The Virgin Kills

by Raoul Whitfield

  I swore and looked toward the Highland shore. There were few lights showing in the houses on the hill that rose in back of the small town.

  Cy Dana said: “The police are holding the California crew in the boathouse, and they’re working on shore as well as the yacht. Harron, senior, has plenty of money. They’ll get his son’s murderer—and the others involved.”

  I nodded. “I hope so. But it won’t be Sonia Vreedon, or Mick O’Rourke,” I said.

  Cy didn’t reply. He kept his eyes narrowed on mine.

  “For a newspaperman—you’re going all haywire, Al,” he said.

  I nodded. “All right—Vennell worked Mick O’Rourke, Sonia, and Tim Burke to murder the stroke so that California would lose, Columbia won, and he cleaned up, we’ll say. Now, first, I got Mick O’Rourke aboard. How about that?”

  Cy smiled. “You didn’t have any trouble locating O’Rourke, did you?” he asked. “After Vennell told you his troubles?”

  I shook my head. “Not much,” I said.

  Cy Dana nodded. “Vennell figured you’d get O’Rourke. But if you hadn’t he would have got him aboard some other way. It was better to have you bring him aboard, with that sloppy story of yours. He had to give you a reason, so he worked the on-the-spot gag. O’Rourke played along—he’s still playing along. And if you don’t watch yourself—”

  I said: “Bunk.”

  Cy nodded. “I’m older than you, Al,” he said. “I don’t fall in love so easily.”

  I swore at him. “How about Vennell?” I asked in a low tone.

  Cy turned his head and looked at the uniformed officer up the deck some distance.

  “Figure it out for yourself,” he said. “I’ll pass up what happened when Vennell disappeared, right after the finish. He’d won a lot of money, and he knew it. Maybe something snapped, inside of his head. I think he went overboard. Maybe he was knocked over—or maybe he just lost his head. He’d been under tremendous strain. He’d had a few minutes there when it hadn’t looked as though the job had been done right. Columbia was being licked. Anyway, he got back aboard again.”

  I said with sarcasm: “After almost four hours of floating round in the Hudson.”

  Cy shrugged. “He might not have floated round in the Hudson. Captain Latham says he was a strong swimmer. He might easily have reached shore. The storm was on—and he might easily not have been seen. Then he got back.”

  I said: “With a pretty badly cut head.”

  Cy skipped his cigarette overboard. “Not badly enough to keep him unconscious so long, unless I’m all wrong,” he replied. “Shock might have done that—and then, again, it might not. Anyway, he was back aboard the yacht, and two detectives were aboard. One of them knew that the yacht was the right working spot—he was working pretty fast. Burke had given him the lead. And Vennell was at a point where he would have had to talk pretty quick.”

  The sportswriter paused. I said: “Someone threw the main light switch—there were a lot of shots—and someone murdered Vennell.”

  Cy nodded. “Someone who was pretty damn strong.” he said very quietly. “Someone who hadn’t been in the main saloon when the lights went out.”

  I kicked the wicker chair around but I didn’t sit in it.

  “There were quite a few people aboard who were not in the main saloon,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Sonia Vreedon and Mick O’Rourke—”

  He let his voice die. He lighted another cigarette. I said slowly:

  “One of them murdered Vennell, because they were afraid he was breaking down and might talk. That would have involved them.”

  Cy said: “I don’t think Sonia Vreedon did it, Al.”

  I groaned. “You should have been a dick, Cy,” I told him “You’re damn good.”

  The sportswriter nodded. “I’ve got three theories,” he said. “The one I’ve told you is about the sanest.”

  I shook my head. “It’s lousy,” I said. “And you know it.”

  Cy said: “It’s pretty damn good, Al. Here and there it’s shaky. But it isn’t lousy. And you know that.”

  We were both silent for several minutes. Then I said:

  “Well, Crozier tells me the yacht stays anchored until they get something. Risdon says the same thing. They’re going to hold the crew together, and it looks as though Coach Mears, Doc Vollmer, and Tim Burke will stay aboard tonight. Vennell’s dead, but—”

  Cy nodded. “But Tim Burke might talk, under certain conditions.” he stated. “Or Sonia Vreedon might talk. Or Mick O’Rourke might—”

  I reached for my cigarettes, shaking my head. A figure came along the deck, said something to the uniformed officer, and moved on toward us. Cy said:

  “Risdon.”

