Murder on the Marmora (26 page)

“Everyone else seems to enjoy the meals,” said Genevieve.

“Only because they have not tasted one prepared by me.” He gave a bow. “Last night, I cook for the Duke and Duchess. They tell me they have never eaten so well. I show them how a dinner should be prepared.”

“I’m glad that they were duly appreciative.”

“If I was English,” he boasted, “I would be knighted for my services in the kitchen. But then,” he added with a grin, “if I was English, I would be a very poor chef.”

“That’s unkind, Monsieur Vivet.”

“Honesty often is unkind.”

“There’s a difference between honesty and opinion,” she argued.

“But my opinions are
always
honest.”

“That doesn’t mean that you’re right.”

He gave a teasing laugh then put his head to one side as he appraised her. “Ah!” he sighed, “it is such a pity that you will not be staying in Egypt. I would love to show you all of the sights, Miss Masefield.”

“But you’ll be working at a restaurant, Monsieur Vivet.”

“I would find time for you,” he said. “Have no fear.”

“I’ll have to explore Egypt another time,” she said. “My ticket is
taking me all the way to Australia. What sort of cuisine shall I expect there?”

“Nothing but the kangaroos, cooked over an open fire.”

Genevieve laughed. “I don’t think it’s quite that primitive.”

“Beside France,” he declared, “everywhere in the world is primitive.”

“Then why did you agree to leave Paris?” The question seemed to catch him off-guard and he was lost for an answer. “Why go to Egypt when you have such a following in France?”

“Because I need the new challenge. I will not stay there long.”

“Are you going back to Paris afterward?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I have to see.” He grinned broadly. “The one place I will not go is Australia. When they want the meal there, they have to go out and shoot it. You would be better off in Cairo with me.”

“Thank you for the offer.”

He kissed her hand, clicked his heels, and departed. Genevieve reminded herself of the fierce row the little Frenchman had had with Walter Dugdale. What rankled with Vivet was that the American had vilified both his country and his culinary skills. The chef was deeply patriotic. Such insults would have cut deep. Genevieve considered the possibility that it was Vivet who had cornered the murder victim in his cabin but she soon dismissed the notion. Dugdale never would have let him in, much less turned his back on the angry Frenchman. They had to look elsewhere for their killer.

She returned to her cabin with some trepidation. To get to her door, she had to go past the cabin occupied by the Wilmshursts and she feared that one or both of them would emerge in time to see her. Her fears were groundless. She reached her cabin without incident and, since the lock had now been repaired, used her key to let herself in. A sealed envelope lay on the floor. Pushed under her door, it bore her name in a neat hand. Genevieve picked it up
and tore open the envelope. When she took it out, she was astonished to see who had written the letter. It was from Araminta Wilmshurst.

Polly Goss grew tired of promenading around the deck with her mother. Vexed by the loss of her flute, she was also fascinated to see what Dillman was doing to recover it. The revelation that he was a detective had made him even more appealing to her. Now that she had a legitimate excuse to go in search of him, she decided to do so.

“I’m going in, Mother,” she said.

“Then I’ll come with you,” offered Rebecca.

“No, no. You stay out here. You’re enjoying the fresh air. I want to read.”

“As long as you don’t disturb your father.”

“He won’t even know I’m there.”

“He’s still working on those lectures of his,” said Rebecca, “and wondering what on earth he’s going to say to the museum about those stolen artifacts.”

“But he’ll have them back by then,” insisted Polly.

“How do you know?”

“Mr. Dillman will find them—and my flute. I’m certain of it.”

Her mother wagged a finger. “Now, I don’t want you bothering Mr. Dillman.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Mother.”

“He has enough on his plate without you getting under his feet.”

“I won’t go anywhere near him,” said Polly, moving away. “Good-bye.”

But she did not go in the direction of her cabin at all. In spite of her denial, she wanted to find Dillman, to see if he had made any progress. A search of the public rooms would come first, then she would scour the other decks. If necessary, she told herself, she might even have to go to his cabin. The prospect was exhilarating.

______

They met in the passageway not far from the first-class smoking room. Since there was nobody else about, it seemed safe to have a private conversation. Brian Kilhendry gave a grudging smile.

