The Virgin Kills

by Raoul Whitfield

  Rayne let his hand drop again. Carla Sard said shakily:

  “Then it—was murder?”

  “The coroner’s jury will probably bring in that sort of a verdict tomorrow,” I replied.

  Carla Sard said very shakily: “Babe Harron murdered, morphined! And Eric Vennell attacked, knocked unconscious. He must have been unconscious a long time—yet he got back aboard the yacht.”

  I said: “Don’t be silly, Carla. It’s almost four hours since Vennell disappeared. He’s been in the water, certainly, but that doesn’t mean he’s been unconscious a long time.”

  Carla said: “It’s been that terrible man—the one in black, with the mask. The one who attacked me, last night. And he may be one of us, aboard—”

  I said brutally: “You’re still sticking to that story, Carla?”

  Her eyes got wide. Don Rayne narrowed his.

  “What do you mean by that, Connors?” he snapped.

  I smiled at him. “You’d better be careful of Torry, Don,” I said. “Carla’s his gal.”

  Carla stood up. “Like hell I am!” she flared.

  I said: “It isn’t Mick O’Rourke you’re crazy about?”

  She started to wave her arms and to talk loudly. Rayne said:

  “Cut it out, Carla. Connors is kidding you. They’ll hear you, and there are a lot of strange people aboard. They won’t know—”

  He stopped. Carla kept her eyes narrowed on mine. She said coldly:

  “It’s a remarkable time to joke.”

  I shook my head. “Wasn’t exactly joking, Carla. What I was trying to get across was that you might think over that scream story of yours. Risdon isn’t a fool—and this fellow Crozier doesn’t seem to be one. I’d be a little careful, that’s all.”

  She laughed harshly. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mr. Connors,” she said.

  I nodded. “All right—but Risdon knows what he’s getting at,” I returned. “And I’ve got a sweet hunch that Crozier knows what he’s getting at.”

  Rayne said: “You don’t believe Carla? You think the masked man didn’t run into her?”

  I grinned at him. “Was there a masked man, Rayne?” I asked. “Or was it love?”

  Carla said: “Good Lord—what a party this is turning out to be! Everyone suspicious of everyone else. It’s just like—”

  “I know the name of the play you mean,” I said. “And it’s just like a couple of books, too.”

  Don Rayne said grimly: “And a hell of a lot of movies, too.”

  I nodded. “Just a sort of Make-Believe game, eh, Rayne?”

  He looked puzzled. Carla closed her saucer eyes and touched her lovely hair with tapered finger-tips.

  “It doesn’t seem real,” she breathed.

  Mick O’Rourke’s voiced sounded, heavy and grim, from some spot behind me.

  “Maybe it’s a dream and you’ll wake up in the electric chair, kid.”

  Carla opened her eyes and said: “You address me differently! You understand?”

  Mick said: “Sure, kid.”

  Carla stamped her right foot. Mick lifted one of his feet, and when he put it down, things rattled. Carla looked furious. I said:

  “Careful—you’ll put it through the keel.”

  Carla Sard stood stiffly and held her head high. She looked swell.

  Mick said: “You look swell.”

  She said icily: “I’m going ashore—I’ll go to the Nelson House, in Poughkeepsie.”

  Mick grinned. “Dive off the front of the boat, and the tide’ll help you along,” he said. “It’s running strong. Look out for sharks.”

  I frowned at him. “The plural is similar to the singular, Mick. ‘Look out for the shark.’”

  He took my right hand and shook it with enthusiasm. He nodded his big head.

  “That’s how I’m going to get ahead,” he said in a determined voice. “It’s you that’s givin’ me my start, Al.”

  There was contempt in Carla’s eyes. Don Rayne still looked puzzled. He was watching Mick very closely.

  I said: “It seems to me the little things can assume considerable importance in the greater scheme of things.”

  Mick nodded. “As one of the noblest Romans has said—translated roughly—” he started, but Carla interrupted.

  “And Eric Vennell may be dying!” she said in a tragic voice.

  Mick said: “He’s not—he’s just a little out of his head. I’ve been the same way.”

  Carla said: “For years.”

