Crime of Their Life Page 11

  “You shouldn’t say things like that, Belle,” Harry put in. “You said yourself the Mill Reef Club in Antigua was the prettiest place you ever saw. And in Barbados—”

  “They’re pretty, sure. But every time we go ashore, the people who live there—the whites and the blacks—they stand around staring at us. I got the feeling they’re laughing at us and to tell you the truth I don’t blame them. All these fat women wearing shorts and slacks a couple of sizes too small. The crazy colors they wear. And the halters—” She shook her head. “Some of them are disgraceful.”

  “Well, that’s women for you. They—”

  “Never mind about the women. How about the men? They wear Bermudas with their fat stomachs hanging out. They carry two or three cameras hung around their necks and they think nobody can tell they’re bald because they wear those silly hats—”

  “Better be careful what you say, Belle. Tomorrow morning Mr. Liddell might turn out in orange pants and a green baseball cap like that fellow on the tender this morning.”

  Belle eyed Liddell shrewdly, grinned at the picture her husband painted. “He’s not the type. Besides, outside of you he’s the only man I’ve seen on board who might look good in Bermudas.” She colored slightly. “I guess you think I’m pretty outspoken. My daddy always did say my tongue is only hinged on one end.”

  Liddell chuckled. “After some of the sophisticated chitchat you hear around, a little candor is welcome.” He leaned back in his chair, watched the hips of the dancers shaking with a Jello-like consistency. “I imagine that seeing some of these tourists for the first time could be a sobering experience.”

  “Did you know we lost two people from our table? That Mr. and Mrs. Keen. They got off, bag and baggage in Grenada,” Harry Doyle put in. “Struck me as an odd kind of couple, anyhow. Didn’t seem to mix at all.”

  “I didn’t get much of a chance to know them,” Liddell countered.

  “Didn’t seem like the cruise type,” Belle put in. “You know, none of the crazy clothes or cameras and stuff.”

  “Kept pretty much to themselves,” the lanky man said. “Not stuck-up, more standoffish like.”

  “Being a lawyer sometimes does that to people,” Liddell commented.

  The woman eyed him shrewdly. “Is that what he was, a lawyer?” She turned to her husband. “Did you know he was a lawyer, Harry?”

  Harry Doyle shook his head. “Don’t think I ever heard it mentioned what he did.”

  Liddell cursed himself silently for the slip. “It must have been something he said last night at dinner. Before you folks came down to the table,” he explained lamely. He looked around for an excuse to leave, saw no one he knew. “Just like nobody mentioned you were newlyweds, but I sort of got the impression.”

  The woman grinned, dropped her eyes, studied her big-knuckled fingers. “I guess you’re the only one on board that hasn’t heard about it, then. They sure teased us about it enough the first few days.”

  “And this is your honeymoon?” Liddell pursued the subject, glad to get off the subject of the Keens.

  “Courtesy of the Three Rivers Sun. That’s our hometown newspaper,” Harry explained. “It was some sort of a circulation contest with this cruise and some luggage and stuff as first prize. We won.”

  Belle studied her husband’s face admiringly. “I always knew Harry was smart. All the way back when we were kids together. But I must admit I was sure surprised when they notified us that we won first prize.” She looked around. “Guess we wouldn’t ever be seeing anything like this if we didn’t.”

  “Not with a house full of kids we wouldn’t,” Harry told her.

  Belle blushed. “You cut that out, Harry.” She appealed to Liddell. “Married less than a month and already he’s got a house full of kids. No sense rushing things, is there, mister?”

  “I’m with him,” Liddell told her. He crushed out his cigarette. “You folks going ashore at La Guaira tomorrow?”

  The woman looked faintly worried. “Is it true that they hate Americans as much as everyone says?”

  Liddell shrugged. “We’re not winning any popularity contests any place down here these days. But I noticed that they have a Cook’s Tour leaving right from the dock. They’ll see to it that you won’t have any trouble.” He got to his feet as the cha-cha was finished and the perspiring exhibitionists were drifting back to their tables. “I think I’d better get inside before they start another number.”

