The Virgin Kills

by Raoul Whitfield

  “Has any trace of Eric—”

  She checked herself, and there were tears in her eyes. I smiled at her.

  “Not a trace of him,” I said. “But it might be a joke of some kind.”

  She looked angry. “A joke?” she said. “Eric doesn’t joke like this.”

  I said: “Are you well acquainted with him?”

  She looked a little surprised. “I met him in California, six months ago,” she said. “I knew him pretty well, out there.”

  I nodded. “In Hollywood?”

  She shook her head. “We were on location, near San Francisco,” she replied. “He was living there, in that city. He had the yacht there, in the Bay.”

  I didn’t say anything. There were shouts from the deck. Carla said:

  “I’m so afraid—I think he lost a great deal of money. He was so anxious for California to win. And when Babe Harron failed—”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief. I said:

  “What do you think happened to Eric?”

  She let her eyes get wide. They were very beautiful eyes, with mascara helping out a lot. She said in a whisper:

  “I think—he jumped overboard!”

  I frowned. Someone on deck called out hoarsely:

  “Take it easy—we won’t have any paint left! Shove off there!”

  Carla said: “How long would it be—before—before—”

  I looked serious. “Not too long,” I said. “But I don’t think you’re right. I don’t think Vennell has drowned. So you needn’t worry about the body coming up.”

  She kept dabbing at her eyes. I wanted to go out on deck, but something kept me beside her. I asked:

  “Where’s Torry and Don Rayne?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know where anybody is—I’ve been in my cabin. It’s terrible—”

  I said: “It’ll be all right.”

  I went out on the deck, leaving her dabbing her eyes with the damp handkerchief. Everything was pretty wet outside, but the clouds had broken in the west. There was a strange red light in the sky, faint, but reflected. Lights flickered along both shores. It was dark except for the red color. It was different from any sunset I’d seen before.

  Captain Latham stood near the rail; I went over to him. Some of the crew were on deck. The yacht’s launch was fifty feet or so from the Virgin, bobbing about in the water that was still a little rough. There was another launch close to the yacht, and a tall, thin man was coming up the dropped ladder. He wore a slicker and a soft hat, and he took his time in the climb.

  I said to the captain: “Who’s this?”

  He looked at me as though he had never seen me before.

  “The police,” he said. “I sent for ’em.”

  Latham was a man of about forty-five. He was short and brown-faced, with gray hair. He had hard, gray eyes and a mouth that turned down at the corners. His lips were very thin, and they had a little color in them.

  I looked toward the Virgin’s launch and saw that two of the crew were in it. Then the man coming up the ladder reached the deck. He had a hatchet-like face and deep-set, greenish eyes. Gray-green. He shoved his soft hat back a little and looked sharply at me. Latham said:

  “I’m the captain—I sent for the police.”

  The thin one nodded. “I’m Risdon,” he said. “I work in plain clothes, out of Poughkeepsie. What’s wrong?”

  He had a rasping voice, and he spoke like a businessman of major importance. Latham said:

  “Eric Vennell, the owner of this yacht, has disappeared.”

  Risdon made a sniffling noise. “What of that?” he snapped.

  Latham said: “It was just after the finish of the race, and the storm had just broken. We searched the yacht thoroughly. He isn’t aboard.”

  Risdon looked at me. “You one of the guests?” he asked.

  I nodded. Latham said, with a touch of grimness in his voice:

  “From what I can find out—Mr. Connors was the last person to see Mr. Vennell.”

  I didn’t like the captain’s tone. He suddenly assumed importance to me. After all, he was Vennell’s captain. And the yacht had been in San Francisco Bay, six months ago. That seemed to be important, too, though I couldn’t figure just why.

  Risdon looked at me steadily and said: “Well, what do you think happened to this man Vennell?”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said simply.

  Risdon frowned at me. He looked at Latham and frowned at him. I watched a launch leave the California boathouse dock and head straight for the anchorage spot of the Virgin. Risdon said:

  “Was Vennell sober?”

  I nodded. “He seemed very sober,” I stated.

  Risdon said: “Well—the storm had wind. Maybe he went overboard.”

