Assignment — Stella Marni

by Edward S. Aarons

  Durell said flatly: "Your guards aren't too alert. Probably Stepov is too busy discussing matters with Krame to attend to it." His grin was hard and tight. "We want the girl, the old man, and Krame. Alive. All of them. Do you understand?"

  "I cannot help you. I must ask you to leave my ship."

  Durell said: "Lock the door, Tom."

  Markey locked it.

  "Stand there. Listen for anyone coming."

  The captain said: "What do you think you can do, just the two of you?"

  "You're going to help us," Durell said. "It's your big chance. Captain Grozni. You can have safety and political asylum here, freedom from bloody-handed masters like Stepov."

  The bald, bull-like man spoke with quiet violence. "No. What I told you before — about my family in Gdynia — I would be insane to risk their lives." He was sweating suddenly. "Of course I would like to help you! I did so once, and you would not have got ashore with the old man without me. But this time — no. They have always suspected me, Stepov and his men always watched me — and now they are doubly cautious. They have only kept me aboard as nominal master of this ship because they needed me. But I have a feeling this is my last trip. Do not ask any more of me."

  "Captain Grozni," Durell said quietly, "When I saw you last, I promised I would do what I could about your family. We have our organizations and methods. Every year, tens of thousands of people like you flee to freedom in West Europe. I made arrangements for your family to follow the same path. We have been successful. In an hour, the newspapers will have the story. Your wife and daughters were taken from Gdynia in a fishing boat and have landed at Ronne, in Denmark. They are safe. They have asked that you remain here in New York until they can join you. Every effort will be made by our State Department to hurry their entry into the United States."

  Grozni stared with incredulous eyes at Durell. "This is true?"

  "You have my word for it. You must believe me. You must take what I say on faith, at this moment, but in an hour you will have the proof. Unfortunately, we cannot wait for an hour. We need your help now, this minute. We need you on our side, Captain. Now is the time for you to join us."

  Grozni was sweating. Doubt, hope, suspicion, and sudden elation swept in succession across his face. His fists were clenched.

  "You ask much of me," he muttered.

  "Make up your mind," Durell said. "Freedom against slavery. Master of your own ship, or a flunky taking orders from a snake like Stepov. It's your choice. Make it fast. Are Stella and her father aboard? And Krame?"

  Grozni shook his head, scrubbed fingers through his beard, breathed heavily. Various sounds drifted through the leather curtains over the porthole. The tug was coming alongside. The shouts of deck hands and the thumping of the tug's diesels echoed against the ship's plates.

  "My wife and daughters — in Ronne? Safe?"

  "Yes. Absolutely/'

  The captain wet his lips. He shuddered. "Yes. Then I help. They are aboard. All three of them. But you could never find them, you understand, unless you knew. In Stepov's cabin there is a small ward closet and behind it is a space next to the ship's funnel. You have to take a wrench and remove the bolts in the plates. It is the second cabin to the left. Wait, I will go with you."

  Durell was already turning away. "Come along, then."

  Markey unlocked the cabin door and flung it open.

  Second Officer Stepov stood there.

  There was no doubt he had overheard what had been said in the cabin. It was stamped on his wide, flat face, in the malevolent eyes that jerked for an instant to the captain's stunned features. He had a gun and he swung it at Markey.

  Markey ducked and took the blow on his shoulder and his gun triggered in reflex, the explosion enormous in the narrow passage, destroying in a split second all hope of secrecy. Stepov's gun answered, and Captain Grozni jerked backward on the bunk and clapped a hand to his side and then fell off the bunk and sat on the deck. He seemed to be smiling through his astonishment. Durell tried to get at the mate and Markey lurched in his way and Stepov turned and ran, yelling an alarm.

