Crime of Their Life Read online

  Liddell shook his head. “I had no idea he was on board. When I recognized him, I couldn’t care less. He called for the showdown, not me.”

  The girl looked down to where her husband was cowering on the floor. “He made you a bargain, Liddell. We always keep our bargains, my husband and me.” She tossed the white sweater onto a chair, reached up and yanked at the zipper of her gown. The skin tight dress peeled away from her body, verified his guess that she wore little under it. Slowly she pushed it down over her hips, stepped out of it. On the floor, Handel groaned, shook his head. “Don’t, Rita. Don’t do it. I—I was only talking—”

  The redhead ignored him, stared at Liddell, wet her gleaming lips with the pointed tip of a pink tongue. She hooked her thumbs into the elastic band of the wispy pants she wore, rolled them down. When she had kicked the panties aside, she straightened up.

  Her legs were long, sensuously shaped. Full rounded thighs swelled into high-set hips, converged into the narrow waist he had admired earlier in the evening. Her breasts were full and high, their pink tips straining upward.

  As she stood there, she raised her hands slowly from her sides, loosened her hair, let it cascade down over her shoulders.

  “All right, Liddell. He’s being so generous. Be my guest.” The man on the floor moaned. “For God’s sake, no!”

  “What’s the matter? It was okay when you thought it might save your hide.” She turned back to Liddell. “You get nervous with an audience or something?”

  Liddell grinned at her. “It would be a pleasure under any other circumstances. But I’ll take a rain check on it this time.” He walked across the cabin, watched while the redhead hightailed it through the curtain into the bedroom section beyond. He looked back at the man on the floor. “Me, I’d rather face one of the organization’s guns than what you’ve got staring you in the face, Maurie.”

  He unbolted the door, stepped out into the corridor, closed the cabin door behind him. He fumbled in his pockets for his pack of cigarettes, stuck one in the comer of his mouth. From behind the closed door, he could hear the shrill voice of the redhead. He grinned glumly, shook his head and headed for the elevator to take him to the Piccadilly Bar on the deck above.

  Fran Eldridge was whirling around the floor in the arms of the broad-shouldered crew cut type as Johnny Liddell walked into the Piccadilly. Her extreme décolletage served only to reveal the pitiful boniness of her back and upper chest. The mousy hair sticking out at wild angles, the protruding teeth, were wreathed in a smile of pure delight. Crew Cut was leading her through the intricacies of the dance with a far-away expression, and Liddell could almost hear the clicking of the meter, ticking off the time he was investing building up a rental fee.

  Liddell was heading for the bar when he was waved down by Carson Eldridge from a rear table. He walked over, accepted an invitation to join his party.

  “I’m sure you know Robin Lewis,” the white-haired man introduced the woman at his left.

  “I’m one of her most loyal fans.” Liddell smiled.

  “Which means one of two things—you either have a wonderful memory or you watch the late late shows.” The actress grinned.

  “And you’ve probably read Lewis Herrick’s new book,” Eldridge introduced the other man at the table.

  Lewis Herrick was thin, esthetic looking. His hair was a thick brown mane, brushed upward from his face, his eyes were heavy lidded, half closed. He eyed Liddell with no show of interest.

  “Mr. Liddell just joined our cruise at Barbados. He’s in—” He managed to look blank. “What line did you say you were in, Liddell?”

  Liddell smiled easily. “A little of this, a little of that. I keep my eyes open for an interesting situation and take a piece of the action.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” Robin Lewis murmured. “Spend much time down here on the islands?”

  “No. Matter of fact, I feel pretty much like a paleface among this crowd. I had expected to spend some time in Barbados lining up my deal, but it didn’t work out that way. I have some friends with the line operating the Queen so I pulled a few strings to have her pick me up.” He grinned ruefully. “I gather the captain didn’t approve of my using my connections.”

  Herrick snorted. “Fussy little man.” He raked his long, thin fingers through the high pompadour. “Takes himself very seriously. It’s all pretty much of a bore. He doesn’t make a statement. He issues a pronunciamento.”

  The actress laughed. Her smile lit up her face, seemed to erase the network of lines. “The ship’s captain’s a dear compared to that captain of industry we’ve got at the table.” She turned to Liddell. “We’ve heard the story of his climb to success in different versions at every meal since we sailed. I don’t know how much longer the captain’s going to put up with him monopolizing the conversation.”

  “Name’s McDowell,” Eldridge told Liddell. “Big in Texas oil.”

  “A bloody bore.” Herrick bobbed his head. He reached for his drink, lifted it to his lips. “Whole table’s pretty much of an intellectual wasteland other than Carson here and Robin. Weren’t for them, I’d be taking my meals in my cabin.”

  The music had ended, the couples on the dance floor were wandering in the direction of their tables. Eldridge turned in his chair, watched with a frown while Crew Cut and Fran took their places at a table for two near the dance floor.

  “Fran looks very lovely tonight,” Robin Lewis told him. “She seems to be enjoying herself with that boy.”

  Eldridge shook his head. He looked up at the waiter who had materialized next to the table. “Same for us. You take a scotch, don’t you, Liddell?”

  Liddell nodded, the waiter glided off.

  “You’re a woman, Robin. What can I do with Fran?” The actress studied the animated face of the girl across the room, pursed her lips. “She seems to be doing all right.”

  The white-haired man snorted. “I can’t go through life hiring escorts for her and I won’t have her hanging around my neck like an albatross. Is it too late to slap on a little polish and brighten her up a bit?”

  “How old is Fran, Carson?” Robin wanted to know.

  “Nineteen, almost twenty.” He shook his head. “I know it should have been done years ago instead of letting her grow up wearing jeans and breeding horses. I guess I’ve been too busy to pay any attention to the kid.” He looked over to where Fran was drinking in every word her escort said. “I’d like to try to make it up to her now if it isn’t too late.”

  “You make it sound like she’s hopeless.”

  “Isn’t she?”

  “I don’t think so. Why don’t you let me take her in hand for the next few days? See what I can do.”

  “She’s pretty stubborn,” Eldridge warned.

  “So am I.”

  The waiter was back with the drinks, slid them onto the table in front of the three men and woman.

  Herrick, who had done time in a Hollywood syndication factory, launched into a recital of how much Hollywood had changed since Robin’s day as a reigning film star. He complained about the status of the “serious writer,” detailed a list of complaints and indignities he had endured until his latest book had hit the best-seller list.

  Liddell and Carson Eldridge listened with a polite show of interest while the actress and the writer compared experiences. Covertly Liddell was studying Herrick as he declaimed. The type was a familiar one, a loud, aggressive manner hiding a natural timidity. It was easy to see why he had attached himself to the former movie star—she was still attractive, her name was still associated with the sex-pot characters she played, and she was old enough, experienced enough and tired enough not to be too demanding. Thus the writer could give the appearance of being masculine right down to his socks without having ever to prove it in bed.

  Liddell glanced at his watch, grunted. “I didn’t realize it was so late. It’s been a big day.”

  The actress looked mildly disappointed. “You’re not going to leave us this early
?”

  Liddell drained his glass, set it back on the table. “I think I’ll take a couple of turns around the deck, then hit the sack. See you all in the morning.” He pushed back his chair, headed across the floor toward the forward exit.

  “Interesting man,” Robin Lewis murmured. “I wonder what he really does?”

  “Something terribly physical, I’m sure,” Herrick put in. “Do you believe that story of his about just happening to be in Barbados when we dropped anchor and coming along on the cruise on an impulse?”

  “Why not?” Eldridge frowned at him.

  The writer made overlapping circles on the top of the table with the wet bottom of his glass. “I’m just wondering if he could have any connection with the man we lost overboard during the storm. The Landers chap.” He looked up from his design on the table top, eyed his two companions. “Suppose he wasn’t washed overboard during the storm.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I never could quite figure what anybody would be doing out in a storm like that, anyway.”

