The Virgin Kills

by Raoul Whitfield

  Eric Vennell shook his head slowly. “There were screams—the fellow ran into Carla in the corridor, round the corner. He grabbed her by the throat and banged her head against the wall. Then he got away.”

  I looked at Mick. His mouth was slightly open.

  “And then you grabbed Carla by the arms and scared her all over again,” I said.

  Mick grunted. “She did the yelpin’. She knew what had happened,” he said. “She was the first one I seen.”

  “First one you saw,” I corrected.

  Vennell stood up and glared at me. “What in hell is this—a class in grammar?” he muttered.

  I looked serious. “You having the boat searched?” I questioned.

  He nodded, frowning. “Of course. But no one seems to have seen the fellow, after Carla. She didn’t see much more than I did. He was medium in size. She says his eyes ‘burned.’”

  “Sure,” I replied. “She’d say that.”

  Vennell said sharply: “Well, what’s to be done?”

  I shrugged. “Mick had better bunk in here with you,” I said. “We’ll just say he’s big and would like to get a crack at this guy. No use trying to hide the fact that he’s in here. His feet are too big.”

  Mick O’Rourke muttered something I didn’t catch. Vennell said:

  “That fellow might have killed me while I was sleeping. And he could have got on deck, got rid of that black stuff—”

  I interrupted. “He was medium-sized, eh?”

  Vennell said. “About your build—but the light was bad, and he wore the robe loosely.”

  I looked at Vennell’s right hand, half-hidden in his right pajama pocket. I said:

  “What have you got there?”

  Vennell narrowed his eyes. “The gun,” he said. “The one that was on the table.”

  I nodded. “Why didn’t you shoot at him?” I asked slowly. “Before he went out?”

  Vennell grunted. “He was gone before I could reach for the gun. The door slammed. When I got outside, there were screams, and I was afraid of hitting someone. Then I heard Mick’s voice, questioning Carla.”

  I nodded. Don Rayne and Cy Dana were outside; Vennell told them to come in. They said nothing had been seen of the intruder.

  Vennell sat down and frowned at the floor. I said to Mick:

  “You’d better come back and get fixed to spend the rest of the night in here. All right with you, Eric?”

  Vennell nodded. Don Rayne said: “We’ll stick until you get back, O’Rourke. But what’s the reason for all this—”

  He broke off, looking from Mick to me. I smiled a little.

  “You got those diamonds in here, Eric?” I said, giving him a lead.

  He almost missed it; his eyes staring into mine stupidly. Then he said:

  “Hell, no. But I’ve got the fakes in here.”

  I said: “Someone doesn’t know they’re fakes, maybe. Come on, Mick—you need something to cover up that pajama color.”

  We went outside. As we neared Suite B, Bryce came along. I spoke to him softly.

  “Carla better now?”

  He nodded. “Shock mostly. Bruises on her arms, though. Just starting to show.”

  I said: “How about her throat?”

  Bryce shook his head, smiling a little. His eyes were very blue.

  “I’m afraid she imagined more than really happened. It’s often the case. No finger marks on her throat, or bumps on her head. And the throat skin is quite delicate.”

  I nodded. “That’s the Hollywood complex,” I said. “It works the same way with salaries on the lot. A little bit goes a long way.”

  The doctor nodded and moved on. We went into Suite B and I locked the door behind us. Mick lighted a cigarette and grinned at me.

  “Nice party, ain’t it?” he said. “Who’s the biggest liar of the lot?”

  I frowned. “Don’t yell,” I said. “And stick in character. You haven’t pulled a fast one in a long time. Use the one about liking to study Greek classics in the Latin countries because of—”

  He swore. “I can’t remember it,” he said. “To hell with it. This other is better.”

  I sat in a chair and said softly: “Something’s up, Mick. Sure as the devil. Clara wasn’t choked—and her head wasn’t banged against the corridor wall. Vennell thinks his life is in danger, yet when he sees a masked man coming into a cabin whose door has been locked, he calls out first and then reaches for his gun. After that he doesn’t seem to have done much.”

  Mick said grimly: “That Sard frail did the rest. She was acting all over the corridor when I reached her. She had her arms over her face, and I pulled them down to look at her. I thought maybe she’d been slugged in the eye.”

  I said: “We’ll try the one about the robber thinking Vennell had a lot of diamonds in his suite. It may fool some of the lot.”

  Mick nodded. “There’s something funny,” he said.

  I reached into a pocket of my flannels and took out the folded yellow slip. Mick said:

  “What you got?”

  He came over and I unfolded the paper. It was a radiogram form, with typewritten words. It was addressed to Vennell. I read aloud: “Boys using the tarpaulin. Three two one. Looks like a street sweeping on the gem. Western Branch. Casey.”

  There was no date line on the radiogram. Mick muttered the words the second time. I said:

  “You’d better get a robe, and hop over with Vennell. Don’t get talking too much. I don’t think anything more will happen tonight.”

  The big fellow said: “What about that thing?”

  I shook my head. “It may mean something,” I said. “And it may not.”

  Mick frowned at me. “Where’d you get it?” he asked.

  I groaned. “Found it,” I said.

  Mick whistled tonelessly. “You’re having luck that way, ain’t you?” he said.

  I smiled. “Maybe this wasn’t meant to be found,” I said. “You get going—I’ve got some thinking to do.”

  Mick moved toward his bed. “If you need any help—” he started, but I cut in.

  “I’ll get in touch with you,” I said. “So long, Mick.”

  It was an hour or so before things quieted down on the Virgin. I had a shot of Vennell’s good Scotch and got to work on the radiogram. The “Looks like a street sweeping on the gem” came first. Someone figured it was a cleanup on Columbia, in the varsity race. I figured it that way, and that made the “Three two one” fairly easy. The odds were three to one. The “Boys using the tarpaulin” was a little more difficult. I got it suddenly, after another Scotch. The boys were covering up. Covering up money. California money.

  I sat back in the wicker chair and felt very pleased with myself. Vennell was betting on Columbia to win the big race. He was getting odds of three to one, and someone using the fake name of Casey had radioed him that everything was all right in the betting end.

  I said softly: “Columbia—the gem of the ocean.”

  Then I sang it. After that I started wondering about Sonia Vreedon. Had she dropped the radiogram? Why had Tim Burke stroked his way out to the yacht? Just a lovers’ meeting? I didn’t think so. It was a little too tough on Tim.

  If Sonia had dropped the folded paper, where had she got it? Or perhaps Vennell had dropped it. That led me into a new line of thought. There was the business card I had picked up, in the smoke room. And now the suite affair, with both Vennell and Carla lying. Vennell because he had said the door slammed first, and when he got outside, there were screams. I’d heard the two screams first, distinctly; and then the door crash. And Carla because she had said she’d been choked and had her head banged against the corridor wall. But there were no bruises on her throat—just those of Mick’s big fingers on her arms.

  I thought: These people are amateurs, of course. But they’re trying for something. And amateurs often improve rapidly.

  The yacht bells struck five o’clock. I got into bed and listened to the distant, wailing whistle of a pas
senger train. Vennell was betting on Columbia, to win. California was the favorite. The odds were three to one. I had a sudden idea, got up, switched on one light, and got the dictionary from my luggage. It wasn’t much of a book, but it was good enough for my tabloid column. Once in a while it gave me a new two-syllable word that could be understood in the subway. I looked for a three-syllable word this time. When I found it I read very softly:

  “Regatta—a boat race or a series of races. Italian: Regetta—strife. Re—again. Cattare—get. Capto—catch. Capio—take.”

  I closed the book, got it back in a piece of luggage, switched off the light, and got into bed. The Virgin didn’t seem to be rolling so much now. I closed my eyes and breathed softly into the darkness:

  “A race. To get—to catch—to take. Strife.”

  I said “Sure” a couple of times, thinking of one thing or another sleepily. Hudson water lapped and swished against the Virgin. All sound became merged and unimportant. I dozed off.

