The Virgin Kills

by Raoul Whitfield

  Rayne said quietly: “I’ve heard about him.”

  He got his pipe back between his teeth again, giving me the idea that he knew something he wasn’t telling me about. Then he grinned at me.

  “Think I’ll turn in,” he said. “Want to be up early. Going over to my old boathouse tomorrow, to see the boys.”

  I nodded and said good-night to him. He went away. I stood looking toward the boathouses. They were dark, most of them—no lights showing. A few of the crews were bedding in Poughkeepsie hotels, but most of them were in the boathouses, in special quarters. It seemed to me that the water was roughing up a bit; there was more wind now. The moon was under cloud, and few stars showed. The night had got much darker.

  I walked aft and saw Vennell sipping a tall-glassed drink and talking to Rita Velda. Mick O’Rourke was sprawled in a deck chair, not far distant. His eyes were not wide open, but they moved about. He was looking at people.

  I paused near Vennell and the she-scribbler. She was saying:

  “But Genoa—I thought it was lousy. Hot as the devil, you know. And not too clean. The French colonial towns—those are the places. Strange food, people—and yet something of Paris, my dear.”

  Carla Sard’s voice came clearly, from some feet away:

  “Oh, God—I wish I was in Agua Caliente! There’s a spot.”

  Vennell’s fingers were twisting a little, at his sides. Rita moved a lean leg and paid no attention to the picture gal.

  “Silkworm salad,” she said. “Shark’s fins, garnished with baked cuttlefish heads and served with bits of marvelous dried fish.”

  Mick O’Rourke sat up and said: “Is the beer good over there?”

  Carla Sard laughed harshly and then remembered that she wasn’t supposed to be amused at Mick. She frowned at him. I looked around for Torry Jones and didn’t see him. Cold towels on his injured jaw, I thought.

  Rita said: “Seaweed jam, for dessert. And did you ever try the African mwambe?”

  Eric Vennell smiled apologetically. Mick O’Rourke said:

  “Can you get it up in Harlem?”

  Rita looked at him with contempt. Then she said to Eric and me:

  “Chicken, fried in palm oil.”

  Mick groaned. Carla said in a loud tone, addressing Cy Dana:

  “You mustn’t steal her stuff for your sporting column, Cy.”

  Rita sighed. “And m’poss,” she said, or something like that. “Pudding of pumpkin seeds and the larvæ of white worms—”

  Mick O’Rourke groaned. “I’ll stick to the Brass Rail,” he announced. “I only got worms once there—”

  I said: “All right, Mick—but Miss Velda has traveled.”

  Carla spoke softly to Cy Dana. “Lovely things—travel books. One learns so much about places, people—and foods.”

  Rita turned away from Eric Vennell and faced the picture gal. Then she shrugged.

  “I’ll go to bed,” she said. “If I can find my cabin.”

  Eric Vennell smiled. “I’ll go along with you,” he said. “It isn’t far—”

  He stopped suddenly. Mick O’Rourke got to his feet and said:

  “Mind if I come with you two? I haven’t seen much of this boat.”

  Vennell looked relieved. I caught Cy Dana’s eyes on mine, grimly amused. Carla Sard said nastily:

  “Bring him back with you, Eric.”

  Rita nodded. “I’ll see to that,” she said. “And I won’t let him throw Torry overboard again.”

  She followed Vennell along the deck, with Mick behind her. Carla looked about the thinning group and said bitterly:

  “I still think she’s a louse.”

  Cy Dana frowned. “You’re shocking, Carla,” he said. “You’ve stayed in Hollywood too long.”

  The picture gal smiled. “The town would do Rita some good,” she returned. “It gives highbrows a sense of humor.”

  “Or a pain in the neck,” I said.

  Carla stared at me. “Lord! You, too?” she breathed. “You’re all agin me.”

  Cy grinned. “You’ve got Torry—when he’s aboard the ship.”

  I watched anger get into Carla’s eyes. The yacht bells sounded one o’clock.

  “I’m bored,” she said, and stretched arms that were nice to see. “I shouldn’t have come along.”

