“What a bright young district attorney could do to those lines, Al!” he muttered.
Captain Latham frowned. Risdon kept scratching on the paper. I relaxed in the chair. After a few seconds Risdon looked up at me and said:
“Well, while you were wandering around the decks at three in the morning—did you see anything unusual?”
I thought that over. “What do you mean by unusual?” I asked. “Everything was more or less unusual to me. A yacht isn’t like Broadway, Harlem—or the Village.”
Risdon slapped down his pencil and leaned forward in his chair. His greenish eyes got down to little points.
“You don’t seem to want to help me much, any of you,” he said. “With the exception of Jones you’re all evading my questions.”
Mick said: “By God—that’s it! Torry’s innocent, and the rest of us are guilty.”
Risdon pointed a finger at him. “Now you just shut your mouth, big boy!” he said in a hard voice. “I’ve heard enough from you.”
Mick O’Rourke stopped leaning against the wall. He took two steps forward, stopped. His long arms were swinging a little at his sides, and his big head had dropped forward a little.
“Listen, Risdon,” he said huskily—“I don’t take it from hick dicks like you! You talk to me like that again and I’ll chuck you overboard!”
Risdon made a swift movement with his left hand. His gun looked like a thirty-eight Smith and Wesson. He held it for a second, then set it on the table. He kept his eyes on Mick.
I said: “What’s that—a rod?”
Mick’s face was twisting. His fingers were clenched at his sides; he stared at the gun. Then suddenly he relaxed. A slow smiled spread over his big face. The scar stopped twitching.
“Jees, Al—I guess he is a detective,” he said with awe in his voice. “He’s carrying a gun, all right.”
I nodded. “Sure he is,” I said. “We’d better be good, Mick.”
The big fellow backed up and leaned against the far wall again. Latham looked at me and said slowly:
“It seems peculiar to me—most of Mr. Vennell’s guests don’t appear anxious to help matters any. He invited them aboard, and yet—”
I cut in. “That’s right—he invited us aboard, Captain. Yet none of us knew him very well.”
Latham looked puzzled. “Mr. Vennell was not one who had many intimate friends,” he said.
Risdon looked down at his notes. “I’ll get what I want, Captain,” he said softly. “Don’t worry about that.”
Mick grunted. “You can’t say a Risdon doesn’t get his man,” he breathed. “No, sir!”
The detective paid no attention to the big fellow. Risdon looked at me.
“You heard screams while you were on deck, Connors?” he asked.
I nodded. He said: “You stayed on deck for a few minutes after you heard them?”
I nodded again. “For a few minutes,” I said.
“See anybody else on deck?” he asked.
I hesitated. It was strange the way I felt about Sonia Vreedon. But I felt that way. I could see her leaning against the yacht rail, her eyes wide on mine. I could see the fear in them. But she had wanted the truth given.
I said: “Yes.”
Risdon waited, and when I didn’t speak, he said:
“Who?”
I looked toward a port behind the detective. Latham and Mick were very quiet.
“Miss Vreedon,” I said very slowly.
Latham straightened his sprawled body a little. Mick muttered: “Huh?”
Risdon said: “Miss Vreedon, eh?”
I nodded. Mick looked at me and said very huskily:
“What the hell, Al?”
I shrugged. “Harron’s dead, and Vennell’s missing,” I reminded. “I’m telling what I know. Just so long as I’m treated right—”
Risdon was scratching on a piece of paper. He looked at the captain.
“What’s her first name, Captain?” he asked.
Latham said: “Sonia Vreedon.”
Risdon put down his pencil and took the thin cigar from his mouth. He inspected the end that wasn’t lighted as though it were something very curious.
“Sonia Vreedon,” he repeated. “That’s the girl that Jones told me was engaged to a fellow named Burke, Number Seven on the California crew—the varsity.”
Latham said: “I believe she is, Risdon.”
The detective got the cigar back in his mouth.
Risdon said thoughtfully: “Number Seven is right ahead of the stroke in a shell, isn’t he?”
Latham said grimly: “He sure is.”
