The Virgin Kills
Page 21
“Not after the lights went out,” Crozier muttered. “And you’ve said you couldn’t see Tim Burke—after they went out. Or Vollmer, here.”
The crew doctor said: “I started for the main saloon entrance, then stopped. It was very dark—the sudden contrast after the deck lights went out.”
Crozier looked at the crew coach. “And you say Burke was right beside you—you could hear him breathing.”
Mears nodded. “And I could hear that big fellow calling that he was coming. Then I headed in the general direction of the saloon entrance. When I got inside, there was a great deal of confusion.”
Crozier said: “And you’ve stated several times that Tim Burke was right behind you.”
The crew coach nodded. “I couldn’t see him there, but he spoke to me as we neared the saloon door. He said: ‘That was Vennell’s voice.’ That was all.”
Doc Vollmer was shaking his head. “Whoever killed Vennell knew about that light switch,” he said. “And that means it was some person familiar with the boat.”
I nodded. Crozier nodded very slowly. The coach looked toward the boathouse.
“It seems to me,” he said quietly, “that it looks as though we’ve got to get the one who morphined Babe Harron first. And I hate to think that man was one of the boys—”
He drew a deep breath, was silent. There were footfalls, light and swift, along the deck. The sound of the plane engine, overhead, almost drowned them. And then Sonia Vreedon was beside Crozier. She was excited; there was color in her cheeks.
“Mr. Crozier!” Her voice was excited, too. “I’ve just thought of something—something important! I want you to hear it—”
Crozier said a little harshly: “Something that will prove Tim Burke innocent?”
Sonia’s eyes met mine. “I hope so!” she said simply. “It’s important.”
Crozier looked at me and smiled with his eyes slightly narrowed.
“Anything that will give Burke a break—that’s very important,” he agreed.
Doctor Vollmer said softly: “I feel sure that it wasn’t Burke. Or any of the boys.”
Sonia flashed the crew doctor a grateful glance. She looked squarely at Crozier.
“I’d like to tell you what I’ve thought about—and Mr. Risdon can listen, too, if you think he should. I’m sure it will help—sure!”
Her voice was steady and enthusiastic. Crozier nodded.
“We’ve gone over things pretty carefully,” he said. “We haven’t got anywhere in the Vennell murder, though I’d hold Mick O’Rourke on suspicion, I think. But in the case of Babe Harron—Tim Burke is—”
He stopped, shrugged. Mears said:
“There’s strong circumstantial evidence against him, Miss Vreedon.”
Sonia said in a voice not quite so steady:
“But you’ve got to listen to me—you’ve got to!”
Crozier shook his head. “I haven’t got to,” he said a little wearily. “You’re prejudiced in Burke’s favor. I haven’t got to do anything. But I will listen to you”
Sonia Vreedon drew a short breath, smiled just a bit. She said:
“Now, please!”
Crozier nodded. The plane engine’s roar was becoming a drone in the distance. The detective turned away, but Sonia stood still, her head tilted a little, her eyes on the plane. Then she turned away, too.
I looked at the plane, and when I looked away from it, Coach Mears was shaking his head, and Doc Vollmer was rubbing stubby fingers together and looking down at the deck surface.
“She’s a fighter—that girl,” Mears said in a low tone.
“It’s simple enough—she’s the daughter of a brilliant lawyer,” Doc Vollmer stated.
I reached for a cigarette. “It’s simpler than that,” I muttered. “She’s in love with Tim Burke.”
12
SCREENED DEATH
Just before noon a big seaplane circled over the Virgin several times, glided for the water, and taxied near the yacht. It was a hot, clear day, and most of us were aft, under the awning. Tim Burke was nervous; he moved round a lot. And Risdon watched him closely. Burke had nice eyes and a swell pair of shoulders. His face and hands were burned almost black by the sun. I tried twice to get him talking, but didn’t succeed. The only person he talked with was Sonia, and he looked at her more than he talked to her.
Carla Sard got to her feet and went to the starboard rail. Sonia had already reached it and was looking over the side. Most of us crowded around and watched the seaplane get beside the yacht. A tall, lean man called up:
“Mr. Crozier?”
Crozier was on the deck below. He said:
“Yes—we’re expecting you. Get aboard, will you?” The tall man got aboard. We stayed at the rail for fifteen minutes or so, but nothing happened. Tim Burke and Sonia were talking in low tones; she seemed pretty nervous. Rita Velda said:
“Crozier’s probably sold the rights of the murder story to a tab, and they’ve sent the business manager up by plane with the contract.”
Mick stared at her. “How could he?” he asked. “He don’t know the end of the story.”
Rita shrugged. “They can fake that,” she replied. “Or maybe by the time they reach the last installment, he will know the end of it.”
Carla Sard faced the writer and looked at her with contempt.
“What a mind you have!” she said. “You talk like that—with Eric Vennell dead. And the stroke—”
Torry Jones cut in. “Stop it, Carla—it’s just her disposition.”
Mick O’Rourke chuckled. We all looked at him. He leaned against the rail with his arms spread wide. They took up a lot of space.
“Just like it’s your disposition to slug a guy down from behind,” Mick said.
Torry Jones moved away from Carla Sard’s side. His face was set grimly as he halted, several feet in front of Mick. He tried to keep his voice steady, but drinking hadn’t helped his nerves much. And he was sore.
“Listen, killer,” he said; “I’m not slugging you from behind this time.”
Mick laughed at him. “That’s right,” he agreed. “You’re just going to talk a good fight this time.”
Rita Velda was smiling narrowly. Torry’s voice quivered with rage.
“You—big liar!” he shouted. “You and Connors—both of you are lying. Vennell thought you were his friends, but you tricked him—”
I said: “Easy, Torry—you’re just using a lot of words.”
Mick took a hand away from the rail and made a simple gesture toward the flier. Torry didn’t like it. He said in a voice that was pitched off its normal key:
“Where were you when the lights went out?”
Mick kept grinning. “Where was Washington when the lights went out?” he mocked. “Was he in the dark, you great big—”
Torry swore thickly, rushed toward Mick. Carla screamed, and Risdon’s voice sounded from across the deck.
“Cut that out—you two!”
Mick smothered Torry’s first blow with his left arm. The second one caught the big fellow in the chest, but it didn’t do anything more than make sound. Then Torry’s feet were off the deck surface. Carla screamed again. Risdon called:
“Stop that—”
Torry’s body swung up and outward. A foot struck the rail; his hands clutched for Mick’s head. I called:
“That plane’s—below!”
Mick ducked his head, grunted as he swung Torry Jones’ body away. Torry made a grab for the rail and failed to hang on. His body went over the side, turning.
Mick straightened and stared at Risdon, who was at his side. The big fellow said in a frightened voice:
“Jees-he almost threw me over!”
Risdon muttered words I didn’t catch. Tim Burke and Sonia were close to the rail—all of us crowded it. Carla shrilled:
“He can’t—swim!”
I swore at Mick. He was breathing heavily, but he muttered:
“Jees—I forgot—that!”
“You murderer! You did it before—”
The man on the seaplane was pulling Torry aboard her. I heard Crozier’s voice and got my back to the rail. Crozier said:
“What happened?”
Mick shrugged. “I was attacked—by that fellow Jones,” he said. “This is the second time. By God, Crozier—he’s strong.”
Risdon said: “But you’re stronger.”
Mick shook his head. “It’s my temper,” he stated seriously.
Crozier spoke in a hard voice. “Now, you cut it out, O’Rourke.”
Mick looked hurt. I said to Crozier:
“He told the truth—Torry rushed him.”
Crozier said: “That’s all right—he didn’t have to throw him overboard.”
Mick smiled cheerfully. “It’s a complex I have,” he said. “Whenever I’m on a yacht, and a guy rushes me, I throw him overboard.”