  Cy said: “It’ll be a sweet race. The varsity is always something to watch. The thing has rhythm.”

  I said: “It’s only three days or so—on the yacht, Carla. You can get ashore tomorrow, into Poughkeepsie.”

  The picture gal widened her saucer eyes. “Poughkeepsie!” she said in a stricken tone. “Oh, God!”

  2

  I couldn’t sleep. The chances were that I’d had not enough to drink, or that what I’d had had been too good. I woke Mick up, looking at my watch with the lights switched on. It was after three, and the Virgin had motion.

  “Going to be rough,” I said. “All the simpler for the California shell.”

  Mick looked at me with sleepy eyes. It wasn’t too cool in the cabin; his pajamas—purple, with great yellow slashes—made him look like a giant out of the pages of a brat’s book.

  “I can stand gettin’ sick—for five grand,” he muttered sleepily. “What’s your cut, Al? For thinking of me?”

  “About three grand,” I said.

  That woke him up. “Hell!” he breathed, sitting up in the bed. “You ain’t taking chances of being shot.”

  I grinned at him. “I’ve got to think of my public,” I said. “I’m on the yacht.”

  Mick grunted. “You know what I use your sheet for,” he muttered.

  I frowned at him. “Your Rabelaisian humor is pretty stiff for this cruise,” I said.

  He blinked at me. “My what?” he said.

  I swung bare feet to the floor and got into slippers. Then I looked at him and thought of something that I wanted to say and was afraid of saying. I said it.

  “Mick—you’re playing straight in this deal?”

  He looked hurt. “What do you mean?” he said.

  I smiled at him. “Vennell’s worried about something,” I said. “He isn’t just a good actor. He expects something to happen. He’s lied to us, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something wrong. You were pretty close to Joe Daltos, before he went to Germany for a bad stomach.”

  The big fellow stared at me. “Forget it,” he said. “Joe didn’t lose any coin on the Street. And if he did—he wouldn’t whine to get it back.”

  I said: “All right, Mick—that’s all I wanted to know. It wouldn’t have been so funny if I’d got you aboard and you were thinking more about some other fellow than about Vennell.”

  Mick dropped back on the sheet and chuckled. He acted as if he really thought my idea was funny.

  “Can you figure that?” he breathed. “You thinking that maybe you’d put aboard a gun waitin’ for the chance to get Vennell!”

  I said slowly: “I hadn’t seen you for a few weeks, Mick. You never can tell.”

  He sat up and pointed a big finger at me. “You cut that line out!” he growled. “I play square—one way or the other.”

  I grinned. “That’s swell.” I said. “I feel better.”

  I got a pair of flannels from a bag, and a white shirt. When I stood up to put them on Mick said:

  “Going for a swim?”

  I shook my head. “Just a walk around the deck.”

  Mick grunted. “Want me along?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Your feet make too much noise,” I said.

  As I went outside, closing the door behind me, I heard Mick O’Rourke chuckling. The corridor was lighted dully; I got to deck the quickest way, and quietly. There was little light up above; I came out forward. A freight train was rumbling along the west shore, over or close to the tracks on which the observation train would run during the races. I went to the rail and watched it. A cool wind was blowing; the water was rough.

  When the voices reached me, I stood very still and t
ried to place them. They were very soft and reached me only at intervals. The wind was off the bow, and I judged that the speakers were somehwere aft. It sounded as though they were on the deck below, but I couldn’t be sure.

  It went on for some time; then I moved slowly aft. There were only a few hooded lights on deck; no one was about. The space aft, where the group had danced and drunk, held empty deck chairs. I stood near one, waited. After a few seconds the voices reached me again. They were pitched below normal tones, had a monotonous quality.

  They came from the deck below, and farther aft. There were intervals of ten or fifteen seconds when I heard nothing. The wind made sounds in the rigging of the Virgin; that made it more difficult.

  There was a companionway on the starboard side: I found it and tiptoed toward the steps. I had almost reached them when the first scream shrilled with the wind. I stood motionlessly. There was another scream.