Risdon said: “Not much of a reach—to touch the stroke on the shoulder, say.”
I looked at the ceiling of the captain’s living room and tried to keep my face expressionless. Risdon stopped thinking and using his imagination. He leaned forward and got his greenish eyes on me again.
“See anybody else on deck at about the time you saw the Vreedon girl?” he asked.
I shook my head. Risdon said: “Well, now—what do you suppose—”
He checked himself, and I could see by his eyes that he had the big idea. He said grimly:
“See anyone in the water, Connors?”
I said: “I’d like to answer your questions, Risdon—but I think maybe you’d better ask them with just you and me in here.”
Latham frowned. Mick said again:
“What the hell, Al!”
Risdon nodded his head slowly. “Just you and me in here, eh?” he said. “All right, Connors.”
Captain Latham stood up, still frowning. He went toward the door that led to the corridor that led to the deck. Mick followed him slowly. Risdon said:
“You stick aboard ship, Mr. O’Rourke.”
Mick smiled at him. “I’ll bet you shoot straight and fast, Mr. Risdon,” he replied.
They both went out. I listened to Mick’s big feet making noise on the linoleum of the corridor. Risdon sat back in his chair and waited. After a little while he spoke in a pleasant voice.
“Just who is this Mick O’Rourke, Connors?”
I shrugged. “Until lately he’s been a sort of body guard for a big New York businessman,” I said. “Mick’s all right.”
Risdon smiled, but not so pleasantly. He fingered his pencil.
“What sort of a businessman?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t remember his line,” I lied. “But I think he’d made his money in the Middle West.”
Risdon smiled coldly. “Maybe in Chicago,” he guessed.
I said: “Perhaps.”
The detective stood up and rubbed his hands together. They made a pleasant swishing sound, the way he did it.
“Maybe this big businessman was in the wet-goods line?” Risdon guessed again.
I lied again. “I don’t remember.”
Risdon came around and sat on the edge of the table. He kept some of the weight on his feet.
“Who did you see in the water, Connors—just after you heard the screams?”
I looked him in the eyes. “Someone that had just been called Tim Burke, Risdon,” I said. “Rather, he’d just been called Tim.”
Risdon said: “Ah—”
I shook my head. “Get this straight. Sonia Vreedon and Burke were aft when the screams came. I was near them, though I didn’t know who they were at the time. The screams gave them as much of a jolt as they did me. It was then that Sonia told Burke to get away from the yacht.”
Risdon just kept narrowed eyes on mine. I said slowly:
“I wanted to tell you this alone, because I think it was just one of those things. Burke hadn’t seen the girl for quite a while. He knew the yacht was out here—he’d seen it. I guess he’s pretty crazy over her. He must have taken a big chance—he swam out.”
The detective said: “Yeah? You think that was it?”
I nodded. The more I saw of Risdon, the more I was convinced that he had brains. A nice set of them.
“I
came through with the truth, because you might have got at it anyway, Risdon. And I wanted you to have it straight. I don’t think it means anything. Just a tough piece of luck—for Burke and the girl.”
Risdon said: “I know something about crew, Connors. I’ve pulled an oar myself. I stick close to all the regattas around here, and I know most of the coaches. It’s sort of hobby with me. You think it’s a cinch for a Number Seven in a varsity shell to get away from his sleeping quarters at three in the morning of the day of the race—and swim to a yacht and get back—without being seen?”
I shook my head. “No—because he was seen,” I said. “But if I hadn’t gone on deck for air—”
Risdon cut in sharply: “You don’t think he might have been seen at the other end, eh?”
I didn’t answer that one. The detective smiled at me with tight lips. He parted them.
“You were pretty sure he might have been seen at the boathouse end,” he said grimly. “And you held out on me until you figured you’d better talk fast.”
I said: “Sonia Vreedon isn’t a fool. But I didn’t want her mixed up in a silly—”
Risdon raised his thin eyebrows. I shrugged. He relighted the dead end of his cigar.