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Liddell?” Belle wanted to know. “Don’t you like music?”

  He grinned at her. “That’s just the trouble. I do.” He winked at her, turned and headed back through the veranda to the French Quarter Bar.

  Robin Lewis was standing at the bar, talking to Lew Herrick, as Johnny Liddell walked in. He walked down to the far end of the bar, slid onto a stool, waited while the bartender shuffled smilingly down to where he sat.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Liddell. Enjoy Grenada?”

  “I didn’t go ashore, Cyril,” Liddell told him. “I developed my thirst out on the fantail.”

  The bartender nodded understanding, reached to the back bar for a scotch bottle. From under the bar he brought up a glass filled to the brim with ice, doused the ice down with the scotch. His hand reached out for the small water pitcher tentatively.

  Liddell shook his head. “Don’t drown it.” He reached over, picked up the glass, took a deep swallow, nodded his satisfaction. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  The bartender swabbed at the bar with a rag that left damp circles. He dropped his voice. “Looks like you’re going to have company. Just yell if you want anything.” He deposited the rag into the well, headed for the other end of the bar.

  Liddell looked up into the backbar mirror, saw Robin Lewis making her way down to where he sat. Lew Herrick was watching her with a sulky expression. Her eyes met Liddell’s in the backbar mirror, she smiled.

  “Are you talking to me today?” She asked as she stopped behind him.

  He swung around on the stool, indicated the one alongside him, waited while she clambered onto it. “Why not?” She wrinkled her nose. “Seems to me I did all the talking the last time we were together.” She glanced down at her glass, swirled the liquor around its sides. “I guess I owe you some sort of an apology.”

  “For what? For recognizing me? I should be flattered.” She looked up into his face. “I told Delmar—Captain Rose, that is—who you are and what I thought you were doing on board—”

  “And what was I doing on board?”

  “I thought you were spying on him—and me.” She took a swallow from the glass. “When I found out that Landers was a private detective and that there was a chance he might have been murdered—” She dropped her voice, satisfied herself no one was paying them any particular attention. “I was afraid maybe—"

  “The captain had him killed and I was sent to pin it on him?”

  A faint flush rose from the actress’s neck. “It does sound stupid when you say it like that, doesn’t it?” She dropped her eyes. “I was particularly anxious that there should be no trouble, no scandal. Captain Rose will be retiring in two more years—” She looked up. “A scandal now could ruin him. I’d do anything to prevent that. I—I’m very fond of Captain Rose.”

  Liddell considered it, nodded his head. “But?”

  “Must there be a but?”

  Liddell grinned. “There usually is.” He turned, glanced down the bar to where Lewis Herrick was nursing a drink.

  The actress’s eyes followed his, she looked from Herrick to Liddell and back. “You can’t be serious. Herrick? And me? I wouldn’t admit this to everyone, but I’m closer to being his mother than his sweetheart.”

  Liddell shook his head. “Not Herrick and you. Carson and you.”

  The actress stared at him slack jawed. It took her a moment to recover and the disdainful smile she worked on didn’t come off. “How did you ever arrive at that ridiculous conclusion?”

  �
�The fact that you and Herrick belong together like vinegar and cream, yet you’re apparently inseparable. And the added fact that there’s usually a third person bringing up the rear. It’s an old institution, the beard.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s a beard?”

  Liddell grinned at her. “That good an actress you’re not, Robin. The beard has been a respected Hollywood and Broadway institution for too many years for you not to know what it is. But just to refresh your memory, it’s like this—a guy is hung up on a girl and for one reason or another he can’t advertise it. So he makes sure never to be seen alone with her, always with another guy. Everybody’s supposed to believe that it’s the other guy who’s making the play. He’s the beard.”

  Robin Lewis smiled ruefully. “I might have known we couldn’t fool somebody like you.” Her eyes searched his face. “You don’t think Fran has seen through it, do you?”

  Liddell shook his head. “She doesn’t have the benefit of my suspicious nature.”

