“No. All the way forward. In the crew section of the ship.”
“I’ll find it, I guess. But suppose someone—”
The blonde shook her head. “There’s no one in it and I have the only key. No one will disturb us.”
CHAPTER 16
Dinner that night started out to be uneventful.
Martin Sands was already at the table when Johnny Liddell walked in. Harry and Belle Doyle were in their seats for a change and were carrying on an animated conversation with Hilda Phelps. Jack Allen, the cruise director, obviously relieved at the diversion of the old woman’s attention, was carrying on a desultory conversation with Sands. He looked up as Liddell slid into his chair.
“Well, Mr. Liddell. We missed you this morning. Get over to the island at all?” he asked.
Liddell shook his head. “I slept in. Guess I was more tired than I realized.” He broke off as Martin Sands’s “niece” came to the table. Her eyes were red and puffy. She avoided the eyes of the others as she took her seat, busied herself with her napkin.
“Guess you heard we lost a couple of our table-mates?” Allen indicated the empty chairs where the Keens had been the night before. “Decided to stay at Grenada for a couple of days instead of continuing the cruise.”
Hilda Phelps broke off her conversation with the Doyles, turned to Liddell. “Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? Can you imagine any white person in his right mind wanting to stay there?” She shook her head.
“I thought it was a very pretty island,” Belle Doyle volunteered. “That view of the harbor from the hotel took my breath away.”
“But the people. All Negroes,” Mrs. Phelps argued.
“Well, they do have a right to be there. After all, they’re natives—” Belle Doyle pointed out.
“Not actually,” Jack Allen told her. “When Columbus discovered the island on his second voyage, the natives were a people called Caribs. The white men exterminated them by working them to death. That’s when they imported African Negroes as slaves to work the spice and cocoa plantations. Today, nine persons out of ten in the Windward Islands are Negroes.”
“Slaves? Like the ones we had down south?” Martin Sands entered the discussion.
Allen bobbed his head. “But they got around to emancipating them before we did. In 1837. And with less of a fuss.”
“I didn’t know Grenada was one of the Windward Islands,” Harry Doyle put in.
“The capital of the Windwards. The governor of all four islands lives in St. George’s.” Allen was obviously warming up to his subject, and Liddell was beginning to wish the subject hadn’t been brought up. “Did you know how they got the name, the Windward Islands?” He looked around, didn’t wait for an answer. “Because they are more exposed to the trade winds than the other group called the Leeward Islands and—”
They could hear rather than see the Eldridges’ entrance into the dining room. There was a momentary break in the conversation at the captain’s table. The men stared, the women stared, then whispered.
Fran Eldridge was still too thin and bony, but a high-necked dress did not advertise the fact the way her other clothes had. Her hair was still mousy colored, but it was set in a fashionable bouffant style, and the magic of expertly applied make-up had transformed her normally plain face into one that was more than passably attractive.
Her new appearance had done something to her posture. She walked alongside her father, head high in contrast to the hunched forward shuffle they associated with her. She was slightly flushed, pleasantly aware of the stir she was creating.
The white-haired man held his daughter’s chair, apologized to the captain for their tardiness, was rewarded with one of Delmar Rose’s rare smiles. His eyes flicked from the girl’s face to Robin Lewis and back, reflected his approval. He said something to the girl that brought a flush of pleasure and a shy smile instead of the giggle with which she had responded to everything.
The silence at the table dissolved and there was a chatter of excited conversation and compliments. Carson Eldridge sat back in his chair, beamed. Lew Herrick, sitting at the other side of the girl, hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to her at any meal, suddenly discovered they had many interests in common.
At Jack Allen’s table, Hilda Phelps sniffed. “Looks like a freshly painted billboard,” she snapped somewhat illogically in view of the hennaed hair and outlandish make-up.
“I think she looks lovely,” Belle Doyle disagreed. “All she needed was someone to show her how to dress and make up. I’d like to see that sailor boy’s eyes when he sees her now.”
Jack Allen was thinking something along the same line. He had figured that Larry Weston would be earning anything in the way of a dowry he could get from old man Eldridge. But now it could be that he was really getting a break. The old man’s money and a girl that wasn’t hard to take, and one that hadn’t learned any bad habits. Put a little fat on her bones, break her in the right way, and with her father’s money she mightn’t be too bad.
