Vennell was smiling. “The last mile!” he breathed. “We should see ’em pretty quick now. But that damn wind—”
The water was roughing up; the wind made shrilling sounds in the Virgin’s rigging. It was getting pretty dark. We were all at the rail, staring up the river. But we stayed there awhile without seeing anything. And then the bomb at the railroad bridge sounded—and we picked up the outlines of three shells.
The water was growing steadily rougher. An announcer stated that the Dartmouth shell had flooded, and that launches were going to her. She was lengths in the rear. Most of us had glasses. But Vennell was the first to call out.
“California!” he shouted. “She’s got a good length lead!”
I focused my glasses and nodded my head. California had a length lead, perhaps more. The oars were splashing less than those of the Columbia crew, which was in second place. The river water was very rough. Washington looked to be in third place by a very narrow margin. Navy was giving her a fight. The other shells were difficult to place.
At the half-mile California had what looked to be a three-length lead. The shell was being pulled strongly. Columbia was still in second place, and Navy was ahead of Washington. Thunder drowned the voice from the loudspeaker, but I caught the words: “—and it looks like California to win!”
The wind was blowing in gusts—crew members were reefing in the awnings above us. Vennell and Sonia Vreedon were side by side at the rail—Sonia was calling in a hard low voice:
“Come on California—keep up there!”
We could see the crews clearly now—the leaders. An announcer said that the Wisconsin shell was swamped, and that Syracuse seemed to be in difficulty. I kept my eyes on the California crew. Cy Dana, on my left, said above the shrill of the wind:
“Don Rayne was right—California by three—”
He checked himself. I’d seen the splash, too. It was, near the stern of the California shell, near the spot at which the coxswain’s small body moved back and forth as it beat out the stroke. That splash meant ragged work—someone was weakening!
Cy said hoarsely: “Good God, Al—it’s Babe Harron—his oar—”
I stared through the glasses, and thought of Sonia Vreedon’s words, last night: “Please, Tim—” I said sharply to Cy:
“It’s Burke’s oar, isn’t it? Number Seven?”
But even as I said it, I knew I was wrong. And Cy’s voice said grimly:
“Wrong side of the shell. It’s Babe Harron, the stroke!”
Sonia’s voice reached me, pitched high. She said:
“Eric—Eric—the Babe—there’s something wrong!”
I wanted to look at Vennell, but I didn’t. That splash in the water, the slow drag—the off timing—it fascinated me. Babe Harron, the veteran of the California crew, the one man they depended on—the stroke. And he was faltering!
I looked at the Columbia shell. She was coming up fast. The finish line was less than three hundred yards distant now—and only two lengths separated California and Columbia. Navy was perhaps two lengths behind Columbia, on an inner lane. The fact that California and Columbia were rowing in outside lanes made it easy to see, to judge.
Harron was barely pulling, lifting his oar now. It seemed to me that he was twisting his head a little, holding it high. Ed Dale was trying to splash water on him—the whole crew was rowing raggedly. Columbia was within a length of the Golden Bears now, as the yacht whistles commenced to shriek!
The siren of the Virgin wailed; a sharp clap of thunder followed a lightning flash. The wind had died some—now it swept across the river. I kept my glasses on the California shell; watched the wood of the Columbia boat come into focus, saw how rapidly the second-place shell was gaining. Beside me Cy was swearing in a dull, monotonous voice. Whistles, thunder, radio announcing, and cheers were coming in bursts now.
A hundred yards from the finish Columbia was on even terms with the Golden Bears. Almost instantly she shot ahead. Navy was closing in now. I heard Carla Sard scream shrilly:
“It’s Columbia—Columbia’s race!”
I got my glasses on the California shell. The boys were pulling, but their stroke was ragged. Babe Harron was swaying in his slide rig; even as I watched him he suddenly collapsed, his head going toward Dale’s body. Navy’s shell was on even terms now. There was the roar of guns—whistles fought with thunder in sound.