  “She’s the reason for it, of course. Carson hasn’t seen much of her in the past few years and his conscience is hurting. He wants to be sure everything is all right with her.”

  “You knew Eldridge before now?”

  “Casually. He’s sailed on the Queen several times that I’ve been on her, but we never really got to know each other until this trip. We’re both at the captain’s table this time. Other times he preferred to stay by himself.” She drained her glass, set it down.

  “Can I get you a refill?” Without waiting for an answer, Johnny flagged down Cyril, indicated the empty glass. The bartender nodded his understanding, started building a drink at the other end of the bar.

  Robin brought a cigarette from her bag, screwed it into her holder. Cyril shuffled down the bar, set her drink in front of her, offered her a light. He seemed well repaid with her smile, backed away out of earshot.

  Robin dropped her voice. “You can understand why I was so determined there would be no scandal connecting me with Delmar. The girl never understands.”

  “Understands what?”

  The actresses looked uncomfortable. “She mightn’t understand her father being hung up, as you say, on a Robin Lewis. She might think it was an insult to the memory of her mother. That’s why I need time to kind of win her respect and affection.”

  Liddell nodded his understanding. “And the captain?” Robin filled her lungs with smoke, blew a feathery stream ceilingward. “Delmar would never do anything that would interfere with my happiness. But I was terrified at the thought of some unscrupulous private detective digging up dirt that would ruin everything.”

  “You think Carson would walk away from it if he thought there was ever anything between you and Captain Rose. That it?”

  Robin crushed out her cigarette in an ash tray, stared at the wisp of smoke that rose from the flattened butt. “I don’t think it will make any difference. I haven’t discussed it with him yet, but I will.” She looked up at Liddell, worked at a smile that didn’t quite come off. “It’s the girl I’m most concerned about right now. I’m sure that when the time comes and Carson and I talk things over that he’s a man of the world enough to understand.” The smile grew wistful, she studied Liddell’s face. “Don’t you?”

  Liddell considered it. “I don’t know how much of a man of the world you’d have to be to have the woman you’re going to marry admit that she’d been playing house for years with a mutual acquaintance. Some men find it hard to understand.”

  Robin took a swallow of her drink. “He knows how many years I spent in Hollywood. He can’t be naive enough to expect me to be a virgin.”

  She had often wondered how many people who had never been through the Hollywood casting-couch routine could understand. In a town filled with girls who were sixteen, looked twenty-one and acted like thirty, who were ready, willing and anxious to jump into the arms of anyone who could help them get that “big break,” competition could get deadly. Beauty was so common that it was no longer a marketable commodity and the criterion of a newcomer’s ability was her versatility in bed or her ability to read her lines from the star’s dressing room ceiling during “rehearsals.”

  Robin Lewis had been thrown into the Hollywood mill fresh from drama classes at the University of Southern Cal. The play had been a success, so had Robin. When she returned to her sorority house that night, the message was waiting for her. They wanted her in Hollywood. How soon could she get there?

  After she had signed the standard starlet contract they held out to her that first day at the studio, she found out that starlets are creatures paid to look beautiful, be available and give visiting bigwigs something to remember the town by. The only pictures they get to make are the ones in the girlie magazines that are banned from their hometown newsstands.

  She had met Pete House at one of the parties she was expected to attend to earn her $75 a week. Pete was an agent and he had connections. But he had the same idea about what makes a star that everybody else had. Looks, ability, were a must—but to get her name up on the marquee, a girl needed a certain something more. He introduced Robin around to a coterie of producers and directors and briefed her before each party how she was to act and for whom. But at the crucial moment, she had always backed out.

  Pete had even found her a roommate, a veteran starlet who had worked the Hollywoods for years with no visible progress aside from a few seminude shots in man magazines. As the weeks stretched into months and Robin’s fund dwindled with her opportunities, Marla Quinn, her roommate, started staking her. Robin always protested that she would pay her back, but the weekly $75 never seemed enough for more than wardrobe and taxi fares.

