The Virgin Kills

by Raoul Whitfield

  Sonia’s hurt eyes were on mine. Crozier had his narrowed; he nodded his head.

  I said: “Supposing the injection was made—the time limit is still right, for the poison. Supposing Babe Harron feels the sharp sting of the needle—”

  Sonia said: “Please! I can’t—”

  She moved toward a port. I said: “I’m sorry, but this is a point, Sonia. A big one.”

  Crozier kept narrowed eyes on mine. “Go ahead,” he said grimly.

  “Harron feels the sting—he turns,” I said quietly.

  “Tim Burke says: ‘That damn bee!’—or something of the sort. A bee can get quite a distance from shore. Or a fly—a big one. Harron believes Burke, of course. And what can he do about it? It’s too late for treatment, and an insect sting isn’t going to stop Harron from stroking. He knows that. It may hurt—it’s a tough break—but it isn’t going to check him any. He swears a few times, and the crew rows on up for the start.”

  Crozier said: “It’s a damn sweet possibility.”

  Sonia shook her head. “No—no!” she cried, her voice rising. “You know that isn’t what happened! You know it!”

  I looked at Crozier. “You admit that it could have happened that way—and that the chances were better in the shell—better because Babe didn’t have time to examine his shoulder? It’s an awkward spot to get at—the left shoulder blade.”

  The investigator nodded slowly, his eyes slitted on mine.

  “The shell was a better spot,” he said very quietly.

  I smiled at him. “Then why was the hypodermic needle found in Tim Burke’s mattress?” I asked. “Certainly he would have dropped it over the side of the shell.”

  Sonia swung around, her eyes suddenly wide. She said: “If Tim had done it—that way—of course he would have dropped it overboard.”

  Crozier smiled at me. “You were using your head, Connors,” he said quietly. “You’ve trapped me into admitting something in Burke’s favor, eh?”

  I nodded. “I hope so,” I said. “My point is that the shell was the best spot for the injection—and yet Tim Burke didn’t do it. If he had, he wouldn’t have held on to the needle.”

  Sonia said: “Yes—yes—can’t you see? He’s told you he doesn’t know a thing—”

  Crozier kept his eyes on mine. “There are two points, Connors. Burke might not have been able to get rid of the syringe. He might have shoved it down under his trunks again. That’s one. The other is that in spite of the fact that the shell appears to have been the better spot for the injection—it wasn’t made there.”

  I said grimly: “I can’t imagine the injection having been made in the boathouse.”

  Crozier was silent for several seconds. then he spoke softly:

  “But you’ve got to admit that there would be hardly any other crew man in a position to make the injection in the shell.”

  I frowned. Sonia said unsteadily:

  “But you know Tim wouldn’t have taken the syringe back to the boathouse and put it in his mattress. You know he would have had some opportunity to get it into the water!”

  I nodded. “He certainly would have,” I said. “With that storm sweeping the river, at the finish—all that confusion.”

  Crozier pulled on his cigarette. “Then I think that in spite of the fact that the shell offered the best opportunity, the injection wasn’t made there.”

  I shook my head slowly. “You’re pretty convinced that Tim Burke was Vennell’s accomplice. Why, aside from the evidence of the syringe found in his mattress?”

  The gray-haired investigator nodded his head. He looked somewhere beyond me.

  “Why did Burke swim out here—the night before the race?” he said. “I’m not satisfied with his explanation. Nor Miss Vreedon’s.”

  I looked at Sonia. “What is the explanation?” I asked.

  Crozier remained silent, and Sonia spoke in a low, husky tone.

  “Tim was foolish, that’s all. He wanted to see me. I happened to be on deck.”

  Crozier exchanged glances with me. I said as gently as I could:

  “Did a few hours make so much difference? Couldn’t he have waited until morning?”

