The Virgin Kills

by Raoul Whitfield

  “I don’t think she has anything in this magazine,” she said cheerfully.

  I wasn’t quite sure who was kidding whom. Rita said, without looking at either of us:

  “How about George Sand—has he got anything in it?”

  Carla ignored the other woman. She toned her smile down so that it didn’t include her teeth.

  “You mean the Balzac who wrote Lost Ladies, don’t you, Mr. Connors?” she asked.

  I still wasn’t sure about things. Rita said:

  “That was William Cather, Carla.”

  Carla slammed the magazine shut, and tossed it aside. Rita smiled at me and moved away. I said:

  “Take it easy, Carla—don’t start anything. Vennell’s cabin isn’t so far from the saloon.”

  She muttered fiercely: “I hate that woman, Al!”

  I smiled and went over to pick up the magazine. She said:

  “Let it lay, Al.”

  I let it lay. “Don’t you want to finish the story?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I was damn near asleep anyway,” she replied. “It’s lousy.”

  I shrugged and moved toward a chair that was not far from the ones occupied by Sonia and Risdon. Risdon was doing most of the talking, and Sonia seemed to be shaking her head a great deal. I couldn’t catch any words.

  After a few minutes one of the deck doors opened and Captain Latham came in. He looked pretty snappy in his white uniform, but his face held a serious expression. He looked around, and then went directly to Risdon’s side. I heard the names “Vollmer” and “Mears.” And then the captain looked sharply at Sonia. He said something else, and I caught the name “Burke.”

  Sonia Vreedon’s body jerked a little; she half rose from her chair. But she relaxed. She touched her lips with a small handkerchief, and she acted pretty nervous.

  Risdon spoke to her, stood up, and bowed a little. He smiled at her. Then he followed Captain Latham from the saloon to the port-side deck.

  I waited a few seconds, rose, and went over beside Sonia. She smiled at me, but there were tears in her eyes.

  “What’s up now?” I asked.

  She spoke very softly. “The California coach, Mears—and Tim Burke have come out,” she said. “And the crew doctor, Vollmer.”

  I frowned at the floor. “What for?” I murmured.

  She looked somewhere beyond me. “More questioning, I suppose,” she said. “Poor Tim!”

  I looked at the wall clock, at one end of the saloon. It was almost twelve-thirty.

  “It’s a strange hour for them to come out here,” I said. “Must be something important.”

  Sonia was trying to fight back the tears. I leaned forward.

  “Somehow,” I said. “I don’t think Tim Burke is mixed up in this. I know you’re not. But if there’s something—something that makes it seem tough, Sonia—”

  She shook her head. I said: “I wish you’d tell me. I may be able to help.”

  She got to her feet, and so did I. She said in a shaken voice:

  “I’m going—to my cabin. If they want me—”

  I nodded and stood aside. “Get some sleep,” I advised. “This’ll be all right—”

  She said indignantly: “Sleep! As though I could sleep!”

  She moved away. I watched Don Rayne open the door for her—one that opened to a corridor running forward to the cabins. I stood for a little while, thinking. Doctor Bryce came into the room, using the same doorway through which Sonia had passed. Rayne asked him a question and he shook his head. He looked around the room.

  I looked around, too, wondering where Mick O’Rourke was. Bryce saw me and came across the room. He reached my side.

  “Where’s Risdon?” he asked.

  I told him I thought the detective was on deck, with the crew coach and doctor and Tim Burke. I rather expected him to be surprised, but he wasn’t.

  “Eric’s out of it,” he said. “He can talk now and knows what he’s saying. But they’ve got to go easy with him. Crozier seems to realize that—he’s waiting and just humoring him. But I’ve got to make Risdon understand. He’s a more aggressive type.”

  I nodded. Risdon came back into the saloon from the port side of the deck, and Bryce waved a hand to him. The detective came over to us.

  Bryce said: “Vennell’s conscious. But you’ve got to go very easy. If you want to ask questions, keep your voice low. He’s still suffering from shock.”

  Risdon nodded. His greenish eyes met mine. He said very softly:

  “I’ve got questions to ask, all right. The coach found the hypodermic needle that was used on Babe Harron.”

