The Virgin Kills

by Raoul Whitfield

  “Risdon will have his men inside, and we’ll have the California crew and all those connected with it out here. And those aboard the yacht, of course. The place will be pretty crowded.”

  “If the pictures showed anything important, the company that shot them would have spotted it,” I said.

  Sonia Vreedon didn’t appear to hear me. Crozier smiled coldly.

  “Would it?” he said. “Something that seems important to us might not seem at all important to a motion-picture company.”

  Sonia Vreedon nodded. I said:

  “Well, I hope you’ve got something. I’ll try to fix it so that Mick goes in without a gun. But you could make sure—”

  The investigator leaned toward me. He spoke in a hard voice.

  “You’ve helped me a lot, Connors. That’s why I’ve been honest with you. If I didn’t think there was something in this idea of Miss Vreedon’s, I wouldn’t go through with it. But I don’t want to make much fuss about it—and search people on their way in.

  I frowned at him. “They’ll know you’re not just putting on a picture show for them,” I suggested.

  He nodded. “They certainly will,” he agreed. “I’m attending to that. But I don’t want any one person getting set to stand a shock.”

  I sat up straight and widened my eyes on Sonia Vreedon’s, I said:

  “You’re going to—”

  She shook her head. “We’re just going to show some pictures of the race,” she said very grimly. “It happens there is a long close-up of Babe Harron. It happens that he was photographed just before—”

  Her voice broke. I looked at Crozier and he said quietly:

  “Your job is to see that the big fellow gets into the saloon without a gun.”

  I shrugged. “Mick didn’t do—” I started, but Crozier interrupted me. His voice was tired.

  “I know—O’Rourke is innocent, and Tim Burke is innocent. Everybody’s innocent. But the facts are that Babe Harron was morphined to death. And Vennell was murdered in his suite.”

  I watched Sonia’s body shiver. She sat up and said very softly:

  “I know it will happen—in the saloon, when we show the pictures I feel it!”

  Crozier’s eyes were on mine. He spoke in a toneless voice.

  “There is a chance. Miss Vreedon is the daughter of a criminal lawyer. She has certain instincts. She may be right. We’re almost beaten—I can’t hold the crew at the boathouse forever, or the guests aboard the yacht. So we’re trying the motion-picture show.”

  Sonia said: “Al Connors—do something for me, will you?”

  I said: “I think I will, Sonia. I’d like to.”

  She nodded. “Don’t talk to Mick O’Rourke—about what’s going to happen. Please don’t.”

  I said: “Mick doesn’t believe Tim’s guilty—and yet you think Mick is.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t,” she said, “And I swear that Tim Burke doesn’t know what our plan is.”

  I looked Sonia in the eyes. “I swear I’ll do nothing but try to fix it so that O’Rourke goes in without a gun,” I said. “But have you a plan, Sonia—or are you just taking a desperate chance?”

  Crozier said, before the girl could speak:

  “Does it matter to you, Connors?”

  I said: “No.”

  He nodded. “Just circulate around and act natural until we start the show,” he advised. “The crew will be out at six-thirty.”

  I stood up and smiled at Sonia. “I hope it works,” I said slowly. “They’ll drag Tim Burke through the mud if it doesn’t, and I suppose that means they’ll drag you through it, too.”

  She raised her head, and her eyes were clear, defiant.

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “It’ll mean—just that.”

  Crozier said softly: “Sonia and I will handle the seating for the show. See me before you go into the saloon.”

  I nodded. Sonia said: “Thanks, Al Connors—you’ve been pretty square.”

  I couldn’t think of any answer, so I went outside. It was hot, and growing hotter. I moved round the deck and listened to people complain. Their nerves weren’t so good as they had been two days ago. I leaned over the starboard rail and looked at the Hudson River water. I muttered:

  “Picture show—”

  And I realized that Sonia Vreedon knew that nerves were on edge. She was a shrewd girl, keen. And she was fighting for Tim Burke.

  I looked around the deck for Mick, didn’t see him. When I reached Suite B, he was lying on his bed, blowing smoke up at the ceiling. I said:

  “You might have killed Torry Jones—doing a thing like that.”

