Allen started to argue, interpreted the signal in her eyes. He grunted, headed for the door, unlocked it and stalked out. The blonde walked over, turned the key in the lock. She walked back to where Conway still sat staring at the far wall.
“You’re worrying too much, Tom. Big people have a lot at stake in this. They’re not going to let anything go wrong.” She sat down alongside him on the bed, kissed him on the side of his mouth. “Put your head down. Relax.”
Conway swung his legs up onto the bed, laid his head in her lap. She loosened his tie, opened the buttons on his shirt. “Stop worrying,” she told him softly. She leaned down, covered his mouth with hers. After a moment, she straightened up, stuck her hand inside his shirt, massaged his chest with the flat of her hand.
“Want to stay here with me for a while?” she asked.
He grinned glumly. “I might as well. I’ll get hell when I get home anyway.”
CHAPTER 18
The following morning Johnny Liddell stood at the rail on the promenade deck, watched the passengers streaming down the gangplank from the main deck forward down onto the pier where the automobiles were lined up, waiting to take them on a day’s tour of the capital with its Oval Hall, the National Pantheon with the tomb of Simon Bolivar, the University City and the fabulous Officers’ Club.
Liddell had other plans. At ten o’clock a car would pick him up at the pier, transport him to the airport outside of town where he would charter a plane to put him into Willemstad, Curaçao, a day before his fellow passengers.
Down on the dock, the representatives of Thomas Cook & Sons were handling the details of the all-day trip, accepting Jack Allen’s suggestions for the most amicable seating arrangements. The McDowells were placed in the car with Carson Eldridge and his party, much to the white-haired man’s disgust. The Conways were assigned to ride with the newlyweds and Martin Sands and his niece.
Third Officer Larry Weston stood on the side lines with Allen and Ingrid Sorenson, watched glumly as Fran Eldridge took her place in the car with Lewis Herrick, refused to waste even a glance in his direction. As the car pulled off, Allen grinned at the crew-cut officer.
“You could have fooled me.” He grinned. “I thought she preferred the physical type.”
Weston scowled. “Better him than me. I couldn’t care less about having to look at something like that across the breakfast table every morning.” But his voice lacked conviction. The scowl deepened as he recognized the full-blown figure of the redheaded beauty operator coming down the gangplank. “You and Ingrid riding out to the Tamanaco?”
Allen turned to the blonde, raised his eyebrows. She nodded. “Might as well. They don’t pay us for hanging around here. And we don’t get to go ashore at Curaçao.”
“Mind if Meg and I ride up to the hotel with you?”
“Be my guest.” He watched with appreciation the effect the redhead’s bouncy walk had on her facade. “You’re a pretty lucky guy, Third. All that and shore leave in Curaçao. Got any plans for tomorrow?” he asked with transparent innocence.
“Yeah. I’m going to curl up with a good book,” Weston grunted.
The redhead joined them, showed by her smile that she hadn’t resented the inventory the cruise director had taken of her obvious assets. “Hi, Mr. Allen. Hi, Ingrid.” She turned to Weston. “Been waiting long, honey?”
He favored her with a scowl, turned to Allen. “We’re ready any time you are.”
The cruise director turned, signaled to one of the private cars for hire, waited until it pulled up alongside them. The driver swung in his seat, stared impudently at the two women as they got into the back seat, turned to the men with a surly expression. “Where you go?”
“Tamanaco Hotel.”
“Forty dollar round trip,” he told them.
Allen snapped back at him in his native tongue, motioned for the girls to get out of the car.
“Okay, okay,” the driver growled. “I thought you were a pig of a tourist.” He turned, spat out the window. “Norteamericanos!” The way he said it was a message in itself. “Okay, get in. For you twenty dollar round trip.”
“Charming if McDowell happened to be along,” Ingrid commented as Jack Allen slid in alongside her. “Think what a wonderful couple he and Laughing Boy would have made.”
Allen grinned at the picture it conjured up. “I’d love to have the moving picture rights when his car gets down around the capitol and the mob starts banging on the windows and slamming the hood. With all his talk, I’ll bet he spends most of the day on his knees.”
Conversation dwindled as the driver swung into a U-turn on the pier and headed for the hotel in the hills.