“I believe that congratulations are in order, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “Because of you, a pair of dangerous confidence tricksters are behind bars.”

“Until you release them, that is,” Dillman said wryly.

“They’ll only be released into police custody.”

“Then Nigel Wilmshurst should be with them.”

“That matter’s been resolved,” explained the purser. “Miss Masefield came to see me a short while ago and said that she’d decided not to press any charges against him.” He saw Dillman’s surprise. “She didn’t discuss it with you, I see. Perhaps she doesn’t value your opinion as much as I thought. The main thing is that we can close the file on the whole business.”

“If you say so, Mr. Kilhendry.”

“You don’t agree, obviously.”

“Let’s just say that I’m preoccupied with other things at the moment.”

“Arresting those two men was an excellent start,” said Kilhendry. “Now we have to find the thief and the killer. I’m certain that they’re different people.”

“And I’m equally certain that the crimes are linked.”

“Are you any closer to catching this mystery man, Mr. Dillman?”

“A lot closer,” said the detective. “I’m slowly eliminating suspects until only one is left. Roland Pountney was on my list at one time but he wouldn’t stoop to something as obvious as stealing from other people’s cabins. To him and his father, crime was a form of art. They reveled in their work.”

“They’re reveling in separate cells at the moment.”

“I’ll have another prisoner for the master-at-arms soon.”

“As long as it isn’t Mr. Wilmshurst.”

“No,” said Dillman, “it will be one of three men.”

“Who is the prime suspect?”

“Someone I think you know, Mr. Kilhendry.”

“And who’s that?”

“Karl-Jurgen Lenz.” Dillman saw his eyes flicker with embarrassment. “Yes,” Dillman said. “I didn’t realize that you were on such familiar terms with him.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why did I see you sneaking out of his cabin?”

Kilhendry gulped.

“Maybe you were right. Maybe I am looking for two people, after all. One to steal and one to provide the master key to a cabin.”

The purser was defiant. “Are you accusing
me
?”

“When you stepped out of Herr Lenz’s cabin, you more or less accused yourself.”

“I didn’t go there to see him,” said Kilhendry.

“Then why did you go?”

“To show you up, Mr. Dillman. A murder had been committed. Day after day went by with no sign of progress, so I thought I’d take a hand in the investigation. You’d told me that Herr Lenz was a possible suspect,” he said, “so I used a master key to get in, and searched his cabin. I was hoping to find enough evidence to have him arrested. Then, I must admit, I was going to crow over you.”

“But you didn’t find any evidence?”

“None at all. His cabin is full of photographic equipment. There’s nowhere he could have hidden the stolen items.” He shrugged. “The cupboard was bare.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” asked Dillman.

“Frankly, I was too embarrassed. How would you have felt if you knew I was trying to beat you at your own game?”

“I think I’d have been rather amused. You pitted your nose against my brain. It could be a close contest, Mr. Kilhendry. But, seriously,” Dillman went on, “you could have saved me the trouble
of keeping Herr Lenz under scrutiny. He could have been crossed off the list much sooner.”

“I know,” conceded the purser. “I should have owned up.”

“I’m glad that you’ve now done so. I can cross you off the list as well.”

Kilhendry was hurt. “Did you really think me capable of theft and murder?”

“For a time,” said Dillman. “Then I remembered how wedded you are to your job. You wouldn’t risk losing it by robbing your passengers. You’re too professional. And don’t ask me who else is under suspicion,” he added as the purser was about to speak, “because I’m not saying. You’d only try to get to him first.”

“Oh, no. I learned my lesson. I won’t try to compete with you again.”

“Does that mean you’ll support me for a change?”

“I’ll do more than that,” said Kilhendry. “If you find out who’s behind all these crimes, I won’t simply be the first to pat you on the back—I may even be forced to look at Americans in a more friendly light.”

He flashed a grin and walked off, leaving Dillman to wonder if he was indeed finally starting to win the purser’s respect. Without it, the rest of the voyage would continue to be punctuated by arguments between the two men.

