Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

For seconds I stood there, watching the white breakage of water as the swimmer moved. Then I turned toward the companionway, started up it. Something yellow lay wedged between the surface of a step and the low, slanted rail. Something yellow and folded.

I reached down; my fingers touched paper. It was folded into a neat square, and not too thick. I slipped it into a pocket of my flannels, moved to the upper deck, went forward. There had been the screams—and the slammed door. I hurried along the deck.

A voice said grimly, from one side: “Hold up, there!”

I stopped. The thickset figure of the second officer stepped around some superstructure; in his right hand was something that gleamed dully. I smiled at him.

“Hello,” I said, not remembering his name. “I heard screams—what's wrong?”

He looked at my hands. He had on a bluish robe, and his gray mustache was bristly.

“Where'd you hear them from?” he asked.

I said: “Aft, at the stem.”

He said: “Aft, at the stern, eh?”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I replied. “I'd walked back there from a spot forward, at the bow.”

He didn't smile. I stopped smiling and said:

“What happened?”

He slipped the gun into a pocket of his bluish robe. His voice was grim.

“A human got into Mr. Vennell's suite,” he said.

I stared at him. “But I thought the screams were female,” I said.

The second officer, nodded. I remembered that his name was Rosecrans.

“They were female,” he replied.

I said: “Oh.”

The second officer shook his head. “Not that,” he stated. “Mr. Vennell woke up—and the fellow inside made a break for it. He ran into Miss Sard in the corridor.”

I thought that over. “What was she doing in the corridor?” I asked.

Rosecrans grunted. “She says she was trying to find the deck,” he stated.

A figure loomed up behind the second officer. It was Cy Dana. He stared at me.

“How'd you get here?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Southern Pacific to New Orleans, boat to New York—Central to Poughkeepsie.”

Cy said: “It isn't funny. Someone broke into Vennell's cabin.”

I corrected him. “Suite,” I said. “Well, it wasn't me. I couldn't sleep and came up for some air.”

Rosecrans nodded grimly. “And Miss Sard was trying to come up for air,” he said.

I thought about Sonia Vreedon, but I didn't do anything else about her.

“A man gets about easier than a woman,” I said.

The second officer spoke grimly. “It looks that way.”

He moved aft, leaving Cy Dana eyeing me closely. I said:

“Well?”

He grinned. “Maybe it wasn't you, at that,” he replied.

“Thanks,” I replied. “Where were you!”

He grinned at me. “I've got too much brains to try a stunt like that,” he said. “That pug's too big for me.”

He was wearing a towelish bathrobe from which he fished cigarettes and matches. I bummed one of them.

“You mean Mick?” I said. “What's he got to do with this?”

Cy swore at me, but held a match below the tip of my cigarette. The wind blew it out and I moved closer, getting a light on the second try.

“Still stalling, eh?” Cy said. “Suppose I'll have to read the inside works in that lousy column of yours, next week.” He pitched his voice high. “'They say that Eric Vennell had a bodyguard on his aptly named yacht, the Virgin, during his Hudson jaunt to the shell scrap at Poughkeepsie, last week.' “

I said: “You're certainly working that idea hard, Cy.”

He nodded. “The second scream pulled me out of the bed and into something. When I got outside and down the corridor, just one guy had got there ahead of me. It was O'Rourke. He had that picture lady by the arms and was trying to shake words out of her. But they didn't shake.”

I nodded. “Mick likes her,” I told him. “He was worried about her screaming, I guess.”

Cy said: “He didn't act worried—he acted just plain sore.”

I pulled on my cigarette. “She was screaming—and woke him up,” I said. “Mick likes his sleep.”

“And his job,” Cy said harshly.

I made a clicking sound and went past Cy to the companionway that led down to the cabin deck. A lot of people were wandering around in dressing gowns, robes, and whatnot. Rita Velda stood near the door of her cabin, a twisted smile on her face. She said to me:

“That's the first time Carla hasn't got her man, isn't it?”

I smiled and went along to the turn in the corridor near Vennell's suite. I had to pass Carla's cabin; her door was half opened. She was lying on her bed, attended by two women whose names I didn't remember. There was a man standing near the door; he looked like a traveling salesman with a good appetite. It was Doctor Bryce. I asked him how she was.

He started to say that she was ill, but Carla sat up and swore at me. It startled me.

“Don't get excited,” I told her. “It was just that I was being nice and—”

“He was your build!” she said in a loud voice. “He was dressed in black, with a mask over his face.”

I grinned. “Jesse James, maybe,” I said.

She swore at me again. The doctor spoke.

“You're upsetting her.”

I went along the corridor, turned, and moved toward the entrance of Vennell's suite. Mick's voice reached me as I tapped on the door. He said:

“Yeah—who's there?”

I said: “Al.”

His big feet made the usual racket as he came over and snapped a lock, opened the door. He grunted at me.

“Where you been all this time?” he asked.

I said: “I haven't been dressed in black and wearing a mask. I was on deck.”

I walked past Mick and went toward Vennell. He was seated in a chair near a small desk, staring at me blankly. He said in a husky voice:

“They tried—to get me, Al!”

I stood looking down at him. “Just what happened?” I said.

He sighed. “The door was locked. I was sleeping restlessly. The clicking sound woke me up, but I didn't move. There was a gun on that table, next to the bed.”

He pointed toward a small table, near the head of his bed. He went on.

“The door opened—not too much. Light from the corridor showed me the figure; my head was turned toward the fellow. He was wearing something that looked like a black robe. He had a mask that completely covered his face. He shut the door behind him and came toward the bed. I called out: 'Who's there?' His body jerked; he turned and made for the door. I reached for the gun—the door slammed. I got out of bed.”

Eric Vennell shook his head slowly. “There were screams—the fellow ran into Carla in the corridor, round the corner. He grabbed her by the throat and banged her head against the wall. Then he got away.”

I looked at Mick. His mouth was slightly open.

“And then you grabbed Carla by the arms and scared her all over again,” I said.

Mick grunted. “She did the yelpin'. She knew what had happened,” he said. “She was the first one I seen.”

“First one you saw,” I corrected.

Vennell stood up and glared at me. “What in hell is this—a class in grammar?” he muttered.

I looked serious. “You having the boat searched?” I questioned.

He nodded, frowning. “Of course. But no one seems to have seen the fellow, after Carla. She didn't see much more than I did. He was medium in size. She says his eyes 'burned.' “

“Sure,” I replied. “She'd say that.”

Vennell said sharply: “Well, what's to be done?”

I shrugged. “Mick had better bunk in here with you,” I said. “We'll just say he's big and would like to get a crack at this guy. No use trying to hide the fact that he's in here. His feet are too big.”