I checked myself. Mick’s eyes were little slits. He was breathing evenly, deeply.
“So—what, Al?” he said very slowly and coldly.
I said: “After Vennell staggered away from the rail, you almost did it. But you didn’t.”
Mick O’Rourke smiled a little. His eyes widened and he showed his white teeth. He spread his fingers.
I said: “After Vennell staggered away from the rail, at the race finish, I followed him. There was a lot of storm. It was dark. I lost him. The chances are he didn’t know what he was doing. It had been a terrific strain—and he’d seen Harron collapse. I think you moved around the deck, Mick—and you were luckier. You ran into him.”
The big fellow went over and sat down on the bed. He rolled over on his back, closed his eyes.
“What happened then?” I asked.
There was a twisted smile on Mick’s face. He shook his head from side to side, opened his eyes, and sat up suddenly. Then he shook his head again. He touched his big toes on the floor, leaned toward me.
“Al,” he said in a steady tone, “I ain’t that kind of a guy. You oughta know that. Vennell slipped me five grand. I knew he was lying about something—I had the hunch right away that Dingo Bandelli was the guy who’d lost the coin on the Street. But I knew Dingo was back in Chicago, and I didn’t figure he’d put Vennell on the spot.”
I waited. Mick stopped smiling. “But I didn’t go after Vennell, Al. Maybe I thought about it—yeah. Dingo was a louse—he tried to frame me more than once. He came after me with a knife—and he gave me this—”
The big fellow raised a hand and touched the scar on his face. He was scowling.
“But Vennell slipped me five grand, see? And I had a job to do. Maybe I was a little careless, at first. But after the race finish, I went after him, Al. After you, to make it right. I lost you both, in the rain and darkness. And then I cut across the deck—”
He checked himself. I said: “All right—don’t stall, Mick.”
He frowned at me. “Someone took a crack at me,” he said slowly.
I stood up and narrowed my eyes on his.
“You mean Vennell hit you—and then you hit him?” I asked grimly.
He shook his head. “It wasn’t Vennell,” he said slowly.
He was telling the truth; I sensed that. He was frowning over it, and he didn’t like to tell it—but it was straight.
“Who was it?” I asked.
Mick smiled faintly, with his lips pressed together. Then he got them apart.
“Torry Jones,” he replied.
I stared at him. “Torry Jones!” I muttered.
Mick said: “Yeah. He’d been waiting for a chance to get square, you see? For me throwin’ him over the side, making a fool of him. He followed me and took a crack. The wind helped him, and I went off balance, Al. When I got up and swung around, there were two figures near the rail. One of them was Torry—the other was Vennell. Vennell sort of slipped out of sight in the darkness—and when I started after Torry Jones, he was gone.”
I stood stiffly, still staring at Mick. Then I said:
“You mean that Vennell walked into the wrong spot. Torry thought it was you—”
Mick said grimly: “It was black—and there was wind and rain. Jones made a mistake, that’s all. But he knew it pretty quick.”
I said: “Why didn’t you say something—when we started the search?”
The big fellow shrugged. “I figured maybe Jones had done me a favor,” he said very quietly. “As a matter of fact, Al—I didn’t see Vennell go overboard. I just thought he might have gone.”
I was silent for a few seconds. Then I muttered half to myself:
“Torry Jones, trying for you—and slamming Vennell overboard. That wouldn’t be difficult, in the shape he was in. But he got back—”
Mick said: “We didn’t find him for almost four hours. Where the devil was he?”
I said suddenly: “Torry Jones was the one who went down the stern ladder and looked in the tender we had trailing out—the small launch. You remember, Mick? That boat was the only one over the side when the storm broke, and the captain had her pulled around back, let her drift. When the second office remembered that, Torry went down. He came back and reported Vennell wasn’t aboard her.”
Mick said: “Jees—that’s right! And he might have been. He got a wallop—his head was cut. Maybe from the rail, Al. Nobody paid any attention to that little launch, after Jones came up from her. Vennell was groggy, but he finally got back to the yacht, flopped over—”
I said: “Put some clothes on—we’ll go along and see Torry Jones.”
Mick O’Rourke stood up and started to dress. I frowned at him.
“If you’d come through with this before, it might have helped—”
I stopped, remembering that Torry Jones had been in the saloon when Vennell had cried out, and when the lights had dimmed. Mick was remembering that, too. He shook his head.
“Torry Jones didn’t do him in, Al—that was just a mistake. He was tryin’ for me. When he got in a jam, he had to do some thinking. Vennell had been afraid of something, Jones knew that. And if Vennell yelled that Torry was the one—”
I frowned as Mick slipped into a shirt. I said softly:
“But Vennell got back aboard—and if Torry was worried enough, he had reason—”
There was a sharp rap on the door. Mick snapped the belt buckle of his trousers. I said:
“Who’s that?”
Crozier’s voice, pretty cool, said:
“It’s Crozier.”
I opened the door, and the investigator came in. He looked at Mick, then at me.
“You’re talking a little loudly,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
I looked at Mick, who was watching Crozier with narrowed eyes. Then I said:
“We’re just getting ready to make a call on one Torry Jones.”
Crozier said slowly: “Yes? Why?”
I told him. When I got through, he looked at Mick O’Rourke and said:
“Is your part of it straight, O’Rourke?”
Mick said grifnly: “Straight as the road to hell!”
Crozier nodded. “Let’s get started—we’ll make it a threesome.” he said.
2
Torry Jones had a small cabin at the end of a corridor. Crozier did the rapping on the door; he rapped twice before Torry called sleepily:
“What’s—the matter?”
Mick muttered: “He’s a healthy guy—he doesn’t lose sleep no matter what happens.”
Crozier called: “It’s Crozier—let us inside, Jones.”
Torry grumbled something, using the word, “sleep” a few times. We heard him moving round. Griggs came along the corridor and wanted to know if anything was wrong. Crozier said sharply:
“Not yet—aside from two murders and a few other things. We won’t need you, Griggs.”
Griggs went away. Torry Jones opened the door and blinked at us as we filed in. He was wearing a green silk bathrobe that wasn’t so gaudy as Mick’s, but that was bad enough. He shut the door behind us.
“I’ve got to sleep—even if some pretty nasty things have happened,” he apologized.
Crozier nodded. Mick said: “You lost a lot of it when you flew the Atlantic.”
Torry narrowed his eyes on the big fellow’s. He said: “Now, listen—you big slob—”
Crozier raised his right hand a little.
“Cut the yelling,” he said sharply. “When you went down the ladder over the stern, about fifteen minutes after Vennell disappeared, during the storm—”
I said: “Sorry, Crozier—but Jones went down to the launch after about thirty minutes.”
Crozier nodded. “Thirty minutes after Vennell disappeared, then. You got down to the launch. What did you see in it?”
Torry Jones looked surprised. He smiled a little.
“The usual things a launch has,” he said. “It was pretty wet, but partly covered with tarpaulin.�
�
Crozier nodded almost pleasantly. “You had a flashlight?” he asked.
Torry nodded. Mick said: “You didn’t see Vennell aboard the launch?”
The flier shook his head. He moved his tongue over an upper lip and fumbled around the room for cigarettes. I gave him one of mine and lighted it for him.
Crozier said: “It’s a bad time to make mistakes, Jones. Everything counts. You sure Vennell hadn’t dragged himself aboard the tender?”
Torry swore, “Of course,” he muttered. “I got eyes haven’t I?”
Mick said quietly: “You didn’t use ’em too well when you figured Vennell was me—and knocked him overboard!”
Torry sucked in a sharp breath. He started a smile that was pretty shaky. I said:
“You volunteered pretty quick—to go down and look in the tender.”
Torry muttered: “I don’t know what you’re gettin at.”
Crozier spoke coldly. “No?” He reached out his right hand and caught Torry by the left shoulder. The flier swung around and slapped the investigator’s hand away.
“Don’t get hard with me!” he snapped.
Mick shoved me aside and stepped in close to Torry. I said:
“Careful, Mick—you’re a big man!”
