Crime of Their Life (21 page)

“What gave you that idea?”

Rogers shrugged. “You never gave me the right time. I had it figured you had no time for anybody but the passengers.”

The blonde grinned. “I’m not the demonstrative type. Passengers? You can have them. I’ve had them up to here.” She held the flat of her hand under her chin.

Allen poured a stiff slug into each of the glasses. “Want a little water in these?”

“Not mine,” the radioman told him. “It’s against my religion to drink waterlogged scotch.”

“Better put some in mine,” Ingrid told the cruise director.

“I guess I’m a sissy too,” Allen grunted. He walked into the lavatory, out of sight of the couple in the cabin, spilled most of the scotch down the sink, filled the cups with water.

Rogers held his cup up in a toast, downed the whole drink with a swallow. He made no effort to resist when Allen poured him another stiff slug.

By the time the cruise director and the blonde had finished their watered drink, Rogers had downed three stiff slugs and was working on his fourth.

His eyes were beginning to glaze slightly, his speech was slurred, and he was having difficulty pronouncing his words. Allen poured some more scotch into his own glass and the girl’s, signaled to her with his eyes as he took the two glasses into the lavatory. Here, he again spilled half the drinks down the sink, filling the cups with water. When he walked out, Ingrid was tilting the half-empty bottle over the radioman’s cup.

She looked up as Allen handed her her cup. “Say, I think I’ll have to run. I’ve got to find Liddell—”

Rogers had difficulty focusing his eyes on the blonde. “Who?”

“Liddell. The passenger we picked up in Barbados. He was going to call New York this afternoon and get me some information.”

The radioman considered it drunkenly for a moment, frowned. “Liddell, Liddell.” He dredged in his memory.

“What about Liddell?” He set his glass down, rubbed his face in his hands, suddenly looked up. A big grin split his face. “I remember.” He shook his head. “He didn’t call New York today—”

“You’re sure?” Ingrid prompted.

“Positive. He’s in Curaçao. In jail.”

Allen’s jaw dropped. “In Curaçao?”

Rogers bobbed his head with drunken solemnity. “Superintendent of Antilles Police called the captain. Something about Liddell and some murder. The captain guessed I was on the line, told me to cut out.” He winked. “But I heard what I heard. Liddell was in Curaçao, mixed up in some murder.”

“How awful.” Ingrid looked to Allen. “Maybe there’s something we can do. We’d better check in with the captain.”

Allen nodded. “We’d better.”

The radioman looked hurt. “You’re not going to leave me, are you?”

“We’d better, Ralph,” Ingrid told him. “We’re responsible for the passengers and—”

“We’re going to leave the bottle,” Allen broke in.

The radioman eyed him owlishly for a moment, then nodded. “Oh, that’s different.”

After the door closed behind the cruise director and his assistant, Rogers filled his cup with scotch again and tossed it off. He stared at the closed door, tried to remember what it was that caused them to run away so suddenly, couldn’t quite remember. He shrugged, threw the paper cup at the wastebasket, grabbed the scotch bottle by the neck and lay down on his bunk.

CHAPTER 20

The following morning Johnny Liddell stood at the window of the Holland Huis, stared out over the shimmering waters of the Bay. Six miles away, the
Queen Alexandra
was docked at the pier in Caracas Bay, its passengers were already jamming the shops along Heeren and Brede nosing out duty-free bargains.

Liddell had spent most of the night studying the reports Red Daniels had sent from Acme. With the short space of time available to him, the redhead had outdone himself. There was enough data on each of the names on Harry Landers’s list to give some insight into the people involved.

And by and large it was disappointing.

Martin Sands and his niece were exactly what he had suspected. The name Sands was a phony, so the assumption was that the niece was also a phony. The reservation for the Sands couple had been made through the Midtown Travel Agency on 59th Street and a well-placed sawbuck had revealed that the reservation had been made by the secretary for Martin Ritter, vice president of Lorelei Fabrics which had offices on Park Avenue and 56th Street. Discreet inquiries at Lorelei Fabrics had disclosed that Martin Ritter was on a business trip and that his secretary, Helen Bums, had taken her vacation about the same time. The description of Martin Ritter provided by the agency fitted that of Martin Sands. Helen Bums could not have looked more like Helen Sands from the description.

