The Virgin Kills

by Raoul Whitfield

  Crozier nodded very slowly. “I think so,” he said. “I’ve got men up above—and they’ll be there all night. In the morning there’ll be more. I can’t say that we’re getting anywhere, but I’m not through.”

  He rose. I got up and stretched. He looked at me closely.

  “Going to sleep in there with O’Rourke?” he asked.

  I nodded. He said: “Got a gun?”

  I smiled at him. “You think it’s that dangerous?” I asked.

  He had his eyes narrowed on mine. “He might bother you some,” he said in a hard tone.

  I nodded as he went toward the door of the smoke room.

  “He will,” I agreed. “When Mick snores, he bothers anybody.”

  Crozier turned and looked at me with eyes that were hard and small. He shook his head.

  “There’s one person aboard—that O’Rourke won’t bother,” he said grimly.

  I nodded. “Vennell didn’t have much chance.”

  Crozier’s feet made little padding sounds on the corridor floor.

  “When you play the short end—you don’t deserve much chance,” he said softly.

  11

  SOMETHING IMPORTANT

  When I reached deck, there were a flock of little launches circling around the Virgin, and the second officer was using a megaphone to warn them off. Risdon was talking loudly to the dignified man who had suggested the boat burned crude oil. As I came up near to him, he shook his head.

  “We may be able to release those aboard the yacht today, and we may not, Mr. Condon,” he said. “We’re not playing a game, you know.”

  The dignified one sighed heavily. Risdon saw me and reached my side, at the rail. I looked at the boats puttering around.

  “Reporters?” I asked.

  Risdon said: “Yes, damn ’em. And photographers.”

  I nodded. “If there are any of either from the News, let them aboard, will you?”

  He frowned at me. “I will not,” he said. “We’ve got enough to do on this yacht, without answering fool questions.”

  I said gently: “Aren’t you familiar with the power of the press? You might get a break—”

  Risdon almost shut his greenish eyes. “To hell with the press,” he breathed. “The only break I want is—”

  He broke off. I said: “—to get the murderer of Babe Harron.”

  He looked at me sharply. “And of Eric Vennell,” he muttered. “Or to make the murderer talk.”

  I shook my head. “You have to get him before you can make him talk,” I said.

  The detective smiled coldly. “I think we’ve got him,” he replied.

  I widened my eyes. “Something happened after I turned in, then.”

  Risdon said: “I don’t know when you turned in. But I got very little sleep. We were at Tim Burke’s most of the night.”

  I said: “That’s tough.”

  Risdon shrugged. “I’ll catch up on the sleep,” he said.

  I smiled a little. “I meant that it was tough on Burke,” I said. “He doesn’t know so much about this as you do.”

  Risdon didn’t smile. “No?” he replied. “But maybe what he knows is more important.”

  “How about Mick O’Rourke?” I asked. “Have you still got him mixed up in the deal?”

  Risdon said grimly: “You don’t see anyone going ashore and taking the Central back to New York, do you?”

  “I just came on deck,” I replied. “I overslept.”

  Risdon nodded. “When we get through with this crowd, a lot of them will oversleep,” he said.

  I pulled over a deck chair and sat in it. I said in a casual tone:

  “You’re treating with two difficult problems, that’s true. But you must bear in mind the fact that you are in contact with intelligent, sophisticated people.”

  Risdon looked as though he didn’t believe that.

  “Am I?” he replied. “Well, it doesn’t seem to make things any easier.”

  There was the sound of heavy footfalls, and Mick loomed from behind a ventilator. He pulled up short as Risdon turned and faced him.

  “I was up forward when the lights went out—and I ran across—”

  Mick stopped. “Sorry,” he said. “You didn’t ask that question yet, did you? Not this morning?”

  Risdon said grimly: “I didn’t, but keep on repeating that answer anyway. You’ll work it in at the wrong time, and then it’ll be tough.”

  Mick shook his head. “Why?” he asked. “If I stand trial, I can say you beat the answer out of me.”

  Risdon muttered something that neither Mick or I caught, and went forward. Mick looked out over the little launches, drifting around.

