Murder on the Marmora (25 page)

“Why was that?” asked Genevieve.

“Because it taught me that I was being too parochial in my outlook.”

“You’re one of the least parochial people I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I take that as a compliment. And now, I suppose, you’d like to hear exactly how that stroke of luck came about.”

“Only if you wish to tell me, Mr. Pountney.”

He laughed. “I’m afraid that you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

______

Dillman forsook his own meal in order to search the cabin. Worried that Genevieve was uncertain about pressing charges against Nigel Wilmshurst, he tried to put the whole matter out of his mind while he concentrated on the task at hand. Instead of asking the purser for a master key, he had gone straight to the chief steward, who, aware that Dillman was investigating a murder, gave him the key without hesitation. The detective was grateful. Kilhendry would have been far less cooperative and, since the purser was now under suspicion himself, Dillman wanted to keep clear of him.

He did not waste any time. After making sure that Pountney was in the dining room, he went to the man’s cabin and let himself in with the master key. The place was impeccably tidy. Whenever Dillman touched anything, therefore, he took care to replace it exactly as he had found it. Pountney was an enigma. Though the latter had a plausible explanation for the money he had deposited in the purser’s safe, Dillman was not entirely sure he should believe him. What would not have been handed over to Kilhendry was any of the jewelry that had been stolen, not to mention the Egyptian relics and the silver flute. If Pountney was the thief, the booty would be hidden in the cabin.

The search was swift and methodical. He went through the closet, the bedside cabinet and the drawers in the dresser. He even lifted up the mattress to see if anything was concealed beneath it. Dillman found nothing incriminating. Pountney’s briefcase also yielded no proof of actual wrongdoing. The documents relating to the New Imperial Hotel appeared to be in order and there was the map of Cairo with the exact location marked on it. Dillman put it all back in the briefcase before replacing it on the spot from where he had taken it. He was coming to accept that his instinct had let him down for once, when he stepped into the bathroom. He opened the cabinet then checked every item arrayed on a shelf
above the washbasin. None of it was in any way suspicious.

As a last resort, Dillman lay flat on the floor and peered under the bathtub. His hopes soared. Something had been wrapped in a piece of waterproof material and stuffed into the far corner. He had to extend his arm fully in order to retrieve it. When he unrolled the package, the first thing he saw was a passport.

“Now, then,” he said, picking it up, “what do we have here?”

Genevieve was forced to wait in order to speak to Frau Zumpe. For some time after luncheon was over, Sir Alistair Longton monopolized the German woman, talking to her in the corner of the lounge and showing her some paperwork. As soon as he departed, Genevieve went across to Frau Zumpe. The latter was blunt.

“You have found my money yet?” she asked.

“No,” admitted Genevieve, “but we are very close to retrieving it, along with other things that were stolen. All that we need are a few more tiny pieces of evidence. I’m hoping that you can provide one of them.”

“Me?”

“I want to ask you something about Mr. Dugdale.”

“Oh,” said Frau Zumpe, her face softening into a smile. “You were good to me, Miss Masefield. You let me talk about him. Thank you.”

“I’d like you to talk a little more, please.”

“Is very painful.”

“I understand that, Frau Zumpe, but this is very important.”

The other woman glanced around the lounge. It was too full of people to allow a really private conversation. Frau Zumpe suggested that they go back to her cabin, where there was no danger of being overheard. They set off together.

“You put me in the difficult position, Miss Masefield,” she said.

“Did I?”

“Yes, I talk to Sir Alistair Longton. He tells me that he has
invested a lot of money in this new hotel in Cairo. He calls it a golden opportunity. I would like to buy some shares myself,” explained Frau Zumpe, “but how can I when I have no money to pay for them?”

“Is that what you told Sir Alistair?”

“No, I remember what you say. I do not mention the theft.”

“Thank you, Frau Zumpe. I appreciate that.”

“But I will not go on lying about it forever.”

“I don’t think that you’ll need to,” said Genevieve.

They reached the cabin and Frau Zumpe let her in. The last time Genevieve had been there, the other woman had been in a sentimental and confiding mood. She might not be quite so forthcoming now. Genevieve resolved to proceed with care.

“Do you still miss him?” she said.

“Yes, I do. I think of Walter every day.”

“At least you had some time together, Frau Zumpe.”

“It was too short,” the other said resentfully. “He was snatched away from me.”

“I know.”

“We understand each other, you see. Lots of men, they have no interest in a woman like me, but he was different. Walter was my friend. I never meet him before, yet I feel I know him a long time.”

“That was the effect he had on me as well,” said Genevieve.

“So what you wish to ask about him?”

“Did he discuss his business with you at all?”

“Not really,” said Frau Zumpe. “He wanted to talk about me.”

“Yes, but earlier that night, Mr. Pountney was talking to both of you about his venture in Egypt. Mr. Dugdale was a businessman. He must have offered an opinion on the scheme,” said Genevieve. “Did he encourage you to invest?”

“He said that I should find out a lot more details first.”

“Did he have any reservations?”

“Walter tell me that he has doubts about Mr. Pountney, that is
all. When we were alone, we did not give him or his hotel a second thought. We had too much to talk about.”

“In his cabin?”

“Yes, Miss Masefield.”

“Did you notice anything when you were there?”

Frau Zumpe was baffled. “What you mean?”

“Was there anything unusual in the cabin?” asked Genevieve. “Anything that was very special and worth a lot of money? Think hard, please. I need to know.”

“I was not there to search his cabin.”

“I understand that.”

“We just wanted to be alone,” said Frau Zumpe. “Walter is very dear to me. He make me feel like a woman for the first time in years. Do not laugh at me for that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“He liked me. He trusted me.”

“I can see that, Frau Zumpe.”

“Walter proved it,” the other said proudly. “I am the only person on the ship who knows about it. He did not show it to anyone else but me.”

“What did he show you?”

“His album, Miss Masefield. He collected stamps. He tells me that he has one of the finest collections in the world. That was what I see,” she said. “His stamp album.”

Though they took care to leave the lounge separately, Sir Alistair Longton and Roland Pountney met up on the staircase to the main deck. Longton was cheerfully optimistic.

“Brought her to water,” he said. “All she has to do now is drink.”

“Don’t waste too much time on Frau Zumpe. I think she has cold feet.”

“Have to warm them up for her, Roland.”

“What about Mr. Goss?”

“Oh, I think we can forget about him. Not interested in money.”

“Silly man!” said Pountney, as they reached the deck and walked along the passageway. “By the way, had George Dillman been in touch with you?”

“Not yet. Why?”

“He could be a possible. I told him to sound you out.”

Longton smiled. “He’s an American. They all have money.”

“Mr. Dillman may be good for a couple of hundred, at least.” They stopped outside a door. “I could see that he was interested so I gave him the full treatment.”

“Even
I
would fall for that, Roland.” Longton chuckled merrily as he inserted his key into the lock. “Just imagine the look on their faces when they find out the truth!”

He opened the door and they stepped into the cabin. Both of them came to a halt when they saw that someone was already there, lounging nonchalantly in a chair.

“Come on in, gentlemen,” said Dillman. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

SEVENTEEN

W
armer latitudes not only brought passengers out on deck for longer periods, it enticed them to shed some of the winter garments with which they had set out. Heavy overcoats, fur hats, fur muffs, thick scarves, and woolen gloves gave way to lighter wear. With the coast of North Africa now visible from the starboard side of the
Marmora
, people had the idea that they were slowly closing in on their destination. Most of them had never been to this part of the Mediterranean before, so it had an exotic appeal for them. The royal party was also much more in evidence, moving freely around the deck and no longer the object of intense scrutiny by others. With a hot sun hanging in a cloudless sky, few passengers were troubled by nostalgia for the cold, damp, windswept British Isles that they had abandoned to spend Christmas in milder climes.

Two of the passengers were unable to share in the pleasure of watching the distant coastline and feeling some warmth on their faces at last. They were seated in the deputy purser’s office with
Dillman standing behind them. Unlike most apprehended criminals, Roland Pountney and Sir Alistair Longton did not seem at all disturbed. They were as relaxed and affable as if they were resting in the lounge. Martin Grandage could not understand their attitude.

“Aren’t you ashamed of what you did?” he said.

“Not in the least,” Pountney replied airily. “We have to make a living.”

“But not by preying on innocent people. You sold shares in a company that doesn’t even exist. People trusted you.”

“That was the beauty of it, Mr. Grandage. I knew that they’d need more than my word to convince them so I referred them to someone who had complete faith in the scheme. And so he should,” he said, smiling at his companion, “because he helped to dream it up.”

“Confidence tricksters often work in pairs,” noted Dillman.

“Yes,” said Grandage, looking at Sir Alistair, “but it’s rare to find that one of them is a member of the British peerage.”

“He’s not. This is what put me on to him.” Dillman handed over a passport. “As you’ll see, Sir Alistair Longton’s real name is Alistair Pountney. He’s been traveling on a false passport so that’s another offense to take into account. In other words, Mr. Grandage, you have a father and son sitting in front of you.”

Pountney grinned. “A family enterprise,” he explained.

“Not any longer,” said Grandage.

“We had a good run. It was bound to end sooner or later.”

“Yes,” added his father. “In this business, you must always be prepared for the tap on the shoulder. I’m delighted that it was administered by Mr. Dillman. He’s a man with style. The last time we were caught it was by some heavy-handed London constables. It was a relief to be arrested by a gentleman.”

“I’m glad you weren’t foolish enough to resist arrest,” said Dillman.

“What would have been the point?” asked Pountney. “There
was nowhere for Father and me to hide. Once you’d found our little cache, we were doomed.”

Dillman’s search of his cabin had been a revelation. Apart from the passport, which had disclosed the older man’s true identity, Dillman had found documents relating to another bogus scheme, and clear evidence of complicity between the two men. Startled when they found him waiting for them, they had chortled happily when told that their run was over. The hundreds of pounds that had been charmed out of various billfolds could be returned to their rightful owners, who would realize that the paperwork issued by Pountney was utterly worthless. Dillman had exposed a clever fraud.

“I had my doubts about Mr. Pountney from the start,” Dillman admitted, “but the name of his accomplice came as a surprise. Sir Alistair—Mr. Pountney Senior—had persuaded me that he really did see military service in India.”

“And so I did,” the old man said proudly. “I spent three years on the North-West Frontier with the rank of major. What I omitted to tell you, however, is that I was cashiered.” He chuckled to himself. “They finally discovered why the funds from the officers’ mess were being drained. Arrest by the army. Not a pleasant experience. You were much more courteous, Mr. Dillman.”

“Thank you,” said the detective.

“We applaud you,” said Pountney. “You beat us at our own game. Neither of us suspected that the debonair George Dillman was actually a detective. Well done!” It was a sincere compliment. “Now you can see why I had to keep up the tradition,” he continued. “Father was booted out of the army for stealing. I was expelled from Harrow for selling things that did not actually belong to me, then sent down from Oxford over a betting coup that I devised during Eights Week.” He laughed at the memory. “The master of my college was rather upset when he realized that I’d tricked ten guineas out of him.”

“You won’t be tricking money out of anyone else for a long
time,” warned Grandage, “and I’m sorry that you treat the whole thing as a huge joke.”

“We enjoy our work, old chap.”

“Well, I enjoy mine as well. Especially when I can hand over two criminals to the master-at-arms.” Grandage opened the door and spoke to the burly sailor outside. “Take these gentlemen to the cells, please, Mr. Dyer,” he said. “They are expected.”

Roland Pountney and his father rose from their seats and insisted on shaking Dillman’s hand before they left. Imprisonment seemed to hold no fears for them. They went off cheerfully. The deputy purser closed the door behind them.

“What did you make of that, Mr. Dillman?”

“I’ve never met anyone before who actually enjoyed being arrested.”

“What was the idea?” asked Grandage. “Did they intend to pay for their holiday in Egypt by cheating our passengers out of a large amount of money?”

“No,” said Dillman, handing him the package he had found under the bathtub, “when you have time to sift through this, you’ll find that they had return tickets to England on another P and O ship. On the way back, they’d intended to sell shares in a nonexistent British company.”

“But for you, they’d probably have got away with it. This is a real feather in your cap, Mr. Dillman. When he hears about this, the purser will be mightily impressed.”

“He wasn’t too impressed by my last arrest.”

“Ah, yes,” said the other. “Mr. Wilmshurst. I’m bound to say that I think Brian took the wrong action there.”

“Does he often do that?”

“No, he doesn’t. In fact, the two of us rarely disagree on things like that. Because I’m his deputy,” said Grandage, “I have to back him to the hilt. Most of the time, I’m happy to do that. Brian Kilhendry rarely makes a mistake.”

“He certainly made one where Nigel Wilmshurst was concerned.”

“Miss Masefield can still press charges against him. What has she decided?”

“Genevieve is still mulling it over,” said Dillman. “She knows where I stand on the issue but it’s not up to me. What’s holding her back from taking the matter any further is concern for Mrs. Wilmshurst.”

“Yes, I feel sorry for her as well,” said Grandage. “She’s a young bride on her first trip abroad. How is she going to cope with all this?”

“That depends on what her husband tells her. I doubt if it will be the truth.”

The Duke and Duchess of Fife examined the photograph in their cabin. It was a striking group portrait. Karl-Jurgen Lenz had delivered it but he was peeved when he was not allowed to hand it over in person. Instead, Mr. Jellings had thanked him, taken it from him, then given it to his employers. Even the Princess Royal was pleased.

“It’s a lovely photograph of the girls,” she observed.

“And an even better one of their mother,” said Fife. “I know that Herr Lenz was a nuisance but he’s produced a remarkable result. It was worth all that delay.”

“For us, maybe, Alex.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t think that Mr. and Mrs. Wilmshurst will want a copy of this.”

“Why not?” Peering more closely at the photograph, he clicked his tongue. “Dear me! I see what you mean, Louise.”

“Mr. Wilmshurst looks so strained.”

“What about his wife? She could be facing a firing squad, not a camera.”

“It was their idea to invite Herr Lenz in the first place.”

“Yes,” said Fife. “Wilmshurst will regret it when he sees this photograph. They’re on their honeymoon,” he reminded her, “yet the curious thing is that they don’t look as if they’re together. Why is that?” He stroked his mustache. “I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall in their cabin just now.”

Nigel Wilmshurst was in a sorry state. Even though he had washed and shaved, his face still bore the marks from the fight with Dillman. His pride was even more wounded. It was afternoon yet he was still in his dressing gown. Neither he nor his wife had ventured outside their cabin all day, having had their meals served in private. Given his battered appearance, Wilmshurst was not willing to be photographed by anybody, and Lenz was dispatched for the second time when he called again. All Wilmshurst wanted to do was to lie low and avoid all company.

Araminta was more bewildered than ever. Prompted by feelings of guilt, shame, anger, relief, and betrayal, she was not sure how she ought to react. What she also felt was an overwhelming sympathy for her husband. In the past, his confidence had always been unassailable, yet now he seemed wary and hesitant. She decided that the kindest thing she could do was to wait until he was ready to tell her the full story of what had occurred. If she pressed him for details, it would only add to his discomfort. Most of the time was therefore spent in a hurt silence. It was eventually broken by Wilmshurst. Slumped in a chair, he glanced across at his wife.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so dreadfully sorry, Araminta.”

