Kenneth Bulmer: The Key to Irunium

“Wherever can she be?” Sibyl fretted.

Prestin found it strange. Any minute now their plane would be in the layer and seat belts would become necessary. Fritzy had struck him as being an unconventional girl, a bit of a madcap they’d have said when ultra-short skirts were last in fashion, and she was liable to do anything. But this could be serious.

The stewardess went past, glanced at the empty seat, frowned, and tilted her head inquiringly at Sibyl.

“No,” said Sibyl. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ll check,” the stewardess said efficiently, and went swaying up the aisle, a gathering wave of reassurance following her progress.

A few moments later she returned, shaking her head. “She isn’t there. This is most odd. I’ve checked all over—where she can possibly be?” The stewardess, young, efficient, sterile-dressed and practical, found this contretemps more than puzzling. “I’ll have to speak to the captain. He’ll know what to do.”

Close though the aircraft was to Ciampino, the captain himself came back aft. Middle-aged, craggy, beginning to run to fat a little, with a round dedicated face, he poked about with the stewardess in all the obvious places. People in other seats turned their heads. Conversation went onto the private-I’m-talking-about-you channels. The Trident whistled serenely through the air and the captain grew shorter and shorter in his replies.

“The hatch hasn’t been opened. The doors are fast shut. Anyway, we’d have known—and the air pressure is normal.”

“She must be somewhere—”

An odd, thrilling shiver of unbidden alarm tickled Prestin unpleasantly. “You mean,” he said tartly, “she must be aboard somewhere.”

“Well,” said the stewardess, as though Prestin were a lunatic. “Well, of course, sir.”

“Fritzy wouldn’t jump out of an airplane!” Sibyl sounded as though the idea offended her mortal and immortal soul. “Of course she wouldn’t—”

“She couldn’t.” The captain didn’t want to hear any more about passengers—his passengers—jumping. “She is aboard somewhere. And if she’s playing a joke, when I find her, I’ll—I’ll—”

“If,” said Prestin, not too loudly. “If she’s still aboard.”

From that moment on until the Trident touched down with a featherlight impact and rolled smoothly to dispersal, the interior was searched, researched, and then searched again.

No Fritzy.

Gone.

Vanished.

No longer on passenger list.

“But,” said a chalk-faced Sibyl, “she can’t have just vanished into thin air!”

“She can’t,” said Prestin. “ But she has !”

Eventually the police officials finished their inquiries.

Eventually the reporters went away.

Eventually the passengers were told, reluctantly, that they could go.

Eventually—after a long hard time—Prestin could catch up on his sleep.

No one knew where Fritzy Upjohn was. Everyone agreed that they most likely wouldn’t ever find out. Search parties were still going over the flight path, but that contingency seemed remote; a single body, a light and fragile long-legged body, falling free down the sky chute would leave precious little for identification.

But—something might be found. The searchers probed desultorily on. And Robert Infamy Prestin went to sleep.

Or he tried to go to sleep. At last he gave up the futile attempt and ordered a sleepy hotel porter to bring up a pot of coffee. It was times like these—small hours, small feelings, big problems—that made him wish he hadn’t given up smoking.

In the morning, which would soon be here after what was left of the night, he would have to rouse himself and breeze along to the exposition, where he would be expected to talk knowingly of bypass jets, ratios of efficiency, V.G. and S.T.O.L. and all the other slick shorthand of his trade. He slumped back in the armchair and looked dispiritedly about the comfortable hotel bedroom. He felt thoroughly depressed. Fritzy had burst into his life, bringing with her a whiff of promise that at last—and now she was gone.

But where?

People just don’t disappear from airplanes—at least not without some clue as to their disappearance.

He hadn’t noticed her rise. He’d been asked that over and over. NO—he hadn’t been aware that she had stood up. Trying with a muzzy mind to think back he could recall her saying something, something light and scatty, and his equally careless answer. But they’d both been dozing a little then, eyes half-closed, partially cut off from the outside world. No—he hadn’t noticed when she’d gone.

He felt that he should have done something. He felt it was all his fault. He felt—well, admit it then, R.I.P.—he felt guilty.

Guilty as all hell.

The phone rang.

He answered it with “Pronto!” before he thought to pretend to be asleep in bed.

“Mr. Prestin?” The voice was firm but faded, as though a man who had once been a master singer had lost the full timbre of vocal chords in prime.

“Ah—ye-es—who is this?”

“You don’t know me, Mr. Prestin. My name is Macklin. David Macklin. I have to see you right away.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s out of the question—”

“It’s about the—ah—disappearance of the young lady.”

“Maybe it is, Mr. Macklin. I’ve had enough talk about that tonight. I’m sorry. Call me in the morning.”

He put the phone down. It rang again, almost immediately.

Fuming, he snatched it up and shouted, “Look! I’m tired, I’ve had a shock and I’m trying to go to sleep. Get lost, will you?”

The voice he heard in reply said huskily, throatily, very champagne and tame leopards, “Are you talking to me?”

“Uh,” said Prestin, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry. I thought–”

“Never mind what you thought, Bob—I may call you Bob, mayn’t I?—I’ll let you off this time.”

Like an idiot, he said, “Thank you.”

“I know how you must have suffered, poor boy. I thought I ought to ring and tell you how sorry I am. It must have been too awful for you!”

“Yes—uh—who am I talking to?”

She infused more smile into her throaty voice. “I am the Contessa Perdita Francesca Cammachia di Montevarchi. You may, dear boy, call me Perdita.”

“I see. You knew Miss Upjohn?”

“Well, of course! A very dear friend—very dear. I am so choked up about it all.” He heard, very demurely produced, a muffled sob. “I must see you, Bob! I can come around, can’t I?”

“What—you mean—now?”

“Of course. You sound—forgive me—you sound as though you’re an American—”

“Half.”

“That does explain that, then. But here in Rome…”

“I know.” He didn’t know whether to laugh, to feel annoyed, or to put the phone down. But he knew he would not do the latter. “I’ve been in Rome before.”

“Ah!” The syllable sighed and enticed. “What a pity we have not met before.”

Her English was remarkably good; the faintest tinge of accent now and again accentuated the charm of her personality, or so Prestin told himself.

“I’ll leave the door ajar,” he said. “Room Seven Seven Seven.”

Again she cooed that soft syllable of delight. “Ah! A notable number, my dear Bob. I shall not keep you waiting.”

The phone clicked dead before he had time to answer.

Well.

The technical expression to cover this situation was, he knew perfectly well, a right turn up for the book.

Still and all…

He went through to the bathroom and rubbed a hand over his chin, staring blearily into the mirror. Then he began to unpack his razor and shaving foam, electric razors had never satisfied him. He was a meticulous person about some things, if not all.