  “That fellow Risdon doesn’t like me, Al,” he said. “It hurts me here, too.”

  He hit his big chest two or three times, making a drum-like sound. I said:

  “Don’t be too funny with him, Mick—he’s working pretty close to Crozier.”

  Mick blinked at me. “What of that?” he said in a surprised tone. “What have I got to worry about?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing, I suppose,” I replied. “But you’ve been answering an awful flock of questions.”

  Mick looked serious. “It’s just because I’m big.” he said. “Risdon and Crozier both figure a big, strong guy hit Vennell in the head with something heavy.”

  I nodded. Looking along the deck, I watched Doctor Vollmer approach us. The crew doctor was short and thickset. He had a rather heavy face and dark eyes. Mears came along behind him; the coach was tall and very sunbrowned. He had broad shoulders and a very slim hip line. He was comparatively young, and there was a serious expression on his face.

  He called: “Oh, Doc!”

  Vollmer stopped and faced around. The two of them were within ten feet of us when the crew coach reached the doctor’s side. Mears said:

  “Crozier is looking for you, in the captain’s quarters. Some more questions about where you kept the hypo stuff.”

  Vollmer nodded. He faced us for a second or two. He said to Mick:

  “You’re a big man, O’Rourke—not much trouble for you to see over people’s shoulders.”

  Mick didn’t say anything. There was a peculiar expression in Vollmer’s eyes, as he turned away. I said:

  “Another that doesn’t think so much of you, Mr. O’Rourke.”

  Mick frowned. “What’d he say that for?” he asked.

  Mears came up to us, shaking his head. “He didn’t mean anything, O’Rourke,” the coach said. “Doc’s pretty upset about this. He’s sticking up for Burke—and Crozier and Risdon seem to think Burke used—”

  The coach shook his head again. I said:

  “What do you think, coach?”

  He almost growled at me. “They’re a clean bunch of boys, my crew. Doc’s right. Burke didn’t do that. It’s pretty terrible. No one did it—no person associated with the crew. That’s my opinion.”

  I said: “Did Babe Harron see any other persons but those associated with crew, within an hour of the time he collapsed?”

  Mears frowned. “Crozier has been working along those lines,” he said. “There were several periods, short ones, when Harron was alone. That is, perhaps there were. But he was around the boathouse. Maybe in the shower room or looking over his oar. the boys get pretty nervous just before the big start. They find a lot of things to do. I was around the place—I saw Burke once or twice, asked him how he felt. He acted pretty well—a little nervous, maybe, but not more so than a few of the others. Babe Harron was around, too. He looked good and was pretty cool.”

  I said: “Did you see his back before the race?”

  Coach Mears said: “Yes—but I wasn’t very close to him. I saw his back from my launch, too—but again I wasn’t very close. Tim Burke was in the best position to see any mark on the Babe’s back. You know how it is—anything you haven’t noticed before, on the back of the man you’re facing in a shell—you notice it.”

  Mick said in his big voice: “
And Burke didn’t notice anything, coach?”

  Mears spread his hands and looked out over the Hudson water.

  “Up until this morning he said he didn’t,” he stated.

  “But Crozier tells me that he’s changed his story now. He says that he did see a small mark at the spot where we know the injection was made.”

  I stared at the coach. “He says that now?” I muttered. “Why didn’t he tell Crozier that before?”

  Mears shook his head slowly. “He says he was pretty worried about our finding the hypodermic needle in his cot mattress—and he figured he’d better not admit anything that would involve him. It wasn’t much of a mark, he says. Something that looked a little like an insect sting, only it wasn’t swollen.”

  Mick looked at me, “Burke’s going to get himself into trouble if he isn’t careful,” he said.

  Coach Mears narrowed eyes on the big fellow. He said slowly:

  “Going to get himself into trouble. I’d say he’s in pretty deep right now. And I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe what?” I asked.

  Mears shrugged. “You knew Vennell, you two. I didn’t. Miss Vreedon came to me this morning; she’s pretty upset. She’s in love with Burke, and he’s crazy about her. She told me that the reason Burke swam out here was that he had heard Vennell was here, in the yacht.”

  I said: “We got up here pretty late—the night before the day of the race. Crew hits the hay early, doesn’t it? How’d he hear it?”

  The coach said: “Sonia wrote him, a couple of days before you came up.”

  I whistled softly. Mick swore. “The more those two try to explain, the deeper they get,” he muttered.

  Mears nodded. “Damned if they don’t. But there wasn’t much Burke held back from Sonia. Burke and the girl met the first year he was at California. Vennell was out there now and then. Tim thinks he was figuring on using him, even then. Vennell met Sonia through Tim. She liked him a little—she admits that. Now and then she joined a party on this yacht. Tim was along, if it wasn’t during college term. And then Tim got the idea that Vennell expected him to do something. There were questions Vennell asked, things he hinted at. And he was pretty enthusiastic when Burke made crew. All this is what Sonia tells me. She feels, I believe, that Tim didn’t do what Crozier and Risdon seem to think. And she was trying to explain why both she and Burke wouldn’t explain the real reason for his swim out. They were both afraid that if it was learned Vennell and Burke had known each other—”

  He shrugged. Mick said slowly, looking up at the tip of the stack:

  “They’re pretty sure Burke used the morphine.”

  Coach Mears nodded. “But they don’t believe he intended to kill. They think that he made a mistake in the dose. They think Vennell made a guess at it—because he used the stuff. He got the morphine to Burke—they think that’s why Tim swam out, either to get it or to get instructions. He was promised a large sum of money, with California out of the race. He wanted Miss Vreedon and needed the money. That’s the police theory, if you consider Crozier and Risdon police.”

  Mick muttered: “They got plenty against the kid, at that.”

  Mears nodded. “They have, because they don’t believe his story that he swam out to find out how Vennell was betting. He was worried, and Sonia says he was more worried when he was told that she thought Vennell was lying about having a bet on California. He was afraid of something.”

  Crozier came along the deck, with Doc Vollmer at his side. They moved toward us, and Crozier said to Mick O’Rourke:

  “Stand over there, alongside of Coach Mears, will you, O’Rourke?”

  Mick said: “Sure.”

  He moved over and stood beside the coach. He was broader and a good six inches taller, in spite of the fact that Mears was a big man. Crozier tapped his mustache and frowned.

  “That’s all, Mr. O’Rourke,” he said.

  Mick came back near my desk chair and leaned against the rail. He said:

  “What’s that prove?”

  Crozier disregarded the question. He addressed the coach.

  “Babe Harron was just about your height, wasn’t he, coach?”

  Mears nodded. “Perhaps a half-inch taller,” he said.

  I looked at Crozier, and when his eyes caught mine, I spoke seriously.

  “I’ve a question I’d like to ask—if you aren’t asking that things should be absolutely private. I’d like to have Coach Mears hear me ask it.”

  Crozier smiled. “Go ahead.”

  I said: “If Tim Burke’s motive was to lose the race for California—if that was the thing to be gained, why did he use the morphine on Harron? He was in the shell. Certainly he’s read the story about the crew man who threw the race pretending he had collapsed. Why didn’t Burke just flop over? He could have done it a little sooner, to make sure the others didn’t pull his dead oar over the line.”

  Mears was nodding his head slowly. So was Doctor Vollmer—and so was Crozier.

  Crozier smiled just a little. “That was one of the first things I thought of—in favor of Tim Burke,” he said. “But it was one of the things that Risdon thought of, too. Others who have asked me that are Doctor Bryce, Doctor Vollmer here, Coach Mears, Sonia Vreedon, Miss Velda, Tim Burke—”

  “That’s enough,” I cut in. “I wasn’t claiming originality. I’ll admit it seems obvious that Burke would collapse.”

  Crozier said: “Vennell was the one who planned to morphine the stroke. Not Burke. Burke did what he was told. Vennell was shrewd; we all thought of a very good reason why Tim Burke didn’t have to use morphine on another crew man. But suppose Vennell thought of it, too. He would tell his idea to Tim, and Tim would tell me, if he were suspected. Well, Burke is suspected. And less than thirty minutes ago he asked me the same question that you just asked me, Connors. Why should he morphine a man—when he could simply collapse? That’s the very reason he should—because the apparent foolishness of the act would be in his favor. And there is a secondary reason—if he collapsed there would be some disgrace. But the other way, there was none.”

  Vollmer said: “I wouldn’t exactly say that.” His voice held bitterness. “A crew member has been murdered—and all of us are more or less suspected.”

  Mick said slowly: “I didn’t ask you that question—I didn’t think of it.”

  Crozier said grimly: “Well, it might have come to you later.”

  Mick looked serious. “I don’t think it would have come later.”

  Doctor Vollmer was looking at Mick with his dark eyes narrowed. He said:

  “You’re a strong man, O’Rourke.”

  Mick took his big hands away from the deck rail and let them swing at his sides. He nodded, and slitted his eyes on Vollmer’s.

  “A little while ago you said I was big. What’s the line, Doc?”

  Vollmer said grimly: “Eric Vennell wasn’t exactly weak.”

  Mick grunted. “Oh, that’s all it is,” he muttered. “You’re trying to get across the fact that I swung something against the back of Vennell’s head.”

  Volmer’s voice held protest. “Of course I’m not, Mr. O’Rourke,” he contradicted. “I understand that you were his bodyguard.”

  Mick nodded. “Just now and then,” he explained.

  Coach Mears was looking at the big fellow. But he didn’t speak. I said to Crozier, who was staring over the rail:

  “How did you learn Vennell used morphine?”

  “Doctor Bryce told me,” he replied. “He was his personal physician, and he didn’t feel it was necessary to tell me while Vennell was alive.”

  Mick said: “Not even after he knew that Babe Harron had been morphined?”

  Dr. Vollmer’s eyes met mine. “Sometimes Mr. O’Rourke is stupid, and other times he is very observant,” he said with sarcasm.

  I nodded agreement. “Aren’t we all?” I asked.

  Mick said with serious expression: “It’s my operation that causes that.”

  Vollmer r
aised his eyebrows. “What sort of operation?”

  The big fellow shook his head. I watched Tim Burke and Sonia come along the deck. Burke was walking with his head down, and Sonia was talking to him, with her head close to his. Their arms were linked.

  Mick said: “One doesn’t talk about one’s operation, Doc.”

  Crozier looked at me narrowly. Mick O’Rourke moved along the deck, toward Burke and Sonia. Coach Mears watched him go, then faced me.

  “Unusual type, Connors,” he said. “Changes his style of talk a lot.”

  I smiled. “When he talks highbrow, he’s kidding,” I said. “O’Rourke is just a big bum, quick on the trigger and not afraid of anything.”

  Crozier said: “And he’s one of the persons we can’t place, when Vennell was battered down in his suite.”

  I shrugged. Coach Mears spoke thoughtfully.

  “Is it possible that Vennell could have fallen, struck the back of his head against something?” he asked.

  Crozier said grimly: “Almost anything seems to be possible aboard the Virgin. But it would have to have been a pretty hard fall—and we didn’t find blood on anything except the wicker chair against which his head rested. The chair could hardly have caused such a wound. And he cried out—for help.”

  I watched Mick stop near Burke and Sonia, saw the girl lean back from the rail and turn a pale face toward him. A plane droned overhead.

  I said: “You haven’t found who shoved over the main switch, or who fired the other shot?”

  Crozier shook his head. “There’s a switch box and fuses, out in the corridor wall less than twenty feet from Vennell’s suite,” he stated. “It’s an emergency box—but there isn’t anything mysterious about it. The main switch was thrown over there—it cut off the power in the generator. The one who murdered Vennell could easily have thrown that switch.”

  I said: “But we were going toward Vennell’s suite, and Mick was coming the other way.”

  Crozier smiled grimly: “Was he?” he asked. “In any case, there’s a narrow corridor running to the port-side deck from the entrance to Vennell’s suite. Nobody was coming in that way.”

  Coach Mears said: “But we were outside there—Tim, Doc, and I. We weren’t exactly opposite the door that leads to the deck, but we could see it.”