  Mick bowed. “You’re fast, kid,” he said in a tone that held exaggerated admiration. “You’ve got a certain—”

  He stopped, shook his head. He said: “You’ve got that—you give me a feeling of—”

  He stopped again, shook his head. Carla was standing stiffly, her eyes calm. I said:

  “The Greeks had a word for it, Mick.”

  His face lighted. “That’s it!” he breathed. “Jees, yes—sure.”

  He looked at Carla, then frowned again. “You are familiar with the Greeks, Miss Sard?” he asked.

  I said sharply: “Of course not.”

  But Carla had gone Hollywood now. She was being that way and using her brains.

  “Thank you for defending me, Mr. Connors,” she said coldly. “But it happens I am familiar with Mr. Schnesi, the millionaire importer. He is a Greek.”

  I bowed. Mick said: “Well, maybe you know the word they had for it, then?”

  She nodded. “It goes for you, too, Mr. O’Rourke,” she said evenly. “‘Lousy’—wasn’t it?”

  She walked past me and past Mick. She went along the corridor with her head held high, and she looked like a million, from the rear.

  Mick scratched his chin and whistled softly. He stopped whistling.

  “She said that like she meant it, Al,” he muttered.

  Rayne said with fine sarcasm: “She doesn’t understand you, Mr. O’Rourke.”

  The big fellow frowned. “You think that’s it? I’m simple, too. Easy to figure.”

  Rayne moved over close to me. He kept his eyes on mine when he spoke.

  “An automatic’s simple, too,” he said. “And easy to figure.”

  He went from the smoke room. Mick and I were silent for a few seconds. Then the big fellow said:

  “The yacht’s getting visitors. And things are getting a little tight.”

  I nodded. “You worrying any?” I asked.

  Mick looked surprised. “Me worrying?” he breathed. His voice got a little hard. “Not yet, Al.”

  I said: “When do you start?”

  He drew a deep breath and spread his arms. He took up a lot of space in the room. When he expelled the breath, there was a whistling sound. He smiled and then his mouth got tight and his eyes smaller.

  “I don’t like the looks of this guy Crozier,” he said. “He looks like a gent that starts something with the idea of finishing it.”

  I nodded. “He’s cool, intelligent—and tough-brained. He’s not being worried much about Vennell—he’s working from the Harron end.”

  Mick frowned. “Just the same—when Vennell starts to talk—we’re going to learn something.”

  I said: “Sure—something.”

  The big fellow looked at me sharply. There was a little silence.

  “Listen, Al—” he said softly—“you still think I may be crossing you up, eh?”

  I stared at him and got amazement in my voice.

  “You crossing anyone up, Mick?” I breathed. “How in hell could anyone think that?”

  He said: “It beats me. But even that Rayne fellow acts suspicious.”

  I shook my head as though it were almost unbelievable.

  “With your open face!” I muttered.

  A voice somewhere beyond the smoke room said in a fairly loud tone:

  “—and instruct the captain not to get this yacht under way.”

  Mick groaned. “I hope the food holds out,” he said.

  I smiled at him and decided
that he was just one of the people on board who was lying. I figured that Carla Sard was another. Vennell I knew had lied. Torry Jones was coming close to it. And even Sonia Vreedon—

  Mick’s voice broke in on my line of thought. He said:

  “It’s queer about Vennell. A little bump on the head—and he can’t seem to come out of it.”

  “It’s—damn queer,” I agreed.

  The big fellow frowned toward the floor.

  “When you can’t talk—there’s not much use of guys askin’ you questions,” he observed, after a little while.

  I smiled grimly. “That’s a fact,” I said.

  2

  Crozier was a well built man of about forty. He had a gray mustache and gray hair, and small, firm features. His eyes were pale blue and very clear. When he tapped on the door of Suite B, I let him in. He closed the door behind him.

  “I’m Mel Crozier,” he said in an unhurried tone. “You’re Connors, I believe.”

  I nodded and we shook hands. I’d stood close to him before, and I’d heard him talk. He was very direct, and yet he didn’t rush things. He looked at Mick, who was standing near a port behind his bed.

  “And you’re O’Rourke,” he said, slowly, smiling a little. “A couple of good Irish names.”

  I said: “Just a couple more like Mick—and we’d have a Notre Dame backfield.”