  Bryce uttered a little exclamation. I stared at Risdon. Bryce said:

  “Where?”

  Risdon’s voice was almost a whisper. He looked at me as he spoke.

  “In the mattress of the cot occupied by Tim Burke,” he said.

  Bryce drew a quick breath. I didn’t say anything. Thoughts of Sonia were rushing through my head. Bryce said slowly:

  “Good God—in Burke’s mattress!”

  Risdon nodded. “It looks as though we’re getting at—”

  His words died away as the lights in the saloon dimmed. They went down slowly; there were cries of surprise and a few squeals of nervous laughter. Then they flared again. Almost instantly there was the sound of a shot.

  It came from some spot forward, so far as I could judge. It was faint, but not faint enough to be on the shore. And then, from some spot much nearer, there came the sharper sound of a second shot!

  There was a cry from the corridor beyond the saloon—the voice of Crozier sounded.

  “Risdon—what’s wrong?”

  The lights started to dim again. They got very low, came up a little—and then we were in blackness. And there was no light from the decks, or from any other part of the Virgin.

  There was the sound of footfalls, rapid ones. Crozier’s voice reached us again, near the saloon. He called out:

  “Who fired that shot?”

  There was confusion in the saloon. I heard Risdon move away from me, saying sharply:

  “The rest of you—stay where you are!”

  And then there was the voice of Vennell. It reached us in a sort of half-scream. It was filled with fear, distorted.

  “O’Rourke—Connors—for God’s sake—”

  Risdon was trying to get to the door that led to the corridor. He was stumbling. Carla Sard screamed shrilly. Crozier’s voice came into the room.

  “Vennell’s—cabin!”

  There was a crashing sound in the corridor, and Captain Latham’s voice reached me from the port-side deck.

  “Get those—lights on!”

  But there was no light. Above the sounds of confusion in the saloon I heard the hoarse voice of Mick O’Rourke. It sounded as though it came from some spot forward of even Vennell’s suite. He called out:

  “I’m coming—Vennell—”

  I thought of Sonia Vreedon. She had left the saloon. Mick O’Rourke had not been in the room. Crozier was outside, but near the door. The thoughts ran through my head as Bryce brushed me aside and got moving. Someone struck a match as we headed for the corridor.

  The lights did not come on. There was the beam of a flashlight down the corridor a short distance. Beyond the passageway that led off a wider one to the spot at which Vennell’s cabin was located, the beam struck the huge figure of Mick O’Rourke. He was moving swiftly forward.

  The flash was in the hands of Crozier; he turned into the passage that led to Vennell’s suite. Mick was behind him. Bryce was just ahead of me as we made the turn.

  The yacht was still in darkness. I had the feeling that every light was off, that not one bulb on the Virgin held power. Bryce pulled up short, behind the big figure of Mick, who stood in the doorway of Vennell’s suite.

  Crozier’s voice reached us, from within the cabin.

  “Vennell—Vennell—who did it?”

  Mick O’Rourke moved inside. Bryce and I fol
lowed. Vennell was on the floor. He was propped up, so that his head rested against one of the wicker chairs. His hands were at his sides, hanging limply. His eyes were wide—and staring straight ahead. There was a twisted smile on his lips, at once grotesque and terrible.

  Bryce leaned forward and touched a wrist. After a few seconds he said very slowly:

  “He’s—dead.”

  Mick O’Rourke swore. Crozier stood up, but kept the light on Vennell’s body. Doctor Bryce continued to lean forward. He said unsteadily:

  “It’s the back of his head—crushed. All smashed in.”

  Crozier said: “He hasn’t been shot?”

  There was a little silence, then Bryce said:

  “Not shot—it’s the back of his head. He’s been hit a terrible blow—”

  Crozier moved the beam of his flash around the suite. There was nothing upset. Not a chair was overturned. There was no sign of disorder. The sheets on Vennell’s bed were thrown aside, that was all.

  Bryce said slowly: “He had just—regained consciousness. He could talk—”

  I said: “There were shots—who fired them?”

