Murder on the Marmora (10 page)

“I know his name,” he retorted, “and I meet him, too. This man is rude to me.”

“Really?”

“He insult my cooking. I not stand for that. I despise him.”

“Why?”

“Because of the bad things he say. The two ladies, they think him gentleman but they not understand what he call me in my own language. I not forgive that. You keep away from this Walter Dugdale,” he advised, his eyes blazing. “He not what he seem.”

Roland Pountney was sitting in the first-class smoke room, drawing nonchalantly on a cigarette as he talked to Morton Goss. The Egyptologist preferred a pipe and its tobacco had a pleasing aroma as the smoke curled upward. The room was paneled but its woodwork was less ornate than that in the dining room. Upholstered
bench seating ran around the walls and beneath an overhanging balcony that was supported by pillars. A number of other men were enjoying a smoke, reclining on the benches or sitting at one of the tables in the middle of the room.

When Dillman arrived, he had to peer through a veil of smoke to pick out Roland Pountney. The man had been pointed out to him earlier by the deputy purser, and the detective had bided his time before moving in. The fact that Goss was there made the meeting with Pountney seem accidental. Lighting a cigarette, Dillman drifted casually across to the two men.

“I didn’t take you for a pipe man, Mr. Goss,” he observed. “Given your interests, I would have thought you’d opt for a hookah.”

“It wouldn’t fit into my top pocket so easily, Mr. Dillman,” said Goss, laughing.

He introduced the newcomer to Pountney and they shook hands. Invited to join them, he took a seat at their table and made polite conversation while he sized up the courteous Englishman. As he listened to the man’s distinctive accent, he remembered what Genevieve had told him.

“Excuse me,” said Dillman, “but did you, by any chance, go to Harrow?”

Pountney was taken aback. “How on earth did you know that, old chap?”

“It was a guess, really. Though I do flatter myself that I have a good ear for accents, and yours sounds remarkably like that of a friend of mine who went to Harrow.”

“What was his name? Perhaps we were there at the same time.”

“I doubt it. James Burdock is somewhat older than you,” said Dillman, borrowing a name from
Masks and Faces
, a play in which he had once appeared. “He always spoke so fondly of his old school.”

“It certainly leaves its mark upon us,” admitted Pountney. “Actually, I’m not the only Harrovian on board. I spotted a fellow
called Wilmshurst who was a few years ahead of me. We’ve exchanged a nod or two in passing.”

“Don’t you want to get together to talk about old times?” asked Goss.

“Not really. To be honest, I never really liked him at school. Nigel Wilmshurst was just not my type, somehow. Besides, I’d be rather in the way at the moment.”

“In the way?”

“He’s on honeymoon, Mr. Goss. You only have to look at his wife to see that. Attractive filly she is, too. They’re clearly off to celebrate the first few weeks of marriage in the sun, so I don’t think Wilmshurst would be in the mood to discuss his schooldays.” Pountney gave a knowing smile. “He has far better things to do.”

“I spent my honeymoon in Niagara Falls,” said Goss. “I’d have preferred it to be Cairo but my salary didn’t stretch to such luxuries in those days and my wife doesn’t have the same obsessive interest in ancient Egypt.”

“I’m more concerned with its future,” announced Pountney. “There are some exciting commercial developments taking place. Good opportunities for investors.”

“Is that what you are?” asked Dillman.

“Yes, I’m always looking for ways to spend money wisely, Mr. Dillman. Not just on my own account, either. I act as a broker for a number of other people. Patriotism is all very well,” he argued, “but it does tend to limit one’s horizons.”

“Does it?”

“Of course,” said Pountney. “Most chaps in my line wouldn’t dream of investing abroad. They’d rather plow their pennies into British industry and reap what profits they can from that. The real rewards are for investors with the courage to look farther afield.” He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “That’s why I’m heading for Egypt.”

“Will you be spending Christmas there?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman. I have close friends in Luxor.”

“Won’t you miss being at home with your family?”

“Home is where my latest financial commitment happens to be.”

“You’re obviously dedicated to your work,” said Dillman. “Just like our friend Mr. Goss here. Happy is the man who’s found his true métier.”

“Is that what you’ve done?” asked Pountney.

