Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

Vennell picked out a chair and sat down. He narrowed his eyes on the big fellow's and said nothing for several minutes. Then he looked at me.

“What do you think, Al?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Just one of those things,” I said. “Mick got too playful, after Torry got too drunk. Anyway, he pulled him out.”

Vennell was smoking a thin cigar, which he inspected critically. He looked at Mick and said slowly:

“You're attracting too much attention, big boy.”

Mick said, grinning: “He couldn't swim—can you beat that?”

Vennell looked at me. “I don't know when he's doing what you've told him, or when he's being natural,” he said.

I smiled. “Neither do I,” I said grimly. “Torry might have tossed the Velda gal over, though.”

Vennell frowned. “Miss Sard and Rita don't get along so well,” he stated.

I lighted a cigarette and said in as casual a tone as I could work up:

“Somehow, I get the idea that all this means something.”

Vennell had been looking at Mick, now he turned his gray eyes sharply on mine.

“What?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Cy Dana's getting a bit suspicious, too,” I said. “You've got us aboard. And Mick, here. And two gals that hate each other. And—”

I stopped and shrugged. Vennell said:

“Bunk. You newspaper boys are always looking for something funny. I didn't know that Carla and Rita were going to hate each other. I've got a hunch they both like Torry. And he isn't paying much attention to Rita, so she tries to show Carla up.”

Mick frowned and flopped heavily into a wicker.

“You mean Carla likes Jones?” he said, and his tone was hurt.

Vennell stared at him. He sat up a little; said sharply:

“Listen, big fellow—this is a job for you. You stop being so damn social and use your eyes!”

I grinned. “Mick's fallen for Carla,” I said. “He'll be stroking her hair when the shots pop—and you take the tumble, Eric.”

It seemed to me that I was kidding, but Vennell didn't take it that way. His lean face got hard, and his gray eyes cold. He stood up and faced me.

“It isn't that funny, Al,” he said. “I'm on the spot. When a lot of humans were losing money on the Street, I was making money. They didn't like it, because it was their money I was making. This is quiet talk, see—it goes for you and the big fellow.”

I said. “What did they care about you making money? How did they know—”

Vennell smiled a little. “I was the dummy partner in a certain firm,” he said. “My idea was that nobody knew it—that counted. They didn't, until they dropped a lot of money. Then they found out.”

I said: “Why?”

Vennell looked at Mick O'Rourke. He spoke in a low voice.

“Because they weren't accustomed to losing big money,” he said. “One of the firm slipped up. They took the wrong sort of money. Racket coin, from a gang. An important gang. The money was lost, and they found out I was the big man in the firm. So they came to me, with suggestions. I said no.”

Mick O'Rourke was staring at Vennell. He said very softly:

“You lost gangster money—and you won't pay the boys back. So they put you on the spot.”

Vennell said: “That's it. I got up this party in a hurry—the yacht was down on Long Island. The Regatta was coming up. I figured I'd be safer aboard her, on the Hudson, than about anywhere else. I wanted someone around, even here. So I told Al to dig up a good man. He got you, Mick.”

“Yeah.” Mick's voice was peculiar in tone. “Sure.”

I didn't say anything. Mick got up and found a cigarette. Vennell said:

“I wanted a lively crowd, to take my mind off things. But I don't want any killings on the yacht.”

Mick chuckled. “I thought he could swim,” he said.

Vennell said: “Torry'll hate you for that, Mick.”

The engine of the yacht made a steady throb. Faint sound of music drifted down to us. There was the lap and swish of water against the craft's sides. Mick grunted.

“I can laugh him out of it,” he said.

Vennell shook his head. “Tony's no dub,” he replied. “It takes nerve to fly the Atlantic, and he did it. You made a fool of him, and the woman he liked was there to see it. That won't help.”

Mick said: “I'm sorry.”

Vennell shrugged. “Watch yourself and take things easy. Maybe the Virgin got away without being spotted. But she'll be spotted at Poughkeepsie. We'll arrive in a few hours now. You've got to keep your eyes open.”

Mick said: “Can you give me some names? It might make it easier.”

The yacht owner shook his head. “That wouldn't help,” he said. “I don't want trouble. It may not come. I don't want any of my guests hurt. That's an angle they might work, to scare me.”

I nodded. “That's more like it,” I said. “If they kill you—that wouldn't get their coin back. But if they scare you—”

Vennell said sharply: “They won't.” He looked at Mick O'Rourke, who was 'standing near the door, his eyes half-closed.

“Cut the love stuff and remember I paid you five grand,” he said. “Just because things don't seem very tough, that doesn't mean they won't get that way.”

Mick opened his eyes and nodded. “Sure,” he agreed. “That's why a gun makes so much noise—because it's quiet just before.”

Vennell smiled a little. He said: “And if you go overboard again—keep your pants on. Miss Sard complained.”

The big fellow chuckled. Vennell went to the door and half opened it.

“I'll try to calm Torry, so that he won't hurt you,” he said.

Mick nodded. “Fix it right,” he said. “Tell him I'll slip him a grand if he lays off me.”

Vennell smiled a little grimly and went outside. He closed the door behind him, and his footfalls sounded more faintly as he moved along the corridor. Mick sat in the chair again and watched me thoughtfully. I looked at the suite's ceiling, frowning. After a while I said: “Well, Vennell's getting old. That was a rotten story.” Mick nodded. “Lousy,” he said. “The reason he gave for being put on the spot wasn't so bad,” I muttered “But the idea of figuring this sort of a party as a way to keep clear of guns, that's cold.”

Mick said, grinning: “Dumb.” I said: “Cy Dana's wise to the fact that I didn't just bring you along because you're funny, Mick. Be a little careful when he's around.”

The big fellow nodded. He got up and said suddenly: “I gotta go up and apologize to Miss Sard.” I grinned at him. “That'll be difficult,” I said. “How'll you put it?”

He said: “I might tell her I was thinkin' about other things.”

“Not bad,” I agreed. “You saved Tony's life.”

Mick O'Rourke swore. “He won't remember that so much,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes. “Why not?”

Mick smiled a little. “There's the crack in the jaw I had to give him—in the water,” he said.

I stared at the big fellow. “You did that?” I muttered. “Why?”

Mick said in surprise: “He was drowning, wasn't he?”

I waited a few seconds. “Was he?” I asked in a hard tone.

There was a little silence while Mick looked for an ashtray and found it.

“Sure,” he replied finally. “I read about it in a book. You always have to soak 'em in the jaw when you go in after 'em like that.”

I whistled softly. “And you remembered that before you made the dive, eh?”

Mick O'Rourke raised his big arms and touched the suite's ceiling. He yawned noisily.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm funny that way.”

3

It was almost midnight when the Virgin slid past gaily decorated craft, siren wailing a salute toward Poughkeepsie, the boathouses of the crews, and Highlands. I'd run out of cigarettes; things were fairly quiet on deck, and I went to get some. Mick O'Rourke was talking to Don Rayne; Carla Sard was giving him the cold shoulder, and most of the others were at the rails, watching the shore and other boats. Torry Jones was not on deck.