  The lean-faced Poughkeepsie detective came up to us and looked into our faces sharply. His own eyes were serious.

  “You fellows trying to put anything over on me?” he asked grimly.

  I watched Cy Dana look hurt. He shook his head.

  “What could we put over, Risdon?” I asked.

  He smiled a little. “I mean—are you figuring on sending stuff ashore, for your sheets?”

  I had stuff in my pocket that I was figuring doing just that with, and I guessed that Cy had, too. He nodded his head.

  “We ought to get in a flash on the Vennell murder,” he said. “It’s a big story—he’s well known.”

  Risdon said: “Let me read the stuff first.”

  Cy Dana and I exchanged glances. The lean-faced detective shrugged.

  “If you don’t it won’t get ashore,” he said simply. “All I want to see is that you don’t give someone a break.”

  I frowned at him. “My story simply tells who was where when the murder was committed and doesn’t do any guessing.”

  Risdon smiled grimly. “Yes?” he said. “Well, where were O’Rourke, Miss Vreedon, Captain Latham, Doctor Vollmer, Tim Burke, the second officer, most of the crew, and a few others?”

  Cy said: “Ah—you see, Al? You forgot something.”

  Risdon scowled at Cy. I said: “Haven’t they told you where they were, Risdon?”

  He nodded, his face grim. “Sure,” he said. “They were all quite busy doing very splendid things, far from Vennell’s suite.”

  I took some sheets of paper from a pocket and handed them to him.

  “Here’s my stuff,” I said. “I’ve given you a nice boost too.”

  Risdon took the paper. “Thanks,” he said with sarcasm. “But I wouldn’t take charge of the New York police force if I got the offer. Poughkeepsie suits me.”

  Cy said: “It must be quiet and everything.”

  The lean-faced detective nodded. “Except when the Vassar girls break out the daisy chain,” he said.

  Cy handed him a few sheets of paper. Risdon stuffed them in his pocket.

  “I’ll look them right over—and send them ashore if they’re all right.” he said. “I don’t like to hold up the press.”

  Cy said: “It’s getting late—and I haven’t been a reporter for so long the city desk will have to rewrite my stuff. I want to make the morning edition.”

  I nodded. “Don’t mix the two up. It’ll be a tough break for me,” I said to Risdon.

  Cy smiled faintly. Risdon said: “It doesn’t look too good for young Tim Burke, but I don’t want it spread all over the papers.”

  I looked toward Highland and the few lights that showed in houses. There were some showing in the California boathouse, too. I said:

  “Tim Burke didn’t use the hypodermic on babe Harron, Risdon.”

  The greenish eyes of the detective were narrowed on mine.

  “No?” he asked. “Well, who did?”

  I shook my head. “Someone who was pretty desperate,” I replied. “Tim Burke wasn’t desperate. He may not have had any brilliant business prospects, or much money in sight. But he’s young—and strong. He’s not the type to kill this way. He hasn’t been disillusioned enough.”

  Cy Dana
groaned. Risdon said: “How do you know he wasn’t desperate? How do you know he wasn’t disillusioned?”

  I said: “Was he?”

  Risdon swore softly. “You newspaper guys think you’re second Christs,” he breathed.

  Cy Dana said: “Damned if they don’t, Risdon.”

  The detective turned away from us and walked toward the main saloon. I called after him:

  “Find out who pulled the master switch?”

  He shook his head. “That would help a lot, wouldn’t it?” he called back with sarcasm.

  He went inside, slamming the door that led from the deck. Cy Dana said:

  “Risdon’s a little suspicious of everybody.”

  I nodded. “Why not? He’s established the fact that Vennell made a big gambling win. And when he figured he’d have money to pass around later—he might have passed it before. Risdon doesn’t know who might have got it.”

  Cy Dana nodded his head slowly: “I didn’t know you were willing to admit that Risdon had established the fact Vennell cleaned up on Columbia.”

  I shrugged. “I gave Crozier the radiogram I’d found. He’s talked with Sonia, and she sensed that Vennell was betting against California. She’s probably told Crozier that. I don’t think he’s holding much back from Risdon.”

