a cautious coward I had picked up the envelope. I opened it hastily and read what was on the sheet of stationery enclosed. It was from Gilda Tiger, and it had all the intimacy of a passionate kiss.

  Why wait until eight o'clock? Skip dinner and come dine with me. I'm not dressing tonight. Can you find your way? I'll expect you in one hour.

  Tiger

  I flushed the envelope and the letter down the toilet, taking no more chances. Miss Pussycat was ready to play, all right, on her own terms, in her own ball park. Fair enough. I was restless and itching for some action on my own. Dinner would have been a torment, especially with the Mendelmans and the Warrens making small talk and Vivian gazing at me out of those large, sad eyes. I was in no mood now for any woman to feel sorry for me. I had waited long enough to find out what made Gilda Tiger tick. I was also very interested in what exactly would make her purr.

  When I thought about how Richards and Barroni felt about my extracurricular investigations, I laughed for the first time that afternoon, knowing full well how these righteous Joes would have traded places with me in a minute.

  I equipped myself with one more piece from my arsenal before making tracks for Gilda Tiger's stateroom.

  The long knife with the mother-of-pearl button in the rubber hilt went very nicely
with my personal hardware. I tucked it into my inner breast pocket. I meant to return it to Bhudda as soon as I was sure it belonged to the man mountain.

  The Francesca was riding smoothly on soft waves as I left my cabin. The moon was out again. A gibbous moon. Three-quarter size and shining away in splendor.

  I could hear the mournful hoot of a passing ocean liner far off in the night. The Francesca responded with a soothing blast of her throbbing funnels, The gathering darkness came alive with the boom of the horns talking to each other. It was a pleasant sound, keyed to the lower bass "A." Just like the Queen Elizabeth, as George Mendelman had pointed out from his harvest of brochure knowledge.

  I walked toward where Gilda Tiger lay waiting for me.

  It was a night to howl at the moon.

  11. Date with the Devil

  Bhudda was standing guard before the Tiger stateroom, looking like an enormous idol from old Japan. His arms were folded; his smooth round face was impassive; his small eyes stared out over the starboard rail as if he were trying to read the night.

  There was something very ceremonial about him. He was dressed in wrestling robes—a short terry cloth sort of half-jacket, boxer trunks, and brown sandals.

  I stopped before him and smiled. He stared down at me without expression.

  "Hello, Bhudda."

  "In, go," he murmured low. "Missy wait. I stay here."

  "I like that arrangement."

  "Go now. No more talk."

  I made him mad. I could see that. Even when I was being polite, he could have fed me to the sharks without one look back. That alone was uncomfortable to think about. My smile got weaker, but I bluffed on by him, stepped inside quickly, shut the door, and took a long, lasting look at what I was getting myself into.

  It was a step into another world. Another dimension of time. Once more the shipboard atmosphere of the Francesca had dissolved, to be replaced this time by an Arcadia with somewhat pagan overtones.

  Gilda Tiger was there, all right. But surrounding her were the props and setting for one of those old De Mille extravaganzas where the Bible and sex were mixed in equal parts with danger and visual excitement.

  There were all the trappings of an Oriental harem. Even the portholes were covered, hidden by hanging tapestries of blinding textures and hues. The floor was a wealth of Persian carpeting, all loops, arches, whorls, and composites like fingerprint designs, rendered in the deepest, most exquisite tones. There were no chairs, no furnishings as such. An array of pillows and cushions, tasseled and fringed, lay at haphazard intervals on the floor. Thin, lazy spirals of an incense that smelled of sandalwood rose from two gigantic brass pots and filled the air of the room.

  There was no bed. No canopied extreme from another world. Just the tapestries, the huge censers, the cushions, and a sense of the Arabian Nights.

  Gilda Tiger was reclining at the high point of the circle of pillows, lying languorously, staring toward me. Her face was set in a mask. The eyes, the mouth, the nose were all there, all right. But I might have been looking at something in a niche in a museum.

  Miss Tiger wore nothing but her long, dark hair, which was flowing wild along her sculptured body. That and filmy, transparent lace in a form of bloused pantaloons such as your favorite houri wears. The only adornment she wore was a long, banglelike choker around her lovely throat.

  I waited, watching the spiraling smoke from the censers, seeing the unparalleled figure lying before me. I smiled now. The smile was real, but I wasn't going to say a word just yet. Gilda Tiger was putting me through some sadistic game of her own making.

  I had to forget about Vivian Warren's ample bosom. These breasts were as round and as sturdy as fresh melons. The nipples were soft and delicious looking, like something ready to eat. It is very difficult being clever at a time like that. She knew it and I knew it. Which is why she spoke first.

  "Like it? If you want to take your shoes off, be my guest."

  "No, thanks. I'm driving tonight."

  Her mask broke. A faint smile plucked at her mouth. The soft great actress's voice, with its paradoxical harsh wordage, broke in with what was almost genuine expression. "Take your shoes off, I said. Now. Come sit by me. I want to look at you while you're buying whatever you came to buy."

  She had me there. This was her kingdom, and she was queen. I either obeyed or I didn't get an audience. I stepped out of my soft leather shoes, leaving them by the tapestried door, and moved over to her. She pointed with her right index finger, a long strand of dark hair falling across one breast.

