Рауль Уитфилд - The Virgin Kills

“Crissville, Wyoming.”

There was the whistle of a launch. Music drifted to us as the boat passed the Virgin. Voices reached the yacht—there were cheers for Washington. Someone apparently spotted Don Rayne. There were shouts up to him—his voice called back.

Eric Vennell said grimly: “You've got to stick close to me, O'Rourke. This is getting me.”

Mick nodded. “Sure,” he said. “If they slam you down, I'll be right on top of 'em.”

Vennell swore. “That'll help me a lot!” he muttered.

Mick said: “Well—I can't shoot first, can I?”

Vennell groaned. Then suddenly he stood still, his fists clenched at his sides. He laughed bitterly.

“I'm going up on deck,” he said in a fierce voice. “I'll be on deck tomorrow—yelling for California to finish first. It's bluff, that's all!”

He went to the door, unlocked it, went outside and along the corridor. Mick looked at me. I gestured after Vennell.

“You've got a job,” I reminded.

Mick said huskily: “Game guy—what's he care about gettin' murdered, with a boat race coming up?”

I smiled. “Calling card,” I said grimly. “Visiting card.” I slipped it into my pocket. “You believe in fairies, Mick?”

The big fellow's eyes got large. “Are there any on board?” he asked.

I groaned. “Go on up and find out,” I said. “I was thinking about something else.”

Mick O'Rourke grinned. “If I find any, I'll tip you off, Al,” he said.

I tried a kick at his pants, and missed. He went along the corridor. Nothing much bothered Mick, not even the New York police. I sat on the edge of the wicker and listened to faint cheering, and distant boat whistles. I said, half to myself:

“It may be rough going.”

And I wasn't thinking about the varsity race.

There were clouds crossing the crescent moon when I went on deck; there was dancing aft, to music from Villa Vallee, in New York. I stood near the rail, on the port side, and looked at the boathouses of the different crews. While I was doing it, Don Rayne came along, pulling on an upside-down pipe. He stopped near me and squinted his blue eyes toward the west shore of the Hudson.

“Damn!” he breathed. “I'd like to be over there—out there tomorrow with my fingers around wood!”

I nodded sympathetically. “But you'd take a licking,” I said. “That's not so much fun.”

He shrugged. “Columbia might fool them,” he said. “She's got a green crew, but they're strong. And Phelps is the best coach of the lot.”

I said: “The odds are around three to one against her. California's shell is loaded with veterans. Babe Harron stroked them to win last year. He's strong as an ox—and when he pulls an oar—the others pull.”

Rayne nodded. “Harron's the best man—and Tim Burke's right ahead of him. They've got power. Little Ed Dale's got a head; he can step up the beat—and get it. But things happen that even the best coxswain can't handle.”

I smiled. “What?” I said. “California's got a rough-water crew, and they can row in the dark. No false starts this year.”

The former stroke shrugged his broad shoulders. His eyes were half-closed on the painted roof of the California boathouse. From the opposite side of the river, from Poughkeepsie, came the tooting of auto horns, faint cheering.

“Cal and Columbia aren't the only crews in the big race,” Rayne said. “There's Washington and Navy. And Pennsylvania. And the others. There might be a surprise.”

I grinned. “California—by three lengths,” I prophesied. “Then Columbia, fighting it out with Penn. Navy and Washington close up, with the others stringing out. Syracuse and Cornell scrapping for sixth and seventh. Wisconsin and the first Poughkeepsie shell of Dartmouth trying to keep from being last.”

Rayne took his pipe from between even teeth and inspected the bowl.

“Dartmouth might fool you,” he said. “They licked Yale and Harvard in the triangular regattas. Syracuse might be up ahead of Penn and Washington. But the race is between Columbia and the Golden Bears.”

I nodded. “If you want to call it a race,” I said. “It'll be nice for Sonia Vreedon.”

His eyes were sharp on mine. “Why?” he asked, and his tone was strangely hard.

I said: “Well—Tim Burke's pulling in Number Seven's rig—for California.”

Rayne smiled a little and said: “Oh, yeah—that's right.”

I said: “They're both from California. Her father's a big criminal lawyer out there.”

Rayne said quietly: “I've heard about him.”

He got his pipe back between his teeth again, giving me the idea that he knew something he wasn't telling me about. Then he grinned at me.

“Think I'll turn in,” he said. “Want to be up early. Going over to my old boathouse tomorrow, to see the boys.”

I nodded and said good-night to him. He went away. I stood looking toward the boathouses. They were dark, most of them—no lights showing. A few of the crews were bedding in Poughkeepsie hotels, but most of them were in the boathouses, in special quarters. It seemed to me that the water was roughing up a bit; there was more wind now. The moon was under cloud, and few stars showed. The night had got much darker.

I walked aft and saw Vennell sipping a tall-glassed drink and talking to Rita Velda. Mick O'Rourke was sprawled in a deck chair, not far distant. His eyes were not wide open, but they moved about. He was looking at people.

I paused near Vennell and the she-scribbler. She was saying:

“But Genoa—I thought it was lousy. Hot as the devil, you know. And not too clean. The French colonial towns—those are the places. Strange food, people—and yet something of Paris, my dear.”

Carla Sard's voice came clearly, from some feet away:

“Oh, God—I wish I was in Agua Caliente! There's a spot.”

Vennell's fingers were twisting a little, at his sides. Rita moved a lean leg and paid no attention to the picture gal.

“Silkworm salad,” she said. “Shark's fins, garnished with baked cuttlefish heads and served with bits of marvelous dried fish.”

Mick O'Rourke sat up and said: “Is the beer good over there?”

Carla Sard laughed harshly and then remembered that she wasn't supposed to be amused at Mick. She frowned at him. I looked around for Torry Jones and didn't see him. Cold towels on his injured jaw, I thought.

Rita said: “Seaweed jam, for dessert. And did you ever try the African mwambel”

Eric Vennell smiled apologetically. Mick O'Rourke said:

“Can you get it up in Harlem?”

Rita looked at him with contempt. Then she said to Eric and me:

“Chicken, fried in palm oil.”

Mick groaned. Carla said in a loud tone, addressing Cy Dana:

“You mustn't steal her stuff for your sporting column, Cy.”

Rita sighed. “And m'poss,” she said, or something like that. “Pudding of pumpkin seeds and the larvae of white worms—”

Mick O'Rourke groaned. “I'll stick to the Brass Rail,” he announced. “I only got worms once there—”

I said: “All right, Mick—but Miss Velda has traveled.”

Carla spoke softly to Cy Dana. “Lovely things—travel books. One learns so much about places, people—and foods.”

Rita turned away from Eric Vennell and faced the picture gal. Then she shrugged.

“I'll go to bed,” she said. “If I can find my cabin.”

Eric Vennell smiled. “I'll go along with you,” he said. “It isn't far—”

He stopped suddenly. Mick O'Rourke got to his feet and said:

“Mind if I come with you two? I haven't seen much of this boat.”

Vennell looked relieved. I caught Cy Dana's eyes on mine, grimly amused. Carla Sard said nastily: