Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

I got the cigarettes, went along the corridor from the suite, into the smoke room. It was a small room, done in mission style and lighted dully. Almost the first thing I saw was the card lying near a table, on the floor. It was the usual oblong name card, and the side that faced my eyes as I stood over it held very regular, perfect writing. The ink was reddish in color—the name Albert Connors was at the upper left corner.

I leaned down and picked up the card. I read very slowly, but easily:

“Albert Connors—runs column in News. Medium-sized, dark hair and eyes. Nose slightly large. Acquainted with V. And others, many. Lies well. Suite B with M. O'R. Stalling on O'R. Watch after V. gets works.”

That was all. It was very precise and clear. The description of me was good enough. I was acquainted with Vennell, and it was possible that I lied well. That was part of a columnist's job. I occupied Suite B with Mick, and I was stalling about him. I was to be watched, after Vennell “gets works.”

I swore a little and turned the card over. I read in printing of various sizes:

“Henry McFarren—Leather Goods—1217 Garrick Avenue—Crissville, Wyoming.”

The card was very new in appearance. I turned it over again, sucked on my cigarette, and read the perfect, round writing. When I got through, I went over to a small mirror and looked at my nose. It was slightly large.

There was sound behind me; Griggs entered the smoke room, his poker face turned toward mine.

“Is there something I can do, Mr. Connors?” he asked quietly.

I slipped the card into my pocket and said: “No, thanks. Nothing.”

He nodded, smiling mechanically, went over to one of the tables and straightened out a matchbox, looked momentarily toward a spot on the floor. It seemed to me that it was the spot from which I had lifted the card, but I could not be positive. In the corridor his footfalls died.

I got the card from my pocket and read it the third time. It hadn't changed any, and it meant about the same thing.

Three or four voices came to me, repeating in hoarse unison:

“California—California—CALIFORNIA!”

From the deck above there were cheers, some of them feminine in tone. A launch screeched sound in the distance. The Virgin's siren wailed several times. Up the river somewhere there was the dull report of what might have been a cannon.

I got the card back in a pocket again and went slowly from the smoke room. When I reached the deck, the yacht was opposite the California boathouse, and well out in the Hudson. The searchlight beam brought out the letters of the college, painted raggedly on the sloping roof, clearly. The yacht was barely moving—there was the rattle of the anchor chain.

Torry Jones brushed close to me as I walked aft. He was frowning. He said:

“You'd better be careful, Al. I'll pull a fast one on that bruiser of yours.”

I smiled. “I've almost got all the material from him that I need,” I said. “The rest I can get in the death house.”

Torry said: “What do you mean, death house?”

I shrugged. “That's where they'll put him, after you try to pull a fast one.”

The flier caught my arm as I started to move on. He said:

“Ever see a bomber come down in a crash—one of the big, tri-motored girls?”

I shook my head. Torry said grimly: “They fall harder than the small ones.”

I nodded. “Variation on an old theme,” I said. “But do they fall as often?”

Torry swore. “He won't get anywhere with Carla,” he said. “She's not a roughneck.”

I thought that over. “You might be right,” I said, with a lot of doubt in my voice.

He was getting mad. His voice showed it when he said:

“I've got an idea that Vennell brought that guy on board to show me up.”

I said: “Don't be childish, Torry. Vennell isn't interested in Carla.”

He said: “No? Then what's O'Rourke here for? That line of yours doesn't go with me.”

I shrugged. “You mentioned that before,” I told him. “The thing that counts is that Mick's here, that you got funny with Rita Velda because you'd had too much to drink, and that he threw you overboard. Even at that—he pulled you out.”

Torry said: “Damn him—he knocked me unconscious doing it!”

I stared at him. “No?” I said. Then I changed my tone. “Well, you were probably pulling him down.”

The flier smiled; it was the sort of smile that wasn't particularly happy.

“That's his story,” he said. “But I'll bet he figured on the crack in the jaw before he jumped.”

I made a clicking sound. “That isn't like Mick,” I said sadly. “You misjudge him.”

He swore at me and moved along. I went aft and said to Mick:

“You've got the keys of that small hunk of luggage. Go down and find them, will you?”

The big fellow blinked at me. “I ain't got no keys,” he said.

I smiled at him. “Yes you have, Mick,” I said. “Go down and think it over.”

Light dawned in his eyes. He grinned at Don Rayne and moved away. The last-season stroke of Columbia winked at me.

“He's a likable dumbbell,” he said.

I grinned at Rayne. “Most dumbbells are likable,” I said.

It took a little hunting to find Vennell. I discovered him on the bridge, and we went to Suite B together. Mick was sitting on his bed and grinning. He said:

“You had me winging with that key stuff, until I wised up.”

I closed the door and locked it. Then I handed Eric Vennell the card.

“Found it in the smoke room, on the floor,” I said. “Nothing else. It's about you, Mick, and me.”

Eric Vennell read the writing, his gray eyes narrowing, and his lips getting tight. When he finished, he read it again. Then he looked at me and said:

“Good—God!”

He went to the nearest wicker and sat down heavily. Mick O'Rourke got up and looked at me questioningly. I took the card from Vennell's fingers and handed it to Mick. He read it three or four times, his lips moving. He started to hand it back to me, then he read it again. Then he said very slowly:

“Yeah—sure.”

Vennell said tonelessly: “Yeah—sure—what?”

Mick rubbed his thick lips with the back of a big hand. He made a swift movement and looked down at his snub-nosed gun. The sight of it seemed to cheer him. He got it out of sight.

“It may be—a joke,” he said slowly.

Eric Vennell stared at me. “I'm slated—to get the works,” he said heavily.

I smiled. “And it's bulletined by a dropped card,” I said.

Vennell got up from the chair and paced back and forth, his shoulders sagging a little.

“Just the same—I'm marked, spotted,” he said thickly. “That card wasn't meant to be dropped, or else someone's so sure I can't wriggle clear—”

Mick O'Rourke spoke thoughtfully: “That's pretty writin'—for a killin' guy.”

I nodded. “Almost like a woman's writing,” I said.

Vennell faced me. “A woman's—”

He checked his words, started pacing back and forth again. Mick O'Rourke looked at me and said very softly:

“He's been alone a lot—on board.”

Vennell swung around. “They don't want to finish me—not yet. They want money. The money they lost on the Street. They're trying to get at me—”

I said: “Well, you know everyone on board, Eric. You picked them.”

Vennell smiled grimly. “The crew is all right,” he said. “Same crew I've always had. All right, so far as I know. And I picked the guests, certainly. But I didn't pick them for—”

He stopped again. I said: “For pleasure. You picked them to keep your mind off this thing.”

Vennell shrugged. I took the card from Mick and turned it over. I said: