Strange Prey

by Chesbro, George C. ;

  Douglas summoned the steward and signed his check, then escorted Anne out of the lounge. Zoltan and the yellow-eyed man had already left.

  Anne chatted pleasantly on the way back to her cabin, but Douglas could sense that something in her had changed. She was distracted, and he had become nothing more than a shadow at her side that talked. This bothered him, and he tried unsuccessfully to break down the barrier that the mention of a man’s name had erected.

  Douglas’ mind rapidly shifted to other things when he reached his own cabin. He was positive he had locked it before leaving, but the louvered door swung open at his touch.

  He stepped inside and switched on the light, then froze. His berth had been torn apart, thoroughly and professionally. His suitcases had been opened and their linings torn out; his clothes and personal possessions were strewn over the floor.

  In the air was the faint but unmistakable odor of the man with the yellow eyes.

  Douglas sensed rather than heard a movement behind him. He had just started to turn when something hard and heavy smashed into the base of his skull. What started out as a terrible, rending pain ended as a warm wave sloshing back and forth inside his brain. He didn’t even remember falling.

  “Hello, Douglas,” the girl said. “You look terrible.”

  “I had a rough night.” Douglas gently touched the back of a head that felt like it was filled with broken glass. “I got mugged.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And the man who did it was the same man who was with Zoltan in the lounge last night.”

  Anne’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?” She tried to adopt a casual tone, but her voice was tight and had a sharp edge to it.

  “I smelled him,” Douglas said evenly.

  “Did you report it to the captain?”

  “Sure. He was properly upset. Said he’d look into it.”

  “Was anything taken?”

  “That’s why I called you. You see, I don’t have that much to begin with, and it was all there when I woke up. I double-checked. It wasn’t until I took off my jacket that I realized what was missing. It was the score sheet you gave me. That’s what the man was after.”

  Anne paled and quickly looked away. “You could have lost it.” Her voice was strangely muffled, as though damped by some intense emotion held tightly under rein.

  “I didn’t lose it.”

  Anne quickly regained control of herself. The face that she now presented to Douglas was totally expressionless; the green eyes cold and distant.

  Suddenly, without warning, she laughed. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Douglas felt his face grow hot. He’d realized before he called Anne that he would risk sounding foolish, and she was not making things easier for him. Still, he felt sure that whoever had sapped him had known exactly what he wanted to find. If the score sheet had been taken, there was a reason.

  “I know it sounds strange,” Douglas said tightly. “That’s the point. I thought you might have some idea why somebody would want to steal that particular score sheet.”

  “Please leave me alone,” Anne said coldly. “I’ve heard some stupid lines before, but this tops all.” Her eyes flashed. “Really, Douglas, you’re such a child. Is this another game? Must you make everything into a game?”

  “What is it, Anne? What’s wrong?”

  “Stick to your chess; that’s obviously what you do best. You’ve already begun to bore me.” She punctuated the last sentence by slamming the cabin door in his face.

  Douglas stared at the closed door for a few moments, then turned and walked slowly back the way he had come. When he reached his cabin he found Armand Zoltan and the ship’s doctor waiting for him. The room had been straightened; his clothes had been neatly folded and packed in two new, expensive-looking suitcases. There was a large basket of fruit and a bottle of Scotch on the table beside his bed.

  The doctor, a thin, reedy man with a chronic case of dandruff, sat stiffly on a chair at the opposite end of the room, a huge, leather medical bag propped on his knees. He smiled nervously as Douglas entered.

  Zoltan rose from his chair and gestured expansively around the room. “Mr. Franklin!” Zoltan’s smile did not touch his eyes. “I hope you will now find everything in order. I wished to take the liberty of coming personally to apologize for this terrible incident. The man you described to Captain Barker is under close surveillance.” Zoltan took a check from his pocket, signed it with a flourish, and then held it out to Douglas. “I trust this will be sufficient compensation for the suffering and inconvenience you’ve been caused.”

  “Nothing was stolen,” Douglas said evenly, but it suddenly struck him as odd that Zoltan should be on this particular ship. From various newspaper accounts Douglas knew that Zoltan was a multibillionaire, with a large fleet of ships trafficking on the oceans of the world. What was he doing on a five-day cruise from Spain to Scotland? It was unlikely that he had even had anything to do with the decision to book a boatload of chess players. That type of mundane business affair was usually taken care of by mundane business managers. Zoltan should be at his island hideaway, counting his money. What was he doing here?

  “Please take the check anyway,” Zoltan insisted. “You’ve proven yourself to be a most valuable part of this cruise, without a doubt underpaid. Accept this as a token of my appreciation.”

  Douglas took the check and shoved it into his pocket without looking at it.

  “I’ve brought Dr. Macklin with me to examine you,” Zoltan continued. “We want to make absolutely certain that you’re all right.”

  “All I’ve got is a headache,” Douglas said. “It’ll pass.” He suddenly wanted to escape from Zoltan, the cabin, and the questions. He glanced at his watch. “I have a class on chess openings in twenty minutes,” he continued. “I want to make sure I earn my keep.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Franklin. The captain, the crew and myself are at your disposal. Please let me know if there’s anything you require.”

  Douglas started for the door, then stopped and turned. “By the way,” he said, watching Zoltan’s face, “I’m going to be discussing the Four Knights Game. What do you think of that opening, Mr. Zoltan?”

  Zoltan looked puzzled. Finally he shrugged. “I’m aware that it’s a very old opening, and not particularly aggressive. But I’m certainly no expert by any means.”

  If the question meant anything else to Zoltan, he had managed to disguise it well. Once again Douglas felt foolish, a participant in a shadow game that might exist only in his mind. He excused himself and walked out of the cabin.

  Douglas’ class was well attended, his lecture and demonstration enthusiastically received. Still, he found his mind constantly returning to Anne Pickford, for reasons that he could not fully explain to himself. Probably it was pride; he was not used to having doors slammed in his face. Douglas finished with the class at one, and then went to the dining lounge. He had hoped to catch sight of Anne, perhaps try to speak to her again. She wasn’t there.

  After lunch he went to the girl’s cabin, knocked repeatedly on the door, but got no answer. He tried the door and found it locked.

  Douglas had no responsibilities for the afternoon so he set out to look for Anne. He started on the upper deck. It was a calm, clear day at sea and the European coastline could be seen far in the distance, off the starboard bow. A number of passengers were sunning themselves or playing chess. Douglas strolled casually among the players, greeting familiar faces, occasionally stopping to answer questions or give advice. All the while he kept looking for the girl. There was no sign of her.

  Next, Douglas traversed the lower deck, swimming pool, cocktail lounges, and any other place he could think of where the girl might be. By five o’clock his head was splitting and he went back to his cabin to take a nap. He arose in an hour, showered and dressed for dinner. He ate and stayed in the dining lounge until it closed, nursing coffee, watching the doors. Anne did not appear. He went to
her cabin; there was still no answer to his knock.

  Douglas felt a cold chill pass through his body. Once again he searched through all the areas of the ship that were open to passengers. Then he headed for the ship’s bridge.

  “I think you’re missing a passenger,” he reported.

  The deck officer stared at him. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I said I think one of your passengers may be in trouble. Her name is Anne Pickford. If she’s on the ship, I can’t find her.”

  The officer, a Greek of moderate build and deep-set, soulful eyes, shook his head. “It is possible that you simply missed this person, sir. The Argo is a large ship.”

  “It’s also possible that she fell overboard. I think you’d better call the captain.”

  The officer hesitated a moment, then said, “As you wish, sir.”

  Captain Barker arrived a few minutes later, with Zoltan. There was no question as to who was in charge, and who would do the talking. Barker’s face was flushed with interrupted sleep, and his coat was only half-buttoned. His eyes darted nervously about the room and refused to meet Douglas’ gaze.

  Zoltan stepped forward and took Douglas’ elbow solicitously. “Mr. Franklin, how are you feeling?”

  Douglas eased himself out of the other man’s grip. The expression on Zoltan’s face was imponderable. “It’s one of your passengers I’m worried about,” Douglas said tightly. “Miss Pickford is not in her cabin. I’ve been—”

  Zoltan made an impatient gesture with his hand. The folds of flesh on his face rearranged themselves into something that might have been a leer. “You have a taste for the finer things in life, Mr. Franklin—Douglas, if I may call you that—but you needn’t concern yourself about Miss Pickford. She’s in good hands.”

  “Is that right? Whose hands?”

  “Miss Pickford took ill quite unexpectedly this morning. Dr. Macklin examined her in her cabin and diagnosed her illness as acute appendicitis. As you may know, appendicitis can often strike without warning. Dr. Macklin thought it best that she be hospitalized immediately. As luck would have it, there was a British patrol boat in the area. Our request for assistance was immediately granted. By now Miss Pickford is undoubtedly in an English hospital.”

  “I didn’t see any patrol boat.”

  “Of course not. I believe you were giving a demonstration-lecture at the time. In fact, I hope none of the other passengers saw it. We try to keep these unpleasant matters as unobtrusive as possible. The sight of a woman being carried off on a stretcher would be, at best, unpleasant. Before you know it there would be rumors of food poisoning, or something like that. The cruise would be ruined for many passengers. Miss Pickford was transferred from the loading platform at the bow of the ship. Are there any other questions, Douglas?”

  There were many other questions, but Douglas decided he would keep them to himself. If Zoltan were telling the truth, everything was fine; if he were lying, nothing could be gained by arousing his suspicious.

  “No,” Douglas said, fixing his gaze on Zoltan’s chest, “I’m glad you acted quickly.”

  “You are a good person to have on board, Douglas,” Zoltan said with a wide grin that could have meant anything. “Most people would not notice the absence of a casual acquaintance. Such concern is to your credit. Now I suggest we all go back to bed and leave the deck officer to his duties. Good night, Mr. Franklin.”

  There was a note of finality to Zoltan’s voice, and Douglas knew he was being dismissed. He nodded curtly and left the bridge. As he stood near the rail in the moonlight, smoking a cigarette, he stared at the red lettering on the door leading to the lower levels of the ship: NO ADMITTANCE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. If Zoltan had lied and Anne was still on the ship, that was where she must be. It was the only place he had not looked.

  The thought that he was actually considering going through the door bothered Douglas—perhaps the blow on the head had transformed him into an idiot. At best, if he were caught below, he would have compromised himself and his job. At worst, assuming Zoltan was involved in some criminal activity, he might never reach Glasgow. The sea was the ultimate garbage dump, and a ship at sea was a world unto itself, with no place to run and no place to hide; and it was obvious that Zoltan was the final arbiter of the law on the Argo. An outside observer might be fascinated by Zoltan’s story of how he disappeared, but Douglas had no interest in allowing such a situation to develop. Money was power and power was often more potent than truth. There was no doubt in Douglas’ mind that Zoltan had a number of high-voltage connections. One person had already disappeared, and that did evidently not distress Zoltan.

  Had Anne actually disappeared? Why would Zoltan lie?

  Douglas mentally reviewed the reasons for his uneasiness: a bump on the head during the course of a robbery that wasn’t a robbery; Zoltan’s acquaintance with the yellow-eyed man who had hit him; a vague reference to a chess opening that Zoltan hardly knew. Finally, there was the girl’s strange behavior. Beneath Anne’s cold exterior there had been fear—he was sure of it.

  Douglas flipped the cigarette into the wet darkness beyond the railing. He glanced around to make sure he was unobserved, and then slipped through the hatchway, closing the steel door quietly behind him.

  He found himself at the top of a steep, narrow stairway that was only faintly illuminated by a string of naked, low-wattage electric bulbs. The steps led down to a narrow corridor lined on both sides with cabins. The corridor was empty. Douglas removed his shoes and moved past the cabins, which he assumed held sleeping crewmembers. He reached the opposite end of the corridor and tried the door there. It was open. He passed through the door, closed it behind him, and then put on his shoes.

  The corridor beyond the crew’s quarters was wider, lined on the right with recessed steel doors on which the word Cargo had been stenciled. At the opposite end of the corridor, fifty yards away, was another door.

  Douglas tried the first cargo hold. It was locked, as were all the others. Frustrated, he tried the door at the end of the corridor. It, too, was locked. He cursed softly to himself as he realized that he had maneuvered himself into a cul de sac.

  He turned and started back the way he had come. He froze when he heard the footsteps. They were echoing off the metal floor beyond the closed door leading to the crew’s quarters, and they were coming toward him.

  Douglas was abreast of the second, recessed steel door. The recess wasn’t very deep, but it was the only conceivable hiding place. He flattened himself against the steel plate, and heard the door at the end of the corridor open and close, and the footsteps resume. He peered around the edge of the recess.

  The footsteps belonged to the man with the yellow eyes. He was in his shirtsleeves, and the shoulder holster he wore was stuffed with a large, ugly, blue-steel automatic.

  Douglas braced, ready to kick out at the man’s groin as he came abreast. Then the footsteps stopped. Douglas again looked around the corner of the recess in time to see the yellow-eyed man turn a key in the lock of the first door, open it and pass through. He left the door open behind him. Douglas waited thirty seconds, then slipped down the corridor and looked in the open door.

  The cargo hold was large and brightly lit, with two doors at the opposite side. One of the doors was open, revealing a corridor, and Douglas assumed that was where the yellow-eyed man had gone. The right side of the hold was filled with large wooden crates stacked neatly in piles of four.

  Douglas entered the hold, darting across the concrete floor and ducking behind one of the piles of crates. A few moments later he heard the sound of footsteps again. The yellow-eyed man emerged from one of the corridors, walked quickly across the cargo hold and exited through the steel door. The door closed behind him with an ominous click.

  Douglas stepped out from his hiding place and examined the crates. There were no markings on them, and each was circled by a tight, metal band. There was a large pair of wire clippers hanging on the wall. He took down the clipp
ers and cut through one of the bands. The band snapped with a loud, singing crack that reverberated throughout the closed confines of the hold. Douglas ducked behind the crates again, his heart hammering in his chest, but the silence returned. He waited a few more minutes to make sure no one was coming, then used the handle of the clippers to pry back four of the plywood slats.

  The crate was filled with machine pistols; a protective coating of light oil glistened on the black metal. Douglas picked up one of the guns, wiped off the oil with his handkerchief and examined it. The serial number on the frame had been carefully filed off. The pistol felt heavy and alien in his hand. He searched through the crate for ammunition but couldn’t find any. It was just as well—he wouldn’t know what to do with a loaded gun.

  He replaced the pistol in the crate, found a tarpaulin and threw it over the broken band and slats. Then he crossed the hold and moved down the passageway from where the yellow-eyed man had come. The corridor was about fifty feet long. At the end it branched off at right angles to form another corridor. There were small, glassed-in office cubicles on either side.

  He found the girl in the last cubicle on the left. She was lying on a cracked leather couch, tightly bound. There was a wide strip of adhesive tape over her mouth. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

  Douglas suddenly realized that he was trembling; his clothes were pasted to his body, and he could smell his own fear in his nostrils. He took a deep breath, and then went to the top of the T formed by the intersecting corridors and glanced around the corner. There was no one there. To the left and right were steel ladders leading up to hatch covers. Douglas quickly climbed one of the ladders and tested the wheel gear on the bottom of the cover. It turned easily. Douglas breathed a sigh of relief at the discovery that there was another way out from below decks without going back through the cargo hold and crew’s quarters. If they could manage to get back to the passengers’ section, Zoltan just might be forced into a sort of Mexican standoff. He climbed back down the ladder and slipped into the office.