  Captain Latham said: “Vennell was a strong man, and he’s been aboard this craft when she’s been in a lot tougher storms than this one. He’s a strong swimmer. If he went overboard, it wouldn’t bother him any.”

  Risdon said: “It would if he hit his head on something—as he went over.”

  The captain nodded. “Or it would if someone hit him on the head, before he went over!” he said grimly.

  Risdon’t lean body stiffened a little. He whistled softly.

  “It’s like that, eh?” he said.

  Latham shrugged. “Let’s go to my quarters,” he said. “I’ve got some things to tell you.”

  Risdon looked at me. “You saw him last,” he said slowly. “Don’t go ashore Mr.—”

  I said: “—Connors. I’ll stick aboard, Mr.—”

  He smiled with his lips. He said:

  “—Risdon.”

  I nodded. Latham looked somewhere beyond me and spoke softly.

  “A few things have happened aboard the Virgin, Risdon. I think you should know abut them.”

  Risdon said: “Sure, that’s what I get paid for.”

  Latham moved away from the rail, and the detective turned a little and started to follow him. He stopped and said suddenly:

  “What the—”

  I looked toward the spot on which Risdon’s eyes were focused. Mick O’Rourke had come on deck; he was moving aft and looking toward the Jersey shore. The red sunset put light on his big body; his right hand was clenched and swinging a little. His jaw was set and he looked tough. The scar stood out clearly.

  Latham turned and said to Risdon: “That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about.”

  The detective swore. He followed the captain, but he didn’t look at him. He turned his head as though looking at the river. His body moved toward Mick’s. When they collided, he reached out hands and touched Mick’s arms. Mick did about the same thing. They both smiled and apologized.

  Risdon’s face was pretty close to the big fellow’s, and I got the idea that the plainclothes dick wasn’t missing much. They untangled and Risdon went along behind the captain. Mick came up to me, but he wasn’t smiling.

  “Where’d that dick come from?” he asked softly.

  I said: “How’d you guess he was a detective?”

  Mick swore. “He gave me the close eye,” he said. “And he pawed me a little. What’s up?”

  I watched the launch coming out from the California boathouse. I thought of the business card I’d found, and the radiogram. I thought of a few other things.

  Mick O’Rourke said grimly: “We’re going to get asked questions, eh?”

  I smiled. “Well, you’ve got the answers for ’em, haven’t you, Mick?”

  He narrowed his fine eyes and nodded his head very slowly. There was a peculiar tone to his voice.

  “If I haven’t—maybe I can work ’em up as I need ’em, Al,” he replied.

  I said: “It’s a good theory.”

  Mick grunted. A slow smile spread over his big, battered face. He looked out over the water and said in an almost gentle voice:

  “That red makes the water pretty, Al. Jees—but that’s nice!”

 
; I said: “Always the aesthete, Mick!”

  He looked very wise. “That’s me, Al,” he returned. “I gotta yen for red.”

  “It’s a nice color—against white,” I said grimly.

  He nodded and smiled pleasantly. “Yeah,” he said. “If the guy’s wearing that sort of a shirt.”

  2

  We were standing and seated, in the main saloon of the yacht—the whole crowd of us. None of the crew were present. There was talk, but it was low and not particularly inspired. After a little while Captain Latham came in, followed by Risdon. The captain said, his face serious:

  “Risdon here is from the Poughkeepsie police force. We’ve been trying to get at something. He’s got something to say.”

  There was a lot of silence as Risdon moved his lean body over near the grand piano and smiled round the saloon. He spoke slowly and cheerfully, in his rasping voice.

  “I just don’t want anyone to leave the yacht for a while,” he said. “And if any of you know anything about Mr. Vennell that you think I should know—I’d be mighty glad to listen.”

  He looked round the group, his greenish eyes holding a questioning expression. I watched Sonia Vreedon; she was relaxed in her chair, watching the detective with her gray eyes narrowed. Torry Jones, who stood with his back against a side wall of the room, said loudly:

  “Well, I guess we all know that something strange was going on. Someone broke into Vennell’s cabin.”