Crozier said: “No—take it easy, O’Rourke. We’ve got him. There was plenty of rain on that tender, Jones. But there was tarpaulin covering some of it, as you saw. That’s why those on deck couldn’t see Vennell’s body. And you were in a hurry. The water was rough, and the little tender was jumping around a lot. Maybe you didn’t notice that Vennell’s head was cut. We found bloodstains, in the tender.”
Mick sighed. He looked at Crozier with faint admiration in his eyes. I said:
“It looks like you didn’t get Vennell that time, Jones—but you had better luck later—”
“That’s a lie!” Torry Jones raised his voice. His eyes were staring into Crozier’s.
The investigator from New York said: “Take it easy—don’t yell. We’re getting enough excitement aboard this yacht.”
Torry Jones said grimly: “I hit him, yes. That was an accident. I was after O’Rourke, here, He made a damn fool of me. I hit O’Rourke, but not hard. There was a gust of wind and it swung me around. Something pitched into me, and I hit again—hard. Then I broke for it. I didn’t know it was Vennell, or that he’d gone overboard. Then I saw O’Rourke—and Vennell was missing. I knew what had happened—I guessed what had happened. I was nearly crazy. When Rosecrans thought about the tender, I figured Vennell might be there. So I went down.”
Torry Jones sat down heavily in a chair, shook his head. Mick said:
“Well—why did you leave him there?”
Torry said heavily: “I thought—he was dead.”
Crozier shook his head slowly. I said: “Well—what of that?”
The flier looked at Crozier with wide eyes. Then he stared at Mick.
“I figured O’Rourke had seen me hit him. If you knew he was dead—O’Rourke would talk. But if it wasn’t sure what had happened to him—”
Crozier nodded. Torry Jones said: “I couldn’t figure why you didn’t say something, anyway, O’Rourke. I was sure you’d seen me hit him.”
Crozier looked at Mick. He said quietly:
“Why didn’t you speak up. O’Rourke?”
I knew the answer to that one, but I couldn’t see that it made much difference. If Mick wanted them to think that Vennell really had been put on the spot, and believed that sooner or later they’d get after Dingo Bandelli—
Mick said: “I didn’t know just what to do, Crozier. It was an accident, in a way. And I hate to see a guy get the chair for an accident.”
Torry Jones said in a flat voice: “He wasn’t dead. He got back on the boat, after a few hours. He was probably in bad shape, and it took time. He had to get up the rope ladder. He might have lain on deck for an hour or so. And then he was taken to his suite. I was in the saloon, Crozier—when the lights went out. I swear I had nothing—”
Crozier nodded. He looked at me. “We’ve accounted for Vennell’s disappearance,” he said slowly. “He ran into Jones—and Jones was fighting mad.”
Torry said thickly: “I’d been drinking—”
Mick grunted. “You still want to take a crack at me?” he demanded.
Crozier swore at the big fellow. Torry Jones said:
“I didn’t murder Vennell—”
I lighted a cigarette and listened to Crozier say:
“All right—you get to sleep. It’s a tough crowd to get anything out of.”
He headed for the door. I followed. Mick said grimly:
“Pleasant dreams.”
We went outside and along the corridor. Crozier led the way and didn’t talk. When we got near Suite B, I said in a low voice:
“Why did Sonia Vreedon go out like that?”
Crozier’s eyes held a distant expression. The three of us stood close together.
“She got a jolt when she realized I knew Vennell had been close to Tim Burke, out west. She says Burke was worried about Vennell. That was why he swam out. He wanted to find out if she knew how Vennell was betting.”
Mick said: “Oh, yeah?”
There was a lot of doubt in his words. Crozier frowned at him.
“You’d better go to bed, O’Rourke,” he advised. “You’ve been moving around a lot—and shooting at things.”
Mick didn’t speak. He looked at me, and I nodded. He went along toward Suite B. Crozier led the way into the smoke room, which was deserted. We took chairs that were close together.
“What do you know about Vennell, Connors?” he asked me.
I told him what I knew and what I’d heard. He nodded.