He had been right about Belle and Harry Doyle, too. They could not be acting the part of uprooted farmers that well. Inquiries in Three Rivers, Wisconsin, had disclosed that both had been born and bred in the town, that their honeymoon had been provided by the local newspaper as a prize in a circulation contest. The contest had been bought as a circulation drive package from Garrett Advertising Service in Philadelphia.

He walked back to the table, picked up the sheaf of reports. That was the only thing that puzzled him. According to the report on the Conways, Laura Conway had been Laura Garrett. Her husband, Tom Conway, was a vice president of the Garrett Advertising Service. To the best of his knowledge, he had never seen the Conways address the Doyles or vice versa. Yet, directly or indirectly, the Conways were footing the bill for the Doyles’ honeymoon.

He leafed through the reports, reread the one on Conway. A former newspaperman, he had joined the Garrett Service almost ten years before and had married the boss’s daughter. That could account for the henpecked air he had. The Garrett Service combined advertising and promotion, serviced newspapers throughout the country in many ways. The contest, tied in with a circulation drive, was a package sold to small-town newspapers. There were apparently twelve such contests a year with the winners receiving cruises, luggage and a weekend in New York as prizes. The contests were aimed at soon-to-be-married couples.

Liddell reached for a cigarette, got it going. He was fumbling for some connection between the Doyles and the Conways, dismissed the idea when he convinced himself that the Doyles, transparently honest as they were, could not have successfully disguised the fact if they had known the Conways, had had previous contact with them. And as for the Conways, socially conscious as they were, it was understandable why they should avoid letting a rural couple like the Doyles attach themselves for the duration of the trip.

Lewis Herrick was even less promising. A former magazine writer, who had branched into screenplays via a syndicated, low-budget television program, he had hit the jackpot with a serious novel that had become an almost permanent fixture on the best-seller list. His follow-up “second novel” had been a disappointment to his publishers who had suggested a rest before he tackled the job of a complete rewrite. One of the editors of the publishing house had expressed the opinion “off the record, of course” that Herrick was a “one-book phenomenon” and that the publishers would postpone publication of the follow-up until the last possible sale had been nursed from the bestseller.

Carson Eldridge’s background indicated that he had been badly set back by the sudden death of his wife. His in-laws, who had raised Fran, described him as a man trying to run away. He had traveled extensively, worked abroad for years as a representative of American companies, tried to blot out his memories. The girl hadn’t seen him in almost ten years when he showed up at the ranch six months ago. He had insisted that she take the cruise on the
Alexandra
as the first step in polishing her up. The grandparents were not completely approving of the way he had deserted his daughter and evaded his responsibilities to her over the years.

There was less detail on the McDowells, but what there was left no doubt that Alvin McDowell was two things he claimed to be—an oil millionaire and a Texas Republican. Most of the material available in the various newspaper morgues in Dallas and Houston concerned themselves with McDowell’s involvement in the 1960 unpleasantness which resulted in his political enemy’s elevation from the Senate to the Vice Presidency and his vow to become an expatriate Texan if the process were repeated in 1964.

The reports on Mrs. Hilda Phelps and Robin Lewis were more general, contained little or nothing that was of value.

All in all, it added up to little more than nothing.

Liddell walked back to the window, smoked in short, thoughtful puffs. So much for the passengers. That left the crew. Mentally he checked them out, scowled at the result. Captain Delmar Rose had too much at stake, had been at sea too long to become involved in a smuggling ring in the twilight years of his career. Yet even captains need money to retire on, and despite the glamour of his job, being captain of a cruise ship isn’t the fastest way to become independently wealthy.

Jack Allen was obviously coming toward the end of his career as a cruise director. His smile was growing more tired, his enthusiasm more forced. He was in an ideal position to feather his nest by bringing in the diamonds, but Liddell knew that the customs men, the diamond syndicate and all other interested parties would be watching a man like Allen too closely for him to be able to smuggle in diamonds in the quantity the syndicate had indicated.

The same would seem to apply to Ingrid Sorenson or to the third officer and his redhead girlfriend. There had been stories about how beauty operators on ships had brought contraband into the country in rolled-up hairdos, in jars of beauty cream and cold cream and in other feminine paraphernalia. But it was, at best, an impractical fictional device.