“I think so. Except that, in my case, it was found
for
me. I come from a family that makes its living from the sea, Mr. Pountney. We build yachts. Large ones.”

“Like father, like son, eh? What took you to England?”

“Curiosity.”

“That’s what got me involved in ancient history,” admitted Goss.

“Have you ever had cause to regret it?” said Dillman.

“Only when my wife and daughter complain that it takes up all my time. Oh”—he went on as his memory was jogged—“speaking of my daughter, she wants to arrange a time when you can listen to her playing the flute.”

“I’ll have to let her know,” replied Dillman, not wishing to commit himself.

“Polly is eager to show off. She’s taken a liking to you, Mr. Dillman.”

“Is she a keen musician?” said Pountney.

“Very keen, Mr. Pountney. She practices every day.”

“Someone else who’s found her mission in life, then.” He looked at his watch. “You must excuse me, gentlemen. I promised to meet Sir Alistair Longton at noon and I never keep a prospective business associate waiting. Good to meet you both.” Roland Pountney shook hands warmly with both of them before striding off.

“I hope that I didn’t interrupt anything, Mr. Goss,” said Dillman.

“Heck, no. We were just chatting about Egypt, that’s all. Mr. Pountney is an educated man. He may talk about the future of
the country but he knows a fair bit about its past as well. He was pleasant company.”

“Yes,” agreed Dillman. “A model of English charm.”

“On the surface, at least,” said Goss. “Underneath, I suspect, he’s as tough as teak. I guess he’d have to be, in the world of high finance, or he wouldn’t survive. Mr. Pountney was very well informed. He had a detailed knowledge of last year’s financial crisis back home in the States.”

“It was reported in most British newspapers.”

“I know, but he actually had investments in the American market. Somehow they turned a good profit, according to him. See what I mean?” asked Goss. “If he can make money while everyone else is losing it in handfuls, Mr. Pountney must be a shrewd man.”

The cruise was as much a geography lesson as it was an opportunity to relax in a luxury vessel. After leaving the English Channel, the
Marmora
had made its way south toward the Bay of Biscay, then hugged the coast of northern Spain as it sailed on into the Atlantic. Those who stayed on deck during heavy drizzle could pick out the jagged contours of Portugal and, even though a new day brought rain, wind, and choppy water, almost everyone came out to get a first glimpse of the Rock of Gibraltar, the promontory in the extreme south of Cádiz. Mindful of the fact that it was a British colony, several English passengers set up a cheer when it was conjured out of the driving rain.

The port side of the ship was crammed with spectators, many seeing Gibraltar for the first time and marveling at its dramatic profile. The Duke and Duchess of Fife were among the onlookers, and their younger daughter clapped her hands in jubilation when she saw the Rock. It was not merely a testament to the enduring strength of the British Empire, it was a significant landmark that told them they had now entered the Mediterranean Sea. Warmer weather and quieter waters lay ahead.

Karl-Jurgen Lenz was not deterred by the inclement weather. Long before they got within range of the Strait, he set up his camera so that he could take some photographs of the Rock of Gibraltar as they sailed past. Genevieve Masefield came out on deck in time to see him talking to Frau Zumpe. She noticed how much more animated he became when he was able to use his own language. Wearing a cape and a wide-brimmed hat that was festooned with black ribbon, Frau Zumpe eventually broke away from him. In the open air, she somehow looked less formidable. Genevieve seized the opportunity of a private word with her.

“Good afternoon, Frau Zumpe,” she said.

“Ah, is you,” returned the other. “You have the good news for me?”

“Not yet. I still have a lot of inquiries to make. But I wanted to check a few facts with you first,” said Genevieve. “You mentioned that you were talking with Mr. Dugdale until midnight on the night of the theft.”

“So?”

“Did you leave him in the lounge when you went off to bed?”

“I tell you all you need to know.”

“Perhaps it was Mr. Dugdale who retired to his cabin first,” suggested Genevieve, keen to establish his movements. “Is that what happened, Frau Zumpe?”

The other woman was brusque. “What happened is that someone go into my cabin to steal my money while was I away. You get it back for me, no? What I say to Mr. Dugdale is not important.”

“It could be relevant.”

“Is no business of yours.”