  Durell jumped over Markey and caught the mate and swung him savagely, with the momentum of his flight, into the steel bulkhead. Stepov's yelling ended in a bubble of pain. Durell stole a moment to look at Grozni. The captain was all right. The bullet from Stepov's gun had only creased his side. He swung back, and saw that Stepov had already partially recovered. The man was built like a bull. He raked Durell's face with his gun as he brought it up, and Durell slammed a fist into his belly. Stepov bounced off the bulkhead again, kicking savagely. Durell slid past his boot and let Stepov's big fist heat at his face while he hit the man twice more. Stepov's gun squirted from suddenly nerveless fingers. The man's eyes filmed with fear. He coughed on blood that ran from his broken nose, tried to slide away from Durell, and slipped and fell. Durell pulled him upright and thrust him back toward the captain's door and the man fell over Markey and his head hit the steel deck with a queer sound and he lay still.

  Markey looked dazed. Durell straightened, listening. Footsteps ran along the deck overhead. A whistle blew, thin and piping. But no one had entered the passageway yet.

  "Hold them both here, Tom," Durell snapped.

  He turned and ran down the corridor. Footsteps pounded somewhere behind him. He knew that Stepov had at least two other deputies aboard whose business was killing. And there was always Krame.

  The cabin he wanted was unlocked. He drove in, paused, and yanked open the shutter door to the closet. A few uniform coats hung there, two pairs of black shoes, and a box from a Fifth Avenue shop that spilled delicate lingerie when he shoved it aside. The cabin was otherwise impersonal and anonymous. He pushed aside the uniforms and searched the closet for a tool, and found a wrench in the cabinet above the corner washbowl. It fitted the bolts in the white-painted plate that formed the back wall of the closet, and they turned easily on oiled threads when he went to work on them.

  An army of Customs inspectors would not have found this door through the false wall to the funnel compartment.

  The door was hinged, opening inward. Durell pushed at it with his gun ready. He glimpsed a dimly lighted cubicle and felt the heat radiate from the funnel wall like a blanket rolling out to smother him.

  Nothing happened.

  He flattened against the closet wall. The deck trembled. He could see a thin segment of the room beyond, dimly lighted, with rust-streaked walls, the end of a cot and a steel chair just within his line of vision. Albert Marni sat on the cot. staring straight at him. The old man's rheumy eyes were incredulous, fearful. His mouth opened and closed.

  "Stepov?" someone called. "What in hell are you doing?"

  It was Krame. Durell did not answer. He saw the old man's gaze flick aside in sudden terror, and then a shoe scraped the steel deck, paused, scraped again. "Stepov?" Krame called again.

  The old man on the cot looked through the doorway again at Durell. His bushy hair stood out like a white aureole around his face. If there had been hope in his eyes, it was gone now. He shook his head in a small, frightened gesture.

  Krame said: "What's the matter with the old man, Stella?"

  And then he appeared in the doorway, face to face with Durell.

  He was in his shirt sleeves, and there were great patches of sweat on his broad chest and under his arms. He wore no shoes. A revolver was clipped in a leather underarm holster. His heavy face was angry and puzzled. Stunned surprise flared in his pale amber eyes, erased almost instantly by hatred and rage.

  "Hold it, Krame," Durell said.

  The redheaded man's hand was on the edge of the steel door. Without warning, while he nodded as if in dumfounded agreement, he slammed the door back on its hinges. The steel plate banged against the muzzle of Durell's gun, pushed it aside. Durell jabbed a foot through the opening, hit the panel with his shoulder, and tumbled through before Krame could slam the door shut all the way. The edge of the steel door scraped his shin and he landed of
f balance on one knee, spinning with the gun in his hand, looking for Krame.

  Krame was drawing his gun from his holster. There was a frozen moment when Durell's desperate glance took in the whole picture inside the cubicle. Stella was here. She had changed her clothes somehow, en route between Blossom's house and the ship, and she wore a gray jersey dress that hugged the long, classic lines of her body, clinging softly to the curves of her hips and thighs. She did not look frightened. She stood against the wall in the corner, where she had been out of his range of vision from the doorway. Her hand twisted a small strand of pearls at her throat. There was a paradox in her manner and appearance, in her parted lips that glistened almost with eagerness in the dim light of the single bulb in the room.

  Then Krame swung like a big cat, with blinding speed. He caught Stella's arm, swung her around while a small sound of dismay came from her, then yanked her close to him, interposing her body between himself and Durell's gun.

  The man's mouth shaped his silent laughter.

  "Surprised she's still alive, Durell?"

  "Get away from him, Stella," Durell said flatly.

  Her eyes were wide with fear now. "Sam, be careful You don't understand. He'll kill me."

  Krame said heavily: "Drop your gun, Durell."

  Durell straightened. Krame's gun bored into the girl's back. He looked hard at Stella's taut, pale face. Krame looked triumphant. The old man cowered on the bunk and shook his head negatively, his mouth open, but no sound came from him. Krame was sweating.

  "You want Stella to die?" Krame whispered. "Drop it!"

  Durell's gun felt heavy and alive with a purpose of its own. He wanted to fire, to see Krame's silent laughter fade into dust. An elemental hatred surged in him, a yearning to meet flesh with flesh, bone against bone. But Stella was in the way.

  "Stella, get away from him," he rasped again.

  "I can't."

  "He won't hurt you," he said.

  Krame laughed. "Try me. Go ahead and shoot. But you shoot through her, friend. And I won't wait forever."

  There was no sound anywhere else in the ship. No sign of Tom Markey. No help was coming. Durell straightened slowly. He raised his gun. He was going to fire. He saw Stella's face turn paper white, incredulous. Her mouth opened and she swallowed, staring at his gun, shrinking against Krame. She made a little moaning sound.

  "Sam, for God's sake, please!"

  Durell said: "It's no good, Krame. We've got Gerda, Lamont, McChesney. They're talking. They're weak sisters. Karl is dead. We've got your lists, we know your methods, we know those whom you threatened and those you killed. You can't get away."

  "Wrong. I leave in ten minutes, friend, when this ship sails. And Stella comes with me. So drop your gun!"

  From the cot came a whisper like dry leaves rustling together. It was old Albert Marni. "Shoot, Mr. Durell. Go ahead. Shoot."

  Stella screamed. Her eyes were enormous. She moved as if to jerk free of Krame's grip, and Krame suddenly drew back his massive forearm and swiped her aside with a brutal blow across her face and throat. She reeled toward the cot and her crouching father. Krame's gun roared in the narrow compartment. But Durell had moved faster than the red-headed man. He didn't want to kill Krame. He wanted Krame alive. There was only four feet between them and he covered the space before Stella was completely free of the field of fire, knocking up Krame's gun so the bullet spattered on the overhead. The gun went spinning, clattering to the deck under the cot.

  Durell chopped again, but Krame recovered fast, gaining an arm lock that made pain spurt through his hand. His gun was torn loose, too, but he did not see where it went. Krame held on to his arm lock and they spun around in a tight, hard circle. For a long moment the only sound in the room was the hiss of Krame's breathing as he poured strength into his leverage to push Durell backward. Then Durell heard the slide of Stella's shoe as she suddenly darted behind him and snatched up the gun he had dropped.

  "Baby?" Krame gasped. "Baby?"

  She swung at Krame, missed, hit Durell's shoulder. Swung and missed again. They burst apart as if an explosion had gone off between them. Krame's elbow slashed across Stella's body and she went down, he head slamming the coaming at the threshold. Albert Marni scampered to one side as Durell and Krame crashed to the deck, locked together.

  Krame was on the bottom. Durell crammed a forearm against the man's throat and lifted to drive his weight to crush Krame's larynx. The man heaved up with enormous strength and tried to flip free. Durell came down again harder. Something snapped and Krame made a gurgling sound and rolled left, then right. His face was ashen. Sweat stood out on his stubbled jaw. He no longer laughed.

  Durell hit him with his left, grabbed his cropped red hair, slammed his head against the steel deck, slammed it again. Krame's eyes rolled white and a queer sound came from suddenly slack lips.

  "Enough," he whispered.

  His voice sounded broken.

  Durell stood up. He looked at Krame and Krame did not move, spread-eagled on the deck. He was soaked with sweat in the hot little room. Wondering, he looked at Stella. She was moaning, lying on one hip, hands pushing up from the deck. Her father had not touched her or helped her. The old man was watching her with horrified fascination. Her head was down, her hair screened her face, and Durell could not see what she looked like.

  Then Markey and Isotti appeared in the doorway.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was ten o'clock. Durell smoked a cigarette and drank coffee and listened to Isotti on the telephone to Washington. Two of Markey's men were transcribing notes taken from interviews with McChesney and Lamont. Krame hadn't talked yet, but his testimony was not necessary. They had found the papers needed to clinch the case in the purser's safe aboard the Boroslav. Rosters of names, next of kin, notes on how the victims had been approached, with results usually indicated by the date of departure for the mother country behind the Iron Curtain. Senator Hubert was flying up from Washington to take charge of the next investigating session. Headlines were being written that exposed the entire vicious ring that had preyed on those who had come here for safety and freedom, only to find themselves relentlessly followed by the faceless terrors of the past.

  But now it was over.

  Durell had talked to Dickinson McFee and had spoken briefly with Deirdre Padgett, still waiting for him at his hotel. She had sounded cool and remote. He felt tired. His exhaustion was something that went deep into his bones.

  He stood spread-legged in the living room of Stella Marni's cool, exquisite apartment on the East Side. It was raining again, and a cold, gusty wind battered the bright magic of the city. Durell closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again as the doctor came out of Stella's bedroom. Not over yet, he told himself.

  "You can talk to her now," the doctor said. "But she'll be asleep in about twenty minutes from the sedation I gave her."

  "Thank you, Doctor."

  McFee had been quietly pleased with his results. Immigration and Customs people were swarming all over the Boroslav at this moment, holding the vessel for thorough investigation. Captain Grozni had turned up at the FBI office asking for political asylum. Stepov had been found with a suicide bullet in his brain. There had been no place to go for Stepov.

  He walked into Stella's bedroom. She lay on her side with her face to the wall. She did not move and he thought she was asleep and then she said in a small voice, "Sam?"

  He sat down gently beside her. He had closed the door, and they were as alone as they would ever be, he thought, and it would never matter how many doors he closed; Stella would always be alone, as when he had first seen her, walking in the rain down the Foley Square courthouse steps.

  "Sam?" she whispered again.

  He could not see her face. Still gently, he touched her bare shoulder and turned her so she lay on her back, looking up at him. There was an ugly bruise on her jaw and a cut on her left temple where she had fallen after she had picked up the gun and Krame had struck her d
own. She gave him a wavering smile. She wore no make-up at all, and without the cosmetics she seemed to lose her illusion of being a cool, remote goddess. She looked drowsy, like a woman in love, Durell thought.

  "I'm so glad you're all right," she whispered. "The doctor tells me it's all over. Is my father in the hospital again?"

  "He has a bad heart, Stella. He's not permitted to talk. He tried to tell me about you in the ambulance, he was very upset and excited, but the doctor stopped him before he talked too much. He's got a good chance of pulling through, however. If he wants to pull through."

  Stella's green eyes clouded. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

  "He told me he wants to die," Durell said bluntly.

  "But that doesn't make sense! Just when..."

  "He kept talking about you. When you were a little girl in Budapest, before and during the war, and later, when the Communists took over Hungary, when the Red Army marched in. He told me how ambitious you always were, how hard you studied English, how you wanted to come over here, how it was the single high goal you had set for yourself."

  "Yes." She nodded. "But why should he say such a thing to you? To want to die is... is..."

  "I thought you might explain it," Durell said quietly.

  She was silent, and she turned her head to one side, and he saw the smooth curve of her cheek and throat and the golden down of hair on the nape of her neck and the smooth white swelling of her breast under the blanket. Her voice sounded small and far away, like a sleepy child's.