I lowered my glasses, looked toward the finish line. Columbia was across, the winner. The Navy crew, hitting a fast beat, shot across in second place. Raggedly pulled, but still fighting, the California shell finished third.
I swung away from the rail in time to see Vennell move forward along the deck. His fists were clenched at his sides—his body seemed to be shaking. Don Rayne was staring at me, eyes grim. For a second I faced Sonia Vreedon—she seemed stunned. There were tears in her eyes. I heard Cy Dana muttering:
“What do you know about—the Babe keeling over?”
Launches were rushing downstream to the shells that had crossed the finish line. I turned my back to the others, saw Eric Vennell’s body vanish from sight, swaying, behind some superstructure. I moved after him, and as I moved, the first of the rain came. And with it a shrilling, tearing wind.
I called sharply: “Vennell—Eric!”
What I had to say I wasn’t sure about. But I knew that Columbia had won, after California’s stroke had collapsed. And I knew that Eric Vennell had won a tremendous sum of money, at odds of three to one. I knew that he had lied to me.
Rain beat down, and I had to fight wind along the deck. Vennell was nowhere in sight. I went below and looked for him there. No one seemed to have seen him after he had turned away from the rail. He had simply dropped out of sight.
4
We started an organized search after about twenty minutes. The storm lasted almost that long. Cy Dana had the captain lower the power launch, while we searched. After a half-hour we had found no trace of Vennell. Fifteen minutes later the launch came alongside, in water that was rough, but calming. Cy climbed the rope ladder, his face grim.
“Find Vennell?” he asked.
I told him we hadn’t. He said no person in any craft near by had seen a man in the water. He said he’d gone to the California boathouse. He was soaked, and I went down to his cabin with him.
When we got inside, he closed the door. He smiled grimly at me.
“I fought my way inside, and I learned things, Al,” he said. “You held back on me, but I won’t do it with you. Babe Harron is dead.”
I stared at him. “Dead?” I muttered. “You mean he collapsed and then—”
Cy stopped smiling. “He didn’t collapse and then,” he said. “When he collapsed, he was dead.”
I said softly: “Bad heart—”
Cy nodded. “And the mark of a hypodermic syringe needle, between the shoulder blades,” he said very slowly.
I stood motionless, and after a few seconds I reached for a cigarette, got it between my lips.
Cy said: “There’s to be an autopsy—God knows where. Probably Poughkeepsie, perhaps Kingston. I talked with that crew doctor, Vollmer. He says it’s murder.”
I said: “Murder, eh?”
Cy nodded. “Harron was in perfect shape—nothing wrong with his heart. Murder—by poison injected through a hypodermic syringe.”
I sat down and half closed my eyes. “And California lost,” I said slowly.
Cy Dana spoke grimly. “And Columbia won,” he said.
I looked at the cabin wall. “And Vennell has disappeared,” I said in a half-whisper.
The sportswriter swore very quietly. There were footfalls beyond the cabin door, heavy ones. Mick O’Rourke’s voice sounded.
I got up and opened the door. Mick was breathing heavily.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Mick drew a deep breath. “I’ve got a hell of a toothache,” he said. “What’ll I do for it?”
Cy Dana turned his back and muttered to himself.
I said:
“Take a water glass of Scotch. With Vennell gone you haven’t got anything else to do.”
I shut the door, and Mick’s feet made a lot of sound and then less.
Cy Dana faced me, his eyes squinted. After a few seconds he said:
“I don’t think that guy’s half so funny as he acts. How much do you know that I don’t know, Al?”
I thought of the scar across Mick O’Rourke’s cheek, and I could see Dingo Bandelli slashing with the knife, and Mick’s fists battering at him. I looked at the sports-writer and wondered how much of a lie I was telling.
“Not very much,” I said.
5
RED SUNSET
MICK O’ROURKE’S broad shoulders caught my eyes, in the smoke room, as I moved along the corridor. It was past the hour for the gay dinner that was to have followed the varsity race, but with Babe Harron dead and Vennell missing from the yacht, I guessed dinner would be held up a bit.
Mick didn’t hear me until I got right behind him. There was no one else in the room; the big fellow held a water glass in his left hand; it was half filled with yellowish liquid.
I said: “How’s the toothache?”
He straightened a little, as though surprised, but I had a feeling he knew I’d reached the entrance to the smoke room. There was nothing the matter with Mick’s ears.
“Not so hot,” he said, and turned around.
My voice was a little grim, though I didn’t want it to be that way.
“You certainly earned that five grand,” I said.
The big fellow scowled. “I was watchin’ the boats,” he said. “There was a lot going on—in the river.”
I nodded. “And there was a lot going on—on the Virgin,” I replied.
Mick frowned at me and tilted his glass. When he took it away from his lips again, he shook his head very slowly.
“I can’t figure it, Al,” he said. “Where do you suppose he got to?”
I groaned. “He got overboard,” I said. “There was a lot of excitement, and everybody was watching the finish line. So the people in the other boats didn’t see him hit water.”
The big fellow grunted. “They’d see him swimming,” he said.
I lighted a cigarette and looked down at Mick’s big feet.
“What makes you think he swam?” I asked, after a little while.
Mick swore very softly. “You think he just went under—and didn’t come up?” he breathed.
I said: “Why not?”
I started to put my cigarette pack away, but the big fellow grabbed for it. He got a cigarette loose and I struck a match. Mick inhaled.
“That means you think someone slugged him, Al,” he said finally.
I shrugged. “He isn’t aboard the Virgin,” I said. “And that makes me think he went overboard. Maybe he didn’t come up from his dive.”
Mick said: “He lost a lot of coin, Al. With California losing that way. Maybe he suicided.”
I smiled a little. “Did he lose a lot of coin, Mick?” I asked.
The big fellow was getting sore. He half shut his dark eyes, and the scar across his right cheek twitched a little.
“Jees, Al—” he breathed grimly—“I don’t get you.”
I nodded. “You saw that crew man collapse—in the California shell?” I asked.
Mick nodded. “There was a guy did the same thing in the Columbia shell,” he said. “But they splashed water on him and he sat up.”
I said: “Well, they splashed water on Babe Harron, too. But it didn’t do any good. Cy Dana just got back from the California boathouse. Harron’s dead.”
Mick O’Rourke looked surprised. He said:
“Jees—he’s dead, eh?”
I nodded. “And he was the strongest man in the California shell, Mick. And he was in swell condition. And when he collapsed—that finished things. Columbia got the win, and Navy got in second. Babe Harron was dead when the other men pulled him across the line.”
Mick said: “Yeah—bad heart, eh?”
I swore at him. I got my voice very low.
“Listen, big boy—” I said—“I don’t like to see you being too dumb. Harron was murdered. A hypodermic needle got the stuff inside of him.”
Mick whistled softly and kept his eyes widened on mine.
“What stuff?” he asked.
I shook my head. “There hasn’t been an autopsy yet,” I said patiently.
He lifted his glass and took another drink of the yellowish liquid. He shook his head from side to side. I watched him and waited.
“Say!” he said suddenly. “If this fellow Harron hadn’t collapsed, California would have won!”
I drew a deep breath. I sang softly and grimly:
“I think—you’re wonderful.…”
Mick didn’t pay any attention to me. He was staring into space.
“And Vennell would have won a lot of coin, instead of losing it,” he said.
I waited a few seconds. Then I got fingers around Mick’s big wrist, part of the way. I said very softly and with a lot of feeling:
“Listen, Mick—I pulled you in on this deal. You don’t have to be dumb with me. It’s all right with the others—”
The big fellow made a short movement and got his wrist away from my fingers. He put his glass down on the table.
“Don’t get hard that way, Al!” he said.
I smiled at him. I said quietly: “If I took you in to a Poughkeepsie dentist right now, he’d say you were just imagining things.”