  Crozier nodded, still smiling. Then he went over to a chair and sat down. I picked out another, but Mick stayed on his feet. Crozier said:

  “Babe Harron’s father is a friend of mine. This is a pretty rotten thing.”

  His face was serious suddenly. I said:

  “It’s a damn shame.”

  Crozier nodded. “Jones, Captain Latham, a Rita Velda, and a Carla Sard—they all seem to think that you and O’Rourke here are taking things pretty lightly.”

  I nodded. “It’s a matter of temperament,” I said. “I’m a newspaperman, and I’ve seen a lot of people have things happen to them. Somehow, I can’t get completely broken up because someone I’ve never been within ten feet of is murdered.”

  Crozier nodded. “You been that close to Babe Harron?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Not that I know of,” I said. “Not within fifty feet of him.”

  Crozier looked at Mick. “It’s like this, Connors,” he said in his unhurried tone, “I’m up here for Harron’s father. He has a big business—and I normally investigate his employees for him. The ones that he may want to make important. I’m not a detective. Babe Harron has been morphined to death. The general opinion of three doctors and the coach seems to be that the morphine was injected just under the left shoulder, a short time before the varsity crew got away from the boathouse. It was intended to take effect sooner, but there was almost a mistake. The effort of stroking the crew slowed down the effects of the morphine, kept it from numbing his body, reaching the heart. If Harron had been sitting round somewhere, or sleeping, it would have killed him sooner. It was a strong dose. Hitting him as it did, the chances are he simply felt a numbness—everything in his body slowed up. He might have thought he had pulled himself out—and then he collapsed. The morphine had reached his heart.”

  Crozier paused. He said: “You’ve got a man out here—this Eric Vennell—who seems to have been afraid of something. I’ve asked a lot of questions, and I’ve answered a lot. I’m out here because one of the boys in the crew saw another boy—Tim Burke—leave the boat-house, shortly after three last night.”

  I nodded. Crozier smiled a little.

  “I believe you were on deck when Vennell’s suite was entered by this mysterious masked man,” he said. “You saw Burke swimming back.”

  I nodded. “Risdon’s being quite frank with you, Mr. Crozier,” I said.

  He stopped smiling. “I hope so. I’ve talked with a Miss Vreedon. She answers certain of my questions, but she refuses to answer the ones I consider most important. She insists that Burke simply took a chance—to see her. She happened to be on deck, and he found her. They talked a little—there were screams. He dove in and swam back. The same crew man who had seen him sneak out saw him come back.”

  I frowned. “He didn’t speak to Burke about it?” I asked.

  Crozier said: “Yes, he did. It was Johnny Light, who pulled Number Two oar. He bawled Burke out—he knew he had a girl aboard the yacht, and it was his idea that the swim, loss of sleep, and whatnot had not helped Burke any—with the big race coming up in about fourteen hours.”

  Mick said slowly: “Well, Burke seemed to be all right in the race.”

  Crozier nodded. “Fourteen hours is a long time. He was in perfect physical shape, and it wasn’t much of a swim. The crew doctor, Vollmer—he admits it wouldn’t hurt much. But that was Light’s theory, anyway.”

  I said: “And when it became known that Babe Harron had been morphined to death—this fellow Light made his guess about where Burke had been?”

  Crozier said: “He answered questions. When he got to the one about seeing anything unusual, he mentioned Tim Burke’s getting away. We went to Burke. At first he denied it, tried to laugh it off. Then he admitted he’d made the swim. At first he refused to name the girl—finally he did that. He was very upset and said he was in love with her, hadn’t seen her for quite some time, and simply had to get out here. He didn’t expect to find her on deck—that had been luck. He had hardly commenced talking with her when there were screams—and she asked him to get away. He did. That’s all he knew.”

  Crozier passed the cigarettes. I said: “You’ve talked with Sonia?”

  He nodded. “Her story agrees with his. She won’t tell me the real reason for her being on deck at three in the morning, and she says she can’t remember the exact conversation between herself and Burke.”

  Mick said: “Well—maybe she forgot it.”

  I said: “There wasn’t much reason for my being on deck, Crozier. I couldn’t sleep, that’s all—and felt that I wanted some air.”

