2

BUSINESS CARD

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 buldings, 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.

“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!”

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!”

Torry’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: “Torry’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 Torry 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.”

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. “Torry’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 over-board 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 Torry’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.

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:

“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.