“What about Mr. Pountney?” asked Genevieve, approaching the subject from another angle. “You said that he talked about his investment in an Egyptian company.”

“Yes,” said Frau Zumpe. “I was interested in what he say. He is very clever and I do not think that of many Englishmen. They are
often stupid. Mr. Pountney, he was different. I speak about him to his friend this morning.”

“His friend?”

“Sir Alistair Longton. You know him?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Genevieve.

“He tells me that Mr. Pountney’s venture in Egypt is bound to succeed, so he will put his own money into it. That shows it must be a good investment,” said Frau Zumpe. “When you find my money for me, I maybe buy some shares from Mr. Pountney as well.”

“What guarantee will you have?”

“The papers, of course.”

“Papers?”

“The details of this project in Cairo. Sir Alistair Longton has seen them and he was convinced. I would want to read the documents myself before I make the decision but I think Mr. Pountney is a man to trust.”

“Is that what Mr. Dugdale thought?” asked Genevieve.

“Why do you keep talking about him?”

“He must have been there when Mr. Pountney described this venture in which he’s involved. As a businessman, Mr. Dugdale must have been interested in it.”

“No,” said the other woman.

“Why not?”

“He not say.”

“He must have expressed an opinion of some sort,” insisted Genevieve.

“What does it matter?” Frau Zumpe said testily. “Tell me this, please. You think that Mr. Dugdale was working with the thief who took my money?”

“No, I’m absolutely certain that he wasn’t.”

“Then we forget him, yes?”

Genevieve could not understand why Frau Zumpe was so
unwilling to reveal what she had been talking to Walter Dugdale about, or to explain which of them had gone off to a cabin first. The woman was being deliberately obstructive but there was no point in pressing her for information that she would not volunteer. Frau Zumpe had calmed down a great deal since Genevieve had first interviewed her and she did not wish to provoke the German woman’s anger again. Though they were talking in a quiet corner, the deck was filled with other people who would surely notice if Frau Zumpe exploded again. All Genevieve could do was to thank her for her help and move away.

Gibraltar now became the focal point for everyone. As they sailed through the Strait and took the measure of the Rock, passengers watched with fascination, pointing out certain features to each other and waving cheerily to those ashore. Lenz took a series of photographs and soon became an object of interest himself as some curious children gathered around him. Genevieve was as interested as anyone else to see Gibraltar—for the first time, in her case—but she also observed the reactions of other people. Frau Zumpe was the one who surprised her most. Standing at the rail some yards to the left of Genevieve, she gazed at the passing land-mass with a benign smile that took years off her face. Instead of wearing the grim and combative expression that had been there earlier, Frau Zumpe looked almost attractive.

Only when the ship had left Gibraltar in its wake and sailed on into the Mediterranean did the passengers begin to disperse to their cabins or to the public rooms. Genevieve lingered to talk to Lenz as he packed up his equipment.

“Did you get some good photographs, Herr Lenz?” she asked.

“I
always
get good photographs,” he said with pride.

“Even in rain like this?”

“Nothing stop me. I work in all conditions.” He looked at her with suspicion. “Have you talked to Mrs. Cathcart?”

“Several times. You’ve seen us dining together.”

“Did you speak to her about me?” he said with an accusatory stare. “I wish to take some photographs of her and she agree. Then she change her mind. Why? Did you turn Mrs. Cathcart against me?”

“Of course not, Herr Lenz.”

“Somebody did, and you are her best friend.”

“We’d never met before we stepped onto the ship.”

“Mrs. Cathcart like you. She listen to what you say.”

“Well, I did not advise her to change her mind about the photographs,” Genevieve said firmly. “It’s nothing to do with me. It’s between you and Myra Cathcart.”

“Mr. Dugdale,” he snarled. “If it was not you, it must have been him. He has done this to me. When I see him next,” he warned, gathering up his equipment, “I will have something to say to Mr. Walter Dugdale.”

Genevieve could not tell him that he would never see Dugdale again. Turning abruptly on his heel, Lenz marched off and left her standing there. It was the second time that afternoon that Genevieve had had some friction with a German passenger. In each case, it had occurred when Walter Dugdale’s name had come into the conversation. It was something to ponder.