  “You think he might have been murdered?”

  Herrick shrugged. “It’s happened.”

  Robin Lewis laughed nervously. “Don’t pay any attention to Lewis, Carson. He’s a writer, and like all writers he sometimes lets his imagination run away with him.” Despite the smile there was an uneasy look in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 9

  Captain Delmar Rose stood in the companionway outside the Grand Salon, watched the chefs setting up the long table of cold cuts and other delicacies that were set out nightly as a midnight snack for those passengers who hadn’t gotten enough at the dinner table.

  There was ham and turkey, hors d’oeuvres of every type — fish, pâtés, shrimp, crabmeat, lobster all nestled on finely crushed ice; there were out of season delicacies, caviar, cold cuts of every conceivable type. Already, in the background, a line was forming of those who were only an hour or two away from the dining table.

  On every cruise there is a select group known as the Gobblers. These are the gourmands who infest every ship, who do most of their sightseeing via the menus, testing and tasting every item, monopolizing the services of the dining room stewards. They reduce the chief steward and his aides to a state of hopeless despair when the neighboring tables are left untended by the steward who spends most of his time transporting every item on the menu to the Gobblers’ table. These, too, are first in line every midnight to carry off heaping plates full of the delicacies prepared for the midnight snack.

  Captain Rose nodded his satisfaction to the men behind the counters as they piled the hors d’oeuvres in appealing tiers ready for dispensing. He was about to turn to join the chief steward when Mrs. Hilda Phelps slipped up behind him, caught him by the arm.

  “Wherever have you been keeping yourself, Captain? We never get to see you except at mealtimes, and then you’re so busy with your VIPs we don’t even rate a hello,” she simpered. In the bright light of the companionway, the heavy blotches of her make-up were even more pronounced, the uneven smear of her make-up more obvious. Her hennaed hair looked orange in the light, her teeth clicked as she talked.

  The captain sighed softly, worked at a smile which didn’t quite come off. “Somebody’s got to steer the ship if we’re going to keep on our schedule, Mrs. Phelps,” he explained.

  “I’m sure you have plenty of help who could do that. We miss your company,” she pouted. “There are so few really attractive men around.”

  Captain Rose dug his balled fists even deeper into his jacket pockets. “I’m sure you haven’t looked very carefully. I’ve noticed quite a few. There’s that writer fellow, that Mr. Eldridge—both unattached, I understand.”

  The pout gave the old woman’s face a gargoylish appearance. “I suppose there are a few. Like that new passenger—that Mr. Liddell. What about him, Captain?” Captain Rose raised his eyebrows. “I don’t understand?”

  The old woman smiled fatuously. “There’s such an air of mystery about him. Nobody seems to know anything about him. And he certainly doesn’t do much talking.” She peered at the captain with bright eyes. “He gives the impression that he’s a white-collar worker of some kind. But have you noticed those shoulders, the size of his hands?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t, Mrs. Phelps,” the captain told her coldly. “All I have noticed about the gentleman is that he’s rather presumptuous. Because he has some contacts with our home office I have agreed that he may finish out the cruise. But aside from that, my interest in your Mr. Liddell is nonexistent.”

  Mrs. Phelps tittered at him. “I do believe you’re jealous, Captain. I never heard you talk like that in all the years I’ve sailed with you.”

  The squat man’s harsh look dissolved. “Sorry. I am a little overwrought. It has been a difficult voyage so far.”

  Mrs. Phelps managed to look sympathetic. “You mean about that poor Mr. Landers?” She shook her head. “A terrible thing. I guess it has made the voyage more difficult.” She unhooked her hand from the captain’s arm. “I won’t keep you any longer with my silly questions.” She turned away, headed for the grand staircase leading to the promenade deck.

  Captain Rose stared after her thoughtfully. He rubbed the heel of his hand along the side of his jaw. He spotted the cruise director in one of the small groups that stood clotted in the hallway awaiting the signal to grab plates and queue up. He nodded for Allen to join him, walked out of earshot of the chief steward and the others who had been inspecting the buffet.

