The Virgin Kills

by Raoul Whitfield

  “What is this thing—called love?”

  Mick twisted his big head and looked serious.

  “On that the better poets disagree,” he said. “In its pure form it is often an elusive quality, scarcely definable.”

  He went into the cabin with Carla. Torry Jones sat down in a chair and held his head in both hands. He stared at me blankly. I said:

  “Now you know.”

  Torry groaned. The yacht rolled just a little. The others paired off and followed toward the dining saloon. Cy Dana skipped his cigarette over the side. A faint odor of onions reached us, aft.

  2

  BUSINESS CARD

  When the Virgin passed West Point, we were lying round on deck, sipping liquors and coffee, and feeling pretty comfortable. Mick O’Rourke was sprawled near me, on a half-dozen cushions. Most of the others had deck chairs. Carla turned her saucer eyes toward gray, stern buldings, clear in the light of a crescent moon, and sighed heavily. She broke a momentary silence.

  “He was an honor man, and little Carla was very, very young,” she said. “He’d been studying too hard—tactics, I think. I made a sweet retreat.”

  Torry said grimly, arms flung over his head:

  “In disorder, Carla?”

  Rita Velda laughed in her thinnish way. “Was this before the war, dear?” she asked nastily.

  Carla made a grimace. “Even my first campaign doesn’t date back that far,” she said. “It was at high school—and Pershing had returned from France.”

  Rita had a coughing spell, and Carla narrowed her big eyes a little.

  “Then there was the conquest at State,” she said slowly, thoughtfully.

  Rita said: “There’s always a conquest at State, Carla.”

  “And then the Broadway battles—and the attack on Hollywood,” Carla went on.

  Torry Jones said lazily: “Hollywood was a major offensive, wasn’t it?”

  Rita Velda said sharply: “Not major—just offensive.”

  Eric Vennell’s eyes were on Sonia Vreedon again; it seemed that each time I looked at him, he was watching the girl.

  West Point was sliding aft of us. Carla sat up a little and said:

  “Hollywood’s swell.”

  Torry grinned at her. “You licked the town,” he said in an admiring tone. “That makes you sweller.”

  Rita Velda took her cigarette from between lips that were unrouged, tapped her red hair with long fingers of her other hand.

  “Virtue triumphant!” she said.

  Carla sat up straight, and her lips got set in a narrow line. Then they quivered a little. She cracked a palm against the wood of her deck chair and said harshly:

  “Listen, louse—you shut up.”

  Eric Vennell spoke quietly.

  “Now, now!”

  Mick O’Rourke chuckled suddenly, moved his angled knees until they touched as he lay on his broad back, and said huskily:

  “The four all in the corner pocket! Nothing like calling your shots.”

  Rita said: “I’m sorry—you misunderstood me, dear.”

  Carla Sard stood up and struck a pose that wasn’t at all bad to look at. She nodded her head.

  “Sure,” she agreed. “And I don’t want to do it again.”

  Her voice was knife-edged. I looked at Rita, saw her shrug. Eric Vennell said cheerfully:

  “Pulling for California to cross the finish line first, aren’t you, Sonia?”

  Sonia Vreedon took her gray eyes away from those of Rita Velda and nodded toward Vennell.

  “Naturally,” she said firmly. “Tim’s pulling in the Number Seven rig.”

  Mick sat up and looked at Sonia as though he were seeing her for the first time.

  “What I want to know,” he said, “is are them oars they paddle with heavy?”

  Torry groaned. Cy Dana said: “They get heavy—along about the last half-mile.”

  Mick asked slowly: “What’s this guy Tim get, if he wins? What’s his end of the deal?”

  Vennell spoke in a peculiar tone. “He gets Sonia, for one thing.”

  I was watching her closely. Her eyes met Vennell’s; they held a flickering expression I couldn’t figure.

  Cy Dana, on my right, muttered half-aloud:

  “So that’s it.”

  Mick O’Rourke asked slowly: “Well, that’s something. What’s he get if he loses?”

  Don Rayne spoke from some spot near a ventilator. He said with feeling:

  “Hell—from the coach.”

  Cy Dana muttered again: “So that’s it!”

