Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

“Bring him back with you, Eric.”

Rita nodded. “I'll see to that,” she said. “And I won't let him throw Torry overboard again.”

She followed Vennell along the deck, with Mick behind her. Carla looked about the thinning group and said bitterly:

“I still think she's a louse.”

Cy Dana frowned. “You're shocking, Carla,” he said. “You've stayed in Hollywood too long.”

The picture gal smiled. “The town would do Rita some good,” she returned. “It gives highbrows a sense of humor.”

“Or a pain in the neck,” I said.

Carla stared at me. “Lord! You, too?” she breathed. “You're all agin' me.”

Cy grinned. “You've got Torry—when he's aboard the ship.”

I watched anger get into Carla's eyes. The yacht bells sounded one o'clock.

“I'm bored,” she said, and stretched arms that were nice to see. “I shouldn't have come along.”

Cy said: “It'll be a sweet race. The varsity is always something to watch. The thing has rhythm.”

I said: “It's only three days or so—on the yacht, Carla. You can get ashore tomorrow, into Poughkeepsie.”

The picture gal widened her saucer eyes. “Poughkeepsie!” she said in a stricken tone. “Oh, God!”

2

I couldn't sleep. The chances were that I'd had not enough to drink, or that what I'd had had been too good. I woke Mick up, looking at my watch with the lights switched on. It was after three, and the Virgin had motion.

“Going to be rough,” I said. “All the simpler for the California shell.”

Mick looked at me with sleepy eyes. It wasn't too cool in the cabin; his pajamas—purple, with great yellow slashes—made him look like a giant out of the pages of a brat's book.

“I can stand gettin' sick—for five grand,” he muttered sleepily. “What's your cut, Al? For thinking of me?”

“About three grand,” I said.

That woke him up. “Hell!” he breathed, sitting up in the bed. “You ain't taking chances of being shot.”

I grinned at him. “I've got to think of my public,” I said. “I'm on the yacht.”

Mick grunted. “You know what I use your sheet for,” he muttered.

I frowned at him. “Your Rabelaisian humor is pretty stiff for this cruise,” I said.

He blinked at me. “My what?” he said.

I swung bare feet to the floor and got into slippers. Then I looked at him and thought of something that I wanted to say and was afraid of saying. I said it.

“Mick—you're playing straight in this deal?”

He looked hurt. “What do you mean?” he said.

I smiled at him. “Vennell's worried about something,” I said. “He isn't just a good actor. He expects something to happen. He's lied to us, but that doesn't mean there isn't something wrong. You were pretty close to Joe Daltos, before he went to Germany for a bad stomach.”

The big fellow stared at me. “Forget it,” he said. “Joe didn't lose any coin on the Street. And if he did—he wouldn't whine to get it back.”

I said: “All right, Mick—that's all I wanted to know. It wouldn't have been so funny if I'd got you aboard and you were thinking more about some other fellow than about Vennell.”

Mick dropped back on the sheet and chuckled. He acted as if he really thought my idea was funny.

“Can you figure that?” he breathed. “You thinking that maybe you'd put aboard a gun waitin' for the chance to get Vennell!”

I said slowly: “I hadn't seen you for a few weeks, Mick. You never can tell.”

He sat up and pointed a big finger at me. “You cut that line out!” he growled. “I play square—one way or the other.”

I grinned. “That's swell.” I said. “I feel better.”

I got a pair of flannels from a bag, and a white shirt. When I stood up to put them on Mick said:

“Going for a swim?”

I shook my head. “Just a walk around the deck.”

Mick grunted. “Want me along?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Your feet make too much noise,” I said.

As I went outside, closing the door behind me, I heard Mick O'Rourke chuckling. The corridor was lighted dully; I got to deck the quickest way, and quietly. There was little light up above; I came out forward. A freight train was rumbling along the west shore, over or close to the tracks on which the observation train would run during the races. I went to the rail and watched it. A cool wind was blowing; the water was rough.

When the voices reached me, I stood very still and tried to place them. They were very soft and reached me only at intervals. The wind was off the bow, and I judged that the speakers were somewhere aft. It sounded as though they were on the deck below, but I couldn't be sure.

It went on for some time; then I moved slowly aft. There were only a few hooded lights on deck; no one was about. The space aft, where the group had danced and drunk, held empty deck chairs. I stood near one, waited. After a few seconds the voices reached me again. They were pitched below normal tones, had a monotonous quality.

They came from the deck below, and farther aft. There were intervals of ten or fifteen seconds when I heard nothing. The wind made sounds in the rigging of the Virgin; that made it more difficult.

There was a companionway on the starboard side: I found it and tiptoed toward the steps. I had almost reached them when the first scream shrilled with the wind. I stood motionlessly. There was another scream.

Almost instantly there was a crashing sound. The screams and the crash came from some spot in the cabin section, forward and below. I drew in a deep breath, waited. A voice very close to me said:

“Please—Tim—”

There was the sound of a splash, not too loud, but louder than the breaking of waves against the ship. And there were other splashes—easily recognized. The stroking of arms in water; the foot kick of a swimmer.

At the foot of the companionway there was a blur of color in the darkness, the quick breathing of a human being. From somewhere forward a voice called:

“What's—the matter?”

I recognized that voice; it was Don Rayne's. There were the faint sounds of people running—a door slammed. A form was at the foot of the companionway; I backed up and my body struck a small table. Something tinkled; I twisted around, grabbed for the swaying glass.

My fingernails struck it—swept it from the surface. It was no use—I was bending low, getting my shape behind a small ventilator, when the glass crashed. At the same second the figure of the woman reached the top of the companionway.

I sensed that—heard it. There was the quick intake of breath. A small exclamation, almost smothered. The yacht rolled.

The sigh that reached me showed that the woman believed the roll of the craft to have caused the glass breakage. I held my breath, kept my body motionless. A voice from forward came down on the wind.

“Doctor Bryce—get Bryce!”

There were footfalls close to my crouched figure. They died a little, and I lifted my head. The figure was dressed in black; it was the swing of the arms that I recognized. The swing brought me voice recognition; it clarified those two words.

Sonia Vreedon. And the one who had gone over the side of the yacht, from a spot close to the water—perhaps with a smooth dive—that had been Burke. Tim Burke. Number Seven in California shell.

I straightened, stood up. Sonia was out of sight. Earlier she had been dressed in something white—a dinner gown that had made her look rather good. Perhaps she had changed; perhaps the dark color was that of a wrap. Certainly she had expected Tim Burke—and had clothed herself so that there would be a better chance of her not being seen. But I had seen her.

My white shirt was conspicuous, but I had to risk that. I went hurriedly down the companionway that Sonia had ascended. The deck below was open; it was the stern of the yacht. The moon was still under cloud, but in sky spots there were breaks, and stars shone. Faint light was on the water, and in that light I could see the form of the swimmer. Brown showed as he stroked strongly. I raised my eyes. Beyond and to the right of his line of progress was the California boathouse.