  Cy said: “That doesn’t establish the fact that Vennell bet against California.”

  A door opened, up the deck a short distance. A head stuck out and Crozier called:

  “Oh, Connors!”

  I said: “Here.”

  Crozier stepped outside, and then stood still. He called softly:

  “Come inside a few minutes, will you? Want to talk to you.”

  I said: “Sure.”

  Cy Dana sighed. “Better be good, Al.” he advised. “A hunk of lead pipe hurts like the devil.”

  “Crozier isn’t that sort of a dick,” I replied. “He’s an investigator, Cy.”

  The sportswriter nodded. “Yeah,” he said tightly. “But when a guy’s after a murderer, he forgets a lot of the sophisticated stuff, except in books.”

  “If I get hurt, my sheet’ll sue,” I announced cheerfully.

  The sportswriter grunted. “Sue ’em for not killing you!” he muttered.

  2

  Crozier led the way to the captain’s quarters. Captain Latham was not inside the well-done living room of his suite, but Sonia Vreedon sat in a high-backed chair, facing one that was not so comfortable and that had cigarette ashes on the cushion. Crozier gestured toward a third chair, near the one in which Sonia was seated.

  I smiled at her, and she smiled back. It seemed to me that she had been crying, but that she’d got past that stage. There was something that looked a little like defiance in her gray eyes. He slender body was relaxed in the chair; she held a cigarette in her left-hand fingers.

  I took the chair near her and lighted up. Crozier sat down in the one that faced Sonia’s, ran fingers through his gray hair, and tapped his mustache a few times. His pale-blue eyes seemed almost cheerful.

  “We go along this way, Connors,” he said thoughtfully, and stopped speaking for several seconds. “We reach the conclusion that, having lost a great deal of money on Wall Street, Vennell decided on a rather desperate scheme for getting it back. He had a large sum left—say, three quarters of a million. He distributed that sum over the country, taking the short end of a three-to-one bet. He realized that while there was always betting on crew races, there has never been what might be called organized betting. But he was betting against the favorite crew—a veteran crew. So he could not simply bet. He was a gambler, and a shady one. We know that. He had to be sure that California would lose the race, and yet he had to be sure that the crew was a favorite until he got his money out and covered. The radiogram proves that he got it covered.”

  I said: “If the radiogram wasn’t a fake.”

  Crozier smiled faintly. “It wasn’t,” he said. “I’ve been after the radio operator. There has been nothing the matter with the apparatus, as was reported. Vennell simply didn’t want interference. It took some digging to get the truth, but, with Vennell dead, things are different. Some of the people aboard are getting worried.”

  I whistled softly. Crozier said: “And some of them aren’t.”

  His eyes went to the gray ones of Sonia Vreedon. She didn’t say anything. I said:

  “Perhaps they have nothing to be worried about.”

  Crozier tapped his mustache. “Perhaps not,” he agreed, but his voice was grim. “In any case, Vennell got his money covered. It might not have been so much as I suggest. But I’d gamble that it was in excess of a half-million.”

  He paused and frowned. “Vennell was pretty shrewd,” he went on. “He was trying to put over a big thing, and his nerves were none too good. He knew that. He had something to beat—himself. He was pretty sure he’d go to pieces during the race, except for one thing. And he wanted to cover up anything that might show. His own nervousness, his own strange actions. So he called you on the phone and got you to bring along a bodyguard. He knew pretty well who you’d bring.”

  I said: “I don’t think he did. And what do you mean—he was pretty sure he’d go to pieces, except for one thing?”

  Crozier said quietly: “He was using stuff.”

  I stared at him. My eyes went to Sonia; she was tapping ash from her cigarette. Her own eyes were expressionless.

  I said: “Stuff, eh? What sort?”

  Crozier leaned back in his chair. “Morphine,” he said quietly.

  There was a little silence. Then the investigator said slowly:

  “He knew it might show—there might be a letdown. So he decided upon the story that he had been put on the spot by a big shot whose money a brokerage house with which he was connected had refused to return, after a natural loss on the market. And because he didn’t want to appear to be hiding anything, he invited a mixed crowd, including two newspaper men. The only thing he stressed, to two of you—O’Rourke and yourself—was that his life was in danger. He told you he had a small bet, for him, on California.”