Mick narrowed his eyes and looked down at me with a faint smile playing around his thick lips. I said:
“You haven’t got any toothache—and you didn’t have any when you came down below while I was talking to Cy Dana.”
Mick said: “No?”
I shook my head. “No. And you knew the stroke was dead—before I told you, just now.”
He blinked at me. “You’re going crazy, Al,” he said. “How in hell would I know that guy Harron was dead?”
I said: “You heard Cy Dana tell me—down in the cabin.”
The big fellow let his lower jaw sag a little. He said sadly:
“You’re crazy, Al.”
I nodded. “Then you tiptoed away and made a racket coming back, with your big feet,” I said. “Then you handed the toothache line to us.”
Mick grunted. “Yeah?” he said. “And what was the big idea of me doin’ all this stuff?”
I touched cigarette ash with a nail, and the white stuff missed the tray on the table by an inch.
“I haven’t had time to figure that out, Mick,” I said. “What I’m trying to get across to you is that you can’t work the dumb racket with me. It might go with the others. I’m not so sure of that.”
The big fellow caught me by the shoulder and swung me around. He slitted his eyes.
“Go easy, Al,” he gritted. “If you’re bein’ funny, just let me know.”
I said: “Take your hands off me, Mick. Don’t act up. You’re in a tough spot right now.”
He took his time, but after a few seconds he spread his big fingers and looked a little sheepish. Then he said:
“You know I don’t sneak around, Al.”
I smiled at him. “You know what I know,” I replied. “That’s the way I wanted it to be.”
The big fellow frowned at me. He was silent for a little while. Then he said slowly:
“What do you mean—I’m in a tough spot right now, Al?”
I listened to the piping whistle of a small launch and heard a voice that sounded like Captain Latham’s answer a hail. Mick said again:
“What do you mean, Al?”
I said: “I’ve got a hunch that it won’t be long before the police come aboard the yacht. Latham’s sent a boat ashore to report Vennell’s disappearance. Babe Harron is dead. They may try to tie the things up.”
The big fellow was frowning. “How does that put me in a tough spot?” he asked.
I said: “Be yourself, Mick. You�
��re no member of the First Methodist Church. You may be recognized.”
He grunted. “What of it?” he muttered. “I been recognized before, ain’t I?”
There was something in that. But not enough to check my line of thought.
“This is a little different,” I said. “Vennell is missing, and the stroke of the California crew is murdered. And you’re aboard the Virgin. It might strike the police as being a little strange.”
Mick swore. “He hired me as a bodyguard, didn’t he?” he asked.
I said grimly: “And what a dud you turned out to be!”
The big fellow showed his white teeth, and his cheek scar stood out more clearly than usual.
“I don’t follow you, Al,” he said slowly.
I nodded, “And you didn’t follow Vennell—not too closely,” I replied.
Mick O’Rourke let his big arms swing at his sides. He smiled at me almost pleasantly. He said:
“You think I’m crossing you up, Al. You don’t think I was tryin’ to earn the five grand.”
I made a clicking sound. “Mick,” I told him, “you’re a big guy, and you’re tough. But it always seemed to me you were a pretty good guy, too. I don’t want to see you get in trouble while you’re aboard the Virgin.”
The big fellow threw back his head and laughed. It made a lot of noise. I said:
“Shut up, you damn fool! What’s happened isn’t funny like that.”
He shut up. Then suddenly he got his head lowered a little and hardened his eyes. He spoke very slowly and quietly.
“You—Al Connors—don’t you be worrying about me. I don’t like guys worrying about me—not even white guys like you!”
He nodded his head and chuckled harshly. Then he went past me and along the corridor. I waited a few minutes and tried to think things clear. It didn’t work. I left the smoke room and started for the deck. When I got near the saloon aft, a voice called out:
“Mr. Connors!”
I stopped and turned around. Carla Sard came up close to me. She looked as though she had been crying.
The Virgin Kills Page 10
