smiled. “I’m Weston, sir. Third Officer. A pleasure to have you on board.” He turned back to Eldridge. “I’m posted for shore liberty at Curaçao on Wednesday. With your permission, I’d like to take Fran to lunch in a favorite place of mine out in the country.”
“As long as you get her back before we weigh anchor, anything you want to do is all right with me. Within reason, of course,” he amended hastily.
Crew Cut bobbed his head, included Liddell in a nod, headed back to the table where the girl sat waiting. Eldridge stared at his back bleakly. “I don’t know what the tab for all this is going to run, but I’ll bet it’s a doozy!”
CHAPTER 6
The main dining room in the Queen Alexandra runs the length of a city block on A deck. In the center of the huge room, the captain presides over his table of selected guests, some of whom are designated by him, some of whom are “suggested” by the home office.
The other tables set aside for designated guests are hosted by the first officer, the purser, the chief engineer and the cruise director. Of these, the most eagerly sought seatings are at the cruise director’s table.
When Johnny Liddell walked in for the first serving at 6:45, all of the guests at the captain’s table were seated; all but three seats at the cruise director’s table were filled. Jack Allen stood up as Liddell felt his way through the tables, waved to him.
“Well, here’s our new shipmate, ladies and gentlemen,” Allen told the people at his table as Liddell walked up. “Mr. Liddell joined our little party this morning at Barbados. Let’s make him welcome.” He applauded lightly, the others at the table followed suit. “Now that they’ve met you, how about meeting our little group? Right here on my left is Rita and Peter Keen—”
Liddell stared at the hawk-faced man the cruise director had indicated. A mass of thick black hair rolled back in oily waves from his low hairline. He wore it in a three-quarter part revealing the startling whiteness of his scalp. His thin, bloodless lips were split in what was intended to be a smile, but there was no sign of it in the eyes that squinted across the high bridge of an enormous hooked nose. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened on the man’s upper lip.
The cruise director looked from Liddell to Keen and back. “You folks know each other?”
Liddell hesitated for a moment, shook his head. “Never saw Mr. Keen in my life.” It was true. The last time Johnny Liddell had seen the man with the hooked nose, his name wasn’t Keen—it was Handel, and he was squirming and sweating in the witness box giving a jury the information it needed to send Big Howie Ryder to the prison cell where he died three years later. After the trial, Maurie Handel had been disbarred and disappeared. There had been a price on his head in those days, but time, a new leadership in the mob and the gradual disappearance of the old-timers had caused almost everybody to forget Maurie Handel.
The squinty eyes stared nervously at Liddell, and decided to play along. “This is Mrs. Keen.” He indicated a flashy, upholstered redhead who was doing interesting things to a tight-fitting green dress. The redhead eyed Liddell with no show of interest, smiled briefly.
Jack Allen was moving on. “This is Mrs. Hilda Phelps, Mr. Liddell. Mrs. Phelps has been with us so often she’s like one of the staff. We wouldn’t consider a trip without her to be official.”
In the bright light of the salon, the woman’s make-up stood out like blotches against the pallor of her skin. She simpered, showed the too-perfect teeth in a smile.
“And Mr. Martin Sands and his lovely niece, Helen.” The cruise director indicated the other couple at the table.
Martin Sands was in his early sixties, a fact which careful diet and constant massage failed to hide. His eyes were encased in a fine-lined web of pouches, his chin line was losing the battle against jowliness. When he
“As long as you get her back before we weigh anchor, anything you want to do is all right with me. Within reason, of course,” he amended hastily.
Crew Cut bobbed his head, included Liddell in a nod, headed back to the table where the girl sat waiting. Eldridge stared at his back bleakly. “I don’t know what the tab for all this is going to run, but I’ll bet it’s a doozy!”
CHAPTER 6
The main dining room in the Queen Alexandra runs the length of a city block on A deck. In the center of the huge room, the captain presides over his table of selected guests, some of whom are designated by him, some of whom are “suggested” by the home office.
The other tables set aside for designated guests are hosted by the first officer, the purser, the chief engineer and the cruise director. Of these, the most eagerly sought seatings are at the cruise director’s table.
When Johnny Liddell walked in for the first serving at 6:45, all of the guests at the captain’s table were seated; all but three seats at the cruise director’s table were filled. Jack Allen stood up as Liddell felt his way through the tables, waved to him.
“Well, here’s our new shipmate, ladies and gentlemen,” Allen told the people at his table as Liddell walked up. “Mr. Liddell joined our little party this morning at Barbados. Let’s make him welcome.” He applauded lightly, the others at the table followed suit. “Now that they’ve met you, how about meeting our little group? Right here on my left is Rita and Peter Keen—”
Liddell stared at the hawk-faced man the cruise director had indicated. A mass of thick black hair rolled back in oily waves from his low hairline. He wore it in a three-quarter part revealing the startling whiteness of his scalp. His thin, bloodless lips were split in what was intended to be a smile, but there was no sign of it in the eyes that squinted across the high bridge of an enormous hooked nose. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened on the man’s upper lip.
The cruise director looked from Liddell to Keen and back. “You folks know each other?”
Liddell hesitated for a moment, shook his head. “Never saw Mr. Keen in my life.” It was true. The last time Johnny Liddell had seen the man with the hooked nose, his name wasn’t Keen—it was Handel, and he was squirming and sweating in the witness box giving a jury the information it needed to send Big Howie Ryder to the prison cell where he died three years later. After the trial, Maurie Handel had been disbarred and disappeared. There had been a price on his head in those days, but time, a new leadership in the mob and the gradual disappearance of the old-timers had caused almost everybody to forget Maurie Handel.
The squinty eyes stared nervously at Liddell, and decided to play along. “This is Mrs. Keen.” He indicated a flashy, upholstered redhead who was doing interesting things to a tight-fitting green dress. The redhead eyed Liddell with no show of interest, smiled briefly.
Jack Allen was moving on. “This is Mrs. Hilda Phelps, Mr. Liddell. Mrs. Phelps has been with us so often she’s like one of the staff. We wouldn’t consider a trip without her to be official.”
In the bright light of the salon, the woman’s make-up stood out like blotches against the pallor of her skin. She simpered, showed the too-perfect teeth in a smile.
“And Mr. Martin Sands and his lovely niece, Helen.” The cruise director indicated the other couple at the table.
Martin Sands was in his early sixties, a fact which careful diet and constant massage failed to hide. His eyes were encased in a fine-lined web of pouches, his chin line was losing the battle against jowliness. When he
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