  I narrowed my eyes and nodded my head a little. Crozier was talking pretty straight. I waited. The gray-haired investigator said:

  “He wanted to be convincing—so that if he went to pieces, you wouldn’t associate it with his real activities, but with this threat on his life. So he planted that business card you found, in the smoke room. Or, rather, he had someone else plant it.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. “Griggs?” I breathed questioningly.

  Sonia looked at me sharply, and I thought there was sudden fear in her eyes. Crozier looked surprised. He leaned forward in his chair.

  “How’d you know that?” he snapped.

  I shrugged, smiling. “After I’d picked the card up and put it in my pocket, Griggs came into the smoke room to do something. He looked down at the spot from which I’d lifted the card.”

  Sonia was breathing quickly; she leaned back and closed her eyes now. Crozier nodded.

  “Griggs was very much an amateur, of course. I went after him, showed him the card. He denied knowledge of it, at first. But he changed his mind, after Vennell was murdered. He came to me and told me the truth. He didn’t want to be involved in something serious. Vennell had instructed him to drop the card and to be silent about it. He had told Griggs it was a joke. I don’t know whose handwriting it was. The intent was merely to build up his story that his life was in danger.”

  I frowned. “And the one who got into his cabin?”

  Crozier said slowly: “It’s a thin story—that one. I haven’t had time to talk with Carla Sard yet. But when I do, it may fall to pieces. That was a little stupid of Vennell, but he might have conceived that at a time when he wasn’t thinking too clearly and was obsessed with the idea that he must impress the fact that his life really was in danger.”

  I said nothing. Sonia was breathing more easily now, her head tilted back slightly and her eyes looking toward the ceiling of the liv
ing room.

  Crozier said: “Well—that gets us along a bit. Babe Harron was the stroke of the California crew. Important, very. If he went to pieces, there was much more chance of the others going to pieces. So Vennell decided he was the one to go to pieces.”

  I said: “Cold-blooded murder.”

  Crozier shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “Something went wrong. There was a mistake or something got away from Vennell.”

  He paused and lighted a cigarette. I looked at Sonia and said:

  “You mean—someone saw a chance to cut in?”

  Crozier shrugged. “Miss Vreedon doesn’t think so,” he replied grimly.

  Sonia spoke for the first time. She said in a husky but steady voice:

  “Crozier and this man Risdon—they both think that poor Tim injected the morphine—”

  Her voice broke. She stood up suddenly and turned her back to both of us. Her hands were clenched at her sides. I said:

  “You’re wrong, Crozier—Tim Burke isn’t mixed up in this.”

  The investigator smiled with his lips. “In the shell he was directly in front of Babe Harron—that is, ahead of him,” he said. “In the boathouse quarters he had his cot next to Harron’s.”

  I said: “What of that?”

  “He had the better opportunity,” Crozier replied quietly.

  Sonia Vreedon swung around suddenly. She faced the investigator from New York. She said in a level voice:

  “He didn’t do it, I tell you. He didn’t. He couldn’t.”

  Crozier spread his hands in a swift gesture, palms up, then let them fall to his knees.

  “That isn’t good enough, Miss Vreedon. He’s obstinate. He won’t answer all questions—only the ones he wishes to answer. The hypodermic syringe was found in the mattress of his cot—”

  I said slowly: “How did Coach Mears happen to get the idea of a mattress search?”

  Crozier shook his head. “He didn’t get the idea,” he replied. “I got it.”

  I said: “Pardon.”

  He nodded.

  Sonia repeated slowly: “Tim didn’t do it—it’s ghastly, just to think he did.”

  I looked at Crozier, who seemed grimly amused.

  “If the injection had been made in the boathouse, Babe Harron would have known it,” I said evenly. “He would have had time to find out what had happened. A clever man would have realized that. If the injection had been made while the shell was being pulled in leisurely fashion, up the river, for the start, things would have been different. There wouldn’t have been time for an examination. Tim Burke’s face was to Harron’s back. Harron was a big man, broad-shouldered, powerful, naturally. Burke might have leaned forward, Ed Dale, the coxswain, was facing him, but he would not have seen a swift movement. Number Six might have been looking behind or fooling with his slide rig. The paddle out for the start can be haphazard affair. There is certainly a possibility that the injection might have been made in the shell.”