Don Rayne nodded. “A hundred thousand, at least.”
I smiled. “It’s a cinch,” I said. “California by three lengths. If you’ve got money—you can make it.”
I went away from the table and along the port rail. The river was filling up with large and small craft—flags streamed colorfully. It was around one o’clock—the sky was clear and the day was very hot. Launches kicked up white water as they chugged back and forth; there was a steady stream of traffic on the new bridge.
The figure of Sonia Vreedon was at the rail ahead of me. Her slender body was leaning on it; she was staring toward the California boathouse. I followed her gaze; there were signs of activity—the freshman race would start in a few hours and California had a crew entered.
She didn’t hear me come up close. I said softly:
“Think Tim’s getting nervous yet?”
Her body jerked just a little, then she controlled her feelings. She faced me with a faint smile. I liked her eyes and lips, and the way she talked. There was no fooling about her. She was keen.
“Probably,” she said. “Wouldn’t you be getting nervous?”
I said: “Not if I’d had plenty of sleep the night before.”
Light flickered in her eyes. Her body was tense; it relaxed as she spread arms along the rail and looked steadily at me.
“Well—the coach sees to that,” she said. “Tim’s had his sleep, all right.”
I nodded and looked down at the water. “It’s calm,” I observed. “Not much danger of the shells flooding.”
Her eyes watched mine closely. She said: “What do you make of last night’s affair?”
I said: “Which one?”
It startled her. She took a swift breath—one hand came away from the rail. Then she looked puzzled. I liked the way she did it; she was putting up a fight.
“The only one I know about,” she replied. “The man breaking into Eric’s suite.”
I smiled. “He has a nice collection of diamonds,” I said. “Perhaps one of the crew—”
She frowned. “Don’t be foolish,” she interrupted.
I smiled at her. “Where were you during all the excitement? Sleeping?”
She shook her head. “Aft, down below,” she said quietly. “Close to the water, just watching the river.”
I liked that, too. It prevented her from being caught in a lot of little traps.
“That so?” I said. “You didn’t hear anybody go overboard, did you?”
Again there was the flickering in her cool eyes. She raised browned fingers and touched her banded hair.
“Just wave splashes—and the screams, of course.”
She smiled enigmatically. I nodded.
“Carla’s so temperamental,” I said. “But then—I suppose she was frightened.”
Sonia Vreedon half closed her eyes. “Why was she in the corridor?” she asked.
I grinned. “Being a man—I’ve been afraid to ask her,” I said.
Sonia stopped smiling. “That isn’t the reason she was there,” she said. “All the cabins are extremely well appointed.”
I looked serious. “Perhaps she was going into the library for a book,” I suggested.
Sonia just looked at me. “Or,” I said, “perhaps she, too, was going aft to listen to wave splashes.”
The daughter of the criminal lawyer watched the smoke curl upward from my cigarette.
“You don’t believe that I was doing that,” she said firmly.
I looked hurt. “Why shouldn’t I?” I said. “A lot of humans were restless last night. I was on deck myself.”
Fear showed in her eyes, then went away. “You don’t believe that I was doing that,” she said.
“May I have one of your cigarettes?”
I gave her one, lighted it. I said: “Well—the fellow didn’t get anything, anyway.”
She looked toward Highlands and said: “How’s Eric betting, do you know?”
I nodded. “California,” I said. “Quite a bit, too.”
She looked suddenly frightened. Her body was tense again. She said:
“Are you sure?”
I shrugged. “He just told a few of us that he was,” I said. “Why?”
She waited for several seconds, then smiled a little.
“He’s had bad luck lately, and it doesn’t seem like such a good hunch,” she said.
That was silly, and she knew that I knew it was silly.
I thought of the radiogram, and said in a casual voice:
“Eric generally knows what he’s doing—the California shell looks best on paper.”
She smiled cheerfully. “Wouldn’t it be nice if the race could be rowed on paper, instead of the Hudson?” she said.
“It wouldn’t be so much fun to watch,” I said. “California has the outside lane—she should finish within a hundred yards of the Virgin. And Columbia is only two lanes away from her. We’ll have a nice view, even if the boys do have rougher going.”
She nodded. “Babe Harron will stroke them to a win,” she said firmly. “He’s got to!”
There was a lot of feeling in the last three words. I kept my eyes half-closed on Sonia’s. I nodded.
“The saying is that when the Babe pulls an oar, they all pull with him,” I said. “And I guess he wants to pull one today—his last race.”
Her eyes closed; her back was against the rail, arms spread along it. She smiled with her fine lips.
I said: “You haven’t seen Tim Burke in several weeks, have you? Couldn’t you get a peep at him, at the boat-house?”
She shook her head. “Coach is pretty stiff,” she replied. “Coach runs crew, you know—there isn’t much fooling.”
I nodded sympathetically. “You might have tried to sneak it,” I said. “Last night, say.”
She opened her eyes and they met mine squarely. Her voice was very low and very steady.
“I wouldn’t,” she said. “Why should I?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Only they say love is swell.”
She smiled at me. “And a hard-boiled columnist believes what they say?” she asked.
I nodded. “And what he sees,” I said very slowly.
She straightened and looked suddenly down the deck, aft. Rita Velda called in her thin voice:
“Come on, Sonia—we’re toasting the California freshman!”
Sonia looked at me. “You’ll pardon me?” she said.
I smiled. “I’ll do better than that,” I said. “I’ll toast with you.”
We went back toward the group under the awning aft. A Navy destroyer hissed through the water, close to the Virgin. Most of the crowd had come on deck; Carla Sard looked pallid and very beautiful. Sport clothes helped Rita. The stewards were working over drinks. Rita said:
“A pretty scene—but the water’s so gray. It isn’t like Naples, the Cote d’Azur—or the Lido.”
Mick O’Rourke pulled a deck chair near a table for Sonia. He said huskily:
“That’s right—it ain’t.”
Rita faced him, amusement in her eyes. She said:
“You agree with me, Mr. O’Rourke?”
He shrugged. “The Continent—it’s too old. The people—they’re old. Me, I don’t like it. It’s like asking a brat to stick around these monks, in a monastery.”
The scar on his right cheek twisted as he said it. The girl with the blondish hair and the baby-blue eyes, who had stood beside Torry Jones when our launch had come alongside the Virgin, stared at the big fellow. Her name was Wilson or Tilson, and she did sketches of some sort.
“Well, Well!” she said.
Mick looked at her and smiled apologetically.
“Pirandello said it first,” he explained.
Cy Dana sighed heavily. He looked at me and shook his head.
“And Al read it next,” he muttered softly.
I frowned at him and passed a drink to Sonia. It was orange juice and something, in a tall, green glass. Carla looked narrowly at Mick. Ri
ta took a short pencil from a pocket and scribbled on a small piece of paper.
Carla said: “Look out, Al—Rita’s stealing the stuff you want for that book.”
Mick grinned at Rita. “Shall I throw her overboard?” he asked grimly.
Carla stood up and waved her arms. “You come near me and I’ll kill you!” she said dramatically. “You—you louse!”
Mick turned and winked at me. “Say it isn’t so, Al,” he said in a pleading tone. “Say I’m not a louse!”
I grinned and looked at Vennell. His eyes were narrowed on Sonia’s. She was looking toward the California boathouse, her face set. Rita said icily:
“It’s one of the most remarkable yacht affairs I’ve ever attended. Does the ship burn crude oil?”
A gentleman with white hair and a gentle face rose from a chair near the starboard rail, removed glasses from his eyes, and bowed gracefully to Rita.
“Well said!” he congratulated. “One cannot help but feel it does burn crude oil.”
He replaced his glasses and seated himself. Mick stared at him, then at me. He got ready to say something, but I shook my head. Sonia didn’t appear to have heard anything that had been said. Vennell was still watching her. Rita raised her green glass.
“Here’s to—all the crews that race!” she said.
“And more particularly to California,” Cy Dana said cheerfully.
Eric Vennell lifted his glass and smiled with his eyes half-closed on those of Sonia Vreedon.
“To the winning crew!” he said. “To the Golden Bears!”
3
The sun was getting low when the California varsity shell was dropped into the water, and the crew got aboard. The observation train moved slowly away from the track spot opposite the finish line, chugging back toward the starting point. Dartmouth’s shell was pulling very slowly northward; other shells were ahead of her. The banks on both sides of the river were crowded with people in white; there was cheering as the Golden Bear shell stroked slowly away from the boathouse.
The siren of the Virgin wailed again and again; from the deck we could see Ed Dale, the diminutive coxswain, and the face and broad shoulders of Babe Harron. Sonia had her day-glasses raised; I was watching Tim Burke, saw him raise a hand and wave back.
Overhead two pontooned planes roared; there were others northward, over the starting line. Two destroyers were keeping the course clear. From the distance there was a rumbling sound; Don Rayne, standing beside me, swore.
“Storm,” he breathed. “Always something—at the Poughkeepsie Regatta.”
I looked to the northwest; there were dark clouds, not so far off. But the sky above was clear; there was hardly a breath of wind. The California boys were stroking very slowly and steadily up the river. Band music drifted from the east shore.
Mick came over to me. “There’s a gal on board with a plump face and figger,” he said. “She’s cute, and I don’t think we were introduced.”
I nodded: “That’s a break for her,” I said.
He grinned. “You know her name?” he asked.
I shook my head. “There are five or six humans running around this yacht whose names I don’t know,” I said. “This is an informal party—go up and talk to her.”
Mick looked relieved. “There’s an idea,” he said, and went away.
I walked up forward and saw Vennell coming toward me. He was nervous, and his eyes looked very bad. His fingers were opening and closing. He made a gesture and said:
“Nice show, Al—always is.”
I nodded. I lowered my voice. “If you don’t think Mick’s sticking close enough, tell him so,” I said.
Vennell frowned. “That’s all right,” he said. “And I wanted to thank you for thinking up that diamond story last night.”
I smiled. Vennell said: “We’ll get the start and reports until the shells are in sight—on the radio. They’ve got announcers all along. They should get off in fifteen or twenty minutes now.”
I nodded. “That reminds me,” I said. “I’d like to send a radiogram to my sheet.”
Vennell’s lips twitched a little. “Damn!” he breathed.
“I’m sorry, Al—the sending set’s gone bad. Carew has been working over it for two hours. Some fool thing. He may have it right by the time the race is over.”
I lighted a cigarette. “How’s the receiving set?” I asked.
He shook his head. “It may be aerial trouble,” he said. “We haven’t had a message since we left New York. It’s tough.”
He went along aft, and I stood for a few minutes and tried to think why he’d lied to me. Then I went on forward and ran into the captain.
“I want to send a radio,” I told him. “Where’s the spark shack?”
He looked sorry. “Too bad,” he said. “But something went wrong just after we left New York. We can’t get a message in or out.”
I said: “Well, I can get ashore right after the race. Got to get something to the sheet—for tomorrow’s column.”
The captain nodded. I went on forward and watched the crowd along the Palisades on the west bank. They were milling round some, as usual. There had been an hour’s wait between the first and second races—and more than an hour had passed after the second. It was growing a little dusky, and the thunder rumble was stronger and coming at more frequent intervals.
I muttered to myself: “They’d better—get things going.”
When I went back aft, things were very quiet. The thunder roll came more loudly, but not so frequently. There was no cheering. Vennell was pacing back and forth; stewards were still making drinks and serving them. Mick was talking to the plump-faced girl, near a rail. I found an empty chair and sat in it. A steward brought me a drink. There was pretty much of an air of suppressed excitement. I watched Vennell and tried to figure what his reasons were for betting on Columbia. I was very sure he’d done just that.
The radio loudspeaker was making sound: some chap who kept informing his listeners that he was Carleton Tracy announced that all the crews but three were behind the starting line. He described the scene again and again and cracked bad jokes in between descriptions.
Vennell stopped pacing and said: “If the storm breaks before the finish—”
He checked himself. It was almost as though he had spoken aloud. Mick turned his head away from the girl with the plump face.
“Do they do it again tomorrow?” he asked. “If it rains?”
Vennell’s body got rigid; his face grew red. He took steps toward Mick, pulled himself up short. He said in a fierce tone:
“Listen, you big—”
His arms had come up a little—they dropped to his sides. His voice died and his body relaxed. A slow smile spread across his face. He got out a handkerchief and tapped his forehead.
“I’m sorry, O’Rourke,” he said in a low tone. “It’s my nerves. Didn’t mean anything.”
He turned away. Mick looked at me with narrowed eyes. Vennell started to move forward; I watched Sonia Vreedon half rise, staring at the yacht owner’s back. Then she dropped back in the chair again. Mick said slowly:
“That’s all right—”
The radio announcer was saying that all the shells were lined up, that it was a beautiful sight—that it looked like a great chance for a start. The water was calm and there was no wind—
A cannon boomed sound from the distance. The radio announcer pitched his voice several octaves higher.
“They’re off!” he was saying. “A pretty start. Can’t say anything yet. Maybe Washington is out ahead some. Not very much. She seems to be stroked up a bit faster. Yes, she’s pulling out. Dartmouth is sticking pretty close. California got away good, but it looks as though Columbia was left a bit. Doesn’t matter much in a four-mile row. It’s a beautiful sight, folks!”
I got out of my chair and went over near Cy Dana. He was making notes, but he looked up and grinned at me. Along with the announcer’s voice there was the roar of plane engines, picked up by the mik
e he was using. Cy said:
“Vennell’s pretty shaky, eh?”
I frowned. “You’d be, too—if a masked human got into your cabin—and then got clear again.”
“Yeah,” Cy said slowly. “I would—if a masked man got into my cabin and got clear again.”
The loudspeaker cracked at intervals—there was more thunder now, and it was louder. The sky was getting dark, but there was no wind. It was very hot. The captain came to Vennell’s side and spoke. Vennell nodded, and the captain went away. Vennell said:
“The captain says we’re due for a sharp storm. The yacht’s shipshape, but you might have to move around while they get some of the awning stuff reefed. The stewards’ll take care of the cabins—and we’ve plenty of anchorage room.”
Sonia Vreedon was out of her deck chair; she, too, seemed very nervous. Cy Dana said to me:
“I know how Vennell feels—even my hundred buck bet makes me nervous.”
The storm seemed to be holding off. At the first mile Washington, rowing in an inside lane, had a two-length lead. Dartmouth and Columbia were rowing on almost even terms. Navy and Syracuse were bunched with California, in a third group. Wisconsin and Cornell led Penn by a length. That was the way it looked to the announcer, who figured it would also be a race between the crews and the storm.
Vennell listened and said: “Dartmouth does like any green crew—rows herself out. California’ll get up there.”
At the second mile there were two changes in position. Columbia had pulled away from Dartmouth, and Navy was on even terms with the crew that was rowing its first race in a Poughkeepsie Regatta. California was four lengths behind the leader, Washington; and that crew still had a two-length lead.
I had another drink, and so did most of the others. Vennell smoked one cigarette after another and tried unsuccessfully to stay in one spot for more than ten seconds. Mick O’Rourke kept staring up the river and announcing that he couldn’t see the boats. There was a little wind now, and the lightning crackled more through the loudspeaker.
At the third mile Columbia was within a half-length of the Huskies, and California was a length behind Columbia. Dartmouth was splashing and falling rapidly behind. Penn’s light crew was falling back. Navy and Cornell were fighting it out for fourth place. Syracuse was in sixth, and Wisconsin was doing badly in seventh. The announcer at this point along the Hudson figured it was between Washington, Columbia and California. He thought the Golden Bears were hitting the best stroke—the cleanest. They were beautiful to watch.
The Virgin Kills Page 9