  There was scorn in Sonia’s dark eyes. She said:

  “Can you look back and say that everything you’ve done has been wise? I have said he was foolish. But—just the same—”

  She checked herself. There wasn’t any doubt that she loved Tim Burke. I could see it in her eyes, and feel it in her words—sense it in the ones she left unsaid. She turned away from us again, moving toward a port.

  Crozier said wearily: “I’m tired—more mentally than physically. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  I looked at him and spoke softly: “What is your real reason for suspecting Tim Burke?”

  He said impatiently: “I’ve got four good ones, Connors. The only reason I give them to you is because you’ve been honest with me, helped me. You handed over the card and the radiogram.”

  He stopped. I said: “And the four good ones?”

  Sonia faced us, standing near the port. A train whistle whined into the room, from the shore. Crozier looked at the carpet.

  “Miss Vreedon knows three of them—or knows that I know three,” he said slowly. “She might just as well know my fourth, too. The first one is the finding of the needle in Burke’s mattress. The second is his swim to this yacht, and the fact that his explanation doesn’t satisfy me. The third is that Burke is in love with Miss Vreedon, and that he has complained more than once about not having money prospects. He’s even been bitter about it. Coach Mears knows that—and the crew doctor knows it. He wanted money.”

  Crozier paused. Sonia Vreedon was standing motionlessly, her eyes on his face.

  “Burke didn’t intend to kill Babe Harron,” Crozier said. “Either there was a mistake in the dose—or the effect on Harron was more severe than on the usual person. Morphine is difficult to handle, when you use it in a large dose. This dose was large, though Doctor Bailey, of Vassar Hospital, stated that some men might have survived. He expressed doubt, however, and said that for the average, healthy man the dose would have killed in about thirty minutes. He thinks it required over forty to kill Harron, which means that the stroke might have received the injection in the boathouse or in the shell. And the time limit is uncertain, in any case. The point is that I believe Harron was to be drugged for a collapse—but not to be murdered. Therefore Burke’s act did not seem so terrible to him.”

  Sonia said scornfully: “Not terrible—to betray eight other men in the shell—his coach, the college, thousands of others! Not terrible—to drug a friend?”

  “Not terrible—compared to murder,” the gray-haired one said quietly.

  There was a little silence. I said:

  “But that’s not your fourth reason. I’m willing to agree the death was not intended.”

  Crozier shook his head. He took his eyes away from mine and looked at Sonia Vreedon.

  “The fourth reason in that Vennell had known Tim Burke for more than four years,” he said quietly. “He put him in college. It’s true he was working his way through. But Vennell watched him. He did things for him. Little things, without attracting attention. And then, very suddenly, this last term, he stopped doing anything. There was no contact.”

  I looked at Sonia. Her face was very pale; she was swaying a little, one hand raised toward her breasts. I said mechanically:

  “How’d you—learn that?”

  Crozier smiled just a little, his eyes on mine.

  “Vennell told me, before he was murdered!” he said in a hard voice. “He didn’t want to tell me—but he spoke—”

  We were both on our feet as Sonia Vreedon uttered a little cry. It was a strangled, low cry—and then she was slipping downward, toward the carpet. I caught her in my arms as her knees struck, and she was pitching forward. She was ghastly white. Lifting her, I carried her toward the divan at one end of the room. Crozier said very steadily:

 
“Why should a woman be so shocked—who has nothing to fear for the man she loves?”

  10

  TENDER BEHIND

  It was almost three o’clock when I reached Suite B. Mick O’Rourke was lying on the bed, legs spread, and reading the comic section of what happened to be an old Sunday paper. He chuckled and let it drop to the floor as I closed the door behind me and stood looking at his big figure.

  “It ain’t so good as Mickey Mouse,” he stated cheerfully. “Pa falls out of an airplane right down to his own house. And there’s Ma—waitin’ on the roof with a rolling pin.”

  I leaned against the door and nodded my head a little.

  “That’s a lot better than falling out of a yacht into the Tombs,” I said.

  Mick stopped grinning. He shook his head from side to side and made clicking sounds.