  Mick smiled with his lips. “I might have,” he admitted grimly. “But I ain’t been getting the breaks lately, Al. So he just got wet.”

  3

  It was growing dark—I stood underneath the awning with Mick and watched the crew men filing toward the saloon entrance on the port side. Carla Sard tugged at my arm, led me some distance from the big fellow.

  “They’ve got—the murderer!” she whispered. “They took pictures—”

  I said: “Who told you that?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve heard it—several others know it. I’m afraid.”

  I said: “Be yourself—you didn’t murder anyone, did you?”

  She shivered. “I’m afraid—because Mick O’Rourke hates me,” she said. “And I think—”

  Her voice died. Risdon called sharply from a spot near the entrance.

  “Come along, please—we want to get started.”

  Torry Jones called: “Carla—are you coming in with me?”

  She moved away from me, her fingers twisting nervously. Cy Dana and Don Rayne passed; Cy dropped behind the ex-crew man.

  “Lot of rumors around,” he said in a low voice, “Does the talk mean anything?”

  I shrugged. Cy said: “Well—with Crozier and Risdon losing a lot of sleep—they may have got something.”

  He followed Rayne toward the saloon entrance. Risdon looked at me, then at Mick O’Rourke. He said with sarcasm:

  “Care to join us, you two?”

  I said: “Come along, Mick.”

  The big fellow reached my side. “You’ve got me worried, Al—with all that talk about me having a gun on me.” He grinned.

  When we reached the entrance, the lights had been dulled. Mick said:

  “It’s hot—and I ain’t crazy about movies. I’ll stay near a door.”

  Crozier called, from a spot half-way down the room:

  “This way, Mr. O’Rourke. I’ve got a seat for you.”

  Mick looked at me questioningly. I nodded. The big fellow swore.

  “I’m being treated swell,” he said. “Just like they treat a guy in the death house, before he sits on the hot spot.”

  He went forward and I saw him take a seat near an aisle formed by the arrangement of chairs. The saloon was crowded; crew members were at the rear. I recognized two of Risdon’s men, from the Poughkeepsie police, one at each of the doors leading to the decks. There were men at the door that led to the corridor, and several in uniform were present. Carla and Torry Jones were seated beside each other, toward the front of the room.

  Tim Burke and Sonia were across the aisle from Mick O’Rourke. Burke was sitting with his head held low and his arms folded. Sonia was whispering to him. The others were scattered about; Don Rayne was in the rear, near the crew members. Cy Dana was up front, but looking around as Crozier moved toward the spot where I stood. Rita Velda was at the far side, near a wall. She seemed very nervous and kept turning her head. There was only a faint murmur of conversation.

  I saw Risdon across the room and at the rear. Doctor Vollmer and Coach Mears sat together, Vollmer on the aisle. They were a few rows forward of the crew members. There was a humming sound from the projection box, at the rear.

  Crozier reached my side and said: “Most of the seats are taken—come along forward with me—we’ll stand by the wall.”

  I no
dded, and we went forward on the left side. We went quite a distance forward, and I was about to complain that I shouldn’t be able to see the screen, when the investigator stopped. We got our backs against the wall, and Crozier stepped in front of me, reached my right side. We faced across the room, and, by moving our eyes, could see either those in the saloon or the screen.

  Crozier said loudly: “I guess we’re all here. Close the doors, please.”

  The doors were closed. It was dark outside—the Virgin had no motion at her anchorage. I saw Captain Latham and the second officer, Griggs, and the woman with the loud voice. The blonde was nervously moving her head around, but most of the others were watching Crozier expectantly. It was very quiet inside the saloon.

  Crozier said in a toneless voice: “We have some pictures of the varsity race. I have just one request—please do not move from your seats—regardless of what happens.”

  His voice had grown a little hard. There was a murmur of conversation as he finished speaking. He looked toward the projection box and said:

  “Lights out, please!”

  They didn’t go out, but they got very dim. I saw that two of the center lights had been draped. The screen was fairly dark, but the faces of all those except the ones seated forward could be seen. I looked at Mick O’Rourke; he was slumped low in his chair. Tim Burke was sitting stiffly, erect. His head was turned toward the screen.

  There was a buzz, a clicking sound. And then voices filled the room. It was the boathouse scene. The California crew were taking out their shell. They talked; voices called to them. The sound was clear in the saloon. There was a sudden silence as Babe Harron came into sight.

  He was very good-looking, with tremendous shoulders and finely muscled arms. Someone not shown on the screen called clearly:

  “Go get ’em, Babe!”

  Harron turned and for a second faced the camera. He was smiling a little. He nodded his head. There were other voices. Tim Burke was in the background; the camera panned and I saw Tim look toward it. He was not smiling.

  Crozier said: “Burke looks—a little worried.” His voice was a whisper; his head was close to mine.

  I replied: “Sonia told you he was worried about Vennell.”

  Crozier nodded. There was a sudden staccato beat from the screen—from the loudspeaker behind it. The shot was from an airplane, and the beat was that of the engine exhaust. There were shots down on the Hudson, shots of the boats and the flags, the crowds on each side of the river. The Virgin looked nice from the air; the ship seemed to circle over her. There was a shot down on the observation train, and another of several crews rowing up the river for the start.

  For five minutes we watched shots before the start of the race, some taken from planes, others from launches. And then a voice said:

  “They’re off!”

  The next shot was a long one, showing the start. California appeared to get away badly—it was strange, seeing this part of the race for the first time. The engine exhaust of the plane filled the saloon with sound; there were long shots from the air. I looked away from the screen, saw that Coach Mears was sitting very stiffly, staring straight ahead. Doctor Vollmer was rubbing fingers across his face. My eyes went to Mick O’Rourke; he was still slumped low in the chair. Tim Burke and Sonia were tense, their eyes on the screen.

  The camera was shooting down from the railroad bridge now; there was no sound of planes, but the shouts of those on the bridge. The shells had spread out; there was a short shot from one of the following launches. The straining bodies of the crew men photographed well in the fading light.

  There was a break in the film. Then suddenly the camera was in the plane again, and the plane was diving. She was diving toward one shell, but for several seconds two shells were photographed. Crozier muttered:

  “California—and Columbia! Almost at the finish!”

  My eyes were on the screen as the plane dove lower and lower. The light was bad, very bad. But the plane was flying low. The Columbia shell was lost from sight—the California shell seemed to rise toward the camera. I could see Ed Dale’s back, swaying forward, straightening, as he beat out the stroke.

  There was another break. And then there was a close-up. It came so suddenly that it was startling. Above the engine beat of the plane I could hear the exclamations in the saloon. Someone cried out sharply:

  “Babe—Harron!”

  It was the stroke. He was pulling an oar, but he was having a terrible fight with himself. His head was thrown back, his eyes were staring. His teeth were clenched, bared by his parted lips. For what seemed like an eternity of seconds his head and the upper portion of his naked body filled the screen. and they were terrible seconds. The slide rig took him away from us, brought him back. He was swaying now, and the special lens seemed to have brought him within a few feet of the camera.

  His movements were slower, more uncertain. Water struck against his face, but he did not appear to feel it. I knew that Ed Dale, the coxswain, had splashed it there. I drew in a deep breath, unclenched my fingers. There was a sudden break in the film.

  And then the sound of the plane engine filled the saloon again. Babe Harron’s face was before us—the same tortured expression, staring eyes. The same swaying body, with slowing movements. And I realized that we were seeing the same scene over again, with the plane diving very low and coming up from behind the shell.

  There was a rising murmur of voices in the saloon. The slide rig carried Harron away, brought him close. There was another break—and again the beat of the ship engine. And once more the face, tortured and tilted back, of the California stroke.

  I turned my head toward Crozier. He looked away from me, breathing fiercely:

  “Look there!”

  I stared toward the center aisle. Mick O’Rourke was sitting erect now—he was staring at the screen. But there was no fear in his eyes, no pain. I looked toward Tim Burke and Sonia. They were both tense; Sonia’s hands were slightly raised, pressed against her throat. Tim Burke’s eyes held an expression of pain; his mouth was twisted as he watched the stroke sway before him.

  Something seemed to turn my eyes to the screen again. The sound of the engine had changed; perhaps that was it. But there was still a close-up of Babe Harron. His head half filled the screen—the slide rig seemed to shove him forward into the camera. And as his strained eyes stared into it, his lips moved.

  My body jerked as I caught the word they formed. His head swayed to one side—the slide rig took him away —brought him back. And again his lips formed that word.

  And even as I turned my head, and the sound of the plane engine died, Sonia’s voice reached me in a fierce cry.

  “Vollmer!”

  Beside me Crozier swore harshly. I stared toward the crew doctor. He was on his feet, in the aisle. His short body swung around, he screamed in a horrible voice:

  “No—no! For God’s sake—”

  He was running now—a sort of staggering run toward the rear of the room. Crozier cried out above the sounds of confusion:

  “Lights! Risdon—”

  The lights flared up. Doctor Vollmer had stopped; he swung around now, started forward in the aisle. Sonia was on her feet. She cried again:

  “It was—Vollmer!”

  And then Mick O’Rourke’s big body was blocking the crew doctor’s path. Vollmer swung his arms crazily, and Mick reached out his big hands. Vollmer twisted clear; I remembered his powerful shoulders. Mick stepped in and brought up his right arm. There was a thudding sound, and I saw Vollmer’s body collpase. Mick stood motionlessly, looking down. Crozier’s voice sounded hoarsely.

  “You people—keep still—”

  And again the voice of Sonia Vreedon, this time with a note of victory in it:

  “It was—Vollmer!”

  4

  The crew doctor was slumped in a wicker chair in Captain Latham’s quarters. Sonia Vreedon sat on the divan, beside Tim Burke. She was pale, and her eyes did not go to the doctor’s figure. Ris
don and Crozier stood near a port, watching Vollmer closely. I sat in a chair near the door. Vollmer spoke in a low, thick voice.

  “I had all my money—in Vennell’s firm. He invested it for me—gambled it for me. He lost. This was six months ago. I went to him, and he laughed at me. I went to him several times, and one time he didn’t laugh. He said there was a way I might get it back. He was in bad shape. He was going to put everything he had on Columbia, and California must lose. He was using morphine—Bryce knew that. He got it to me—enough for one dose. I was to use it on Harron, before the big race.”

  The crew doctor covered his face with his hands, moved his head from side to side. He was breathing heavily. Crozier said calmly:

  “Go on, Vollmer.”

  The doctor took his hands away from his face. He stared straight ahead of him, and his words were slow, toneless.

  “I didn’t mean to kill Harron. That was the terrible thing. But I had to be sure—sure that his exertion wouldn’t fight off the poison until the race was over. I used a strong dose. There wasn’t much delay at the start, but there was more than I thought. It gave the poison more time to get into Harron’s system. Morphine is difficult to handle—and the stroke—died.”

  He was silent for several seconds, then he said in the same, dead voice:

  “It was a terrible thing. But I was desperate and I didn’t mean to kill. The money I gave Vennell—it wasn’t my own. I had to have it back. Vennell promised me fifty thousand dollars. He said there would be no suspicion, that no one would think he was betting on Columbia. But I learned, before I came to the yacht, that there was suspicion. There were rumors that Vennell had broken under the strain. And I nearly went insane.”

  Vollmer rocked from side to side, covered his face with trembling fingers. When he took them away, he said slowly:

  “I came to the yacht with Mears and Tim Burke. I had put the hypodermic syringe in Burke’s mattress, because I was sure he wouldn’t be suspected. I wanted to confuse things. Burke was in love with Miss Vreedon, here—and I felt her position would protect him. When we reached the yacht, I heard again that Vennell would be able to talk very soon. I didn’t know what had happened to him—didn’t know then that Jones had made a mistake and had knocked him overboard. I wanted to get to him, but that seemed impossible. And then the light went low. I was along the deck, a short distance from Mears and Burke. I knew the Virgin—I’ve been on her, out in California. I knew where Vennell’s quarters were. I was off the deck when the lights came up, just inside the narrow corridor. There was a shot—out on the water somewhere. Someone celebrating, I think. It wasn’t on the boat. The lights went down again—started to come up, and I reached the switch box. I knew it was there. I got a handkerchief in my hand, opened the glass, and moved the switch.”