  Almost instantly there was a crashing sound. The screams and the crash came from some spot in the cabin section, forward and below. I drew in a deep breath, waited. A voice very close to me said:

  “Please—Tim—”

  There was the sound of a splash, not too loud, but louder than the breaking of waves against the ship. And there were other splashes—easily recognized. The stroking of arms in water; the foot kick of a swimmer.

  At the foot of the companionway there was a blur of color in the darkness, the quick breathing of a human being. From somewhere forward a voice called:

  “What’s—the matter?”

  I recognized that voice; it was Don Rayne’s. There were the faint sounds of people running—a door slammed. A form was at the foot of the companionway; I backed up and my body struck a small table. Something tinkled; I twisted around, grabbed for the swaying glass.

  My fingernails struck it—swept it from the surface. It was no use—I was bending low, getting my shape behind a small ventilator, when the glass crashed. At the same second the figure of the woman reached the top of the companionway.

  I sensed that—heard it. There was the quick intake of breath. A small exclamation, almost smothered. The yacht rolled.

  The sigh that reached me showed that the woman believed the roll of the craft to have caused the glass breakage. I held my breath, kept my body motionless. A voice from forward came down on the wind.

  “Doctor Bryce—get Bryce!”

  There were footfalls close to my crouched figure. They died a little, and I lifted my head. The figure was dressed in black; it was the swing of the arms that I recognized. The swing brought me voice recognition; it clarified those two words.

  Sonia Vreedon. And the one who had gone over the side of the yacht, from a spot close to the water—perhaps with a smooth dive—that had been Burke. Tim Burke. Number Seven in California shell.

  I straightened, stood up. Sonia was out of sight. Earlier she had been dressed in something white—a dinner gown that had made her look rather good. Perhaps she had changed; perhaps the dark color was that of a wrap. Certainly she had expected Tim Burke—and had clothed herself so that there would be a better chance of her not being seen. But I had seen her.

  My white shirt was conspicuous, but I had to risk that. I went hurriedly down the companionway that Sonia had ascended. The deck below was open; it was the stern of the yacht. The moon was still under cloud, but in sky spots there were breaks, and stars shone. Faint light was on the water, and in that light I could see the form of the swimmer. Brown showed as he stroked strongly. I raised my eyes. Beyond and to the right of his line of progress was the California boathouse.

  For seconds I stood there, watching the white breakage of water as the swimmer moved. Then I turned toward the companionway, started up it. Something yellow lay wedged between the surface of a step and the low, slanted rail. Something yellow and folded.

  I reached down; my fingers touched paper. It was folded into a neat square, and not too thick. I slipped it into a pocket of my flannels, moved to the upper deck, went forward. There had been the screams—and the slammed door. I hurried along the deck.

  A voice said grimly, from one side: “Hold up, there!”

  I stopped. The thickset figure of the second officer stepped around some superstructure; in his right hand was something that gleamed dully. I smiled at him.

  “Hello,” I said, not remembering his name. “I heard screams—what’s wrong?”

  He looked at my hands. He had on a bluish robe, and his gray mustache was bristly.

  “Where’d you hear them from?” he asked.

  I said: “Aft, at the stern.”

  He said: “Aft, at the stern, eh?”

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I replied. “I’d walked back there from a spot forward, at the bow.”

  He didn’t smile. I stopped smiling and said:

  “What happened?”

  He slipped the gun into a pocket of his bluish robe. His voice was grim.

  “A human got into Mr. Vennell’s suite,” he said.

  I stared at him. “But I thought the screams were female,” I said.

  The second officer, nodded. I remembered that his name was Rosecrans.

  “They were female,” he replied.

  I said: “Oh.”

  The second officer shook his head. “Not that,” he stated. “Mr. Vennell woke up—and the fellow inside made a break for it. He ran into Miss Sard in the corridor.”

  I thought that over. “What was she doing in the corridor?” I asked.

  Rosecrans grunted. “She says she was trying to find the deck,” he stated.

  A figure loomed up behind the second officer. It was Cy Dana. He stared at me.

  “How’d you get here?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Southern Pacific to New Orleans, boat to New York—Central to Poughkeepsie.”

