Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

Mick picked up the coin and grinned at Carla.

“I win,” he said, and made a grab for her arm.

Torry looked at me and shrugged. “He would,” he said bitterly.

I nodded. “Sure,” I agreed. “Mick's lucky like that.”

Vennell and Sonia led the way toward the cabin aft. Mick O'Rourke and Carla followed. Cy Dana said very softly:

“Your big boy sticks pretty close to Vennell, eh?”

I pretended I didn't hear that. Torry called out to Carla:

“What is this thing—called love?”

Mick twisted his big head and looked serious.

“On that the better poets disagree,” he said. “In its pure form it is often an elusive quality, scarcely definable.”

He went into the cabin with Carla. Torry Jones sat down in a chair and held his head in both hands. He stared at me blankly. I said:

“Now you know.”

Torry groaned. The yacht rolled just a little. The others paired off and followed toward the dining saloon. Cy Dana skipped his cigarette over the side. A faint odor of onions reached us, aft.

When the Virgin passed West Point, we were lying round on deck, sipping liquors and coffee, and feeling pretty comfortable. Mick O'Rourke was sprawled near me, on a half-dozen cushions. Most of the others had deck chairs. Carla turned her saucer eyes toward gray, stern buildings, clear in the light of a crescent moon, and sighed heavily. She broke a momentary silence.

“He was an honor man, and little Carla was very, very young,” she said. “He'd been studying too hard—tactics, I think. I made a sweet retreat.”

Torry said grimly, arms flung over his head:

“In disorder, Carla?”

Rita Velda laughed in her thinnish way. “Was this before the war, dear?” she asked nastily.

Carla made a grimace. “Even my first campaign doesn't date back that far,” she said. “It was at high school—and Pershing had returned from France.”

Rita had a coughing spell, and Carla narrowed her big eyes a little.

“Then there was the conquest at State,” she said slowly, thoughtfully.

Rita said: “There's always a conquest at State, Carla.”

“And then the Broadway battles—and the attack on Hollywood,” Carla went on.

Torry Jones said lazily: “Hollywood was a major offensive, wasn't it?”

Rita Velda said sharply: “Not major—just offensive.”

Eric Vennell's eyes were on Sonia Vreedon again; it seemed that each time I looked at him, he was watching the girl.

West Point was sliding aft of us. Carla sat up a little and said:

“Hollywood's swell.”

Torry grinned at her. “You licked the town,” he said in an admiring tone. “That makes you sweller.”

Rita Velda took her cigarette from between lips that were unrouged, tapped her red hair with long fingers of her other hand.

“Virtue triumphant!” she said.

Carla sat up straight, and her lips got set in a narrow line. Then they quivered a little. She cracked a palm against the wood of her deck chair and said harshly:

“Listen, louse—you shut up.”

Eric Vennell spoke quietly.

“Now, now!”

Mick O'Rourke chuckled suddenly, moved his angled knees until they touched as he lay on his broad back, and said huskily:

“The four all in the corner pocket! Nothing like calling your shots.”

Rita said: “I'm sorry—you misunderstood me, dear.”

Carla Sard stood up and struck a pose that wasn't at all bad to look at. She nodded her head.

“Sure,” she agreed. “And I don't want to do it again.”

Her voice was knife-edged. I looked at Rita, saw her shrug. Eric Vennell said cheerfully:

“Pulling for California to cross the finish line first, aren't you, Sonia?”

Sonia Vreedon took her gray eyes away from those of Rita Velda and nodded toward Vennell.

“Naturally,” she said firmly. “Tim's pulling in the Number Seven rig.”

Mick sat up and looked at Sonia as though he were seeing her for the first time.

“What I want to know,” he said, “is are them oars they paddle with heavy?”

Torry groaned. Cy Dana said: “They get heavy—along about the last half-mile.”

Mick asked slowly: “What's this guy Tim get, if he wins? What's his end of the deal?”

Vennell spoke in a peculiar tone. “He gets Sonia, for one thing.”

I was watching her closely. Her eyes met Vennell's; they held a flickering expression I couldn't figure.

Cy Dana, on my right, muttered half-aloud:

“So that's it!”

Mick O'Rourke asked slowly: “Well, that's something. What's he get if he loses?”

Don Rayne spoke from some spot near a ventilator. He said with feeling:

“Hell—from the coach.”

Cy Dana muttered again: “So that's it!”

I turned my head a little and saw that the sportswriter was tapping his mustache and smiling.

“That's what?” I asked.

Cy said slowly and in a soft voice: '“What's his end of the deal?'“

His imitation of Mick's tone was not so bad. I looked stupidly at him.

“Got him sized up, eh?” I asked.

Cy shook his head. The others were talking about crew; Vennell had succeeded in getting Carla and Rita orally separated.

Cy shrugged. “Better come through, Al,” he said. “You're sitting closer to Vennell than I am. We're on this boat for a reason—and some others are on her for a reason.”

“Sure,” I said. “To see California grab off the varsity race. To do some quiet drinking. To be sociable.”

Cy grinned. “Vennell drops a few million on the Street—and wants to be sociable,” he said with sarcasm. “To make sure about it he takes aboard a woman he can't keep his eyes off, but who's in love with Burke, Number Seven in the California shell. And two newspaper men he knows from experience will grab anything that looks like news. And an actress and a she-writer who hate each other.”

I pulled my chair a bit closer to Dana's. He had a sharp eye, but he'd left out something important.

“And what else?” I asked.

He stopped grinning at me. “And this big bruiser, O'Rourke,” he said. “With you trying to pass him off as a funny guy you're working for material.”

I said nothing. There was a lull in the conversation and the gray-haired woman whose name I'd forgotten said suddenly:

“Mr. Vennell—won't you tell us how the yacht got her name?”

Carla had her back turned to Rita Velda; she was leaning against the rail, looking toward the fading West Point buildings. She faced about now.

“Yes, do,” she said, smiling at Vennell.

He nodded. “It isn't as bad as you think,” he said. “There was a slipup at the launching—and we didn't have champagne. We didn't have anything strong, as a matter of fact. So one of the workers dug up a milk bottle—half filled. I smashed that across her prow and called her the Virgin.”

There were varied comments. Cy Dana got his head close to mine and said:

“Know the other story?”

I shook my head. Cy said slowly: “Maybe if I tell you enough, you'll come through with the truth about the big fellow.”

I said: “Maybe.”

Cy spoke very softly; the others were talking about yachts.

“The one I heard was that eight or ten years ago Vennell had a bad reputation on the big Atlantic boats. He handled cards smoothly, when there was big money up. There was a scene one night, in the card room of one of the big girls, and the first officer came down to see him, in his cabin. He must have said some nasty things to Vennell. There was a fight, and the first officer went down. He didn't get up.”

I widened eyes on Cy's. He smiled as though he were talking about something unimportant.