Murder Ship

Doctor Weir. Good evening. Come in, won't you? Well, what's the matter? You seem a bit nervous. Perhaps the cemetery outside this house is upset you. But there are things far worse than the cemetery. For instance, a ship at sea.

A ship doomed by fate. As in a story I want to tell you tonight. A story I call murder ships. My story begins aboard a coastwise liner, the SS Arctic Star. As it slowly groves its way through a thick, all-in-venping grave fog.

On one of the decks of the liner, a man and a woman stand by the railing. I look, Millie, you don't want to go ashore broke to you. Millie, I'm afraid. I tell you, I saw this guy have its bank roll. He's carrying at least 20,000 in care.

Millie, it's too dangerous. There's nothing to it. The tour was got to his stay-grow. You hold his attention and I let him have it with a knife. When we docked two hours from now, you and me just walk off the ship with the other 500 passengers.

We'll be on a train in New York with 20 Gs in our pockets before they even discover the body. Barry, I have a feeling that we'll be caught. Please give it up. All right. That's the way I want it.

Then you and I are through. Don't mean that to you. I do. Unless you pull this job with me. All right, Larry. I'll do whatever you say. This is Abbot's state, normally. Don't forget what you're supposed to do.

I won't. Oh, Mr. Abbott. May we come in? Well, here's the Christmas assignment. How are you, Mrs. Sanders? Quite well, thank you. Larry and I would like you to have a drink with us before we dock.