  One night, returning from a late date, Robin started to enter the apartment when the door was opened from the inside. A fat old man, white bristles glistening on his unshaven chin and jowls, walked out. He looked her over appreciatively, turned back to Marla who stood inside the door, her housecoat held together by her hands. “This is your roommate, huh?” His eyes traveled from the top of Robin’s head to her toes. “You’ve been holding out on me.” He twisted his slack lips into a grin at Robin, “We should know each other better, doll. I’m your landlord.” Robin stepped into the apartment, closed the door behind her. She stared at her roommate, who shrugged. “It’s better than getting put out into the street. We owe a couple month’s rent.” She turned, walked over to the small bar against the wall, held a bottle up to the light, found it empty. From two other bottles, she managed to scrape up the makings of a drink. Then she turned to face Robin. “Well, go ahead and say it.”

  Robin shook her head. “I didn’t know. I can’t let you do things like that for me, Marla.”

  Marla drained the glass, set it down. She smiled glumly. “I wasn’t doing it for you, kid. I was doing it for myself. I get allergic to sleeping in doorways. But just so you shouldn’t feel too bad about it, next time he comes to collect, it’s on you.” She turned, headed into her room and closed the door.

  Robin walked to the phone, dialed Pete’s number. His sleepy voice answered, demanded if the caller knew what time it was, permitted himself to be placated by the news it was Robin.

  “That Marc Jerome you were talking about. The big producer. When can I meet him, Pete?”

  Pete sighed. “Look, honey, I can’t keep setting these things up. Sure, once it’s good for a laugh—a real honest-to-God Hollywood virgin. But these guys, they want a laugh, they tune in Bob Hope. From you they want a little action.”

  “Jerome can get me some parts?”

  There was a pause at the other end. “He’s a big wheel right now. He says you work, you work. But you got to cooperate, kid.” There was an apologetic note in his voice. “I don’t make the rules. It’s his studio, he makes them.”

  “I want to meet him. As soon as possible.”

  “Okay. But, kid—Jerome is real big. Big enough to get away with a lot of things in this town. You hang him up” —she could visualize th
e shrug—“he might play real rough.”

  “I won’t hang him up. You make the date.” She dropped the receiver on its hook, turned to find Marla standing in the doorway to her room, leaning against the jamb.

  “Now you’re making sense, kid,” she approved. “Maybe it’s not the way they do things back where you came from, but out here it’s not what you can do but who you can do it for that counts.” She looked down at herself, flattened the robe against her thickening midsection. “Me, I guess I never had it. I never got past assistant directors and a couple of publicity men.” She rolled her eyes up to Robin. “You work on that slob, Jerome, and work on him good, honey. This is your big chance. Make it pay.”

  Marc Jerome had been what Robin Lewis had expected. Free with promises, fumbling in his performance, demanding. When he handed her the twenty “for cab fare” that night, he promised to get in touch with her again.

  But for days she heard nothing. When she tried to reach him on the phone, he was never in. Pete was apologetic, but helpless. As an agent, he couldn’t take on one of the biggest producers in town. He offered to introduce her to other producers, directors or even assistant directors, all of whom were in a position to give her work from time to time. On the advice of the more experienced Marla Quinn, Robin held out for Marc Jerome.

  It was Marla Quinn who finally broke the impasse. Two weeks after Robin’s date with Jerome, Marla picked up the telephone, dialed Magna Studios and asked for Marc Jerome. The icy voice of his secretary came across the wire, informed her that Mr. Jerome was unavailable and expected to be tied up in the foreseeable future.

  “That’s too bad,” Marla cooed in an approximation of Robin’s voice. “I wanted to invite him to my birthday party. My eighteenth birthday. My lawyer and a lot of other people will be so disappointed not to be able to meet him socially.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Jerome doesn’t—” The icy voice broke off. “Your what?”

  “My eighteenth birthday. I’ll be eighteen in a couple of weeks.”

  There was a stricken note in the secretary’s voice. “I’ll try to get your message to Mr. Jerome,” she promised.