  “I feel pretty sorry for Vennell, Al,” he muttered. “And that stroke, Harron, too.”

  I said: “Do you?”

  The big fellow sat up and swung his legs to the floor. He was wearing his trick pajamas, and the arrangement of color and design didn’t make him look any smaller.

  “Sure I do, Al,” he said. “I been answering a lot of questions, but it don’t seem to help much.”

  I shook my head. “That’s too bad,” I said.

  Mick didn’t like the sound of my voice. He frowned at me.

  “What’s eating you, Al?” he breathed.

  I went over and sat in the chair beside my bed. Mick kept watching me with his big eyes.

  “How did you answer the one about the reason you were aboard?” I asked.

  Mick shrugged. “I gave it to ’em straight,” he replied. “This ain’t the time to kid.”

  I said: “It’s nice to know you realize that, Mick.”

  He narrowed his eyes and leaned toward me a little. He spoke softly and slowly.

  “You think I did in Vennell, Al?”

  I shook my head and tried a laugh that was a little too strained to be worth much.

  “It’s this way, Mick,” I told him, “I can think, but it doesn’t mean so much. What’s Risdon think?”

  Mick grinned. “He thinks I finished Vennell,” he stated grimly. “He hasn’t exactly said so, but I’ve got a strong hunch he thinks it.”

  I nodded. “Why does he think it, Mick?” I asked.

  The big fellow swore very softly. “I got a record he don’t like, and maybe you’ve been talking to him, Al.”

  I said: “About what?”

  Mick drew a deep breath, “About this and that,” he said grimly.

  I shook my head. “I haven’t,” I said. “But I figure that both Crozier and Risdon suspect you, big boy.”

  Mick shrugged. “Not many guys climb into the hot seat because they were just suspected,” he muttered.

  “A lot of them have got started in that direction because they were just suspected,” I reminded.

  The big fellow frowned at me. “What’s the idea, Al—you figure I’m in a tough spot?”

  I nodded. “What were you doing when the main switch was jerked over?” I asked. “How about the shots?”

  Mick nodded. “I’ve answered that one a few times, too. It was hot and I didn’t want to be inside the big room. I was wandering around, down below. I’d just picked up the funny sheet, down near the engine room, and I was looking for someone to tell me it was all right to take along.”

  I said grimly: “You’re getting careful in your old age.”

  Mick looked hurt. “I didn’t see anyone, so I came up on deck. I was folding up the paper to put it in my pocket, when I thought I saw a guy swimming away from the yacht. I was near the rail, on the starboard side. There was some light behind me, but it went out. Then it came on again. Then there was a shot. I figured someone had discovered the guy I’d seen swimming. I yelled at him—and when he kept on swimming, I fired one shot, but I saw right away it wasn’t any use. The lights were out, and then I heard Vennell call my name. I was forward of his cabin, and I had to bet inside. It was black, but I kept moving, and I yelled that I was coming. You know the rest.”

  I said: “Did Crozier look at your gun?”

  Mick said: “Sure—and there was one bullet gone.”

  I nodded. “Naturally,” I said.

  Mick smiled peculiarly. “Guns are like that,” he said.

  I said: “You didn’t say anything about the swimmer—in Vennell’s cabin.”

  Mick frowned. “Maybe I was wrong,” he said slowly. “It might not have been a swimmer.”

  I swore at him. “Yet you took a shot at something—and you heard another shot, first.”

  He nodded. “Didn’t you hear two shots, Al?” he asked.

  I looked at him for several seconds without speaking. Then I said:

  “Neither Risdon nor Crozier can find anyone who fired that other shot. There’s been a gun search—and they haven’t found the gun.”

  The big fellow grunted. “The guy might have got worried, and tossed it overboard.”

  I said: “What would he be worried about?”

  Mich shrugged his big shoulders. “It might have been one of the females,” he said. “A little quick on the trigger—sort of nervous.”

  I smiled a little. “Like you were,” I said.

  Mick nodded, his eyes serious. “I’ll have to cut down on the cigarettes,” he muttered.

  I lighted one and watched him for a little while. I was about to speak, but he got there first.

  “You heard Vennell yell—and you heard me yell that I was coming, didn’t you?” he asked.

  I nodded. “It’s a swell point,” I agreed. “But don’t work it up too much.”

  He just looked at me with his eyes expressionless. There was a short silence. He said:

  “Where was this guy Risdon—he didn’t get into Vennell’s cabin until we’d been there a few minutes.”

  I smiled grimly. “Think maybe he did for Vennell?” I asked. “You heard what he said—he turned down the passageway and got out on the deck. He wanted to stop anyone from getting overboard.”

  Mick O’Rourke made another clicking sound with his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

  “He’s a quick thinker, eh?” he said.

  I shrugged. “Someone murdered Eric Vennell,” I stated. “And someone murdered Babe Harron. You didn’t get to Harron, Mick, but Vennell might have made a mistake.”

  Mick closed his eyes. “What sort of a mistake?” he asked.

  I said: “This fellow Crozier has been working pretty smoothly. He was with Vennell, just before the lights went out. He had Vennell talking. He says that Eric was only half conscious, but he was getting something out of his head that made sense. Perhaps he was—or maybe Crozier was using persuasion. In any case, Crozier told Sonia Vreedon and me something that hit her pretty hard. She fainted.”

  Mick whistled. “Yeah?” he breathed. “What’s that got to do with Vennell making a mistake?”

  I said: “It’s got something to do with it. Crozier figures that you worked with Vennell—and that Vennell had Babe Harron morphined so that he’d be sure to clean up on his bets. He was shaky and he used the stuff himself. And Crozier thinks that maybe you thought Vennell might get talking. That would drag you in—”

  Mick stood up in his bare feet and swore. He said:

  “Crozier’s crazy as hell!”

  I shrugged. Mick glared at me. Then he muttered:

  “And that made the Vreedon gal faint? Because she learned that Crozier figured I’d battered down Vennell?”

  I said: “No—not that. Vennell put Tim Burke in California. He helped him some, the first three years. But this year he stopped. He got that far—Crozier did—when Sonia Vreedon keeled over. She’s better now, but she isn’t talking any. And neither is Crozier.”

  Mick narrowed his eyes and stood with his hands on his hips. He didn’t look so dumb.

  “And that was the mistake that Vennell made—talking to Crozier?”

  I shook
my head. “The mistake was that he didn’t know how much you hated Dingo Bandelli,” I said very quietly.

  Mick O’Rourke’s big body jerked. His elbows came up and his fingers clenched. The scar across his cheek twitched and seemed to stand our clear in the cabin lighting. He was breathing heavily.

  “Go on, Al,” he said in a tight, husky voice. “Spill the rest of it!”

  I nodded. “I’ve got to,” I said. “I’m bunking with you, Mick. I’ve got to have the truth. Crozier doesn’t know this, nor Risdon. But I do. And you do. That wasn’t a fake story that Vennell told—the one about his firm losing money for a big shot, who wanted it back. But he lied when he said he’d been put on the spot. He hadn’t. The guy that lost that money tried to scare Vennell into giving it back. It didn’t work. And the guy that lost that money just forgot about it. He went out to Chicago, got some other boys together—and cut in on a weaker racketeer’s district. In a few more weeks he’ll have all the coin back that he lost. That is, he will unless the police grab him.”

  Mick said slowly: “Grab him for what?”

  I nodded. “For the murder of Vennell—the one who planned it, anyway.”

  Mick made a hissing sound and started to chuckle. I said:

  “That was Vennell’s mistake, Mick. He didn’t know that you hated Dingo. And when he told us that story that wasn’t all fake, you remembered that Dingo Bandelli was the boy who had lost the money. And you realized that Vennell had put out the story of being on the spot. And you knew that if Vennell were murdered—sooner or later they’d get after Bandelli. You hated him—so you—”