“I’m staying on board the yacht, Connors,” he said. “So are the rest of you. I’ve sent word ashore—there’s some information I want. It can be got from New York. Vennell may not be dead, but something’s wrong. It’s wrong here—and it’s wrong over at the California quarters. And there might be a line between the two.”
I sighed. “Go easy with Sonia Vreedon,” I advised. “Her father is—”
“I’ve heard of him,” Risdon cut in. He smiled almost cheerfully. “How do you suppose she and Tim Burke pulled off that meeting so smoothly, Connors?”
I widened my eyes. “Smoothly?” I asked.
But he was getting at the thing I didn’t want him to get at.
He nodded. “Smoothly,” he repeated. “The Virgin’s a pretty fair-sized boat. It was after three. Do you suppose Burke just swam out—and there was Miss Vreedon, stargazing somewhere aft? Or do you think she went for a swim, too—and they just happened to meet somewhere along the line?”
I said: “I don’t know, Risdon.”
His face got hard. “You know, Connors,” he said slowly, “there just might have been some sort of an arrangement.”
I didn’t answer that one, either. He expected me to answer it—his eyes held mine. He said:
“And if there was an arrangement—when was it made?”
I rubbed the knuckles of my left hand with the tips of right-hand fingers and said nothing. Risdon stood up and drew in a deep breath.
“I’ll have to talk with Miss Vreedon,” he said quietly.
I got up, too. “She won’t mind it too much,” I said. “After all, what it amounts to is that Vennell has lost a lot of money on the Street. His nerves are shot. Maybe he wanted California to win pretty badly. When the crew lost, he went crazy—”
Risdon swore at me: “I won’t go crazy, Connors,” he said grimly. “And you won’t go crazy.”
I said: “Thanks. And Mick won’t go crazy.”
The lean-faced detective narrowed his greenish eyes.
“If he does,” he said very softly, “he’ll go crazy like a fox.”
I smiled a little. “If you give him—”
There was a hoarse shout from the corridor beyond the captain’s quarters. There was the sound of footfalls—and they were swift ones. Someone was running. A voice called jerkily:
“Captain Latham—Captain Latham!”
I started for the door, but Risdon was ahead of me. He got it opened. Griggs was outside, his face white except where it was splotched with red. He was breathing with difficulty.
He said: “Is Captain Latham—”
Risdon said: “He’s not here—what’s wrong?”
Griggs stared at me. He said hoarsely:
“Mr. Vennell—forwards—lying on the deck—”
I said: “Dead?”
Griggs sucked in a deep breath. He was getting more color in his cheeks now.
“I don’t know,” he breathed. “He’s—unconscious!”
Risdon was out in the corridor, moving toward the deck. I followed him, and Griggs came along behind me. I noticed a small searchlight playing across the Virgin, aft, as we ran forward. It seemed to come from a launch that was approaching the yacht. Risdon stumbled on something and almost went down. I was at his side; he reached out a hand and gripped my right arm.
“You stay—back of me, Connors!” he snapped.
Griggs said huskily: “Up there—near the anchor chain.”
I saw Mick O’Rourke’s big body first. It was straightening up, slowly, as we got near him. Then I saw the figure of Eric Vennell, stretched on the wood of the deck. Risdon looked at Mick and said grimly:
“How’d you get here—in such a hurry?”
Mick said tonelessly: “I heard Griggs yelling—”
Griggs said: “I didn’t yell, sir.”
Risdon bent over the figure of the yacht owner. His eyes were narrowed. Mick said slowly:
“He’s hurt, but he ain’t dead.”
Vennell moved his arms and groaned. His voice sounded, thick and weak.
“I won’t pay—you took the chance—I won’t pay …”
The words went off into a mumble. The yacht owner’s body was motionless again. I said:
“Get Doctor Bryce, Griggs—make it fast!”
Risdon straightened and frowned at me. I looked down at Vennell. His clothes were soaked. His hair was mussed and clinging to his forehead. There was a thin line of red across his left ear. Water was making a puddle around his body.
Mick said grimly: “Looks as though he just came out of the river.”
Risdon kept his eyes slitted on those of the big fellow. He said very softly:
“You don’t miss a thing, O’Rourke.”