  Risdon nodded. “So Captain Latham tells me,” he said. “What was the motive, do you know?”

  Jones shrugged. “Something was said about Vennell having some fake diamonds with him,” he said.

  Risdon nodded again. “But you don’t think much of that idea, eh?” he asked.

  Torry shrugged again. “It seems a little thick to me,” he said, and took his eyes away from Risdon, looking at me.

  I yawned. Cy Dana, sitting near Carla Sard and the blonde whose name I kept forgetting, spoke in a steady voice:

  “I’ve got a story to file—to get to my paper, Risdon. I’ve got to get ashore.”

  I chuckled. Cy Dana stood up and frowned at me. I said:

  “That’s so—I’ve got one to get to New York, too. I almost forgot it.”

  Cy Dana muttered something I didn’t catch. Risdon kept nodding his head. Finally he stopped nodding it.

  “You two write your stuff, don’t you?” he asked.

  I grinned. “I write mine,” I replied. “I don’t know who writes Dana’s.”

  Risdon’s face got hard. “You seem pretty cheerful, Mr.—”

  “—Connors,” I said, and stopped smiling. “Not too cheerful, Mr.—”

  He said grimly: “Well, write what you want. I’ll see that it gets over the wire. But stay on the yacht.”

  I got up and said: “That’s pretty stiff, Risdon. What’s the charge? What’s keeping us on the yacht?”

  He said: “Suspicion of murder’s the charge—and I’m keeping you on the yacht.”

  Carla Sard said: “But, Mr. Risdon—who would want to murder Eric Vennell?”

  She put a lot of innocence in her words. Risdon was getting sore; it showed in his eyes and around his mouth.

  “Where were you—when Vennell disappeared?” he snapped at her.

  Carla let out a little scream. Mick O’Rourke, who had picked out the darkest spot in the saloon for his resting place, said huskily:

  “Come to think of it, Watson—I don’t recall seein’ Carla at just about the time Vennell disappeared.”

  Torry Jones swung his body a little and said viciously:

  “You’re a damn liar, O’Rourke—she was at the rail, right beside you!”

  Mick said in a surprised tone: “Was she? Well, Well!”

  Carla got up and faced the big fellow. She said in a half-hysterical voice:

  “I was—I was! You know that! You’re just trying to ruin my career! If there’s publicity—”

  Risdon said sharply: “All right, all right! Don’t let’s get excited. I’ll be out here for a while, and there’s plenty of time.”

  Carla sat down, talking to herself. The blonde went over close to her and looked as though she were sympathizing. Torry said:

  “You’d better talk to O’Rourke, Risdon. And Al Connors, too. He brought that big guy aboard, and none of us know why.”

  Risdon said slowly: “O’Rourke, eh?”

  Torry nodded. “He attacked me,” he said grimly. “He threw me overboard, last night.”

  Mick said tonelessly: “Let me kiss your hand, madame—”

  Torry Jones snapped: “Listen, O’Rourke—”

  Risdon said: “Cut it out—cut it out!”

  He took a slip of paper from his pocket, and a stubby pencil. He made some scratches. Mick said to me:

  “It looks like they’ve got me, Al. Didn’t I chuck Jones overboard?”

  I said: “You shouldn’t have done it, Mick. But you always were impetuous.”

  Mick sighed. “It’s my nerves,” he muttered.

  Captain Latham said in a hard voice: “It seems to me that Mr. Vennell surrounded himself with people having a strange sense of humor.”

  Risdon nodded his head. Don Rayne spoke very quietly.

  “You use the past tense, Captain?”

  The captain shrugged. I looked at Risdon.

  “How can you hold us on the yacht, on suspicion of murder complicity, when you haven’t any proof that Vennell has been murdered? Disappearance isn’t murder.”

  The Poughkeepsie detective said:

  “Vennell’s life has been threatened. He has disappeared. He was afraid of death. That’s enough for me.”

  Cy Dana looked at me. “He hasn’t any authority on board the Virgin, has he, Al?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “God knows,” I said. “I suppose not. But, then, he could make things disagreeable.”