When they reached the Tamanaco, Weston and the two girls headed for the patio to reserve a table before the members of the tours sewed them all up, while Allen remained behind to make arrangements with the driver to pick them up after lunch.
Then, instead of joining the group directly, the cruise director headed for the radio-telegraph office in the lobby, gave the operator a Willemstad number in Curaçao and settled down to wait.
Johnny Liddell stared out through the windows of the chartered plane, watched the island of Curaçao taking form in the distance. First there was the sparkling blue of the tropical waters with the sunlight glinting off the waves. Then the coral reefs that lined the island tinted the waters with pastel colors of unbelievable beauty and myriad shades. Finally, as they reached the island itself, he could see the deeply indented natural harbors, the ships at anchor in St. Anna’s and the cluster of buildings that were Willemstad.
After a moment they were over the city itself with its neatly arranged rows of squat buildings, their tiered, orange-colored roofs making it a miniature Amsterdam.
The pilot pointed down to the channel that intersects the city, where the huge floating causeway was folded back to admit one of the 8,000 ships that steam through annually into the Schottegat.
“The Queen Emma,” the pilot explained. “All traffic stops, the bridge is swung open for every ship that sails up the Waaigat.” He pointed into the inner harbor where half a dozen ships swung at anchor. “That is the Schottegat. In the old days those forts around it made it one of the safest harbors in the Caribbean. Today—” He grinned and shrugged.
Liddell stared down at the square stone buildings which once were so impregnable, but which now looked so absurdly inadequate in an era of Strategic Air Command bombers and guided missiles.
The pilot eased the plane into a lazy bank, pointed out the clearly defined landing area in the flatlands just outside the city. “Coming in now, Mr. Liddell. You won’t have any trouble getting a car. Always a half dozen around.”
At the airport, Liddell made the transfer from the plane to a car without delay, gave the driver the address of Hans Reynders.
“25 Vervoort?” The driver tugged the greasy chauffeur’s cap from his head, wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “D’other side vum d’Queen Emma. Nein?” His voice was thick with a heavy Dutch accent.
“I don’t know,” Liddell told him. “All I have is the address.”
The driver bobbed his head. “Yah. D’other side vum d’causeway.” He waited until Liddell had slid into the back seat, put the car into gear.
Liddell relaxed against the cushions, watched the breath-taking beauty of the landscape as it flashed by en-route to the city. In the heart of Willemstad, he marveled at the faithful attention to detail in the reproduction of the architecture of Amsterdam that lined the far side of the Waaigat.
The Queen Emma had now swung back into place and heavy automobile and pedestrian traffic was swarming across it. For all its storybook appearance, it was obvious that Willemstad was a city of business. Liddell could only guess how much even this fast tempo would be stepped up tomorrow when the
Queen Alexandra
vomited its more than 1,000 passengers and part of its 700 crew ashore for a day of shopping and touring.
Twenty-five Vervoort turned out to be a small shop in one of the outlying districts of the city. Johnny Liddell paid the driver off, walked over, tried the knob, pushed the door open. Some place deep in the rear a bell tinkled. Liddell stood inside the dim shop, looked around. It was lined on either side by glass showcases containing what appeared to be curios and souvenirs. The windows in the cases were dusty and grimy. The entire shop had about it an air of decay and lack of care.
Liddell waited a moment, then, when no one appeared from behind the curtain that closed off the rear of the shop, he opened and closed the door again. The bell tinkled, but still no one appeared.
“Hello?” Liddell called out.
There was no sign of life from behind the curtain. Liddell walked to the back of the store, stopped outside the curtain. “Hello?” he repeated.
This time when there was no answer, he pulled the curtain aside.
Hans Reynders had the heavy square face of the Dutch. His sparse, white hair was disarrayed, his normally ruddy face was gray. His eyes bulged at the doorway, his jaw hung open. He must have been a little over five feet four, and his feet were a few inches from the floor, bringing him to Liddell’s height. The rope around his neck was attached to an exposed pipe that ran across the ceiling. The body was swaying slowly from side to side.
Liddell’s eyes took in the room at a glance. An overturned chair lay at the dead man’s feet, there was little evidence of a struggle.