  He said grimly. “You’re a man—you can do things a woman would hesitate to do.”

  I shook my head. “Convention wouldn’t stop Sonia,” I said. “If she felt like going on deck, she’d go.”

  Crozier looked at me steadily. “All right,” he said. “Now, here’s the point. Babe Harron’s skin was burned brown by the sun, of course. The mark of the hypodermic syringe needle is quite small. It would be difficult for the other crew men to spot. Or the coach. But in the autopsy it was determined that the injection was pretty crude. The needle could have been used by an expert so it would have left a much smaller mark. And there are better spots for injection.”

  I said: “He might have been sleeping with his left shoulder exposed, when he got the injection.”

  Crozier said grimly: “The needle would have wakened him—but that isn’t what I’m getting at. We know Harron was murdered, morphined.”

  Mick said: “Yeah—he could have stuck himself, couldn’t he?”

  Crozier looked at Mick with his clear, blue eyes slightly narrowed.

  “It would be difficult—self-injection in such a spot. Harron had everything to live for. Everything. He was all right in his studies; he had the advantages of wealth. He had friends. If there was something we haven’t found out about—and if he did suicide—why such a method? And if such a method, why such a spot?”

  I said: “So it wouldn’t look like suicide.”

  Crozier frowned at me. “The coroner’s verdict will be murder—official tomorrow,” he said. “What I want is Babe Harron’s killer.”

  Mick said: “And you think he’s on the yacht?”

  Crozier looked at me. “One of Doctor Vollmer’s hypo needles is missing,” he said slowly. “It was in a case with others of different size, yesterday morning. None of the morphine is gone, but that isn’t difficult to get.”

  I whistled softly. Mick muttered something that I didn’t catch.

  Crozier said: “What I want to know is why Tim Burke swam out here—and what happ
ened after he got here.”

  “He swam out here to see Sonia Vreedon,” I said. “There was some excitement—and he left in a hurry.”

  Crozier nodded. “What caused the excitement?”

  I said: “Somebody broke into Vennell’s room.”

  Crozier said: “What for?”

  I shrugged. “Vennell is known to have a lot of diamonds. He’s a wealthy man. One of the crew, perhaps, saw a chance—or thought he saw one.”

  Crozier looked at Mick O’Rourke. He said very slowly:

  “I’ve heard the reason why you’re supposed to be aboard, O’Rourke. It’s not as good a one as the one you had for being close to Andy Dormer, before he got careless and then got killed.”

  Mick’s body moved a little, jerkily. Crozier ran fingers through his gray hair. He smiled almost gently. He said:

  “Vennell’s a gambler. He’s lost a lot of money lately. Never heard of him caring much about Regatta stuff, before this year. He’s got a strange crowd aboard this boat. A mixed crowd. Two newspapermen. Wonder if he did any betting on the race.”

  I said: “He said he had a pretty good bet—on California.”

  Crozier shook his head. “Too bad,” he breathed. “That’s tough.”

  Mick said slowly: “If it’s a murder—maybe bets will be called off.”

  Crozier shook his head. “California was rowing a sweet race, until right at the finish. And murder hasn’t been proved. The bets go—and Columbia goes into the records as the winner.”

  Mick looked at the ceiling of the suite. Crozier kept his eyes on the big fellow.

  “For one reason or another, Eric Vennell wanted you aboard as a bodyguard, O’Rourke,” he said slowly. “You haven’t been exactly—up to scratch.”

  Mick looked at me. I said: “Vennell didn’t want O’Rourke as a bodyguard, Crozier. He wanted a bodyguard. I got O’Rourke.”

  Mick stared at me. Crozier didn’t look too surprised. He just nodded his head. I said:

  “You seem pretty square—I’ll tell you some things. Vennell called me and asked me to pick a good man. My column means that I mix around some. I picked Mick, here. Vennell had a talk with us and told us he was on the spot. He was the silent partner of a certain brokerage house on the Street. Money was lost in the house, by a partner who took racket coin. Not lost by him—he did what he was told. But the losers figured Vennell should make up the loss. They got word to him, and he said no. They told him he’d better. Then he called me and got up this yacht trip. The Regatta gave him an excuse to get away. He wanted a bodyguard, so I got Mick.”