  4

  REGATTA

  Mick O’Rourke woke me by battering on the door. I let him in; he was grumbling. My watch showed that it was almost nine o’clock. I said:

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  He told me that Eric Vennell had taken a long time getting asleep, and that after he’d got to sleep, he’d snored continuously. I went into the suite’s shower, had one, and came out again. Mick was still grumbling. I shaved, and only cut myself once.

  “What sort of a day is it?” I asked him.

  Mick grunted: “Why don’t you look out of the window? It’s hot and clear. It’s going to be hotter.”

  I nodded. “But not clearer,” I told him. “The varsity race is always rowed in a lightning storm, a rough river, or in the darkness.”

  Mick said: “Why?”

  I put powder on my face. “The officials don’t believe in pampering the boys,” I replied. “They only have to row four miles, and too many of them are able to sit up in their rigs at the finish. The officials don’t like to see ’em sitting up.”

  Mick said: “You’re kidding me.”

  I nodded. “That’s true,” I replied. “But I’ll cut it out, now that you’ve discovered it.”

  The big fellow went into the shower room and started to sing, I said:

  “It’s too early for that—I haven’t had breakfast, and it’s tough. Just splash around.”

  He came out stripped and gave me a scare. Aside from a flock of bullet scars around his belly, he was something at once awe-inspiring and beautiful.

  “Vennel’s acting pretty worried this morning,” he said. “He seems to think something’s going to happen today.”

  I thought of the radio. “It is,” I said grimly. “Maybe he’s afraid it won’t be the right thing.”

  Mick blinked at me. “I ran into that Sard moll,” he said after a little pause. “I told her I was sorry about pinching her arms.”

  I whistled. “You’re getting highbrow, Mick,” I said. “What did she do when you told her that?”

  He grinned. “She said: ‘Like hell you are!’” he replied.

  I shook my head sadly. “There’s too damn much cursing on this boat,” I said slowly. “No respect for her name.”

  Mick thought that was funny. He sat down and roared with laughter. I dressed in white, and felt sort of snappy. Mick looked me over and said in a thin voice:

  “Lily—lily of the valley!”

  I blew him a kiss. “You get dressed and stick close to Vennell,” I said. “You don’t take this business seriously enough. Didn’t he give you five grand?”

  The big fellow nodded. His face got serious.

  “You get two of it, Al,” he said. “Ths ain’t such a bad racket, at that.”

  I said quietly: “Just the same, don’t get too careless. Things are happening that seem funny, but they may not be. Vennell’s keen—he’s taken chances for his money. He’s a big-time gambler. He’s not handing five grand out for nothing.”

  Mick’s eyes were hard; his even teeth were pressed together. He separated them.

  “Don’t I know that!” he breathed.

  He dressed, and remembered the radio. When he asked me the question, I said very softly:

  “I don’t know, but it looks as though Vennell is putting a lot of money on one of the crews. The radio might have told him that it was covered—at odds of three to one.”

  Mick stopped trying to tie a bow around his neck and stared at me.

  “Which crew is he betting on?” he asked.

  I grinned. “Columbia,” I replied. “But if you lay the five grand the same way—you’re crazy.”

  Mick said: “How much do you figure Vennell’s betting?”

  “Plenty,” I replied. “He never bets the other way.”

  Mick started whistling and thinking. I knew he was thinking, because there were little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. I said:

  “I’m going to have breakfast on deck—would you care to join me?”

  He grinned and bowed. “Avec plaisir,” he said, and reached for my hand.

  I got it away from him. “Where’d you learn that?” I muttered.

  He grinned with delight. “At Frenchy’s speak, in Chicago,” he said. “I fooled around there for a few weeks, on the lay for Little Louis.”

  I said: “Did Louis come in?”

  He shook his head, still grinning. “He started in,” he said. “But one of the Flaco mob got him in the alley.”

  I got a pack of cigarettes. “Tough,” I said. “You learning bad French—and some other guy guns out Little Louis.”