  Cy said: “It isn’t funny. Someone broke into Vennell’s cabin.”

  I corrected him. “Suite,” I said. “Well, it wasn’t me. I couldn’t sleep and came up for some air.”

  Rosecrans nodded grimly. “And Miss Sard was trying to come up for air,” he said.

  I thought about Sonia Vreedon, but I didn’t do anything else about her.

  “A man gets about easier than a woman,” I said.

  The second officer spoke grimly. “It looks that way.”

  He moved aft, leaving Cy Dana eyeing me closely. I said:

  “Well?”

  He grinned. “Maybe it wasn’t you, at that,” he replied.

  “Thanks,” I replied. “Where were you?”

  He grinned at me. “I’ve got too much brains to try a stunt like that,” he said. “That pug’s too big for me.”

  He was wearing a towelish bathrobe from which he fished cigarettes and matches. I bummed one of them.

  “You mean Mick?” I said. “What’s he got to do with this?”

  Cy swore at me, but held a match below the tip of my cigarette. The wind blew it out and I moved closer, getting a light on the second try.

  “Still stalling, eh?” Cy said. “Suppose I’ll have to read the inside works in that lousy column of yours, next week.” He pitched his voice high. “‘They say that Eric Vennell had a bodyguard on his aptly named yacht, the Virgin, during his Hudson jaunt to the shell scrap at Poughkeepsie, last week.’”

  I said: “You’re certainly working that idea hard, Cy.”

  He nodded. “The second scream pulled me out of the bed and into something. When I got outside and down the corridor, just one guy had got there ahead of me. It was O’Rourke. He had that picture lady by the arms and was trying to shake words out of her. But they didn’t shake.”

  I nodded. “Mick likes her,” I told him. “He was worried about her screaming, I guess.”

  Cy said: “He didn’t act worried—he acted just plain sore.”

  I pulled on my cigarette. “She was screaming—and woke him up,” I said. “Mick likes his sleep.”

  “And his job,” Cy said harshly.

  I made a clicking sound and w
ent past Cy to the companionway that led down to the cabin deck. A lot of people were wandering around in dressing gowns, robes, and whatnot. Rita Velda stood near the door of her cabin, a twisted smile on her face. She said to me:

  “That’s the first time Carla hasn’t got her man, isn’t it?”

  I smiled and went along to the turn in the corridor near Vennell’s suite. I had to pass Carla’s cabin; her door was half opened. She was lying on her bed, attended by two women whose names I didn’t remember. There was a man standing near the door; he looked like a traveling salesman with a good appetite. It was Doctor Bryce. I asked him how she was.

  He started to say that she was ill, but Carla sat up and swore at me. It startled me.

  “Don’t get excited,” I told her. “It was just that I was being nice and—”

  “He was your build!” she said in a loud voice. “He was dressed in black, with a mask over his face.”

  I grinned. “Jesse James, maybe,” I said.

  She swore at me again. The doctor spoke.

  “You’re upsetting her.”

  I went along the corridor, turned, and moved toward the entrance of Vennell’s suite. Mick’s voice reached me as I tapped on the door. He said:

  “Yeah—who’s there?”

  I said: “Al.”

  His big feet made the usual racket as he came over and snapped a lock, opened the door. He grunted at me.

  “Where you been all this time?” he asked.

  I said: “I haven’t been dressed in black and wearing a mask. I was on deck.”

  I walked past Mick and went toward Vennell. He was seated in a chair near a small desk, staring at me blankly. He said in a husky voice:

  “They tried—to get me, Al!”

  I stood looking down at him. “Just what happened?” I said.

  He sighed. “The door was locked. I was sleeping restlessly. The clicking sound woke me up, but I didn’t move. There was a gun on that table, next to the bed.”

  He pointed toward a small table, near the head of his bed. He went on.

  “The door opened—not too much. Light from the corridor showed me the figure; my head was turned toward the fellow. He was wearing something that looked like a black robe. He had a mask that completely covered his face. He shut the door behind him and came toward the bed. I called out: ‘Who’s there?’ His body jerked; he turned and made for the door. I reached for the gun—the door slammed. I got out of bed.”