“Sonia Vreedon’s story now is that Tim Burke hasn’t too much background. No parents, only one relative, somewhere in the east. He met Vennell, and Vennell took a liking to him. This was before she met Burke. But even three years ago Vennell was anxious for Burke to go out for crew. And last year he asked a lot of questions about the Poughkeepsie Regatta—and Burke commenced to get worried. He got the idea that perhaps Vennell wasn’t on the level, and thought he might be able to use him.”
I whistled softly. “It’s pretty well known that Vennell wasn’t on the level,” I agreed. “He was a sharp gambler, and he might have seen an opportunity here, even before the Street crash hit him.”
Crozier nodded. “Burke and Sonia Vreedon stick to the story that Vennell was after him to take it pretty easy. A year ago—not that long ago, but at the beginning of this last college term, Burke and Vennell had it out. Vennell never came out in the open, of course. He couldn’t afford to do that. But finally Tim Burke knew what he was getting at. They had a big scene, and that was the finish. And Sonia was afraid, because she knew Vennell. She tried not to show it, but she was worried. He must have known that she suspected him—but he went through with the bet on the short end, anyway. That shows he was sure.”
I said: “And he was desperate. He needed money.”
Crozier shrugged. “That’s the girl’s story—and Burke’s. But if they had worked with Vennell—that would be their nicest story.”
I shook my head. “They’re not mixed up in this, Crozier,” I said.
He smiled grimly: “They’re mixed up in it, all right. What you mean is that they’re not mixed up in the murders.”
I said: “And Burke swam out because he had to know how Vennell was betting?”
Crosier said: “That’s his story. But they wouldn’t come through with any of it until I told them Vennell had talked to me.”
“Had he?” I asked.
Crozier smiled coldly. “Not exactly,” he replied. “He was wandering a little—and he kept saying that he was through—I’m through with you, Burke’—that sort of thing.”
I said: “Then it looks as though Tim hadn’t lied about the break?”
The investigator shook his head. “Why?” he asked. “Vennell might have been throug
h with him because he didn’t think he was going to do things right. But Burke could still have done them.”
I shook my head. “He didn’t,” I insisted.
Crozier looked somewhere beyond me, and we sat in silence for quite a while. Then he said.
“Well it’s like this—Risdon thinks O’Rourke and Tim Burke did these murders. He figures O’Rourke is strong enough to have finished Vennell. And Burke was close enough to use the morphine on Babe Harron. He thinks that O’Rourke hit Vennell with something heavy, after he yelled. He got rid of it—ran down the corridor and turned. Then he shouted that he was coming and headed back toward Vennell’s suite. He thinks O’Rourke slipped Burke the morphine, and Burke stole the syringe from Doctor Vollmer the day of the race. Vennell knew about it, but he was weakening under the strain. So O’Rourke murdered him to stop him from talking.”
I said: “I don’t like the ideas—and I’m pretty sure Mick didn’t kill.”
Crozier looked thoughtful. “He’s a strong man—and Vennell was hit hard.”
I nodded. “Get the man who morphined Babe Harron, and you’ll be getting somewhere.”
Crozier said a little bitterly: “I don’t think there’s much more I can do. I’m not a mastermind, and this isn’t one of those book stories where everything fits in nice, at just the right time. Any human being can lie—they can lie in groups. I think we’ve established the fact that Harron was murdered so that California would lose. We’re pretty sure Vennell bet on Columbia. We’ve eliminated the reason for his disappearance and return. He was in bad shape, and it didn’t require much reasoning to show whoever killed him that it would be a lot better if he couldn’t talk.”
I said: “What about the bets—they haven’t been collected.”
Crozier nodded. He tapped his gray mustache.
“Perhaps that was just another reason—for Vennell’s murder,” he said. “Perhaps somebody else thinks he can collect them.”
I said again: “Get Babe Harron’s killer—the one who used the hypodermic syringe. That’s the important end.”
The gray-haired investigator smiled bitterly.
“With a killer aboard the yacht?” he asked.
I said: “Is Vennell’s murderer aboard the yacht?”
The Virgin Kills Page 19