Johnny Liddell watched the expressions on the faces of the people at the captain’s table. Herrick’s sudden interest in the girl was being lost on nobody. The captain seemed amused, Carson Eldridge was pleased, Fran Eldridge was verging on delirium. Robin Lewis watched with approval while the expressions of the other two women ranged from the amazement of Laura Conway to the surprise of Myra McDowell. Only Tom Conway seemed unaffected as he moodily ate his dinner with the absorption of a man who had problems on his mind. Alvin McDowell was wondering if they could do so much for that ugly duckling, why did they find it so impossible to make any improvement in his wife. His eyes rolled over to Tom Conway, and he wondered how Conway was making out with the blonde Ingrid with whom he had seen him with heads together. He wondered if he was too old to have one last fling, decided regretfully that he might find it embarrassing at best and disastrous at worst. He sighed, started to eat his dinner.
As Liddell watched, the girl reluctantly tore her attention away from Lew Herrick, leaned across the table to talk to Robin Lewis, jabbing with her fingertips at the unfamiliar feel of the hair spray as she talked. From her expression, one thing looked pretty sure. Any reservations the girl might have had about the actress were washed away in the flood of her gratitude. Liddell had told Robin that he was sure she could handle herself and land on her feet. He couldn’t have been more prophetic.
Tonight the theater had been converted from its nightly movie to a live performance.
The Ship’s News
described it as a “Concert of Musical Comedy Hits” with the Alexandra Concert Ensemble providing the musical background and Lauri Michel and Frank Green appearing as guest stars.
Johnny Liddell wandered into the theater, winced at what the Alexandra Concert Ensemble was doing to a still recognizable musical comedy tune, listened to the assist given the ensemble by Lauri Michel in its melodic mayhem and retreated toward the smoking room.
Fran Eldridge was sitting at a corner table with Larry Weston, listening to him with half an ear. It was obvious from the annoyed expression on the third officer’s face that he wasn’t used to having Fran listen with half an ear and had no intention of getting used to it. He caught the girl’s arm, turned her around to face him.
Fran jerked her arm free of the third officer’s grip, opened her bag, brought out a folded envelope. She threw it on the table in front of him, got to her feet. Before he could stop her, she stalked away from the table, headed for the promenade.
Weston stared after her for a moment, then he picked up the envelope, lifted a folded sheet from it. He read it slowly, then balled the note and the envelope, jammed both into his pocket. He got up, followed Fran out onto the deck.
Chalk up another first for Fran, Liddell told himself. Probably her first lover’s quarrel where the man followed her in an attempt to patch the rift. He wandered on in the smoking room, flagged down a steward, was about to order a drink when he discovered that in changing his clothes he had neglected to change his wallet from his slacks. He debated the advisability of having the steward let him sign a chit, decided he could use the exercise.
He headed for the staircase to the lower decks.
On B deck, he headed for his cabin, noted absently that the steward was off duty, apparently having his dinner. He let himself into his cabin, transferred his wallet to his pocket. Then he walked out into the companionway, closed his cabin door behind him.
Down the corridor, he could see Third Officer Weston pounding on the door to the redhead’s cabin. Liddell checked his watch, surmised that the lover’s quarrel hadn’t been patched up. He was about to head for the elevator when the door opened, the redhead stood framed in it. As he watched, the third officer reached out, pushed her back into the cabin and followed her in.
Liddell frowned, reversed his direction, headed for the redhead’s door. He could hear the sharp smack of a slap, a muffled cry. He tried the door, pushed it open. ,
Inside the cabin, Weston stood with his back to the door. His open hand described a short arc that caught the redhead across the side of the face, knocked her head to the side. He backhanded it into position, knocked her sprawling to her knees. He had buried his fingers in her hair, was pulling her to her feet when Liddell caught him by the arm and spun him around.
“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Liddell growled.
“Go back where you belong, mister. You’re asking for trouble. Real trouble,” Crew Cut spat at him. He tugged his arm loose from Liddell’s grasp.
“You don’t know what trouble is, junior.” He ignored the raging third officer, turned to Meg Corbett. “You want me to throw him out?”
The redhead stood massaging the side of her face with the tips of her fingers. “Yes. Throw him out,” she begged.
“You heard the lady, tough guy. Out. Or I throw you out.”
