Less than a year later, on January 24, 1945, Raoul Whitfield passed away. On February 10, he was interred in Arlington National Cemetery. His headstone (section 4, grave 5603), reads “Raoul F. Whitfield, California, 2. Lieut. Air Service.” He had earned his stripes.
The rest of the story was just writing, but what writing it was.
Works Cited and Consulted:
The letters, notes, and drafts quoted in this introduction are housed in box 34, folder 4, of the E. R. Hagemann Papers and Collection of Detective Fiction (1672), and box 5, folder 6, of the Joseph T. Shaw Papers (2052)—both in the Department of Special Collections of UCLA’s Young Research Library.
Cowley, Malcolm. “Good Books That Almost Nobody Has Read.” New Republic 78 (April 18, 1934): 283.
Duhamel, Marcel. Raconte pas ta vie. Paris: Mercure de France, 1972.
Fitzgerald, F. Scott. The Letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Edited by Andrew Turnbull. New York, N.Y.: Dell, 1966.
—. Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Edited by Jackson R. Bryer and Cathy W. Barks. Introduction by Eleanor Lanahan. New York, N.Y.: St. Martin’s Press, 2002
1 Carolyn See, “The Hollywood Novel: The American Dream Cheat,” in Tough Guy Writers of the Thirties, ed. David Madden (Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 1968), 205.
2 Burton Rascoe, review of Death in a Bowl, Arts & Decoration 35, no. 4 (August 1931): 83.
3 Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine (October 1947): 16.
4 EQMM (March 1949): 81.
5 EQMM (May 1948): 40.
6 See Marcel Duhamel, Raconte pas ta vie (Paris: Mercure de France, 1972), 293.
7 Jean-Paul Schweighaeuser, Le roman noir français (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1984), 16.
8 F. Scott Fitzgerald, in Malcolm Cowley, “Good Books That Almost Nobody Has Read,” New Republic 78 (April 18, 1934): 283.
9 EQMM (May 1948): 40.
10 Dashiell Hammett, review of Green Ice, New York Evening Post, July 19, 1930, p. 5A.
11 William F. Nolan, “Behind the Mask: Raoul Whitfield,” in The Black Mask Boys: Masters in the Hard-Boiled School of Detective Fiction (New York, N.Y.: William Morrow and Co., 1985), 129.
12 Raoul Whitfield, “The Men Who Made the Argosy,” The Argosy (March 7, 1931): 428.
13 Nolan, “Behind the Mask: Raoul Whitfield,” 129.
14 Whitfield, “The Men Who Made the Argosy,” 428.
15 Black Mask (November 1926).
16 See, for instance, “Naval and Military Aeronautics,” Aerial Age Weekly 7, no. 8 (May 6, 1918): 402, 414.
17 Whitfield, “The Men Who Made the Argosy,” 428.
18 Nolan, “Behind the Mask: Raoul Whitfield,” 130.
19 Black Mask (June 1932), 123.
20 Everybody’s Magazine 58, no. 1 (1928): 175.
21 EQMM (May 1948): 40.
22 Nolan, Hammett: A Life at the Edge (New York: Congdon & Weed / St. Martin’s Press, 1983), 105–6.
23 Lillian Hellman, Pentimento (Boston, MA: Little, Brown, 1973), 130.
24 Zelda Fitzgerald, letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald (Fall 1930), in Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, ed. Jackson R. Bryer and Cathy W. Barks, intro. Eleanor Lanahan (New York, N.Y.: St. Martin’s Press, 2002), 94.
25 Thomas Wolfe, You Can’t Go Home Again, intro. Gail Godwin (New York, N.Y.: Scribner, 2011), 211.
26 F. Scott Fitzgerald, letter to Scottie Fitzgerald (December 1940), in The Letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald, ed. Andrew Turnbull (New York, N.Y.: Dell, 1966), 118–119.
27 Hammett, letter to Lillian Hellman (August 29, 1943), in Selected Letters of Dashiell Hammett, 1921–1960, ed. Richard Layman, with Julie M. Rivett, intro. Josephine Hammett Marshall (Washington, D.C.: Counterpoint, 2001), 222.