  Mick O’Rourke made a sweeping gesture with his big right hand and started to work on the bow tie again.

  “It’s the breaks,” he said. “Just the breaks.”

  I nodded, “if you don’t have any luck with that bow, ring for Griggs,” I suggested. “The race starts just before dark, maybe.”

  The big fellow chuckled. “I’ll have it by dark,” he came back. “What’s that one about what I’m supposed to think of Italy?”

  I groaned. “You found little youth there,” I said. “The people, even the younger ones, seemed old. It was like expecting a child to be happy among monks, in a monastery.”

  Mick repeated it slowly. I said: “Pirandello said that.”

  The big fellow blinked at me. “No?” he muttered. “And Jackie Fields knocked him out in the fourth, last week!”

  I covered my face with my palms and groaned. When I looked at Mick again, he was working on the tie.

  “Pirandello’s an Italian playwright,” I said, “Not a pug.”

  Mick swore softly. “It’s a good line, anyway,” he replied.

  I moved toward the door. “He’d be glad to know you liked it, Mick,” I said.

  The big fellow grinned. “Only these monks—they like their liquor, Al. Why couldn’t a guy be happy among monks?”

  I went out, slamming the door. Every once in a while Mick O’Rourke pulled one that was tough to answer.

  2

  At lunch Don Rayne told me that the Columbia crew was in fine shape. Cy Dana went to the California boat-house, and when he came back, he said the varsity-shell boys were in fine shape. He said that the Navy crew looked great, and that Dartmouth and Penn were fit.

  Syracuse had a husky crew, and the other shell outfits looked perfect.

  “Strange,” I told the two of them. “I sort of figured the boys would be in the shells with broken arms and legs, fractured skulls—”

  Cy Dana shook his head. “Those things might happen on this craft,” he said. “But the crews are in swell shape.”

  I said: “They’ll all win, eh?”

  Vennell came over to the table at which we were eating, on deck. He frowned at me.

  “The yacht’s been searched thoroughly,” he said. “We haven’t found a thing.”

  He shook his head. The color of his skin wasn’t so good and his eyes looked tired. Cy Dana spoke.

  “I hate to
suggest it, but it looks to me as though one of the crew was after what he thought were real diamonds. He knew you had the stones. He got clear, chucked that face mask and black robe overboard. No one was the wiser.”

  Vennell said: “It isn’t a large crew, and Captain Latham has confidence in all the men.”

  I nodded. “Then there are the others—the guests.”

  Cy nodded, grinning at me. “I believe Miss Sard has said that the masked one was about your build, Al,” he said.

  Vennell swore. He shrugged his shoulders, looked from the awninged deck toward other craft near what was to be the finish line. The Virgin had a fine position, not far from the shadow of the new bridge.

  “Going to be hot—and calm,” he said. “Any of you boys betting?”

  Cy Dana said that he had a hundred on California. I looked at Vennell curiously.

  “How much have you got up, the same way, Eric?” I asked.

  He smiled. “The Golden Bears look right to me,” he said. “I’m taking it easy though—about fifty thousand, spread around the country.”

  Don Rayne whistled softly. “You don’t fool,” he said, and then looked silly.

  Cy grunted. “I’ll suffer more if I lose my hundred,” he said.

  Vennell smiled again. “We’ll both clean up, Cy,” he said. “But you fellows are paper boys; if you use the fact that I’m betting on California, don’t spread it all over.”

  I turned away and lighted a cigarette. Vennell was saying something now. He was telling us that we could print his bet on California. He rather wanted us to print it. That opened up a new idea. I could see a reason for him getting Cy and me aboard. He was betting on Columbia, but he wanted us to record the fact that he had bet on California.

  He looked at me as I turned around, with my cigarette lighted.

  “Maybe I’ve got a few dollars more than fifty thousand—on the big race,” he said in a peculiar tone. “I’m sure pulling for California.”

  He moved away, taking a pair of day-glasses from the case hanging about his neck. Cy looked at me and winked.

  “He’s got big money on the Bears,” he said.