Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

Mick O'Rourke muttered something I didn't catch. Vennell said:

“That fellow might have killed me while I was sleeping. And he could have got on deck, got rid of that black stuff—”

I interrupted. “He was medium-sized, eh?”

Vennell said. “About your build—but the light was bad, and he wore the robe loosely.”

I looked at Vennell's right hand, half-hidden in his right pajama pocket. I said:

“What have you got there?”

Vennell narrowed his eyes. “The gun,” he said. “The one that was on the table.”

I nodded. “Why didn't you shoot at him?” I asked slowly. “Before he went out?”

Vennell grunted. “He was gone before I could reach for the gun. The door slammed. When I got outside, there were screams, and I was afraid of hitting someone. Then I heard Mick's voice, questioning Carla.”

I nodded. Don Rayne and Cy Dana were outside; Vennell told them to come in. They said nothing had been seen of the intruder.

Vennell sat down and frowned at the floor. I said to Mick:

“You'd better come back and get fixed to spend the rest of the night in here. All right with you, Eric?”

Vennell nodded. Don Rayne said: “We'll stick until you get back, O'Rourke. But what's the reason for all this—

He broke off, looking from Mick to me. I smiled a little.

“You got those diamonds in here, Eric?” I said, giving him a lead.

He almost missed it; his eyes staring into mine stupidly. Then he said:

“Hell, no. But I've got the fakes in here.”

I said: “Someone doesn't know they're fakes, maybe. Come on, Mick—you need something to cover up that pajama color.”

We went outside. As we neared Suite B, Bryce came along. I spoke to him softly.

“Carla better now?”

He nodded. “Shock mostly. Bruises on her arms, though. Just starting to show.”

I said: “How about her throat?”

Bryce shook his head, smiling a little. His eyes were very blue.

“I'm afraid she imagined more than really happened. It's often the case. No finger marks on her throat, or bumps on her head. And the throat skin is quite delicate.”

I nodded. “That's the Hollywood complex,” I said. “It works the same way with salaries on the lot. A little bit goes a long way.”

The doctor nodded and moved on. We went into Suite B and I locked the door behind us. Mick lighted a cigarette and grinned at me.

“Nice party, ain't it?” he said. “Who's the biggest liar of the lot?”

I frowned. “Don't yell,” I said. “And stick in character. You haven't pulled a fast one in a long time. Use the one about liking to study Greek classics in the Latin countries because of—”

He swore. “I can't remember it,” he said. “To hell with it. This other is better.”

I sat in a chair and said softly: “Something's up, Mick. Sure as the devil. Clara wasn't choked—and her head wasn't banged against the corridor wall. Vennell thinks his life is in danger, yet when he sees a masked man coming into a cabin whose door has been locked, he calls out first and then reaches for his gun. After that he doesn't seem to have done much.”

Mick said grimly: “That Sard frail did the rest. She was acting all over the corridor when I reached her. She had her arms over her face, and I pulled them down to look at her. I thought maybe she'd been slugged in the eye.”

I said: “We'll try the one about the robber thinking Vennell had a lot of diamonds in his suite. It may fool some of the lot.”

Mick nodded. “There's something funny,” he said.

I reached into a pocket of my flannels and took out the folded yellow slip. Mick said:

“What you got?”

He came over and I unfolded the paper. It was a radiogram form, with typewritten words. It was addressed to Vennell. I read aloud: “Boys using the tarpaulin. Three two one. Looks like a street sweeping on the gem. Western Branch. Casey.”

There was no date line on the radiogram. Mick muttered the words the second time. I said:

“You'd better get a robe, and hop over with Vennell. Don't get talking too much. I don't think anything more will happen tonight.”

The big fellow said: “What about that thing?”

I shook my head. “It may mean something,” I said. “And it may not.”

Mick frowned at me. “Where'd you get it?” he asked. I groaned.

“Found it,” I said.

Mick whistled tonelessly. “You're having luck that way, ain't you?” he said.

I smiled. “Maybe this wasn't meant to be found,” I said. “You get going—I've got some thinking to do.”

Mick moved toward his bed. “If you need any help—” he started, but I cut in.

“I'll get in touch with you,” I said. “So long, Mick.”

It was an hour or so before things quieted down on the Virgin. I had a shot of Vennell's good Scotch and got to work on the radiogram. The “ Looks like a street sweeping on the gem” came first. Someone figured it was a cleanup on Columbia, in the varsity race. I figured it that way, and that made the “Three two one” fairly easy. The odds were three to one. The “Boys using the tarpaulin” was a little more difficult. I got it suddenly, after another Scotch. The boys were covering up. Covering up money. California money.

I sat back in the wicker chair and felt very pleased with myself. Vennell was betting on Columbia to win the big race. He was getting odds of three to one, and someone using the fake name of Casey had radioed him that everything was all right in the betting end.

I said softly: “Columbia—the gem of the ocean.”

Then I sang it. After that I started wondering about Sonia Vreedon. Had she dropped the radiogram? Why had Tim Burke stroked his way out to the yacht? Just a lovers' meeting? I didn't think so. It was a little too tough on Tim.

If Sonia had dropped the folded paper, where had she got it? Or perhaps Vennell had dropped it. That led me into a new line of thought. There was the business card I had picked up, in the smoke room. And now the suite affair, with both Vennell and Carla lying. Vennell because he had said the door slammed first, and when he got outside, there were screams. I'd heard the two screams first, distinctly; and then the door crash. And Carla because she had said she'd been choked and had her head banged against the corridor wall. But there were no bruises on her throat—just those of Mick's big fingers on her arms.

I thought: These people are amateurs, of course. But they're trying for something. And amateurs often improve rapidly.

The yacht bells struck five o'clock. I got into bed and listened to the distant, wailing whistle of a passenger train. Vennell was betting on Columbia, to win. California was the favorite. The odds were three to one. I had a sudden idea, got up, switched on one light, and got the dictionary from my luggage. It wasn't much of a book, but it was good enough for my tabloid column. Once in a while it gave me a new two-syllable word that could be understood in the subway. I looked for a three-syllable word this time. When I found it I read very softly:

“Regatta —a boat race or a series of races. Italian: Regetta —strife. Re —again. Cattare —get. Capto —catch. Capio —take.”

I closed the book, got it back in a piece of luggage, switched off the light, and got into bed. The Virgin didn't seem to be rolling so much now. I closed my eyes and breathed softly into the darkness:

“A race. To get—to catch—to take. Strife.”

I said “Sure” a couple of times, thinking of one thing or another sleepily. Hudson water lapped and swished against the Virgin. All sound became merged and unimportant. I dozed off.