28 Hammett, letter to Hellman (October 27, 1943), in Selected Letters, 246.
29 Hammett, letter to Hellman (November 25, 1943), in Selected Letters, 254.
30 Hammett, letter to Hellman (February 22, 1944), in Selected Letters, 287.
31 Hammett, letter to Prudence Whitfield (March 5, 1944), in Selected Letters, 295.
1
VIRGINS AFT
Torry Jones stood near the rail, forward on the port side, holding a megaphone to his lips. He had a gal on each side of him; they acted as though they didn’t mind it at all. The yacht looked sweet in the setting sun; all ruddy and trim—and very, very big. There was music somewhere aft; it died as the dirty launch wallowed, engine silent, close to the knife-edged prow. Torry called in a stern voice:
“Ahoy there! What smart craft is that?”
I looked at O’Rourke, who was scowling, his big head turned a little toward me. The scar stood out clearly across his right cheek; whenever I saw the scar, I saw Dingo Bandelli slashing with a knife, saw O’Rourke trying to batter it aside with bare fists. He spat into the Hudson water now, looked at the yacht with contempt in his fine eyes.
“Virgin!” I heard him mutter. “Damn woman ship! Lousy, pretty thing!”
I said: “Steady. Tell this cutthroat pal of yours to get in close with this tub and let us aboard. Don’t talk too much. Vennell doesn’t pay for talk.”
O’Rourke showed even, white teeth in a smile. He was a strange character for a man who had been a gang leader’s bodyguard, a waterfront scrapper, a killer. He was a strange character for a newspaper columnist to be escorting aboard Vennell’s yacht. Guests we were to be, but I suspected that Mick O’Rourke was to be a highly paid guest.
He said to the man at the wheel of the wallowing launch:
“Lay her in close—and let us get aboard, Hunch. Get over to see Benny tomorrow. Say I went to Montreal on a deal. After that, don’t talk any.”
The one at the wheel grinned foolishly, nodded. He pointed a stubby finger toward the yacht’s name, painted in gold letters against white.
“You be careful—you Mick!” he said, with a grin.
Torry called down, through the megaphone:
“Good God—it’s Al! Is that all we’ve been waiting for?”
One of the crew dropped a ladder. A gal with blond hair and baby-blue eyes giggled down at us. Torry sang out mockingly:
“And when you get that craft ashore, put her in the ways, sir—and heave to with soap and paint!”
He looked at the man at the wheel. Hunch raised his flat-nosed face.
“Yeah?” he said huskily. “Did you say your name was Bastard, sir?”
Torry looked shocked. The girl on his left gave a little squeal of surprise and vanished from sight. O’Rourke said to Hunch:
“Hell—can’t you read signs?”
He gestured toward the yacht’s name. Hunch shrugged and chuckled hoarsely. Torry whistled.
“Some of the tab’s staff, Al?” he called down to me.
O’Rourke leaned toward my feet, to get his big fingers on luggage. I said softly:
“If you’re going to blow up, don’t come aboard, Mick. It’s that kind of a trip.”
O’Rourke lifted weight easily. He flashed me a swift smile.
“Vacation,” he muttered. “With me yellin’—for our side.”
I nodded, smiling. Torry stared over the side and widened his eyes as the big fellow gripped the rope ladder. He said:
“My God, is he coming aboard?”
O’Rourke tilted his face and said in a tone that was so changed it was startling:
“It’s the Proteus Episode of Ulysses, you see. Joyce has me puzzled, there, confused. The color symbols, perhaps.”
Torry lowered the megaphone and stopped acting. His mouth hung open. I said to O’Rourke as he started up the ladder:
“But not too much reading, Mick. You must save your eyes for the Greek translation.”
Torry said with awe in his voice: “Mother of God!”
Mick O’Rourke hauled his bulk up the rope ladder, part of my luggage in his left hand. Torry and the megaphone vanished f
rom sight. Canned music drifted down to Hunch and me. A baby voice was singing boop-boop-a-doop and hot-cha-cha melody.
Hunch got a silly expression on his killer face. He winked at me. A very pallid girl with almond-shaped eyes looked down at us. She said very correctly:
“Oh, my dear!”
Hunch pursed his lips, and the girl’s face vanished. Unpolite sound reached me as I gripped the rope ladder, started up. I said to Hunch:
“Naughty, naughty!”
He laughed hoarsely, and the ancient engine of the dirty launch started its putt-putt sound. I reached the break at the rail, got feet on the deck. Mick O’Rourke was standing with his back to me, seven feet tall and a yard wide. His legs were apart; he was surveying the group who surveyed him. I picked out Torry and said:
“Is Vennell aboard?”
Torry took his eyes away from O’Rourke and nodded his head. He came forward a little. I gestured toward Mick.
“This is O’Rourke,” I said. “Mick, this is Torry Jones. You may have read about him in my sheet. He flew the Atlantic.”
Mick extended a hand and they shook. Torry said grimly:
“And without a copy of Ulysses, Mr. O’Rourke.”
O’Rourke looked superior. It was strange the way he could do that.
“Matter over mind,” he said lightly. “I presume you had sandwiches?”
Torry looked at me and shook his head slowly.
“Tunney started it, I suppose,” he said. “Are they friends?”
I looked amazed. “Friends?” I said. O’Rourke and I exchanged glances, looking mildly amused. Torry said grimly:
“Was that a social error?”
I shrugged. “Mr. O’Rourke has little sympathy for G. B. S.,” I said. “Unlike Tunney, you see. He feels G. B.’s a poseur.”
Torry said: “Oh.”
Mick nodded his big head. Standing with his legs spread apart and his big hands at his sides, swaying a little, he looked like a Bellows lithograph come to life. “Yeah, sure,” he said.
A young female came forward, not too timidly, and flashed Torry a smile.
“Is he the new champ, Torry?” she asked.
Torry gestured toward me. I bowed to the dark-haired gal.
“I’m not positive,” I said, “but it seems to me that Mr. Lenz is still considered supreme. But then, Mr. O’Rourke has played auction and contract in only a few of the better London clubs.”
The gal stared stupidly at Torry. Mick slapped his left leg, making crackling sound.
“Hell, yes!” he said. “That’s right.”
Torry made a feeble gesture toward me. “Take her,” he said. “The Virgin’s yours.”
Mick took a step forward, toward the dark-haired gal. I caught him by the arm.
“He’s kidding,” I explained. “And he means the yacht, anyway.”
The big fellow looked disappointed. “Sure,” he said huskily. “it would be like that.”
Torry whistled softly. He said: “Do you go upstream with us, Mr. O’Rourke, to the Regatta?”
Mick nodded. “Why not?” he replied.
I smiled at Torry. “He’s always wanted to see the crews race,” I explained. “I think his mother would have wanted him to.”
Mick O’Rourke threw back his big head and roared with laughter. It boomed around the immaculate ventilators and things.
“Jees yes!” he said. “If she hadn’t drunk herself to death!”
I smiled at the staring eyes of the group beyond Torry.
“Just his little joke,” I said. “Do you know where we’re quartered, Torry?”
Torry Jones half closed his brown eyes. “Up forward, down below,” he said. “Is he with you?”
I looked surprised. “Of course,” I said. “Mick does things for me.”
Torry looked at O’Rourke, whose big eyes were going from gal to gal.
“What sort of things do you do for Al, Mr. O’Rourke?” he asked in a peculiar voice.
Mick chuckled. “This and that,” he said finally.
I nodded. “This and that, here and there,” I agreed.
Torry said: “Just now and then?”
“Yes and no,” I replied.
Mick O’Rourke slapped the same thigh again. He roared with laughter.
“My candle burns at both ends,” he said hoarsely. “I gotta hunch it’ll be out before morning.”
Torry looked at me and said: “One thing nice—we’ll anchor off the finish line, below the bridges. The State Insane Asylum will be fairly close.”
There was muttering in the group just beyond Torry and the dark-haired gal. I said cheerfully to Mick:
“They think we’re crazy.”
O’Rourke nodded, grinning. “It’s a complex,” he said. “Ain’t it?”
A white-coated steward came along the deck and smiled at me.
“Mr. Connors?” he said.
I nodded. “And Mr. O’Rourke,” I replied, and gestured toward Mick.
The steward bowed. “Suite B is prepared,” he stated. “Mr. Vennell sends his compliments and is glad you have arrived, sir. May I show you the way?”
Mick said: “I gotta wash up—I’m dirty as a—”
“Of course you are,” I cut in with speed. “See you later, Torry.”
Torry Jones stared blankly at me. Then he pulled himself out of it.
“At the stern—the rest of the gals are back there,” he said.
I nodded and started to follow the steward. Mick O’Rourke said huskily:
“Virgins aft, eh?”
Torry groaned. The others murmured. We went along the scrubbed deck, past polished things that shone red. Mick’s big feet made heavy sound. We reached Suite B, and the steward showed us buzzers. Then he went away.