  Captain Latham said: “Well, I have authority on board the Virgin. My owner has disappeared. I order you folks to remain on the ship. The crew is remaining, also.”

  Risdon kept his eyes on mine. He spoke very quietly.

  “I’d stay aboard if I were you, Connors,” he said.

  I nodded. “Perhaps you would,” I agreed.

  Sonia Vreedon spoke for the first time. Her voice was steady, cool.

  “Can you tell us about Babe Harron? Has anything been learned about the manner—of his death?”

  Risdon said slowly: “Two doctors believe he was drugged to death. Poisoned. I believe the police are trying to communicate with his father, who is in New York. They wish permission for an immediate autopsy.”

  There was silence. I looked at Risdon and decided he was pretty intelligent for a Poughkeepsie plainclothesman. Not that I knew anything about the detectives of that town; it was just a feeling I had. Risdon said:

  “You see, I am perfectly frank with you people. No doubt some of you knew Harron.”

  No one said that they knew Babe Harron. I thought Risdon’s voice was a little grim.

  “Perhaps I’m mistaken, then.”

  He looked at me and said quietly: “I’m going to use the captain’s quarters for my questioning. I think I’d like to talk with Mr. Torry Jones first.”

  He smiled a little, letting his eyes move over the bunch of us. Torry said:

  “That suits me, Risdon,” and moved toward the saloon door leading to the deck.

  Mick O’Rourke looked at me and said in a voice that could be heard all over the room:

  “Where were you on the night of the seventeenth, Connors? On the night of the twentieth? What—you won’t answer? You won’t, eh? Oh. yes you—”

  He kicked wood of the wall and uttered a long-drawn groan. He said:

  “Well—will you talk now?”

  Carla Sard stood up and faced Mick. She said in a furious tone:

  “You fool! Eric Vennell is dead—Babe Harron has been murdered. And yet you—”

  She broke off. Torry Jones went over close to her and said qu
ietly:

  “Don’t let him annoy you, Carla. He’s just a roughneck without any decent instincts.”

  Risdon looked at Mick and nodded his head. He spoke quietly.

  “My methods may not be like the ones you’re accustomed to, Mr. O’Rourke.”

  The big fellow replied: “One way or the other—it’s all the same to me. The only thing you’ll get from me will be the truth.”

  Torry made a strange sound. I said:

  “Well—how about dinner?”

  Carla faced me and started to act again. She waved her arms around, but she waved them with considerable grace.

  “You can talk of eating!” she raged. “You can even think of eating—”

  I said: “Be yourself, Carla. I can do better than talking or thinking about it. I can eat.”

  She said dramatically: “With poor Eric—”

  Mick said slowly: “I hope the chef has prepared spinach. I like spinach—”

  Captain Latham said grimly: “Dinner will be served as usual.”

  Mick grunted. “Like hell it will,” he said. “It’s late already.”

  Carla said: “Oh,” two or three times, and went from the saloon. Torry Jones followed her. Captain Latham and some of the others followed her. Risdon stood just inside the door that led to the deck and kept his greenish eyes narrowed on Mick. Finally, he said:

  “Have you ever been on stage, Mr. O’Rourke?”

  Mick looked at me, then at Risdon. He nodded his big head.

  “I worked as a stooge for Phil Baker, out west,” he said cheerfully.

  Risdon nodded. “It’s pleasant work,” he said almost casually.

  Mick smiled. “It keeps you up late, and the night air was bad for my chest. I had to quit.”

  Risdon smiled. “But you got the knack of acting,” he said pleasantly. “That helps.”

  He went outside. Mick went over to a divan and sat down. He whistled tunelessly. Cy Dana came over and said:

  “Like hell you worked as a stooge for Phil Baker!”

  Mick shrugged. “Out west,” he repeated.

  I looked around. Sonia Vreedon was leaving the saloon. That left only Cy, Mick, and me. I said:

  “Take it easy, Mick—this fellow Risdon isn’t so dumb. And remember, Harron’s dead.”

  Cy Dana spoke grimly: “If he was killed by a drug injection, that was sweet timing. Another sixty seconds and California would have been over the line—the winning shell.”