Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

“There is a chance. Miss Vreedon is the daughter of a criminal lawyer. She has certain instincts. She may be right. We're almost beaten—I can't hold the crew at the boathouse forever, or the guests aboard the yacht. So we're trying the motion-picture show.”

Sonia said: “Al Connors—do something for me, will you?”

I said: “I think I will, Sonia. I'd like to.”

She nodded. “Don't talk to Mick O'Rourke—about what's going to happen. Please don't.”

I said: “Mick doesn't believe Tim's guilty—and yet you think Mick is.”

She shook her head. “I don't,” she said, “And l swear that Tim Burke doesn't know what our plan is.”

I looked Sonia in the eyes. “I swear I'll do nothing but try to fix it so that O'Rourke goes in without a gun,” I said. “But have you a plan, Sonia—or are you just taking a desperate chance?”

Crozier said, before the girl could speak:

“Does it matter to you, Connors?”

I said: “No.”

He nodded. “Just circulate around and act natural until we start the show,” he advised. “The crew will be out at six-thirty.”

I stood up and smiled at Sonia. “I hope it works,” I said slowly. “They'll drag Tim Burke through the mud if it doesn't, and I suppose that means they'll drag you through it, too.”

She raised her head, and her eyes were clear, defiant.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “It'll mean—just that.”

Crozier said softly: “Sonia and I will handle the seating for the show. See me before you go into the saloon.”

I nodded. Sonia said: “Thanks, Al Connors—you've been pretty square.”

I couldn't think of any answer, so I went outside. It was hot, and growing hotter. I moved round the deck and listened to people complain. Their nerves weren't so good as they had been two days ago. I leaned over the starboard rail and looked at the Hudson River water. I muttered:

“Picture show—”

And I realized that Sonia Vreedon knew that nerves were on edge. She was a shrewd girl, keen. And she was fighting for Tim Burke.

I looked around the deck for Mick, didn't see him. When I reached Suite B, he was lying on his bed, blowing smoke up at the ceiling. I said:

“You might have killed Torry Jones—doing a thing like that.”

Mick smiled with his lips. “I might have,” he admitted grimly. “But I ain't been getting the breaks lately, Al. So he just got wet.”

3

It was growing dark—I stood underneath the awning with Mick and watched the crew men filing toward the saloon entrance on the port side. Carla Sard tugged at my arm, led me some distance from the big fellow.

“They've got—the murderer!” she whispered. “They took pictures—”

I said: “Who told you that?”

She shook her head. “I've heard it—several others know it. I'm afraid.”

I said: “Be yourself—you didn't murder anyone, did you?”

She shivered. “I'm afraid—because Mick O'Rourke hates me,” she said. “And I think—”

Her voice died. Risdon called sharply from a spot near the entrance.

“Come along, please—we want to get started.”

Torry Jones called: “Carla—are you coming in with me?”

She moved away from me, her fingers twisting nervously. Cy Dana and Don Rayne passed; Cy dropped behind the ex-crew man.

“Lot of rumors around,” he said in a low voice, “Does the talk mean anything?”

I shrugged. Cy said: “Well—with Crozier and Risdon losing a lot of sleep—they may have got something.”

He followed Rayne toward the saloon entrance. Risdon looked at me, then at Mick O'Rourke. He said with sarcasm:

“Care to join us, you two?”

I said: “Come along, Mick.”

The big fellow reached my side. “You've got me worried, Al—with all that talk about me having a gun on me.” He grinned.

When we reached the entrance, the lights had been dulled. Mick said:

“It's hot—and I ain't crazy about movies. I'll stay near a door.”

Crozier called, from a spot half-way down the room:

“This way, Mr. O'Rourke. I've got a seat for you.”

Mick looked at me questioningly. I nodded. The big fellow swore.

“I'm being treated swell,” he said. “Just like they treat a guy in the death house, before he sits on the hot spot.”

He went forward and I saw him take a seat near an aisle formed by the arrangement of chairs. The saloon was crowded; crew members were at the rear. I recognized two of Risdon's men, from the Poughkeepsie police, one at each of the doors leading to the decks. There were men at the door that led to the corridor, and several in uniform were present. Carla and Torry Jones were seated beside each other, toward the front of the room. Tim Burke and Sonia were across the aisle from Mick O'Rourke. Burke was sitting with his head held low and his arms folded. Sonia was whispering to him. The others were scattered about; Don Rayne was in the rear, near the crew members. Cy Dana was up front, but looking around as Crozier moved toward the spot where I stood. Rita Velda was at the far side, near a wall. She seemed very nervous and kept turning her head. There was only a faint murmur of conversation.

I saw Risdon across the room and at the rear. Doctor Vollmer and Coach Mears sat together, Vollmer on the aisle. They were a few rows forward of the crew members. There was a humming sound from the projection box, at the rear.

Crozier reached my side and said: “Most of the seats are taken—come along forward with me—we'll stand by the wall.”

I nodded, and we-went forward on the left side. We went quite a distance forward, and I was about to complain that I shouldn't be able to see the screen, when the investigator stopped. We got our backs against the wall, and Crozier stepped in front of me, reached my right side. We faced across the room, and, by moving our eyes, could see either those in the saloon or the screen. Crozier said loudly: “I guess we're all here. Close the doors, please.”

The doors were closed. It was dark outside—the Virgin had no motion at her anchorage. I saw Captain Latham and the second officer, Griggs, and the woman with the loud voice. The blonde was nervously moving her head around, but most of the others were watching Crozier expectantly. It was very quiet inside the saloon.

Crozier said in a toneless voice: “We have some pictures of the varsity race. I have just one request—please do not move from your seats—regardless of what happens.”

His voice had grown a little hard. There was a murmur of conversation as he finished speaking. He looked toward the projection box and said:

“Lights out, please!”

They didn't go out, but they got very dim. I saw that two of the center lights had been draped. The screen was fairly dark, but the faces of all those except the ones seated forward could be seen. I looked at Mick O'Rourke; he was slumped low in his chair. Tim Burke was sitting stiffly, erect. His head was turned toward the screen.

There was a buzz, a clicking sound. And then voices filled the room. It was the boathouse scene. The California crew were taking out their shell. They talked; voices called to them. The sound was clear in the saloon. There was a sudden silence as Babe Harron came into sight.

He was very good-looking, with tremendous shoulders and finely muscled arms. Someone not shown on the screen called clearly:

“Go get 'em, Babe!”

Harron turned and for a second faced the camera. He was smiling a little. He nodded his head. There were other voices. Tim Burke was in the background; the camera panned and I saw Tim look toward it. He was not smiling.

Crozier said: “Burke looks—a little worried.” His voice was a whisper; his head was close to mine.

I replied: “Sonia told you he was worried about Vennell.”