Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

Crozier nodded. There was a sudden staccato beat from the screen—from the loudspeaker behind it. The shot was from an airplane, and the beat was that of the engine exhaust. There were shots down on the Hudson, shots of the boats and the flags, the crowds on each side of the river. The Virgin looked nice from the air; the ship seemed to circle over her. There was a shot down on the observation train, and another of several crews rowing up the river for the start.

For five minutes we watched shots before the start of the race, some taken from planes, others from launches. And then a voice said:

“They're off!”

The next shot was a long one, showing the start. California appeared to get away badly—it was strange, seeing this part of the race for the first time. The engine exhaust of the plane filled the saloon with sound; there were long shots from the air. I looked away from the screen, saw that Coach Mears was sitting very stiffly, staring straight ahead. Doctor Vollmer was rubbing fingers across his face. My eyes went to Mick O'Rourke; he was still slumped low in the chair. Tim Burke and Sonia were tense, their eyes on the screen.

The camera was shooting down from the railroad bridge now; there was no sound of planes, but the shouts of those on the bridge. The shells had spread out; there was a short shot from one of the following launches. The straining bodies of the crew men photographed well in the fading light.

There was a break in the film. Then suddenly the camera was in the plane again, and the plane was diving. She was diving toward one shell, but for several seconds two shells were photographed. Crozier muttered:

“California—and Columbia! Almost at the finish!”

My eyes were on the screen as the plane dove lower and lower. The light was bad, very bad. But the plane was flying low. The Columbia shell was lost from sight—the California shell seemed to rise toward the camera. I could see Ed Dale's back, swaying forward, straightening, as he beat out the stroke.

There was another break. And then there was a close-up. It came so suddenly that it was startling. Above the engine beat of the plane I could hear the exclamations in the saloon. Someone cried out sharply:

“Babe—Harron!”

It was the stroke. He was pulling an oar, but he was having a terrible fight with himself. His head was thrown back, his eyes were staring. His teeth were clenched, bared by his parted lips. For what seemed like an eternity of seconds his head and the upper portion of his naked body filled the screen, and they were terrible seconds. The slide rig took him away from us, brought him back. He was swaying now, and the special lens seemed to have brought him within a few feet of the camera.

His movements were slower, more uncertain. Water struck against his face, but he did not appear to feel it. I knew that Ed Dale, the coxswain, had splashed it there. I drew in a deep breath, unclenched my fingers. There was a sudden break in the film.

And then the sound of the plane engine filled the saloon again. Babe Harron's face was before us—the same tortured expression, staring eyes. The same swaying body, with slowing movements. And I realized that we were seeing the same scene over again, with the plane diving very low and coming up from behind the shell.

There was a rising murmur of voices in the saloon. The slide rig carried Harron away, brought him close. There was another break—and again the beat of the ship . engine. And once more the face, tortured and tilted back, of the California stroke.

I turned my head toward Crozier. He looked away from me, breathing fiercely:

“Look there!”

I stared toward the center aisle. Mick O'Rourke was sitting erect now—he was staring at the screen. But there was no fear in his eyes, no pain. I looked toward Tim Burke and Sonia. They were both tense; Sonia's hands were slightly raised, pressed against her throat. Tim Burke's eyes held an expression of pain; his mouth was twisted as he watched the stroke sway before him.

Something seemed to turn my eyes to the screen again.

The sound of the engine had changed; perhaps that was it. But there was still a close-up of Babe Harron. His head half filled the screen—the slide rig seemed to shove him forward into the camera. And as his strained eyes stared into it, his lips moved.

My body jerked as I caught the word they formed. His head swayed to one side—the slide rig took him away —brought him back. And again his lips formed that word.

And even as I turned my head, and the sound of the plane engine died, Sonia's voice reached me in a fierce cry.

“Vollmer!”

Beside me Crozier swore harshly. I stared toward the crew doctor. He was on his feet, in the aisle. His short body swung around, he screamed in a horrible voice:

“No—no! For God's sake—”

He was running now—a sort of staggering run toward the rear of the room. Crozier cried” out above the sounds of confusion:

“Lights! Risdon—”

The lights flared up. Doctor Vollmer had stopped; he swung around now, started forward in the aisle. Sonia was on her feet. She cried again:

“It was—Vollmer!”

And then Mick O'Rourke's big body was blocking the crew doctor's path. Vollmer swung his arms crazily, and Mick reached out his big hands. Vollmer twisted clear; I remembered his powerful shoulders. Mick stepped in and brought up his right arm. There was a thudding sound, and I saw Vollmer's body collapse. Mick stood motionlessly, looking down. Crozier's voice sounded hoarsely.

“You people—keep still—”

And again the voice of Sonia Vreedon, this time with a note of victory in it:

“It was—Vollmer!”

4

The crew doctor was slumped in a wicker chair in Captain Latham's quarters. Sonia Vreedon sat on the divan, beside Tim Burke. She was pale, and her eyes did not go to the doctor's figure. Risdon and Crozier stood near a port, watching Vollmer closely. I sat in a chair near the door. Vollmer spoke in a low, thick voice. “I had all my money—in Vennell's firm. He invested it for me—gambled it for me. He lost. This was six months ago. I went to him, and he laughed at me. I went to him several times, and one time he didn't laugh. He said there was a way I might get it back. He was in bad shape. He was going to put everything he had on Columbia, and California must lose. He was using morphine—Bryce knew that. He got it to me—enough for one dose. I was to use it on Harron, before the big race.” The crew doctor covered his face with his hands, moved his head from side to side. He was breathing heavily. Crozier said calmly: “Go on, Vollmer.”

The doctor took his hands away from his face. He stared straight ahead of him, and his words were slow, toneless.

“I didn't mean to kill Harron. That was the terrible thing. But I had to be sure—sure that his exertion wouldn't fight off the poison until the race was over. I used a strong dose. There wasn't much delay at the start, but there was more than I thought. It gave the poison more time to get into Harron's system. Morphine is difficult to handle—and the stroke—died.”

He was silent for several seconds, then he said in the same, dead voice:

“It was a terrible thing. But I was desperate and I didn't mean to kill. The money I gave Vennell—it wasn't my own. I had to have it back. Vennell promised me fifty thousand dollars. He said there would be no suspicion, that no one would think he was betting on Columbia. But I learned, before I came to the yacht, that there was suspicion. There were rumors that Vennell had broken under the strain. And I nearly went insane.”

Vollmer rocked from side to side, covered his face with trembling fingers. When he took them away, he said slowly:

“I came to the yacht with Mears and Tim Burke. I had put the hypodermic syringe in Burke's mattress, because I was sure he wouldn't be suspected. I wanted to confuse things. Burke was in love with Miss Vreedon, here—and I felt her position would protect him. When we reached the yacht, I heard again that Vennell would be able to talk very soon. I didn't know what had happened to him—didn't know then that Jones had made a mistake and had knocked him overboard. I wanted to get to him, but that seemed impossible. And then the light went low. I was along the deck, a short distance from Mears and Burke. I knew the Virgin —I've been on her, out in California. I knew where Vennell's quarters were. I was off the deck when the lights came up, just inside the narrow corridor. There was a shot—out on the water somewhere. Someone celebrating, I think. It wasn't on the boat. The lights went down again—started to come up, and I reached the switch box. I knew it was there. I got a handkerchief in my hand, opened the glass, and moved the switch.”