  Crozier didn’t seem to hear me. He muttered:

  “Well—he can’t talk—now.”

  There was silence, except for sounds beyond the corridor, and Captain Latham’s voice calling sharply for the second officer.

  The beam of Crozier’s flash struck our faces, one by one. We all looked pretty grim. But I didn’t see Risdon. He had been the first to make a break for the corridor. He wasn’t in the suite now.

  Crozier lowered the beam so that it struck Vennell’s body again. Mick said hoarsely:

  “Jees—they got him, Al!”

  No one spoke. A bell struck, somewhere forward, and another one struck, aft. Bryce said very softly:

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  Torry Jones voice came to us, from the passageway beyond the suite.

  “What happened—is Vennell all right?”

  Crozier looked at Mick. He said very steadily:

  Go out and tell them, O’Rourke.”

  Mick said huskily: “What’ll I tell ’em?”

  Crozier let his flash beam move around the suite again. When he spoke, his tone was almost casual.

  “Tell them all we know, O’Rourke—and that’s that Eric Vennell is dead.”

  9

  THE FOURTH REASON

  IT was almost two o’clock in the morning when I went on deck for some air. The yacht was lighted pretty brightly; there were several launches along side. A uniformed police officer strolled along the starboard deck stretch and looked at me suspiciously as I stopped and used cupped hands to light a cigarette. I said:

  “I’m Connors—newspaperman. Just up for a bit of air. Not going anywhere.”

  He had a round face, very brown. He said in a grim tone:

  “I guess that’s true enough.”

  I went aft and ran into Cy Dana leaning against a rail and looking up at the stars. The night was pretty hot; there was no breeze. Cy nodded to me.

  “You’ve got nerve, Al,” he said.

  “In which way?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “You’re still bunking with that guy O’Rourke,” he said.

  I nodded. “Why not?”

  Cy frowned. “He’s a killer, Al,” he said. “You know that, and I think Crozier knows it. And Risdon, too.”

  I pulled up a wicker deck chair. We were alone aft, but the uniformed officer was along the deck stretch, looking out over the water and twisting his head toward us every few seconds. I sat in the chair and spoke in a low tone.

  “He’s killed, if that’s what you mean,” I agreed. “But I know a lot of good chaps that have killed—and that got paid for it. And that got medals for it.”

  Cy Dana swore at me. “The guy that morphined Babe Harron won’t get medals,” he said. “And the one who battered Vennell’s head in—he won’t get any. This isn’t a war.”

  I looked at Dana for several seconds without saying anything. Then I said quietly:

  “Got any ideas, Cy?”

  He nodded. “A lot of ’em,” he replied. “You’ll think they’re all rotten, too.”

  I said: “Probably. One of them is that Tim Burke morphined Babe Harron. I could see that, by the expression on your face when Crozier was questioning him.”

  Cy shrugged. “It doesn’t look so good for Burke,” he said. “He had the opportunity to use the needle. The needle was found in his cot mattress. He probably didn’t figure anyone would take the trouble to go through mattresses. This fellow Mears is pretty thorough.”

  I grunted. “If I’d used morphine on a man, and got the idea of a mattress hide for the needle, I wouldn’t use my own mattress,” I said.

  Cy Dana said grimly: “You might not have had time to use any other one, or the opportunity.”

  I said: “All right. Burke morphined Babe Harron and got rid of the needle he had swiped from the crew doctor, Vollmer. What was his reason?”

  Cy Dana said slowly: “Nine times out of ten there are just two motives for murder—greed and revenge. I don’t know much about Burke. There might be some reason for revenge, though Mears doesn’t know of any. And he thinks he would know. Crew is a closely knit affair. The coach is right with the men, and the men have to be right together. Burke, then, didn’t hate Harron. Nor was he his particular pal. Mears says Burke was quiet and as much alone as any crew man could be. We’ll throw out the revenge idea—and call it greed.”

  I said: “What sort of greed?”

  Cy smiled a little. “The most obvious sort—money greed. Burke hasn’t any money—he’s working his way through California. This was his last race, too. And he hasn’t any business prospects, he admits that. And he is pretty crazy about Sonia Vreedon. She’s a lawyer’s daughter, but he didn’t take law. She’s an expensive girl to marry.”