  I turned my head a little and saw that the sportswriter was tapping his mustache and smiling.

  “That’s what?” I asked.

  Cy said slowly and in a soft voice: “‘What’s his end of the deal?’”

  His imitation of Mick’s tone was not so bad. I looked stupidly at him.

  “Got him sized up, eh?” I asked.

  Cy shook his head. The others were talking about crew; Vennell had succeeded in getting Carla and Rita orally separated.

  Cy shrugged. “Better come through, Al,” he said. “You’re sitting closer to Vennell than I am. We’re on this boat for a reason—and some others are on her for a reason.”

  “Sure,” I said. “To see California grab off the varsity race. To do some quiet drinking. To be sociable.”

  Cy grinned. “Vennell drops a few million on the Street—and wants to be sociable,” he said with sarcasm. “To make sure about it he takes aboard a woman he can’t keep his eyes off, but who’s in love with Burke, Number Seven in the California shell. And two newspaper men he knows from experience will grab anything that looks like news. And an actress and a she-writer who hate each other.”

  I pulled my chair a bit closer to Dana’s. He had a sharp eye, but he’d left out something important.

  “And what else?” I asked.

  He stopped grinning at me. “And this big bruiser, O’Rourke,” he said. “With you trying to pass him off as a funny guy you’re working for material.”

  I said nothing. There was a lull in the conversation and the gray-haired woman whose name I’d forgotten said suddenly:

  “Mr. Vennell—won’t you tell us how the yacht got her name?”

  Carla had her back turned to Rita Velda; she was leaning against the rail, looking toward the fading West Point buildings. She faced about now.

  “Yes, do,” she said, smiling at Vennell.

  He nodded. “It isn’t as bad as you think,” he said. “There was a slipup at the launching—and we didn’t have champagne. We didn’t have anything strong, as a matter of fact. So one of the workers dug up a milk bottle—half filled. I smashed that across her prow and called her the Virgin.”

  There were varied comments. Cy Dana got his head close to mine and said:

  “Know the other story?”

  I shook my head. Cy said slowly: “Maybe if I tell you enough, you’ll come through with the truth about the big fellow.”

  I said: “Maybe.”

  Cy spoke very softly; the others were talking about yachts.

  “The one I heard was that eight or ten years ago Vennell had a bad reputation on the big Atlantic boats. He handled cards smoothly, when there was big money up. There was a scene one night, in the card room of one of the big girls, and the first officer came down to see him, in his cabin. He must have said some nasty things to Vennell. There was a fight, and the first officer went down. He didn’t get up.”

  I widened eyes on Cy’s. He smiled as though he were talking about something unimportant.

  “The officer died, and there was a pretty mess. Vennell got out of it, but it was a job. A year or so later he got going on the Street—speculation. Then he got this yacht. Ever notice the crew?”

  I shook my head. Cy said: “Well, there’s no first officer—no first mate.”

  I said: “She may not be big enough.”

  Cy said: “She is. She rates a first mate, but she’s never had one. He swore no boat of
his ever would have one. And that’s why he called her the Virgin.”

  I said slowly: “Because she hasn’t had her first mate—”

  Cy lighted a cigarette. “That’s it,” he said.

  I yawned. “And you believe it?”

  He pulled on the cigarette. “It’s a damn sight better than the one about the milk bottle,” he said. “And I’ve checked up on part of it. He did kill a liner’s first officer.”

  “Well,” I said, “you think it’s a funny layout. You don’t like the way things look. What’s going to happen?”

  Cy Dana swore at me. “Did he tell that roughneck you brought aboard what he was supposed to do?”

  I looked toward the nearest shore. “It should be good weather for the races,” I said.

  Cy Dana regarded his cigarette and nodded his head very slowly.

  “All right, Al,” he said. “You work it your way. But when things break, I’ll scoop hell out of you.”

  I laughed at him. “If they break, and if there were any such thing as a scoop,” I corrected.

  He smiled with his eyes grim. “We haven’t got legmen on yachts,” he reminded. “Or cops ready to tip off their pet newshound. I did police work before I got into the sport end.”

  I nodded. “I did it before I decided to steal two or three other guys’ styles and get myself a column,” I replied. “This just looks like a nice quiet party to me.”

  Cy Dana closed his eyes. Carla’s voice rose very suddenly, sharp and clear.

  “Some day you’ll get a knife stuck in your back, Rita!” she said.

  Mick O’Rourke kicked my chair with one of his big feet and winked at me.

  Rita Velda said calmly: “You’re so sensitive, my dear.”

  A glass crashed. I sat up straight and watched Carla face the writer, her eyes narrowed with rage. She said excitedly:

  “Either you’ll get off this yacht—or I will!”

  Torry Jones got to his feet. He was a little shaky on them. I looked at three empty, tall glasses near his chair. He said thickly:

  “Want me to put her ashore, Carla?”

  Carla’s hating eyes held a peculiar smile now. She nodded her head.

  “Chuck her over, Torry,” she said.

  Torry Jones moved toward Rita, who regarded him with contempt. She said slowly:

  “You don’t drink as well as you fly.”

  Torry was almost at her side when Mick O’Rourke got to his feet. He was watching the flier closely. Eric Vennell was smiling with his lips.

  “Careful, Torry,” he warned. “Don’t be foolish.”

  The flier was tight. He chuckled toward Rita, who stood close to the yacht rail, watching him. He said:

  “Can you swim?”

  Rita spoke. “Sit down and tell us how you flew over and under clouds—again,” she said. “I haven’t heard it since Van Dane’s party the other night.”

  It was the wrong thing to say to Torry Jones, and Rita realized that right away. He sobered up just enough to stop being funny and to get mad. He said:

  “Over you go!”

  He had her in his arms when three of us got moving. Vennell was the nearest to them, but Mick O’Rourke moved with greater speed. I was calling out sharply when his form moved past me. For a second his big back blotted out my sight of Rita and Torry.

  Then Rita was shoved to one side; Vennell caught her in his arms. The figure of Torry Jones rose from the deck, arms swinging. Mick O’Rourke gritted:

  “Here’s your—chaser!”

  Torry’s body shot over the rail, twisting. Carla Sard screamed shrilly; Vennell swore in a low, harsh voice.

  Sonia Vreedon’s voice reached me above the babble.

  “The propeller—”

  Cy Dana said grimly: “He can swim, I suppose. We’re aft—no danger from the propeller.”

  We were at the rail now, all except Eric Vennell. He was running toward the bridge, and calling in a sharp voice:

  “Heads up—man overboard!”

  Mick O’Rourke looked at me and grinned. He seemed pretty pleased. I said:

  “You damn fool—what did you do that for?”

  The big fellow kept on grinning. The yacht started to swing wide, to get around in a circle. The siren wailed three times, in short sound. I caught a glimpse of Torry Jone’s head—and an arm moving.

  Carla Sard was beside me, but she wasn’t paying any attention to me. She was very excited, and pounded at Mick’s big chest with tiny, clenched fists.

  “You’ve killed him! You’ve drowned him!” she shrilled. “Murderer!”

  Mick laughed at her. “If he can’t swim, what’d he fly the Atlantic for?” he said.

  The yacht was coming around nicely. The siren wailed again. There was a faint jangle of bells and the engine vibration became less noticeable. The speed was slower.

  Some of the group moved toward the prow of the craft. Carla Sard staggered dramatically toward a deck chair and collapsed into it. There was light on the water, from moon and stars, and a searchlight beam shot downward from the bridge. It caught the figure of Torry. He seemed to be sprawling around a lot.

  Sonia Vreedon said calmly: “He can’t swim much, that’s sure.”

  Carla heard her and cried shrilly: “He’s killed him! He’s killed—Torry—”

  Cy Dana said: “Don’t yelp so much—you’re not on the set.”

  A voice bawled from the bridge: “We’re tossing down a line—”

  Then Carla was speaking again. She’d stopped being dramatic and was just hard.

  “Listen, you sports hound!” she snapped at Cy. “Don’t talk that way to me!”

  Cy stared at her. There was a great deal of excitement on the yacht, but Carla had forgotten about that. She forgot about one thing very quickly, if another annoyed her.