Weston went into a crouch, hands high, chin tucked behind his shoulder. He slowly circled Liddell, got between him and the door. “Just for the record, mister, anybody gets thrown out, it’s you. Then I’m going to drag you to the captain’s office and tell him you broke in here and roughed her up.”
“And what will she be doing all this time?”
“What I tell her to.”
Liddell watched Crew Cut shuffling toward him, then the younger man made his move. He threw a rock-hard fist at Liddell’s head, took a sharp right to the midsection in return. Crew Cut grunted like a stung bear, started moving in again. He caught Liddell on the side of the head with a solid blow that started bells ringing in Johnny’s head. Sensing his advantage, the third officer threw caution to the winds and moved in, fists flailing, to finish Liddell off.
Johnny started back-pedaling, sidestepped Weston’s rush. He caught the third officer under the ear with a blow that carried his full strength. Weston staggered, a dazed expression on his face. Liddell planted his right to the elbow in Crew Cut’s midsection. There was a strangled gasp, Weston’s eye glazed. He tumbled to the floor, a tangle of arms and legs. Liddell stood over him, wiped his mouth with the side of his hand.
The redhead stood looking from Liddell to the man on the floor and back. “You’re pretty good. Larry was heavyweight champ of the Merchant Marine Academy in 1956.” Liddell explored the spot where the third officer’s fist had caught him on the side of the head with cautious fingers, winced. “He was outclassed. I was flea weight champion of P.S. 64 in 1930,” he growled. With his toe, he turned the unconscious man over onto his back. “Why the shellacking? Or doesn’t he need a reason?”
The redhead massaged her cheek. “That’s the first time he’s ever hit me. And it’ll be the last time.”
“Why?”
The redhead’s jaw was set stubbornly. “That’s our business. His and mine.”
Liddell shrugged. “Maybe the captain will think it’s his business that his third officer tried to beat you up.”
The girl shook her head. “No, you can’t do that. The captain would throw him into the brig for the rest of the trip and he’d never get another ship.” She grabbed Liddell’s arm. “Don’t do that to him.” She glanced down at the man on the floor. “You’ve done enough to him.”
“Then why did he tee off on you?”
The redhead licked at her lips. “I—I had it coming. He had a good deal set up to make a killing on this trip. I spoiled it for him.”
Liddell’s eyes narrowed. “Did Curaçao have anything to do with it?”
The girl’s eyes widened, she backed away. “How did you know?” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t have gone through with it, mister. He just liked to talk big.”
“Where and when?”
The redhead searched his face for some sign of mercy, found none. “I—I don’t know. I—”
“Where and when?”
“There’s a small hotel, just outside Willemstad. It’s called the Rotterdam Huis. He knows the owner.”
“How does he bring it in?”
A look of honest bewilderment clouded the girl’s face. “What are you talking about?”
“How does he bring them in?”
The redhead stared at him, her lips framing his words. “How does he bring what in?” She seemed to be seeing Liddell clearly for the first time.
“What’s he’s going to pick up at the hotel.” He watched the play of emotions on the girl’s face. “Look, a minute ago you were being smart. But if you’ve decided to change your mind—”
Her eyes hopscotched around his face seeking evidence that he was toying with her. When she failed to find it, her nails cut into his arm. “You think he’s going to pick something up at the hotel?” She shook her head. “He’s taking the girl there. The Eldridge girl. He’s going to get her into bed with him so she’ll have to marry him.”
Liddell’s jaw dropped. “You’re leveling?”
The redhead’s head bobbed. “I loused it up by sending her a letter telling her what the score was. She showed it to him tonight and told him to get lost. That’s why he was so sore.”
Liddell raked his fingers through his hair, swore softly. “I guess I see too many television shows,” he growled.
“You’re not going to—to make any trouble?”
Liddell shook his head. “I’m willing to forget what happened if he is.” He glanced down at where the third officer was beginning to moan his way back to consciousness. “But you’d better convince him to leave the Eldridge girl alone. My guess is that her father would not be as broadminded.” He stepped over the fallen man’s legs, opened the door and stepped into the companionway. The room steward, who had just returned from dinner, peered at him, shook his head. The redhead didn’t like passengers. He’d never seen one make it into her room. He sighed philosophically at the realization that there’s always a first time for everything.