Liddell took a last drag on the cigarette, crushed it out. He scowled out across the water.

The customs would be on the alert for any gimmick like that, as well. He massaged the side of his jaw with the flat of his hand. He fingered the bristles thoughtfully, decided a few hours’ sleep might give him a new perspective.

When Nat Simons looked in on him at noon, Liddell was sprawled on the leather couch in the room, fast asleep.

At four o’clock, a freshly shaven, refreshed Johnny Liddell stepped out of a cab on the pier at Caracas Bay. The
Queen Alexandra
loomed majestically overhead, a gangplank ran to B deck forward. Members of the crew, taking a temporary breather, were leaning on the rails in the crew area watching the activity on the pier.

Johnny Liddell walked up the gangplank, was greeted by the purser at B deck. “Good afternoon, sir. You’re back early. We don’t sail until ten tonight.”

Liddell nodded. “I’d like to see the captain.”

A pained expression crossed the purser’s face. “Sir, I’m afraid I can’t disturb the captain. He came off the bridge at about seven and we’ll be sailing at ten, so—”

“Why don’t you try him and see if he’ll see me?”

The purser looked unhappy about it, crossed to a phone in the companionway. He muttered a few instructions to the switchboard operator, waited, then nodded his head. He walked back to Liddell, looked vaguely surprised. “He’ll see you, sir.”

Captain Delmar Rose had a half-finished drink in his hand when Johnny Liddell was ushered in by Emil, the captain’s personal steward.

The captain dismissed the steward with a nod, turned to Liddell. “Well?”

“Thanks for the testimonial to the Antilles Police,” Liddell said with a smile. “Came in very handy.”

Captain Rose nodded his head, motioned toward the liquor. “Make yourself a drink.” He watched Liddell walk over to the table, spill some scotch over ice. “You get your report?”

Liddell took a swallow from his glass, nodded. “I got it.”

“Help any?”

Liddell held his glass up to the light from the glass wall, admired the amber color of his drink. “Helped eliminate some of them.” He walked to the desk, leaned a hip against the comer of it. “Sands and his niece, for instance. Like we suspected, she’s his secretary and they’re playing house. When a man’s really trying that doesn’t leave much time for smuggling. You know?”

The captain nodded dourly.

“Herrick’s pretty much what he seems to be. So’s Robin Lewis and the Phelps woman. Scratch them.”

“I told you Robin was okay.” The captain took a deep drag from his glass. “Looks like Carson Eldridge thinks so, too. He’s getting a lot of woman if he gets her.” He walked over to the desk, picked up his pipe. “Daughter check out, too?”

“Far as we can figure,” Liddell said. “I wouldn’t peg her as the smuggler, anyway. A front, maybe, but with Carson, Herrick and Robin all apparently in the clear, I’d say she was, too.”

The captain stuck his pipe between his teeth. “That leaves the Conways and the McDowells.”

“And the Doyles.”

The captain snorted. “Those dirt farmers? You’re not going to tell me you suspect them?”

Liddell shook his head. “Nope. I don’t suspect them.” Johnny fumbled through his pockets, brought up a cigarette and some matches. “If you remember, I said it had to be someone who had frequent if not constant opportunity to bring stuff in.” He stuck the cigarette in the comer of his mouth, touched a match to it.

The captain managed to get his pipe going with the aid of an old-fashioned wooden match. He held the burning match up in front of his face, blew it out with a stream of smoke. “You’re back to my crew. That it?” He raised his eyes to meet Liddell’s. “Me, maybe?”

Liddell considered it, shrugged. “Why should I settle for you?”

“My name was on Landers’s list along with the passengers. Remember?”

Liddell nodded. “I remember. So was Jack Allen’s.” The captain took a mouthful of smoke, blew it out in a blue-gray cloud. He pulled the pipe from between his teeth, jabbed it at Liddell. “There’s just one thing you’re forgetting. Neither Allen nor I went ashore in Curaçao. Neither did Ingrid or the third officer. And they’re the only members of my crew who’ve had anything to do with the people on Landers’s list.”

“So?”

“So how could they bring the stuff on board?”