Crozier nodded, but didn’t smile. Carla Sard said in a raging tone:
“I want him arrested! He murdered Vennell! You know that, Crozier. This proves how strong he is. He’s sneering at us—”
Risdon spoke to her. “We can’t arrest a man for murder because he throws another man overboard.”
I watched Mick lean back against the starboard rail of the Virgin again. His face had become expressionless.
“I threw him overboard before anyone was murdered,” he said simply. “And I pulled him out again.”
Crozier looked at Risdon. “Keep those two apart,” he said. “You’ve got enough men aboard the yacht to do it. I’ve got other things to do.”
Cy Dana, standing near me, asked “What other things, Crozier?”
The investigator frowned at him. “You’ll learn soon enough,” he stated.
Torry Jones’ voice came up from the plane below.
“If the plane had been—below—you’d have killed me—you—”
His nasty words died as Crozier leaned over the rail and called down sharply:
“Get back aboard here—and stay aboard. Stop acting like a kid—we’ve got more important things to do than to worry about your personal grudges.”
I looked at Tim Burke. The Number Seven oar of the California varsity was staring at Mick O’Rourke. There was suspicion in his eyes, I could see it there. And I couldn’t help thinking of Mick swinging bare fists against Dingo Bandelli’s knife, trying to beat him down.
The scar stood out plainly as Mick looked at Burke. The big fellow’s eyes were narrowed; he seemed to read the suspicion in the eyes of the one who was suspected of Babe Harron’s death. He said:
“What’s troublin’ you, Burke?”
Sonia started to say something, but checked herself. Tim Burke stood facing Mick. He said in a toneless voice:
“I’ve got enough troubling me, haven’t I?”
Mick shrugged his big shoulders. I went over to the rail and looked down at the seaplane. Torry Jones was using a ladder to get aboard the Virgin, water dripping from his clothes. Crozier’s voice was even and hard.
“If there’s any more trouble before tonight, I’ll arrest those involved.”
I said: “Why before tonight?”
I saw Sonia Vreedon exchange a glance with the investigator. But Crozier didn’t answer my question. Carla looked at Mick with her eyes filled with hate.
“I think you did it,” she said fiercely. “I think you did.”
Mick said: “Did what?”
Before she could reply, Crozier cut in. He spoke in a low, toneless voice.
“Never mind, Miss Sard. We can’t get anywhere by thinking things.”
Mick nodded. “Better go down and find Mr. Jones some dry clothes,” he suggested.
Carla stood stiffly, her eyes shooting hate at him.
“How would I know where to find his clothes?” she demanded. “Are you insinuating that I—”
Mick groaned. I said: “Go ahead, Carla—Mick didn’t insinuate anything.”
The big fellow grinned. “I don’t even know what the word means,” he muttered.
Cy Dana said: “Maybe Carla doesn’t, either.”
The picture gal swung her body and glared at Cy. Mick said grimly:
“Sure she does—didn’t she insinuate that I did for Vennell?”
Crozier shook his head slowly, looking at Mick.
“Thought you didn’t know what the word meant,” he said sarcastically.
Carla looked at the investigator and made a gesture with her hands that was not ungraceful.
“You see how truthful he is!” she sneered.
Crozier looked around the group and nodded his head. He touched his gray mustache. Then he shook his head. There was a suggestion of a smile playing around his lips.
“The trouble is,” he corrected, “that I can’t quite see how truthful any of you are.”
He did something that might have been the first part of a bow, turned, and moved away. Sonia and Tim Burke followed him. Mick looked at me and shook his head.
“Being a detective—even that kind of one—it’s a tough job, Al,” he said, “I feel sorry for him.”
There was mockery in his words. I frowned at him, feeling uncertain. But Carla Sard didn’t feel that way.
“Being a murderer is a tough job, too, Mr. O’Rourke,” she said coldly. “I feel sorry for—”
She stopped as Mick lowered his head and took a step toward her. She drew in a sharp breath.
“—for any murderer,” she finished in a hurried manner.