Dillman was due to meet Genevieve soon so he walked toward his cabin. Disappointed to hear that she had elected not to press any charges against Wilmshurst, he hoped it might not be too late to change her mind. When he got to his cabin, he was alarmed to see that Polly Goss was waiting outside the door like a sentry. She rushed up to him.

“I knew that you’d come here eventually,” she said. “Any news, Mr. Dillman?”

“No,” he said, “but the trail is getting warmer.”

“When can I expect to get my flute back?”

“When I find it. Now, you must let me get on with my work, Miss Goss,” he said, crossing to the door of his cabin. “If I track it down, you’ll be the first to know. For the moment, you’ll have to excuse me.”

“But I came to tell you something,” she said. “About my father’s Egyptian relics.”

His ears pricked up. “Go on.”

“Well, when you first talked to him about the theft, I was too busy crying in my own cabin. I never had the chance to speak to you. My father tells me that you wanted the names of anyone who knew that those little stones were in his cabin.”

“That’s right. Apart from myself, the only other person in whom he confided was Sir Alistair Longton,” he said, concealing the man’s real identity from her, “and I can give you a categorical assurance that he was not the thief.”

“But he wasn’t the only person who knew the relics were there, Mr. Dillman.”

“Who else was there?”

“To be honest, I’d forgotten we’d even mentioned it. It was only a remark in passing and I thought no more of it. Mother was there, as well,” she said, “so it was as much her fault. We should have told you earlier.”

“Told me what?”

“Someone else did know that Father had those things in his cabin.”

“It was your accompanist, wasn’t it?” guessed Dillman.

“That’s right,” she confirmed. “Monsieur Vivet.”

Nigel and Araminta Wilmshurst were drinking tea in their cabin when the deputy purser called. Though he had some reservations about the decision that had been made, Martin Grandage passed on the news with an easy smile.

“I thought you’d like to know that Miss Masefield is not pressing charges, sir.”

Wilmshurst rallied. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, sir,” said Grandage. “You’re off the hook.”

As soon as he had gone, Wilmshurst turned to his wife and smiled for the first time that day. Araminta was as relieved as he was, but she had not forgotten the supreme effort of will it had cost her to write a letter of abject apology to Genevieve Masefield. While it may have achieved the desired effect, it had left her feeling slightly degraded. There was little sympathy in her voice.

“Now,” she said, fixing her husband with a stare, “I think I’m entitled to hear the whole truth. Why exactly
did
Miss Masefield break off her engagement to you?”

She was punctual. When he let her into his cabin, Dillman gave her a welcoming kiss.

“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I thought it would be safer to meet here.”

“I don’t think that Nigel will dare to cross my threshold again,” said Genevieve. “I had a letter from his wife, apologizing for the way that both of them behaved toward me. He’d obviously made her write it.”

“Is that why you dropped the charges?”

“Yes, George. I want to put the whole thing completely behind me.”

“But he attacked you.”

“I survived. He didn’t go unpunished,” she argued. “Nigel spent a night in solitary confinement and I daresay he has a lot of bruises to nurse. You hit him very hard.”

“I intended to, Genevieve,” he said. “Is there no chance you’ll reconsider?”

“None.”

“Fair enough.”

“Don’t look so downhearted,” she said. “Mr. Kilhendry told me that you made two arrests: Mr. Pountney and his father. I’d never have guessed they were working together. Sir Alistair seemed so genuine.”

“A genuine scoundrel,” he said. “However, we’ve got more important things to discuss.
They
may be out of action but the killer is still at liberty. I want him
today
, Genevieve. Did you manage to question Frau Zumpe?”

Genevieve nodded. She told him about her chat with the woman and the discovery that Walter Dugdale was a keen philatelist. As well as building up his own collection of stamps, he had established such a reputation in the field, that he had been invited to lecture to other enthusiasts.

“He showed Frau Zumpe his watch,” she said. “It was presented to him by the Chicago Philatelic Association. The initials were on the back: ‘C.P.A.’ Mr. Dugdale also told her that he was going to speak to a couple of associations in Perth. That will explain the initials you found in his address book. One was ‘W.A.P.’ That stands for ‘Western Australia Philatelists.’ ”

“In that case, P.B.S. must stand for Perth’s Best Stamps.”