  I said: “Torry’s in bad shape.”

  He was splashing a lot, and the yacht was still a few hundred yards distant. Carla didn’t seem to care.

  “This is the hell of a party!” she said. “I’m telling you that!”

  Mick O’Rourke was watching Torry Jones and muttering to himself. Suddenly he reached down and kicked loose his shoes. He jerked off his dinner coat and jacket.

  “The louse can’t swim!” he breathed in a sore tone. “Can you beat it?”

  I said grimly, my eyes on Torry: “Better go over, Mick.”

  He nodded, jerked his suspenders loose from his broad shoulders. His trousers dropped to his ankles and he stepped out of them.

  Carla Sard said: “Oh, my God!”

  Mick twisted his head toward her. “I gotta swim, ain’t I?” he breathed huskily.

  He climbed over the rail and dove.

  2

  Mick O’Rourke stood in a corner of Suite B and dried himself with two towels. He talked steadily as he did so, a cigarette dangling from his lips. I lay on my bed and watched him, eyes half-closed.

  “And the bum couldn’t swim!” Mick kept muttering. “He goes an’ flies the Atlantic, but he can’t swim! Can you beat it?”

  I let it go on for a little while; then I said slowly:

  “Lay off that line. What if he could swim? The Atlantic’s big.”

  Mick said: “How big?”

  I groaned. There was silence for a little while. Mick slipped into a robe that was a relic of his prize-ring days and shook his head slowly.

  “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “It’s a queer outfit.”

  There was a knock on the suite door. Mick looked at me, and I nodded. He went over and opened it. Eric Vennell came inside, frowning.

  I said: “Here’s where you catch hell, Mick.”

  Vennell picked out a chair and sat down. He narrowed his eyes on the big fellow’s and said nothing for several minutes. Then he looked at me.

  “What do you think, Al?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Just one of those things,” I said. “Mick got too playful, after Torry got too drunk. Anyway, he pulled him out.”

 
Vennell was smoking a thin cigar, which he inspected critically. He looked at Mick and said slowly:

  “You’re attracting too much attention, big boy.”

  Mick said, grinning: “He couldn’t swim—can you beat that?”

  Vennell looked at me. “I don’t know when he’s doing what you’ve told him, or when he’s being natural,” he said.

  I smiled. “Neither do I,” I said grimly. “Torry might have tossed the Velda gal over, though.”

  Vennell frowned. “Miss Sard and Rita don’t get along so well,” he stated.

  I lighted a cigarette and said in as casual a tone as I could work up:

  “Somehow, I get the idea that all this means something.”

  Vennell had been looking at Mick, now he turned his gray eyes sharply on mine.

  “What?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Cy Dana’s getting a bit suspicious, too,” I said. “You’ve got us aboard. And Mick, here. And two gals that hate each other. And—”

  I stopped and shrugged. Vennell said:

  “Bunk. You newspaper boys are always looking for something funny. I didn’t know that Carla and Rita were going to hate each other. I’ve got a hunch they both like Torry. And he isn’t paying much attention to Rita, so she tries to show Carla up.”

  Mick frowned and flopped heavily into a wicker.

  “You mean Carla likes Jones?” he said, and his tone was hurt.

  Vennell stared at him. He sat up a little; said sharply:

  “Listen, big fellow—this is a job for you. You stop being so damn social and use your eyes!”

  I grinned. “Mick’s fallen for Carla,” I said. “He’ll be stroking her hair when the shots pop—and you take the tumble, Eric.”

  It seemed to me that I was kidding, but Vennell didn’t take it that way. His lean face got hard, and his gray eyes cold. He stood up and faced me.

  “It isn’t that funny, Al,” he said. “I’m on the spot. When a lot of humans were losing money on the Street, I was making money. They didn’t like it, because it was their money I was making. This is quiet talk, see—it goes for you and the big fellow.”

  I said. “What did they care about you making money? How did they know—”

  Vennell smiled a little. “I was the dummy partner in a certain firm,” he said. “My idea was that nobody knew it—that counted. They didn’t, until they dropped a lot of money. Then they found out.”