Mick stopped and leaned down. He picked nothing from the surface of the deck and made the gesture of throwing it overboard. Then he smiled at Carla.
“Yeah—so do I, kid,” he agreed.
2
When I went into the main saloon at four o’clock, they were setting up the machine. I stood in the port-side entrance and watched them for awhile. It was a motion-picture projection outfit, and there was a lot of it. At the far end of the room there was a screen. I walked down and stood looking at the screen. After a few minutes I went around and looked behind it. There was a curved, large loudspeaker mounted just behind the silver square. Wires ran to one side of the saloon, and I traced them to the projection machine.
I lighted a cigarette, and while I was doing it, Risdon came over and stood close to me. His greenish eyes didn’t look so green. They looked weary. He said:
“Like it?”
I shrugged. “It’s all right if they use it to show comedies. But I don’t like drama.”
Risdon said in a hard voice: “The title of this one is Regatta. It’s a crew picture.”
I felt my nerves jerk a little, but I tried not to show it. Risdon said:
“Crozier wanted me to find you—he’s with Sonia Vreedon, in her cabin.”
I widened my eyes. “Is that nice?” I asked.
The Poughkeepsie detective made a weary motion. His voice was grim.
“You and O’Rourke can’t seem to get interested in important things,” he stated. “You’re sidetracked with a lot of bum jokes.”
I nodded. “Once a columnist, always a—”
Risdon interrupted. “I know—but I think Crozier’s giving you a last chance. I wouldn’t laugh it off.”
“My God!” I said, “am I suspected now?”
“You might know more about O’Rourke—than you’re telling,” Risdon said. “Anyway, Crozier’s waiting. He’s sort of taken things out of my hands.”
I smiled a little. “Do you mind much?” I asked.
“Not with this crowd to work on,” he replied grimly.
I went out of the saloon and along to Sonia Vreedon’s cabin. The door wasn’t closed, but I knocked anyway. Sonia called firmly.
“Come in!”
I went inside. She
was lying on a divan, and Crozier was seated in a wicker chair, smoking. He offered me a cigarette, which I didn’t take because it was cork-tipped. I picked out a chair; Crozier got up and went back to close the door and lock it. I said to Sonia:
“You may feel worse, but you look better.”
She nodded, “I feel as though there’s a chance—for Tim,” she said.
Crozier came back and sat down. He said in a very low voice:
“Miss Vreedon got an idea—when she saw that plane fly over the yacht, early this morning. The rest of us had muffed it. They shot pictures of the race, from the air. Two planes—and one was down pretty low. One of them quit before the finish, because of the storm. But the other stuck. The cameraman was Eddie Tippen—he used some sort of trick lens, and he got something. His plane came right up on California—Eddie figured that crew was going to win, so he concentrated on it.”
I sat up straight. Sonia said:
“I told Mr. Crozier my idea—and he got right in touch with New York. The name of Babe Harron’s father, and the fact that the Babe was murdered—it helped. They have sent us up a projection machine and a screen—and two men to operate it. They’ve sent the film that was shot.”
I said: “You’ve seen it?”
She shook her head. “It takes a little while to set up the apparatus—it’s sound, you see.”
Crozier looked at me with his eyes slightly shut. He nodded.
“What we want you to do is to see that Mick O’Rourke hasn’t any gun with him when he comes into the saloon, just after dark.”
I whistled softly. “You still think Mick did—”
Crozier sighed heavily. “I’ve given up thinking,” he stated. “It all comes down to this—we’ve eliminated certain people. People we’re pretty sure didn’t morphine Harron or murder Vennell. We’ve established the motive for Harron’s death, and we’ve got a good idea that Vennell was silenced because there was danger of his breaking under the strain. But we haven’t got the killer. Tim Burke is in the worst spot. Your pal, Mick—he isn’t sitting so well, either. I want him in the saloon, and without a gun.”
I nodded. “I’ll do what I can,” I said.
There was a little silence. Then Crozier said quietly: