Assignment- Death Ship

by Will B Aarons

  Maj. Miller came crashing through the undergrowth, panting and red in the face. He stopped wide-eyed, hands on his hips. “I might have known,” he said angrily. “A woman.”

  “It’s Mrs. Plettner,” Durell said. Continuing to hold her by the shoulders, he told her, “That’s Maj. Miller. We’re here to help you. Why don’t you cooperate?”

  “Fat chance. Give me my rifle.”

  “I’m sorry. What are you afraid of?”

  “I don’t want you here. I want to be left alone,” she shouted.

  “We’re staying the night,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Then you can have your wish. We know your husband is missing; we’ve got to find him.”

  “This isn’t the place to look,” she said.

  “It’ll have to do for a start—unless you can tell us where to go.”

  “I’ll tell you where to go: Go to hell.” She stared at him defiantly. She was not struggling anymore. He returned her gaze steadily, and she faltered. She lifted her eyes back to him; this time there was something haunted in them. “Listen,” she said, “six years ago, this place was a paradise. People left us alone. Peter could do his work. Then—then he won the prize. It nearly ruined our lives. Hordes of people just descended on us. Reporters, university presidents, advertising executives . . . cranks, crackpots, students. . . . Peter’s work dried up. Don’t you see?”

  “I see.” Durell nodded. “You can’t go killing people, though.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “That’s not the word out.”

  She studied him for a second. Her blue eyes had a smoky look in the leafy shadows. “What is the word on me, Mr. Durell?”

  “Beware,” he said shortly. “Show us to your house; tell us about your husband.”

  “I don’t seem to have much choice,” she said.

  He released her, and she turned and walked into the surrounding wall of foliage.

  What about this? It was Maj. Miller, showing him the Weatherby.

  “Bring it,” he said, “but let’s keep it out of her reach until she cools off.” He followed her into the jungle.

  It was apparent that Mrs. Plettner knew the island well, because she followed a path—if you could call it that—that he couldn’t see. They didn’t go inland, as he’d expected they would; they went along the shore, where the blue of the ocean was often visible through the trees. It took about ten minutes to reach the house. He became aware of it as an irregular shape of yellow stone that materialized in glimpses through the leaves. He thought it certainly offered privacy—perhaps isolation was a better word. Mrs. Plettner showed them inside, where he found impressive glass walls with a view of rolling surf and windblown palms. The furnishings were contemporary and expensive, with such touches as a collection of French art glass that showed a willingness to spend on a rich man’s scale.

  Mrs. Plettner sent her handyman Phineas to retrieve the valises that Durell and Maj. Miller had left on the pier, and called on a maid named Joanna to fetch coffee, for which Durell was thankful. The woman was no longer overtly hostile, and Durell had some reason to hope she had worked matters through to a proper conclusion. Maybe she’d come to accept the need for his help—if she were ever to know what had become of her husband—even if she resented having the help forced on her.

  “Here comes Ron,” she said. She didn’t sound pleased. “He’s Dr. Plettner’s secretary and business manager—but I suppose you already know that.”

  Durell made no reply.

  With a curl of her lip, she said, “He has a little bitch of a wife. You’d better watch out for her.” She gave him a look that admitted his attractiveness.

  “That makes two of you to look out for,” he told her.

  “Yes, but not for the same reason,” she retorted.

  He heard the door close and turned to meet the questioning face of Durso. He was a tall man with hard, thin lips and ambitious eyes. “Guests, Muncie?” he asked, raising a black eyebrow. He wore white slacks and a short-sleeved shirt and tie, no jacket.

  “Not exactly. In fact, I’m their prisoner,” she told him as the maid brought in the coffee. She sounded only half joking, but Durso refused to take her seriously.

  “You’re treating your captors with plenty of hospitality,” he said. “May I have a cup, too?” The maid had left the urn and he helped himself.

  “The big one beat me up,” Mrs. Plettner said. “He thinks I’m the wild woman of Borneo. His name is Sam Durell. The other one is Maj. Miller.”

  Durso offered his hand, and started to introduce himself. “I’m Ronald Durso, Dr. Plettner’s—”

  “Oh, they know all about you. They were sent by the government, and they know everything there is to know,” Mrs. Plettner interrupted.

  “I wish we did,” Durell told him.

  “Why the rifle?” Durso asked him.

  “We were forced to disarm Mrs. Plettner,” Durell said.

  “I forced him!” she snapped. “As if he didn’t force his way onto my island!”

  Durso chose to treat the matter lightly, but Durell didn’t trust his smile—it might have shielded anything. “Muncie seems to feel we’re under siege, especially since Dr. Plettner disappeared so mysteriously,” he said.

  “Our aim is to find him,” Durell said.

  “We’d be grateful.”

  “Without Dr. Plettner the Caske company hasn’t much to offer its stockholders, has it,” Durell pointed out. “You’re salaried by Caske and not Dr. Plettner, aren’t you?”

  Durso sipped his coffee and nodded. “The arrangement saved him the expense and bother of hiring someone.”

  “It also made sure that Caske would have its loyal representative in Plettner’s camp, watching him, maybe prodding him a bit?” Durell said.

  “What are you getting at?” Durso studied Durell for a suspicious moment, his black eyes flickering.

  “I just wish I knew how much pressure Dr. Plettner was under,” Durell told him.

  Durso lowered his coffee cup. “I can assure you I’ve had only Dr. Plettner’s best interest at heart. I was the one who reported his disappearance to the police.”

  “Like a fool,” Mrs. Plettner said.

  “Muncie seems to take her husband’s absence without much worry,” Durso remarked. He chuckled without mirth.

  “Of course I’m worried, but I told you he’d be back; he always comes back.”

  “Muncie!” Durso’s tone seemed to carry a warning not to reveal more.

  Durell ignored it. “What do you mean, he always comes back?” he asked.

  She let a couple of seconds pass. Durell sipped his coffee and waited, watching her as combers exploded in the background. She glanced at Durso, then back to Durell. “He’s gone away before,” she said.

  “But this time . . .” Durso began.

  “This time he’s been gone longer. So what?” she said. She sounded impatient with Durso’s caution. “You just never reported him missing. Now the police are all stirred up; if it doesn’t get into the papers, it’ll be a miracle. Peter will be humiliated when he comes home.”

  There came another woman’s voice, redolent with a plush southern accent, reasoning as if talking to a child. “Muncie, honey, we couldn’t just ignore that he was gone, not after a whole week.”

  “I’m sure you’d notice, Tina,” Muncie replied. The words slipped from between her lips like ice cubes.

  The woman entering the room wasn’t likely to be ignored either, Durell decided. She was a Celtic beauty with the flawlessly white skin that adorns some redheads—she seemed to have spent as much effort avoiding the tropical sun as her deeply tanned husband had exercised in soaking it up. His quick guess was that she resented being stuck here; the glance of her green eyes told him she was glad to have visitors. She wore shorts and a halter top, showing off a slender, well-proportioned figure that was more girlish than Mrs. Plettner’s. She chewed gum, which her husband appeared not to approve of; he gave her a look, a
nd she took it out of her mouth. Durell saw her slyly drop it into a potted plant.

  Muncie spoke in a cynical purr. “Well, Sam Durell and Maj. Miller, here you have us all: the missing scientist’s wife; his ever-so-dedicated secretary; and, completing the fiasco, Mrs. Tina Durso, the ‘other woman’ . . .”

  “Now, see here—” Tina began.

  Muncie brushed it aside. “. . . who was discovered fairytale fashion working in a Miami delicatessen by his lordship over there.” She pointed at Durso, who scowled. “Ron likes them young and pretty, don’t you, dear?” she needled. “Despite the difference in their ages, he doesn’t deserve much credit for sweeping the girl off her feet—she’s shown she’ll fall on her back at the slightest push.”

  “You don’t have any right to say that!” Tina cried. “What’ll these people think? You’re jealous—you’re just insanely jealous because I’m younger and prettier . . .just because you never could make Peter happy!”

  “Not the way you could, you—”

  “Stop it!” It was Durso, his lips tight with anger. He gave Durell and Maj. Miller an embarrassed glance. “You apologize!” he told Muncie.

  “Not much chance of that, kiddo,” she answered. She seemed almost amused by the furor she had caused.

  Durso’s face turned the color of a biscuit, and he and Muncie stared at each other with stubborn dislike.

  “I don’t need her apology; she’s no lady,” Tina said. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” She turned and strode out of the room.

  Maj. Miller snorted discreetly and cut his eyes toward Durell, as if to say the scene justified his contempt for women.

  Muncie seemed to have caught the glance. “Aren’t we a nice little family?” she said.

  “I didn’t come here to referee a feud or judge anyone’s private life,” Durell told her.

  “No one asked you to come here at all,” she reminded him.

  Durell was wary of her; she was too bitter for her own good—or anyone else’s. She’d made it obvious that she believed Durso’s young wife had been having an affair with her husband. She was jealous, and jealousy made her even more dangerous.

  He dismissed Tina as an adolescent sexpot who’d found security and status with Durso, but hadn’t had enough sense to let well enough alone when it came to the famous Dr. Plettner. Life on the island probably had been boring, in spite of occasional hops to Paris or London as part of an international celebrity’s entourage. Or had Durso left her here, hidden away, so she couldn’t embarrass him? That might fit, Durell thought. Durso looked like the type who would jettison anyone if it suited his ambition.

  As these thoughts sped through Durell’s mind, Muncie lighted a cigarette, blew smoke at the ceiling. Then she said, “Well, as long as you’re here, what about my husband? What’s the government interested in him for? It isn’t as if he made atomic bombs, you know.”

  “It almost could be,” he said.

  “Are you talking about the genetic experiments?” She and Durso exchanged amused glances. For once they smiled at the same time. “Such overblown nonsense,” she said.

  “Really,” Durso seconded.

  “It isn’t for me to decide,” Durell said. He wished he were free to tell all he knew—then let them call it nonsense. But the secret of the hideous threat hanging over them had to stay with him and Maj. Miller. All he was allowed to say was, “We consider your husband a national asset and we’re concerned for his safety.”

  “But he works for a Swiss company.”

  “True, but his disappearance made waves clear to the White House.”

  “Are you trying to intimidate me? It won’t do you any good. I’m not scared of the White House.” She puffed her cigarette and blew smoke from between round red lips.

  Maj. Miller spoke up. “Why should you feel intimidated, Mrs. Plettner? Surely your interests coincide with ours. Don’t you want your husband back?”

  “Did anybody say I didn’t?”

  Durso said, “Believe me, Major, we’re delighted to have the government’s help in finding Dr. Plettner.”

  “Hi-ho”—Muncie lifted her coffee in a toast—“old mealy-mouth rides again. Of course you’re happy—without Peter, you’d be nothing.”

  Durell saw Durso’s jaw tightening angrily. “Why are you so damned determined to be unpleasant and uncooperative?” he demanded. “Damned if it doesn’t make me wonder . . .” He hesitated.

  “What?” she asked. “What do you wonder?”

  “It makes me wonder if—if you didn’t have something to do with—with whatever happened to him!”

  “So!” Her laugh was bitter. “I’m the prime suspect now?”

  “We’ve seen your jealousy,” Durso said. “Even they have.” He indicated Durell and Maj. Miller.

  Durell spoke up. “We don’t know what’s happened to Dr. Plettner; it’s a bit early for accusations. Let’s talk sensibly. Mrs. Plettner, when was the last time you saw your husband?”

  She made a face, as if resigning herself to being questioned. “Thursday night, just before bedtime,” she said.

  “Before bedtime?”

  “We don’t sleep together,” she said frankly. “I kicked him out of my bed when I found out about Tina.”

  “You found out nothing!” Durso snapped.

  The sarcastic smile that seemed to be her trademark returned. “You blind fool,” she told him.

  “Break it up,” Durell commanded.

  “Men are so stupid,”. Muncie said.

  “You’re going to have a real murder on your hands if she doesn’t shut up about my wife,” Durso told Durell.

  Muncie said, “The proper thing for you to do is get out of my house and my life. And take that little . . . your wife with you.” She turned to Durell. “I’d fire him, if I could. He won’t quit; he’ll take any abuse to stay on. Caske must pay him a pretty penny. Am I right, Ron?”

  “Of course,” Durso said. “Not that it’s any of your business.” He gave a disparaging snort. “While we’re at it, where would you be without Dr. Plettner?”

  “Better ask where he’d be without me! I worked side by side with him for nothing!” She turned sullen blue eyes on the floor. “Now he’s throwing it all away. He’s turned into a lush, Mr. Durell.”

  “Muncie!” It was Durso, as if he would have stopped her but was too late. He turned to Durell. “All right, Dr. Plettner has a drinking problem—but this mustn’t go any further; it could ruin his reputation and the company’s financial position. In any case, he isn’t just off on some toot, I just know it. . . ."

  Durell stared at them. Maybe Plettner’s drinking explained Muncie’s bitterness more than his dalliance with the likes of Tina. Alcoholism destroyed dreams as well as people.

  If a man were on the skids, it also could explain a mad, desperate act. . . .

  Muncie’s voice had lost its bite for a change. There was a plea for understanding in it now. “Peter is a child in so many ways,” she said. “That’s why he’s temperamental. He’s really scared, scared of failure. The demands, the expectations— they were too much. He’d been struggling for years when the Caske company came along and practically handed him a fortune. Who could have resisted taking it? But then the company made such a big deal of it, as if he were going to solve the greatest genetic mysteries by noon the next day.” She took a discouraged breath. “So what happened? You know if you’d bought Caske stock two or three years ago. It didn’t just double or triple in value, it increased fivefold, then tenfold—in twenty-one months! But the lab doesn’t work like the stock market. Everything is painstaking; it takes time.” Her laugh was gloomy. “You should have seen Mr. Caske himself flying in, falling on his knees. ‘Where is it, my boy? Where is it? Where is the miracle!’ So Peter began rushing things, and he came up with a goodie or two—and some baddies. The stock started slipping; last week it’d lost three-quarters of the appreciation that had made millionaires of everyone the year before. And who’s getting all the blame? Take a gue
ss.” She ground out the stub of her cigarette. “Well, you know what they say, Mr. Durell: You can’t run away from your troubles. Peter doesn’t believe that. I’ve always found him when he’s tried, though, and more often than not he comes home with his tail between his legs. I send his freeloading pals packing, pay off his whores. . . .” She stopped and shook her head. “But why am I telling you all this?” she wondered.

  “I hope you’ve told it to the police,” he said.

  She nodded. “They’ve scoured every dive from San Juan to Mayaguez.”

  “Mrs. Plettner . . . could his disappearance be more serious than you think?” he asked.

  She seemed abruptly uncertain, as if what she’d said had been a bluff and the bluff were crumbling. “Do . . . do you think something really may have happened to him?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Durell said. He took her hand. It was cold. “You were his lab assistant. Will you accompany Maj. Miller to Washington to talk to some people? It’s vitally important that we find out what Dr. Plettner was working on.” She looked bewildered. He forestalled her question. “I can’t tell you why, but it’s of great concern.”

  Durso interrupted. “I'm afraid that would be impossible, Mr. Durell—not that we don’t wish to cooperate to the fullest, but our hands are tied, legally. Whatever Mrs. Plettner knows of Dr. Plettner’s work—her knowledge—is Caske property. It’s a trade secret. Can’t have the government privy to it. Why, that would put it into the public domain.”

  “We’d respect your trade secrets,” Durell told him. “Mrs. Plettner. . . ?”

  “If it’s all that important, I wish I could help, but I can’t,” she said. “Honest, I don’t know anything Peter’s been up to for the last ten weeks. He locked me out of his lab.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “We . . . we were having marital problems, as I’ve told you. He just told me he preferred working alone. I thought that was why. I didn’t ask.” She shook her head. “I didn’t want to fight over it,” she said.