Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

“The officer died, and there was a pretty mess. Vennell got out of it, but it was a job. A year or so later he got going on the Street—speculation. Then he got this yacht. Ever notice the crew?”

I shook my head. Cy said: “Well, there's no first officer—no first mate.”

I said: “She may not be big enough.”

Cy said: “She is. She rates a first mate, but she's never had one. He swore no boat of his ever would have one. And that's why he called her the Virgin.”

I said slowly: “Because she hasn't had her first mate—”

Cy lighted a cigarette. “That's it,” he said.

I yawned. “And you believe it?”

He pulled on the cigarette. “It's a damn sight better than the one about the milk bottle,” he said. “And I've checked up on part of it. He did kill a liner's first officer.”

“Well,” I said, “you think it's a funny layout. You don't like the way things look. What's going to happen?”

Cy Dana swore at me. “Did he tell that roughneck you brought aboard what he was supposed to do?”

I looked toward the nearest shore. “It should be good weather for the races,” I said.

Cy Dana regarded his cigarette and nodded his head very slowly.

“All right, Al,” he said. “You work it your way. But when things break, I'll scoop hell out of you.”

I laughed at him. “If they break, and if there were any such thing as a scoop,” I corrected.

He smiled with his eyes grim. “We haven't got legmen on yachts,” he reminded. “Or cops ready to tip off their pet newshound. I did police work before I got into the sport end.”

I nodded. “I did it before I decided to steal two or three other guys' styles and get myself a column,” I replied. “This just looks like a nice quiet party to me.”

Cy Dana closed his eyes. Carla's voice rose very suddenly, sharp and clear.

“Some day you'll get a knife stuck in your back, Rita!” she said.

Mick O'Rourke kicked my chair with one of his big feet and winked at me.

Rita Velda said calmly: “You're so sensitive, my dear.”

A glass crashed. I sat up straight and watched Carla face the writer, her eyes narrowed with rage. She said excitedly:

“Either you'll get off this yacht—or I will!” o

Torry Jones got to his feet. He was a little shaky on them. I looked at three empty, tall glasses near his chair. He said thickly:

“Want me to put her ashore, Carla?”

Carla's hating eyes held a peculiar smile now. She nodded her head.

“Chuck her over, Torry,” she said.

Torry Jones moved toward Rita, who regarded him with contempt. She said slowly:

“You don't drink as well as you fly.”

Torry was almost at her side when Mick O'Rourke got to his feet. He was watching the flier closely. Eric Vennell was smiling with his lips.

“Careful, Torry,” he warned. “Don't be foolish.”

The flier was tight. He chuckled toward Rita, who stood close to the yacht rail, watching him. He said:

“Can you swim?”

Rita spoke. “Sit down and tell us how you flew over and under clouds—again,” she said. “I haven't heard it since Van Dane's party the other night.”

It was the wrong thing to say to Torry Jones, and Rita realized that right away. He sobered up just enough to stop being funny and to get mad. He said:

“Over you go!”

He had her in his arms when three of us got moving. Vennell was the nearest to them, but Mick O'Rourke moved with greater speed. I was calling out sharply when his form moved past me. For a second his big back blotted out my sight of Rita and Torry.

Then Rita was shoved to one side; Vennell caught her in his arms. The figure of Torry Jones rose from the deck, arms swinging. Mick O'Rourke gritted:

“Here's your—chaser!”

Tony's body shot over the rail, twisting. Carla Sard screamed shrilly; Vennell swore in a low, harsh voice.

Sonia Vreedon's voice reached me above the babble.

“The propeller—”

Cy Dana said grimly: “He can swim, I suppose. We're aft—no danger from the propeller.”

We were at the rail now, all except Eric Vennell. He was running toward the bridge, and calling in a sharp voice:

“Heads up—man overboard!”

Mick O'Rourke looked at me and grinned. He seemed pretty pleased. I said:

“You damn fool—what did you do that for?”

The big fellow kept on grinning. The yacht started to swing wide, to get around in a circle. The siren wailed three times, in short sound. I caught a glimpse of Torry Jone's head—and an arm moving.

Carla Sard was beside me, but she wasn't paying any attention to me. She was very excited, and pounded at Mick's big chest with tiny, clenched fists.

“You've killed him! You've drowned him!” she shrilled. “Murderer!”

Mick laughed at her. “If he can't swim, what'd he fly the Atlantic for?” he said.

The yacht was coming around nicely. The siren wailed again. There was a faint jangle of bells and the engine vibration became less noticeable. The speed was slower.

Some of the group moved toward the prow of the craft. Carla Sard staggered dramatically toward a deck chair and collapsed into it. There was light on the water, from moon and stars, and a searchlight beam shot downward from the bridge. It caught the figure of Torry. He seemed to be sprawling around a lot.

Sonia Vreedon said calmly: “He can't swim much, that's sure.”

Carla heard her and cried shrilly: “He's killed him! He's killed—Torry—”

Cy Dana said: “Don't yelp so much—you're not on the set.”

A voice bawled from the bridge: “We're tossing down a line—”

Then Carla was speaking again. She'd stopped being dramatic and was just hard.

“Listen, you sports hound!” she snapped at Cy. “Don't talk that way to me!”

Cy stared at her. There was a great deal of excitement on the yacht, but Carla had forgotten about that. She forgot about one thing very quickly, if another annoyed her.

I said: “Tony's in bad shape.”

He was splashing a lot, and the yacht was still a few hundred yards distant. Carla didn't seem to care.

“This is the hell of a party!” she said. “I'm telling you that!”

Mick O'Rourke was watching Tony Jones and muttering to himself. Suddenly he reached down and kicked loose his shoes. He jerked off his dinner coat and jacket.

“The louse can't swim!” he breathed in a sore tone. “Can you beat it?”

I said grimly, my eyes on Torry: “Better go over, Mick.”

He nodded, jerked his suspenders loose from his broad shoulders. His trousers dropped to his ankles and he stepped out of them.

Carla Sard said: “Oh, my God!”

Mick twisted his head toward her. “I gotta swim, ain't I?” he breathed huskily.

He climbed over the rail and dove.

2

Mick O'Rourke stood in a corner of Suite B and dried himself with two towels. He talked steadily as he did so, a cigarette dangling from his lips. I lay on my bed and watched him, eyes half-closed.

“And the bum couldn't swim!” Mick kept muttering. “He goes an' flies the Atlantic, but he can't swim! Can you beat it?”

I let it go on for a little while; then I said slowly:

“Lay off that line. What if he could swim? The Atlantic's big.”

Mick said: “How big?”

I groaned. There was silence for a little while. Mick slipped into a robe that was a relic of his prize-ring days and shook his head slowly.

“I don't know,” he said doubtfully. “It's a queer outfit.”

There was a knock on the suite door. Mick looked at me, and I nodded. He went over and opened it. Eric Vennell came inside, frowning.

I said: “Here's where you catch hell, Mick.”