  “Evening, Captain,” Allen greeted him. “Anything I can do for you?”

  Captain Rose bobbed his head. “This Phelps woman, she’s at your table?” The cruise director nodded. “And this new passenger, Liddell? He’s there, too?” Allen nodded again.

  “Anything wrong?”

  The captain considered, shrugged. “Is there some talk going around about this Liddell?”

  Allen frowned, shook his head. “None that I heard. I guess the unattached women are speculating about him. They do about every unattached male. Especially one with his looks. Why?”

  The squat man in uniform considered. “Mrs. Phelps was asking me a lot of questions. Who he was? What was he doing here? Things like that.” He frowned. “Anybody else asking questions? Anyone seem to know him?”

  The cruise director plucked at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. “I did get the impression—but that’s all it was, an impression—that one of the couples at my table knew him, or he knew them.” He shrugged. “I asked them if they knew each other, but both denied it. But from the look on Keen’s face when Liddell came to the table, I would have bet they’d met before. And not under very pleasant circumstances.”

  “What about this Keen? What do you know about him?”

  Allen shook his head. “Nothing. He and that redheaded wife of his stick by themselves. Talk very little, don’t mix with the other passengers. Kind of odd that way.”

  The captain nodded uncertainly. “You’d better keep an eye on both Keen and Liddell. If there’s something funny going on aboard my ship I want to know about it.” He bobbed his head curtly to the cruise director, turned and strode off.

  The chief steward walked over to the cruise director. “Okay, Jack. We’re all set up. Time to feed the natives. They’re kind of restless tonight. Guess a day shore-side gives them an appetite.”

  Jack Allen pasted his ready cruise director smile in place, clapped his hands. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. The buffet is open. Come and get it.” He stood aside, watched the quickly queuing, noisily chattering Gobblers expertly maneuver to the front of the line. His experienced eyes flicked around the companionway, failed to locate Liddell. He, too, was beginning to get extremely curious about the new passenger.

  His blonde assistant worked her way through the small groups of gossiping passengers to where Allen stood. She had changed her blouse and tight-fitting skirt for a décolleté gold lame gown that complemented the color of her hair, provided breath-taking contrast for the cocoa co
lor of her skin. She blinked at the firefly effect of the lights on the sparkling bracelets, the diamond earrings, sighed. “Every morning I spend hours trying to take off the poundage they put on here every night,” she told the cruise director in an undertone.

  “Look at it this way, Ingrid, if they didn’t put it on for you to take off, maybe there wouldn’t be any job,” Allen told her. He eyed the dress, let his eyes roam from the top of her head to her feet with appropriate and interesting stops. “You’re breaking out the glad rags real early this trip. You usually keep that one for the big night.”

  The blonde grinned at him. “Maybe this is the big night.” She turned, let her eyes wander around the crowd.

  “Looking for anybody in particular?” Allen wanted to know.

  “Just making sure that my basket cases are all being taken care of.” She nodded her satisfaction when she saw Fran Eldridge hanging onto the arm of Crew Cut with fierce determination. “Where’s Mrs. Phelps?”

  “Out on deck parking her broom, no doubt,” the cruise director growled. “I wish you’d find somebody to take her off my hands. She’s getting to be a nuisance. Turns up no matter where I go with a lot of ridiculous questions. And she’s been annoying the captain, too.”

  The blonde raised her eyebrows. “How?”

  “Asking questions. Seems she’s real curious about this new passenger, Liddell. Captain sounded a little irritated. Know anything about him?”

  Ingrid brought her wandering eyes back to Allen’s face. “He only came on board. How would I know anything about him?”

  “It doesn’t take some people as long as others. I saw you and him getting real confidential this afternoon at the bar.”

  The blonde shrugged. “It’s part of my job, making the new passengers feel at home.”

  “You seem to like your work.”

  Ingrid frowned at him. “Look, Jack, you and I understand each other. You do your job and have your own fun on the side. That goes for me too. We agreed on that when I took the job. It still goes.”