He started into the room, was alerted by the slight scuffing of a shoe. He threw himself to the side, saw the flash of the blade as the man standing behind the door slashed at him. He hit the floor, rolled over, reached under his coat for his .45. As it cleared into the open, the man with the knife was on top of him. The toe of his shoe caught Liddell’s wrist, sent the gun skidding across the floor.
Liddell had a brief glimpse of the man before he rolled out of another kick aimed at his head. He was heavy-set, dark. His teeth were bared in a ferocious snarl, glistened whitely against the darkness of his complexion, the unshaven jaw and jowls. His hair was thick, matted, pushed back from his face from a hairline that was inches from his thick eyebrows.
Liddell rolled until he felt the wall at his back, braced himself against it, pushed himself to his feet. The man with the knife took his time stalking him. He shuffled in, knife held waist high, point upward, ready for a thrust that could rip Liddell from belt to collar.
The only sound in the room was the heavy breathing of the man with the knife. Liddell could feel the perspiration running down the back of his shirt as he waited. The other man seemed to be enjoying stretching it out.
Suddenly he started to close the distance. Liddell kicked out with his heel, had the momentary satisfaction of hearing the other man yelp with pain as the heel connected with his shin. Then the knife slashed out. Liddell twisted away from it, felt the bite of the steel as the blade tore through his sleeve, dug a thin furrow up the side of his arm.
The lunge drove the man past him and Liddell aimed a punch at his neck. The punch carried only half power because Liddell was off balance and the man swung back on him with a roar. This time, when he slashed at Liddell, Johnny was set. He caught the man’s knife hand with both his and twisted with all his strength.
The other man’s feet left the ground, he slammed against the wall with a thud that shook the building. The knife clattered to the floor. Both men dived for it, struggled. The dark man managed to get his hands on it, rolled over on his back with a victorious grunt.
Liddell grabbed at the wrist of the hand holding the knife, tried to force it back where he could smash the knuckles against the floor. Perspiration beaded his forehead, ran down into his eyes and blinded him. He could smell the sour breath of the other man as he sucked in air in gasping sobs. With his free hand he was trying to reach Liddell’s eyes to claw him.
Liddell had to relax his pressure on the knife hand to protect his eyes, his fingers on the other man’s wrist grew slippery and wet.
Seizing his momentary advantage, the other man threw his entire weight into an effort to dislodge Johnny and succeeded in throwing him off.
He got to his knees and Liddell struggled to his feet. As the man with the knife started to move in for the kill, Liddell threw himself forward, shouldered him back against the wall, his hand straining to keep the point of the blade away from his body. They wrestled there for a moment, panting and thrashing. The grunting and gasping grew louder.
Suddenly the other man’s foot landed on Liddell’s gun on the floor. It flew out from under him and clattered across the room. Both men crashed to the floor, Liddell on top.
The man with the knife twitched uncontrollably for a moment, then lay still. Liddell struggled painfully to his feet. The other man lay on his back, leg folded under him. He stared up at Liddell with wide open eyes. The small, white teeth were still bared in a baleful snarl, a thin dark red stream glistened from the corner of his mouth to the point of his chin. The handle of the knife projected from just below his breastbone like an obscene horn. Surrounding it, a spreading stain was dyeing the front of his shirt a dark red.
Liddell pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, swabbed at the perspiration on his face. He stepped across the dead man, walked over to where his gun lay against the wall. He had just picked it up, was about to replace it in his waistband when a voice barked.
“Put the gun on the floor.”
He turned at the sound of the voice, saw the man in the olive drab uniform leveling his service revolver. He dropped the gun, straightened up.
“Don’t move,” the uniformed man advised him. The officer’s eyes took in the hanging man, the dead man on the floor. “Who are you, what are you doing here?” he snapped.
“My name’s Liddell. I’m a private detective from the United States. I came here to see Reynders.” His eyes sought out the contorted features of the hanged man. “This man was hanging here when I came in. I must have walked in on him”—he nodded to the dead man on the floor—“while he was setting it up to look like a suicide. He jumped me, we struggled—” He shrugged. “He tried to swallow the knife and didn’t make it.”