The Frankenstein Factory by Edward D. Hoch Page B

paying you, Whalen?”
    “Paying me?”
    “Because someone is. I’d guess the Russians. They’re the furthest along in cryosurgery. They could put the knowledge to the most immediate use.”
    “Look, Jazine—we’re not talking about military secrets! We’re not even talking about Venus colonies or Mars probes. We’re talking about human life—how to prolong it, how to reactivate it. The Russians have as much right to that knowledge as the Americans.”
    “I agree. But a pistol-packing surgeon in the pay of the Russians makes a pretty strange picture.”
    “Speaking of that, how about returning my gun?”
    “I think not. Not right now, at least.”
    “Where is it?”
    “In my room, safely locked away.”
    “Anyone could get at it.”
    Earl shook his head. “The killer hasn’t needed a gun so far. Why should he bother with one now?”
    They were in sight of the house again, and Phil Whalen had no time to answer. Tony and Vera came into view, laughing and clowning like a pair of young lovers. Which was exactly what they were, Earl admitted. “Any luck?” Tony called out to them.
    “Not a thing,” Earl answered. “How about you two?”
    “Oh, Tony had some luck,” Vera said as they drew nearer. “But probably not the sort you mean.” She looked quite lovely just then, with the wind catching her long blond hair and gently tugging it from her face. Earl could have taken her up to bed and to hell with the case.
    “I told you,” Whalen snickered to Earl. “Behind a bush.”
    They went inside and found Lawrence Hobbes working on the wiring for his radio telephone. “Whoever messed this up knew what they were doing,” he said.
    “No chance to fix it?”
    “Not without supplies from the mainland.” He glanced toward the door. “Wind gone down yet?”
    “Not much.”
    “Generally it drops in the late afternoon, toward dusk. But I’d hate to get caught out there in a patched-up boat after dark.”
    “We can wait till tomorrow,” Earl suggested, “if we have to.”
    He saw Vera coming out of the kitchen and went to intercept her. “I was sorry you left the room last night. I came back as soon as I could.” He spoke in a low voice so that the others couldn’t hear.
    “Was I supposed to just lie there waiting for your return, like some maiden whose knight is off to the Crusades?” Her mouth was hard, but her eyes were laughing, enjoying his discomfort.
    “How about later?”
    “Next time it’ll be in my room. And I’ll make certain you don’t run away.”
    He went into the living room and looked around, suddenly aware that the others had gone off on their various tasks. After a moment Hobbes appeared. “You look perplexed.”
    “I was just wondering where everybody was. I’m supposed to be teamed up with Whalen and I’ve lost him.”
    “He was talking to Armstrong a few minutes ago. Your boy scout buddy system doesn’t work too well in actual practice.”
    “I can see that.”
    “How about a drink? I’ll have Hilda mix some martinis.”
    “Fine.”
    He pressed the button by his side but no one came. “She’s probably out in the garden,” he said, pressing it again.
    “I’ll go see,” Earl said. “If she’s not around I’ll mix them up myself.” Drinking early in the day was getting to be a habit around there.
    As he pushed open the door of the big, Moorish-style kitchen Hobbes’s insistent buzzer sounded from high on the wall. But there was no one to answer the summons. Hilda was on her knees by the sink, her elbows holding her in a bizarre position of supplication. She’d been stabbed in the back with a long-bladed butcher knife.
    Earl took one look at the scene and ran from the room. He knew that the killer was only moments away, and this time he had to find out.
    “What’s the matter?” Hobbes called out from the living room, but Earl didn’t pause to answer. He ran down the steps to the basement, hurrying along the corridor to the operating amphitheater, not