  "There. Right there. That's far enough,"

  I sat down. "You want me to sit cross-legged or should I genuflect and kiss your feet a few times? Let me know, will you? I haven't been in one of these places in years."

  "Sit any way you like. Smart bastard, aren't you? Proud, too. Your pulse is jumping like crazy, but you make like you're interested only in my wallpaper."

  "You haven't got any wallpaper." I sniffed at the sandalwood. "What's that? 'My Surrender' or 'Ten Nights in a Turkish Harem'?"

  "That's right. Make with the funnies. Loud mouth. You're a big bluff. Five will get me ten you're in heat right now." She flung back her head and laughed. A lousy, vicious laugh. "Men. You're all alike. Animals without brains."

  I had been getting there, as she said, but if there is one thing that drives a man like me ninety miles away from desire it is a foul-mouthed woman. I could feel the anger stirring underneath my collar. But I wouldn't let her know that. Not just yet, anyway.

  "Let's talk, Gilda. And I'll try to remember what a vicious female you are. I suppose this trick works all the time. You greet your company in two parts of nothing, and then you look surprised if they get ideas. That figures. I knew a few professional strippers and a Bunny or two who had the same distorted sense of logic. Fair enough. This is no revival meeting. But you are strange. What are you? Lesbian, nymphomaniac, or just your own sweet sexy self?"

  She was amused, not angry. The green eyes measured me. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

  "Now there's a comeback for you. I haven't heard that since Sally Brown hid my sketch pad in P.S. thirty-four."

  "Stop clowning. You get nothing from me, mister. You said you had a deal. I'm giving you some minutes to tell me about it. And that's all you're getting. Even if you were the greatest Don Juan in the world I wouldn't be interested. You get it?"

  "I get it. I don't get it. Okay. We got that out of the way. One more thought. Get Bhudda off my back. All the way off. This is the last time I'm telling you."

  It was a crazy conversation to be having in such seductive, sense-drugging environs. But there was no heart in Gilda Tiger. And with that missing, we might as well have been sitting in a Horn and Hardart's having a cup of coffee. She seemed to sense that, too. She had raised herself to a semisitting position. Her breasts rolled firmly; her dark hair rippled loosely. But her eyes were as cold as ever.

  "Forget about Bhudda. What did you want to buy that you think I might sell?"

  I pyramided my fingers as if I might be praying. "I want to know why you have taken this trip. That's all. Nothing else. Just tell me straight up and down. Small talk. I'm willing to pay for the information."

  I was bluffing, but she couldn't know that. And somehow I had targeted in on something that bothered her. It bothered her a great deal. The telltale giveaway was a sudden rippling of her curved abdomen above the long silken pants as if she had sucked in her stomach. But her voice was milder when she answered me.

  "You can't be for real."

  "Why can't I?"

  "You go to all this trouble just to ask me that jazz? Are you a nut or something?"

  "No names, please. Do you or don't you sell the information?"

  "You must be out of your mind. Why the hell should I tell you anything? And how much money could you pay me that I'd even be interested? I can buy and sell an army of guys like you, you jerk."

  I sighed. "You never will turn off that mouth of yours, w
ill you? Okay. You're a millionaire, you're the greatest body in the world, and I'm a quack. See you." I rose to my feet and headed for the door. I didn't expect her to let me go. She didn't.

  "Come back here, Eddie doll-baby boy."

  She had turned on all the vitamins, the watch-him-crawl-for-me artillery. I turned. I wasn't surprised. She had placed both hands on her breasts, curving her hands around their spheres, gently facing them toward me.

  It was worth a look, no matter what I had in mind. Two looks. But Gilda Tiger was one woman I wouldn't trust with ten cents.

  There was a long silence in which she matched glances with me. She unhooked one of her long legs and bent it at the knee in the position that has worked since time immemorial. I thought of poor Adam and felt sorry for all of mankind. But what a way to go.

  "Interesting," I said, "if true."

  "You want an invitation," she purred. "Engraved? I've changed my mind about you. I change my mind quite easily. "

  "I'll bet."

  She tossed her head back, not looking at me anymore. "I feel like a drink now. This talking makes me thirsty. You'll find a decanter and glasses behind the curtain there. Jack Daniel's."

  "Sour mash," I said like an idiot.

  "Yeah. Like me. Sweet and sour. Now I've decided to be sweet to you. Who knows? I might even tell you what you want to hear. Though I'm damned if I know why you're, curious."

  The room, the change of tone, the shock value of her body—all were having their intended effect. It was getting harder and harder to believe that the nasty-voiced woman of a few minutes ago was this soft, yielding, purring fantasy on the pillows. I know the routine. I've bucked it before. I hadn't changed my mind about her, but it was hard to resist the maddening velvet of what I saw now.

  She turned over on her back, poking her breasts toward the ceiling. She straightened out her legs, arching them. Her body quivered, undulated. The silken pants rustled. And the incense kept spiraling, spiraling. I went for the decanter; it and two tall glasses stood ready on a sideboard behind one of the fancy curtains she had indicated.