Mick sat on a bed, got a large handkerchief from the pocket of his striped suit, and wiped his forehead. He swore with great feeling.
“Did it go, Al?” he breathed thickly. “Did it go?”
I said: “It will go, but you’ve got to tone down a little. Vennell mixes his crowds. Some of the gals may be decent.”
Mick grunted. “On Vennell’s yacht?” he said, with much doubt.
I smiled. “Just the same, take it easy,” I warned. “Let me tell ’em—my way. You remember what you used?”
The big fellow frowned. “That Ulysses crack—and the one about the candle burning at both ends,” he said.
I nodded. “Don’t make it too thick—scatter the stuff a little,” I said. “Try the one about the Passion Play next.”
Mick brightened up. “The girls oughta like that one,” he said.
I stared at him, but he was serious enough. That cheered me. If he had me winging, it was fairly certain the others would fall for it.
The steward tapped on the door of the suite and stated that Mr. Vennell would be in his cabin for the next half-hour. I said:
“We’ll be right along.”
Mick O’Rourke swayed a little on the bed, reached into a hip pocket, and got loose a snub-nosed gun. It gleamed blue-black in the electric’s subdued glow. He regarded it as though he’d never seen it before.
I said grimly: “Well, well! Where’d that thing come from?”
Mick made a clicking sound that reminded me of my Aunt Fannie.
“Can you beat it?” he said. “Some guy must have slipped it to me.”
I nodded. “Is that the one you used on Beedy?” I asked.
Mick looked puzzled. “Maybe,” he said. “Or was that other rod—”
I cut in. “Never mind. Let’s go along and see Vennell. You don’t have to be funny with him. He’s worth five million.”
Mick said: “And he’s killed a guy.”
I nodded. The yacht was vibrating—there was sound that might have come from an anchor haul. It died away, and we felt movement. Mick O’Rourke got off the bed, slipped the snub-nosed gun into his pocket again.
“It’s moving,” he announced.
I said: “A yacht is a she. She’s
moving.”
Mick grinned. “Sure, I know that.”
I led the way from the suite and spotted the steward down the corridor a short distance. Music drifted down from the deck. There was shrill laughter. Behind me the big feet of Mick thumped heavy shoes against linoleum.
“Hot-cha-cha!” he hissed tonelessly. “Papa’s gotta new racket now!”
2
Eric Vennell looked at Mick O’Rourke with his gray eyes slitted. He had a browned face, contrasted by the white wasitcoat and tie. His lips were thin and straight-lined and his features good. Vennell was handsome in a hard, deliberate way. His dinner clothes fitted exceedingly well; he had a small hip line and good shoulders. After he had shaken hands with Mick, he relaxed in a fan-backed chair and gestured gracefully toward bottles, ice, and ingredients on a small table.
Mick said: “Thanks, but I’m on the wagon.”
Vennell widened his eyes and looked at me. I fizzed a Scotch and soda into an important-looking drink.
“Mick never was much of a drinker,” I said.
Vennell had a hard tone, even when he joked.
“It’s terrible stuff,” he said. “But this is sort of a farewell party, a final trip. The Virgin gets her keel scraped after the Regatta.”
Mick and I sat in chairs facing the owner of the yacht. We smiled and said nothing. Vennell spoke to me:
“Carleton said he was sending you up to cover the race—in your breezy way. He said it wasn’t so much a news story as a slangy, smart-aleck column he wanted from you. I suggested you do it from the Virgin.”
I nodded. “Good of you,” I said. “Much more comfortable than any other way I can think about.”
Vennell rose, went over, and snapped a lock on the cabin door. It was growing dark—lights of Riverside Drive slipped beyond the windows of the cabin. The yacht was steaming slowly, with little motion. Vennell seated himself again. He said in a low tone:
“Then I called you—about a bodyguard.”
Mick O’Rourke leaned forward and took a cigarette from the large humidor. I smiled at Vennell.
“Mick was with Andy Dormer for six months, when Diamond Crass was hating Dormer,” I said. “I wasn’t running a column then—just sort of covering Broadway. Getting information. I had some that Mick thought I shouldn’t use. We argued about it, and I didn’t use it. Then Dormer thought things were quieter than they were. He started going places alone or with a woman. They found him in the East River one morning, but he hadn’t drowned.”
The Virgin Kills Page 3