  I said: “How do you know?”

  Cy shrugged. “She’s always had money,” he replied.

  I groaned. “All right, go ahead,” I said. “Use your imagination, Cy.”

  He smiled a little grimly. “I’m giving you a possible theory, backed up by certain facts,” he stated. “There was a chance for Burke to make a lot of money. He had only to do two things—get the hypodermic syringe from Vollmer’s kit and use it. He had advice.”

  I said: “He had to get the morphine—and fill the syringe. He had to use it in a way that Babe Harron didn’t know what had happened. You think that was simple?”

  Cy Dana frowned. “That’s the thing that beats me,” he said. “How was it that the stroke didn’t know there had been an injection? That’s tough.”

  I smiled grimly. “Well—we’ll let that pass. You say Burke had advice. Who gave it to him?”

  The sportswriter looked past me. “Why not Mick O’Rourke?” he said softly.

  I sat up straight in the deck chair. I stared at Cy.

  “What the devil are you getting at?” I breathed “Mick O’Rourke!”

  Cy nodded. “I said why not Mick O’Rourke,” he reminded. “It’s a theory—not a fact. Something went wrong. Tim didn’t just swim out here to see Sonia Vreedon. That’s silly, and you know it. He’s got strong character—he’ll talk just so much, no more. Risdon and Crozier have been shooting questions at him for an hour, but he keeps repeating the same thing. He’s no fool. And only a fool would have made that swim to see a girl that he could have seen the next day, after the race. Mears has told me, as a matter of fact, that Burke could have seen her at the boathouse, before the race. The coach wanted the crew in the best mood. If it would have helped Tim any—to see the girl—it could have been arranged.”

  I half closed my eyes. “I supposed she handed Tim the information he needed,” I said slowly.

  Cy waited a few seconds. “Or the morphine he needed,” he said in a hard voice.

  I rose and stood close to him. He looked at me and smiled a little.

  “Keep cool, Al,” he advised. “I’m giving
you a theory. You asked for it.”

  I said: “That’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard you say—Sonia passing the morphine—”

  Cy said: “She didn’t go to see him before the race. Why not? Other people went to the boathouse. I did, for one. Don Rayne did. But Sonia Vreedon stayed away. Why?”

  I shrugged. “There might be a dozen reasons,” I said. “Well—why did she stay away?”

  Cy Dana lighted a cigarette. “Because she knew Babe Harron was going to be morphined,” he said slowly. “And she didn’t want any established evidence of a meeting with Tim Burke. She thought something might go wrong. She’s a pretty keen girl—the daughter of a criminal lawyer. She tried to play safe.”

  I said: “Oh, God!”

  Cy looked at the glowing tip of his cigarette.

  “But you saw Burke out here—and you talked to Risdon. And Johnny Light, the Number Two oar, he spotted Burke at the boathouse end. And Sonia Vreedon now admits that she talked with him at the yacht. She was just up getting air, because she was excited and couldn’t sleep. Can you imagine Sonia Vreedon getting so excited she couldn’t sleep—over a crew race?”

  I couldn’t, but I said that I could. Cy just shrugged.

  “Knowing what was going to happen before the race, she might have been excited,” he said. “But that wasn’t the reason she was on deck. She expected Burke.”

  I sighed. “You figure Tim was advised by O’Rourke,” I said. “Why didn’t Mick meet him, then?”

  Cy said: “Because you were sleeping in the same cabin with him. He had to be careful.”

  I groaned again. “And who was Mick working for?” I asked sarcastically. “Vennell?”

  Cy nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Vennell cleaned up when Columbia won, but he had to be sure that Columbia would win. He used O’Rourke and Sonia Vreedon—and Burke. And he cleaned up.”

  I moved round a little and finally came back close to Cy.

  “It’s the most hellish theory I ever heard,” I said. “It sounds like a bum sort of joke to me.”

  Cy said grimly: “Yeah—we’ll start to shoot it full of holes, Al. And lay a bet that it isn’t the theory that Risdon and Crozier will follow to the finish.”