I said: “Why?”
Vennell looked at Mick O’Rourke. He spoke in a low voice.
“Because they weren’t accustomed to losing big money,” he said. “One of the firm slipped up. They took the wrong sort of money. Racket coin, from a gang. An important gang. The money was lost, and they found out I was the big man in the firm. So they came to me, with suggestions. I said no.”
Mick O’Rourke was staring at Vennell. He said very softly:
“You lost gangster money—and you won’t pay the boys back. So they put you on the spot.”
Vennell said: “That’s it. I got up this party in a hurry—the yacht was down on Long Island. The Regatta was coming up. I figured I’d be safer aboard her, on the Hudson, than about anywhere else. I wanted someone around, even here. So I told Al to dig up a good man. He got you, Mick.”
“Yeah.” Mick’s voice was peculiar in tone. “Sure.”
I didn’t say anything. Mick got up and found a cigarette. Vennell said:
“I wanted a lively crowd, to take my mind off things. But I don’t want any killings on the yacht.”
Mick chuckled. “I thought he could swim,” he said.
Vennell said: “Torry’ll hate you for that, Mick.”
The engine of the yacht made a steady throb. Faint sound of music drifted down to us. There was the lap and swish of water against the craft’s sides. Mick grunted.
“I can laugh him out of it,” he said.
Vennell shook his head. “Torry’s no dub,” he replied. “It takes nerve to fly the Atlantic, and he did it. You made a fool of him, and the woman he liked was there to see it. That won’t help.”
Mick said: “I’m sorry.”
Vennell shrugged. “Watch yourself and take things easy. Maybe the Virgin got away without being spotted. But she’ll be spotted at Poughkeepsie. We’ll arrive in a few hours now. You’ve got to keep your eyes open.”
Mick said: “Can you give me some names? It might make it easier.”
The yacht owner shook his head. “That wouldn’t help,” he said. “I don’t want trouble. It may not come. I don’t want any of my guests hurt. That’s an angle they might work, to scare me.”
I nodded. “That’s more like it,” I said. “If they kill you—that wouldn’t get their coin back. But if they scare you—”
Vennell said sharply: “They won’t.” He looked at Mick O’Rourke, who was standing near the door, his eyes half-closed.
“Cut the love stuff and remember I paid you five grand,” he said. “Just because things don’t seem very tough, that doesn’t mean they won’t get that way.”
Mick opened his eyes and nodded. “Sure,” he agreed. “That’s why a gun makes so much noise—because it’s quiet just before.”
Vennell smiled a little. He said: “And if you go over-board again—keep your pants on. Miss Sard complained.”
The big fellow chuckled. Vennell went to the door and half opened it.
“I’ll try to calm Torry, so that he won’t hurt you,” he said.
Mick nodded. “Fix it right,” he said. “Tell him I’ll slip him a grand if he lays off me.”
Vennell smiled a little grimly and went outside. He closed the door behind him, and his footfalls sounded more faintly as he moved along the corridor. Mick sat in the chair again and watched me thoughtfully. I looked at the suite’s ceiling, frowning. After a while I said:
“Well, Vennell’s getting old. That was a rotten story.”
Mick nodded. “Lousy,” he said.
“The reason he gave for being put on the spot wasn’t so bad,” I muttered. “But the idea of figuring this sort of a party as a way to keep clear of guns, that’s cold.”
Mick said, grinning: “Dumb.”
I said: “Cy Dana’s wise to the fact that I didn’t just bring you along because you’re funny, Mick. Be a little careful when he’s around.”
The big fellow nodded. He got up and said suddenly:
“I gotta go up and apologize to Miss Sard.”
I grinned at him. “That’ll be difficult,” I said. “How’ll you put it?”
He said: “I might tell her I was thinkin’ about other things.”
“Not bad,” I agreed. “You saved Torry’s life.”
Mick O’Rourke swore. “He won’t remember that so much,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes. “Why not?”
Mick smiled a little. “There’s the crack in the jaw I had to give him—in the water,” he said.
I stared at the big fellow. “You did that?” I muttered. “Why?”
Mick said in surprise: “He was drowning, wasn’t he?”
I waited a few seconds. “Was he?” I asked in a hard tone.
There was a little silence while Mick looked for an ashtray and found it.
“Sure,” he replied finally. “I read about it in a book. You always have to soak ’em in the jaw when you go in after ’em like that.”
I whistled softly. “And you remembered that before you made the dive, eh?”
Mick O’Rourke raised his big arms and touched the suite’s ceiling. He yawned noisily.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m funny that way.”
3
It was almost midnight when the Virgin slid past gaily decorated craft, siren wailing a salute toward Poughkeepsie, the boathouses of the crews, and Highlands. I’d run out of cigarettes; things were fairly quiet on deck, and I went to get some. Mick O’Rourke was talking to Don Rayne; Carla Sard was giving him the cold shoulder, and most of the others were at the rails, watching the shore and other boats. Torry Jones was not on deck.
I got the cigarettes, went along the corridor from the suite, into the smoke room. It was a small room, done in mission style and lighted dully. Almost the first thing I saw was the card lying near a table, on the floor. It was the usual oblong name card, and the side that faced my eyes as I stood over it held very regular, perfect writing. The ink was reddish in color—the name Albert Connors was at the upper left corner.
I leaned down and picked up the card. I read very slowly, but easily:
“Albert Connors—runs column in News. Medium-sized, dark hair and eyes. Nose slightly large. Acquainted with V. And others, many. Lies well. Suite B with M. O’R. Stalling on O’R. Watch after V. gets works.”
That was all. It was very precise and clear. The description of me was good enough. I was acquainted with Vennell, and it was possible that I lied well. That was part of a columnist’s job. I occupied Suite B with Mick, and I was stalling about him. I was to be watched, after Vennell “gets works.”
I swore a little and turned the card over. I read in printing of various sizes:
“Henry McFarren—Leather Goods—1217 Garrick Avenue—Crissville, Wyoming.”
The card was very new in appearance. I turned it over again, sucked on my cigarette, and read the perfect, round writing. When I got through, I went over to a small mirror and looked at my nose. It was slightly large.
There was sound behind me; Griggs entered the smoke room, his poker face turned toward mine.
“Is there something I can do, Mr. Connors?” he asked quietly.
I slipped the card into my pocket and said: “No, thanks. Nothing.”
He nodded, smiling mechanically, went over to one of the tables and straightened out a matchbox, looked momentarily toward a spot on the floor. It seemed to me that it was the spot from which I had lifted the card, but I could not be positive. In the corridor his footfalls died.
I got the card from my pocket and read it the third time. It hadn’t changed any, and it meant about the same thing.
Three or four voices came to me, repeating in hoarse unison:
“California—California—CALIFORNIA!”
From the deck above there were cheers, some of them feminine in tone. A launch screeched sound in the distance. The Virgin’s siren wailed several times. Up the river somewhere there was the dull report of what might have been a cannon.
I got the c
ard back in a pocket again and went slowly from the smoke room. When I reached the deck, the yacht was opposite the California boathouse, and well out in the Hudson. The searchlight beam brought out the letters of the college, painted raggedly on the sloping roof, clearly. The yacht was barely moving—there was the rattle of the anchor chain.
Torry Jones brushed close to me as I walked aft. He was frowning. He said:
“You’d better be careful, Al. I’ll pull a fast one on that bruiser of yours.”
I smiled. “I’ve almost got all the material from him that I need,” I said. “The rest I can get in the death house.”
Torry said: “What do you mean, death house?”
I shrugged. “That’s where they’ll put him, after you try to pull a fast one.”
The flier caught my arm as I started to move on. He said:
“Ever see a bomber come down in a crash—one of the big, tri-motored girls?”
I shook my head. Torry said grimly: “They fall harder than the small ones.”
I nodded. “Variation on an old theme,” I said. “But do they fall as often?”
Torry swore. “He won’t get anywhere with Carla,” he said. “She’s not a roughneck.”
I thought that over. “You might be right,” I said, with a lot of doubt in my voice.
He was getting mad. His voice showed it when he said:
“I’ve got an idea that Vennell brought that guy on board to show me up.”
I said: “Don’t be childish, Torry. Vennell isn’t interested in Carla.”
He said: “No? Then what’s O’Rourke here for? That line of yours doesn’t go with me.”
I shrugged. “You mentioned that before,” I told him. “The thing that counts is that Mick’s here, that you got funny with Rita Velda because you’d had too much to drink, and that he threw you overboard. Even at that—he pulled you out.”
Torry said: “Damn him—he knocked me unconscious doing it!”
I stared at him. “No?” I said. Then I changed my tone. “Well, you were probably pulling him down.”
The flier smiled; it was the sort of smile that wasn’t particularly happy.
“That’s his story,” he said. “But I’ll bet he figured on the crack in the jaw before he jumped.”
I made a clicking sound. “That isn’t like Mick,” I said sadly. “You misjudge him.”
He swore at me and moved along. I went aft and said to Mick:
“You’ve got the keys of that small hunk of luggage. Go down and find them, will you?”
The big fellow blinked at me. “I ain’t got no keys,” he said.
I smiled at him. “Yes you have, Mick,” I said. “Go down and think it over.”
Light dawned in his eyes. He grinned at Don Rayne and moved away. The last-season stroke of Columbia winked at me.
“He’s a likable dumbbell,” he said.
I grinned at Rayne. “Most dumbbells are likable,” I said.
It took a little hunting to find Vennell. I discovered him on the bridge, and we went to Suite B together. Mick was sitting on his bed and grinning. He said:
“You had me winging with that key stuff, until I wised up.”
I closed the door and locked it. Then I handed Eric Vennell the card.
“Found it in the smoke room, on the floor,” I said. “Nothing else. It’s about you, Mick, and me.”
Eric Vennell read the writing, his gray eyes narrowing, and his lips getting tight. When he finished, he read it again. Then he looked at me and said:
“Good—God!”
He went to the nearest wicker and sat down heavily. Mick O’Rourke got up and looked at me questioningly. I took the card from Vennell’s fingers and handed it to Mick. He read it three or four times, his lips moving. He started to hand it back to me, then he read it again. Then he said very slowly:
“Yeah—sure.”
Vennell said tonelessly: “Yeah—sure—what?”
Mick rubbed his thick lips with the back of a big hand. He made a swift movement and looked down at his snub-nosed gun. The sight of it seemed to cheer him. He got it out of sight.
“It may be—a joke,” he said slowly.
Eric Vennell stared at me. “I’m slated—to get the works,” he said heavily.
I smiled. “And it’s bulletined by a dropped card,” I said.
Vennell got up from the chair and paced back and forth, his shoulders sagging a little.
“Just the same—I’m marked, spotted,” he said thickly. “That card wasn’t meant to be dropped, or else someone’s so sure I can’t wriggle clear—”
Mick O’Rourke spoke thoughtfully: “That’s pretty writin’—for a killin’ guy.”
I nodded. “Almost like a woman’s writing,” I said.
Vennell faced me. “A woman’s—”
He checked his words, started pacing back and forth again. Mick O’Rourke looked at me and said very softly:
“He’s been alone a lot—on board.”
Vennell swung around. “They don’t want to finish me—not yet. They want money. The money they lost on the Street. They’re trying to get at me—”
I said: “Well, you know everyone on board, Eric. You picked them.”
Vennell smiled grimly. “The crew is all right,” he said. “Same crew I’ve always had. All right, so far as I know. And I picked the guests, certainly. But I didn’t pick them for—”
He stopped again. I said: “For pleasure. You picked them to keep your mind off this thing.”
Vennell shrugged. I took the card from Mick and turned it over. I said:
“Crissville, Wyoming.”
There was the whistle of a launch. Music drifted to us as the boat passed the Virgin. Voices reached the yacht—there were cheers for Washington. Someone apparently spotted Don Rayne. There were shouts up to him—his voice called back.
Eric Vennell said grimly: “You’ve got to stick close to me, O’Rourke. This is getting me.”
Mick nodded. “Sure,” he said. “If they slam you down, I’ll be right on top of ’em.”
Vennell swore. “That’ll help me a lot!” he muttered.
Mick said: “Well—I can’t shoot first, can I?”
Vennell groaned. Then suddenly he stood still, his fists clenched at his sides. He laughed bitterly.
“I’m going up on deck,” he said in a fierce voice. “I’ll be on deck tomorrow—yelling for California to finish first. It’s bluff, that’s all!”
He went to the door, unlocked it, went outside and along the corridor. Mick looked at me. I gestured after Vennell.
“You’ve got a job,” I reminded.
Mick said huskily: “Game guy—what’s he care about gettin’ murdered, with a boat race coming up?”
I smiled. “Calling card,” I said grimly. “Visiting card.” I slipped it into my pocket. “You believe in fairies, Mick?”
The big fellow’s eyes got large. “Are there any on board?” he asked.
I groaned. “Go on up and find out,” I said. “I was thinking about something else.”
Mick O’Rourke grinned. “If I find any, I’ll tip you off, Al,” he said.
I tried a kick at his pants, and missed. He went along the corridor. Nothing much bothered Mick, not even the New York police. I sat on the edge of the wicker and listened to faint cheering, and distant boat whistles. I said, half to myself:
“It may be rough going.”
And I wasn’t thinking about the varsity race.
3
SUITE AFFAIR
There were clouds crossing the crescent moon when I went on deck; there was dancing aft, to music from Villa Vallee, in New York. I stood near the rail, on the port side, and looked at the boathouses of the different crews. While I was doing it, Don Rayne came along, pulling on an upside-down pipe. He stopped near me and squinted his blue eyes toward the west shore of the Hudson.
“Damn!” he breathed. “I’d like to be over there—out there tomorrow with my fingers around wood!”
I nodded sympathetically. “But you’d take a licking,” I said. “That’s not so much fun.”
He shrugged. “Columbia might fool them,” he said. “She’s got a green crew, but they’re strong. And Phelps is the best coach of the lot.”
I said: “The odds are around three to one against her. California’s shell is loaded with veterans. Babe Harron stroked them to win last year. He’s strong as an ox—and when he pulls an oar—the others pull.”
Rayne nodded. “Harron’s the best man—and Tim Burke’s right ahead of him. They’ve got power. Little Ed Dale’s got a head; he can step up the beat—and get it. But things happen that even the best coxswain can’t handle.”
I smiled. “What?” I said. “California’s got a rough-water crew, and they can row in the dark. No false starts this year.”
The former stroke shrugged his broad shoulders. His eyes were half-closed on the painted roof of the California boathouse. From the opposite side of the river, from Poughkeepsie, came the tooting of auto horns, faint cheering.
“Cal and Columbia aren’t the only crews in the big race,” Rayne said. “There’s Washington and Navy. And Pennsylvania. And the others. There might be a surprise.”
I grinned. “California—by three lengths,” I prophesied. “Then Columbia, fighting it out with Penn. Navy and Washington close up, with the others stringing out. Syracuse and Cornell scrapping for sixth and seventh. Wisconsin and the first Poughkeepsie shell of Dartmouth trying to keep from being last.”
Rayne took his pipe from between even teeth and inspected the bowl.
“Dartmouth might fool you,” he said. “They licked Yale and Harvard in the triangular regattas. Syracuse might be up ahead of Penn and Washington. But the race is between Columbia and the Golden Bears.”
I nodded. “If you want to call it a race,” I said. “It’ll be nice for Sonia Vreedon.”
His eyes were sharp on mine. “Why?” he asked, and his tone was strangely hard.
I said: “Well—Tim Burke’s pulling in Number Seven’s rig—for California.”
Rayne smiled a little and said: “Oh, yeah—that’s right.”
I said: “They’re both from California. Her father’s a big criminal lawyer out there.”
The Virgin Kills Page 6