7
MORPHINE
WHEN I went into the smoke room, Carla Sard was talking with Don Rayne. Rayne was saying:
“Vennell’s a husky man for his age. If he put up a fight, the chances are the other fellow has marks. And if he regains consciousness, gives us a description—”
He heard me and stopped speaking. Carla was very pale, and she looked swell. Rayne frowned at me and said:
“Heard anything in the last ten minutes?”
I nodded. My lighter was dry and flameless, so I swiped a box of matches from one of the smoke-room tables. I offered cigarettes, and Carla said she was too nervous to smoke. She said it with a gesture, but I didn’t applaud because it didn’t strike me as being very clever. Don Rayne smiled at her and let his eyes show her he liked the idea.
I said: “A man named Crozier has just come aboard. He flew up from New York. Babe Harron’s father sent him up. He’s a detective.”
Carla groaned. “Another one?” she murmured.
I said: “You’ll like this chap. He’s suave and very cold and superior. He’s the kind you read about in the books whose writers go in for annotations and such stuff. He’s a friend of Harron’s father.”
Don Rayne squared his broad shoulders nervously, hunched them forward, and squared them again. It was a little habit he had; it almost seemed like a mild setting-up exercise.
“How about Vennell?” he asked.
“Still unconscious,” I said.
Carla sighed. “It’s all very terrible,” she said. “I wish I’d gone to Lashinski’s party, on Long Island.”
I lighted a cigarette. Don Rayne said:
“If this Crozier was sent up by Babe Harron’s father—what’s he doing on the yacht?”
I shrugged. “He’s talking to Sonia right now.”
Carla sighed very heavily. “Poor Sonia,” she said. “With Tim Burke on the losing crew—”
That wasn’t what she meant, but it was what she said. I looked at Rayne.
“You’re a crew man,” I said. “Much
chance of another man in a shell using a hypodermic needle on the man ahead of him?”
Rayne shook his head. “Two hands on the wood of his oar—got to be,” he replied. “There’s the slide rig motion to beat. Certainly he’d be seen. And where the devil would he hide the needle?”
“They’re not very large,” I reminded.
Rayne shook his head. “I don’t believe the murder theory,” he said in a superior manner. “It’s wrong from a lot of angles. Coach may say that Harron’s heart was fine. Maybe he thought it. But he overstrained. Columbia was coming up, and Ed Dale called for a stroke pickup. Harron tried and couldn’t make it. That’s my idea. Bad heart.”
I said: “You know damn well that Columbia wasn’t coming up—not until Harron started to go to pieces. I doubt if there was any stroke pickup until Dale tried to make a save. And there had been a heart examination, only a week or so ago.”
Rayne shrugged. “It doesn’t always show. They give fighters a stethoscope examination before they get into the ring. And every once in a while one of them goes out—without being hit much.”
I said: “How about the mark on Harron’s back, Rayne?”
He shrugged. “I’ve had little marks on my back, too. And then, again, Mears doesn’t like to lose. He isn’t used to it. No coach likes it much. He’s lost his head and is looking for alibis.”
I said: “And the crew doctor, Vollmer—he’s helping him out by making a fool of himself, too?”
Rayne said: “After all, he’s the California crew doctor.”
Carla nodded her head and looked wise. “I think Don’s right,” she said. “It’s a terrible thing—but Eric Vennell—he’s the one—”
Her voice faltered and she shivered a little. I said to Don Rayne, keeping my voice low:
“Risdon got word from the Poughkeepsie police station. They held the autopsy an hour ago, at Vassar Hospital. Babe Harron died from poison—morphine in a large dose.”
Carla Sard said: “Oh, God—”
Rayne swore very softly and stared at me. I looked at the tip of my cigarette.
“The morphine was injected near his left shoulder blade.”
Rayne lifted his right hand, got it behind him. I smiled at him.
“It can be done,” I said. “At least Vollmer says it can be. But he doesn’t believe it could be done so cleanly. And why would Harron want to suicide that way?”
The Virgin Kills Page 13