“It was partly my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t. I brought this on myself. If I’d told you the truth at the start, none of this would have happened. We’d have been able to enjoy our honeymoon.”

“We
did
enjoy it, Nigel,” she said. “For a time, anyway.”

“I lost control,” he confessed. “When you locked me out of the bedroom last night, I was seized with a desire for revenge.
She
was responsible for it. She was the person who’d come between us. I had to confront her.”

Araminta was aghast. “You went to Miss Masefield’s cabin?”

“Only to warn her to stop spreading lies about me.”

“Did she let you in?”

“I made her,” said Wilmshurst, adjusting the facts to present himself in a more favorable light. “I told her how unhappy she’d made you and demanded an apology.”

“And did you get one?”

“Not exactly.”

“You shouldn’t have gone to see Miss Masefield like that,” she said, “especially when you’d lost your temper. Anything could have happened. And why tell her that we were having difficulties? That was entirely our affair. Nobody else need have known.”

“They already did, Araminta. Have you forgotten how you brought the dinner party to a sudden end?” he asked. “When you charged out like that, the Duke and Duchess must have thought you’d gone mad. They certainly won’t have any illusions about us.”

“It was the last straw, Nigel,” she said, shaking her head in dismay. “When you raised your glass to toast me, I felt something snap inside me. I simply had to get out of there. But I did as you said,” she continued. “I sent them a note of apology.”

“It will take rather more than that to clear the air, I’m afraid.”

“Go on telling me about Miss Masefield.”

“There’s not much more to tell.”

“You still haven’t explained how you got those injuries to your face. In that note from Mr. Grandage, it said that you’d been involved in drunken behavior. Did you fall and hurt yourself?”

“Not quite,” he replied. “Jenny—Miss Masefield—took exception to my demand and sent for the ship’s detective. He tried to
hustle me out. I’m not used to that kind of treatment so I resisted strongly. That’s when I got these bruises.”

“You should complain to the purser.”

“I’ve already done so, Araminta.”

She became thoughtful. “You say that Miss Masefield sent for this man. Why was that, Nigel? Why didn’t she just ask you to leave?”

“I told you. I was in a state. I was determined to get what I wanted.”

“So you refused to go from her cabin?”

“In effect.”

“That was a terrible thing to do, Nigel. Wasn’t she frightened?”

“Of course,” he said, “and rightly so. I let her see just how angry I was.”

“You must have upset her a great deal if she had to call in a detective to have you removed. It was wrong of you to stay,” she said. “I know how I’d feel if someone forced his way in here when I was on my own. It would be terrifying.”

“I only went to reason with her, Araminta.”

“Refusing to leave is not very reasonable behavior.”

“I hoped that you’d be on my side!” he cried in exasperation.

There was a long pause. She looked at his battered face again and felt a surge of sympathy. Remorse displaced all other feelings. She could not blame him for rushing off to confront Genevieve Masefield when she had done exactly the same herself. Araminta was not deceived. She knew that he was not giving a full account of what had happened, but that did not matter. Nigel Wilmshurst was still her husband. The vows she had made at the altar bonded them indissolubly together. What he needed most at that particular moment was love and support. Crouching beside him, she put an arm around his shoulders. He responded with a weak smile.

“Araminta,” he said tentatively, “I need to ask a very big favor of you.”

______

Claude Vivet was in an irrepressible mood. He was still basking in the praise from the royal party. After giving himself the pleasure of criticizing the luncheon fare, he spent half an hour at the piano in the music room. Genevieve Masefield met him as he was leaving. She had to submit to the inevitable kiss on the hand.

“I have lost my friend with her flute,” he complained. “Miss Goss, she had the sore throat and it hurts her to play.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Monsieur Vivet.”

“So am I, Miss Masefield, but I am not surprised. The food on this ship is getting worse. That is what gave her the pain in the throat. Those Italian chefs, ha!”