Murder on the Marmora (9 page)

“But I promised Walter—Mr. Dugdale—that we’d see him again at dinner.”

Lilian smoldered. “Then you’d better go off to him, hadn’t you?”

“Why are you being so difficult?”

“Because I feel that I have a right to be. We came on this trip together but you’ve let someone come between us. It’s time you decided whose company you prefer, Mother,” said Lilian, throwing down the challenge: “Walter Dugdale’s or mine.”

Genevieve Masefield saw his signal clearly. When the meal was over, Dillman rose from his chair and used both hands to adjust his white tie. It told his partner that it was imperative for them to meet as soon as was convenient. By way of a change, Genevieve had dined with the Cheriton family, forsaking her usual place between Myra and Lilian Cathcart in order to enjoy the company of other friends. Sitting with the Cheritons had the advantage of putting her in a remote corner of the room, well away from Nigel and Araminta Wilmshurst. The man to whom she was once engaged did not even spare her a glance this time. He studiously ignored Genevieve. She was content.

After waiting until most of the diners began to disperse, she
excused herself from the table and went off to Dillman’s cabin. His face was clouded as he let her in.

“Trouble?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so, Genevieve. We’ve had a murder on board.”

“Never!”

“I only heard about it myself just before dinner,” he explained, “so there was no time to warn you. A passenger was battered to death in his cabin. Did you notice that a certain person was missing this evening? Someone whom you knew?”

Genevieve frowned as she ran through a series of faces in her mind. She had noticed that somebody, apart from Myra and Lilian Cathcart, was absent from the table where she had sat on previous evenings but she could not at first recall who it was. When she did, she was shaken.

“Surely you don’t mean Walter Dugdale?”

“The very same.”

“Murdered?” she said, unable to believe it. “But he was such a charming man. He was so friendly. I wouldn’t have thought he had an enemy in the world.”

“He had at least one, Genevieve, and that person is on the
Marmora
.”

“What exactly happened, George?”

Dillman was succinct. He gave her the salient facts without any trimmings. She listened with growing discomfort, understanding the need to keep the crime a secret yet wondering how Myra Cathcart, and others, would react to his disappearance. Genevieve agreed that malaria would be a useful curtain behind which to hide the corpse.

“Do we have any clues?” she said.

“We have a good idea of the time of death,” he replied, “and we can assume it was not the work of a thief, caught in the act. As far as I could ascertain, nothing was taken from the cabin. The money in his billfold was untouched.”

“What does that leave us as a motive?—hatred? envy? revenge?”

“Who knows, Genevieve? We’ll have to keep an open mind.”

She gave a shudder. “Walter Dugdale!” she said, shaking her head. “Of all people. I sat opposite him at luncheon and he told me about Australia. He had endless stories about it. Mr. Dugdale was such a talented raconteur.”

“He told a different tale when I saw him in his cabin,” observed Dillman, “and it was not a pleasant one. What we have to do is to build up a picture of his movements during the last few hours when he was alive. You saw him over luncheon. How did he spend the afternoon? Whom did he meet and what did they talk about? We need to retrace his footsteps, Genevieve.”

“I think we should go farther back than that, George.”

“Why?”

“Something else has happened. It may be relevant.”

Genevieve told him about the theft from Frau Zumpe’s cabin and emphasized the fact that the person who had kept the German passenger talking until midnight had been Walter Dugdale. What had begun as a discussion involving six people, had ended up being a chat between only two of them.

“What is so unusual about that?” asked Dillman.

“You haven’t met Frau Zumpe,” she said. “Mr. Dugdale had such a predilection for the female sex. When there are so many attractive ladies on board, it seems odd that he should stay up late talking to someone as unprepossessing as Frau Zumpe.”

“Perhaps she had hidden charms.”

“I didn’t see any, George. She’s a very prickly woman.”

“Most people would be prickly if they’d had that amount of money stolen.”

“Frau Zumpe even gave Mr. Grandage the shivers.”

“Then she must be a handful,” he agreed. “Martin Grandage can cope with the most truculent passengers. But let’s go back to the point you made to this lady about a decoy. Do you really think
that Walter Dugdale kept her talking in the lounge so someone could search her cabin?”

“No,” she decided, “but it’s a possibility we have to consider.”

“Thieves falling out? Haggling over the spoils?”

“That doesn’t sound like the Walter Dugdale I knew.”

“Who else was in the lounge with him last night?” said Dillman. “Did you get a list of names from Frau Zumpe?”

“Eventually,” said Genevieve. “When she’d stopped breathing fire through her nostrils. There were six of them in all. Apart from her and Mr. Dugdale, Myra and Lilian Cathcart were there. So was Karl-Jurgen Lenz. He’s a German photographer.”

“Yes, I had the misfortune to accost Herr Lenz earlier on when he was trying to take unauthorized photographs of the royal party. I can’t say that it was a meeting of true minds. He was quite abrupt with me.”

“Herr Lenz does have a softer side.”

“Then perhaps Frau Zumpe does as well. You only gave me five names.”

“The other person in the group was Roland Pountney,” she said. “He’s a very affable young man who sat at our table. Mr. Pountney is a financier of sorts. He’s on his way to Egypt to get a sighting of a new project in which he’s investing. When he told the others about it, Frau Zumpe became very interested. She said that she might have some money to invest if she could know more about the project.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Dillman. “She showed her hand. Frau Zumpe let it be known she had money. There was no guarantee that it was in her cabin, mind you, but it did mark her out as a potential target. Tell me more about this Roland Pountney. Do you trust him?”

“I’ve no reason not to, George.”

“English? Private education?”

“Harrow, by the sound of it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s where Nigel went. They have the same vowels, the same gestures, the same unassailable confidence. Mr. Pountney is an old Harrovian, I’m sure of it. In fact,” she said, stung by a realization, “he may even have been there when Nigel attended.”

“Have you bumped into your former fiancé yet?”

“Not exactly. We exchanged a glance, that’s all.”

“And?”

“He cut me dead.”

“That wasn’t very courteous.”

“Not everyone who comes out of Harrow is a perfect gentleman,” she said with asperity. “Nigel Wilmshurst certainly isn’t. He could be very cruel.”

“Were you hurt by his rebuff?” said Dillman.

“On the contrary, I was pleased with it.”

“Pleased?”

“Yes, George,” she said. “It means that he’s even less anxious to renew our acquaintance than I am. My fears were groundless. Nigel is not going to be a problem at all. To begin with, he’s obviously on his honeymoon. I managed to escape his clutches but someone else didn’t, it seems. It means that he has a beautiful wife in tow. Given that,” she concluded, “he’ll avoid me like the plague.”

Nigel Wilmshurst was pleased with himself. At the cocktail party held before dinner by Sir Marcus Arundel, he had gone out of his way to court all four members of the royal contingent. They had clearly warmed to him and he could see that Araminta had made a favorable impression on them as well. The Duke and Duchess of Fife would almost certainly dine with them at some point on the voyage. Accustomed to getting what he wanted, he was well satisfied by the evening’s work, especially as it was followed by a sumptuous meal.

Though acutely conscious of her presence, he neither looked in Genevieve’s direction nor let her become distraction in any way. His wife had no reason to scold him. Loving and attentive, he kept her giggling happily throughout the meal. When dinner was over, however, he did notice that Genevieve left the room alone, and he assumed she was returning to her cabin. He had been intrigued to discover that she was sleeping no more than twenty yards from his own suite. The thought excited him.

After escorting Araminta into the lounge with their dinner companions, he waited for fifteen minutes then pretended he had forgotten to bring his cigarette case with him. His wife was now comfortably ensconced and he knew that he could leave her without causing any upset. Wilmshurst excused himself and slipped away on his own. He allowed himself to think about Genevieve Masefield again. It had been such a long time since they had met, and he had forgotten how beautiful she was. Since she had a single cabin, she must be traveling alone. He wondered what her destination was.

When he reached her cabin, he looked up and down the passageway to make sure that he was unobserved. Then he knocked hard on the door and waited.

“Come on, Jenny,” he said to himself. “Open up—it’s me!”

Over breakfast next morning, Myra Cathcart took the news badly. She was overcome with sympathy and guilt. Her face was puckered with anxiety.

“Walter has been taken ill?” she cried in alarm.

“I’m afraid so,” said Genevieve, seated opposite her.

“He looked well enough yesterday afternoon. We had tea together in the lounge. That really upset Lilian. It put her in a strange mood. She insisted that we sit somewhere else last night so that we weren’t opposite Walter and Herr Lenz again. The funny thing was, of course, that Walter didn’t even turn up for dinner.” She put a hand to her throat. “Oh dear!” she exclaimed.
“You don’t suppose that he saw us on the other table and took offense? Is that why he wasn’t there, Genevieve? Did he simply abandon dinner?”

“No, Myra. It was nothing to do with you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Mr. Dugdale had been struck down by then,” said Genevieve. “He is such a convivial man, it seemed peculiar that he should miss dinner. When I bumped into the deputy purser, I mentioned to him that a friend had been unaccountably absent from the meal and he knew the name at once.”

“What did he say?”

“That Mr. Dugdale was ill in bed and likely to stay there for days. The ship’s doctor is very worried about his condition.”

“Why?” asked Myra. “What’s wrong with the poor man?”

“He’s had an attack of malaria, it seems. He contracted it in South America some years ago and it was never fully cured. It comes back from time to time when he least expects it. Mr. Dugdale is feeling very poorly.”

“I must go and see him!”

“No,” said Genevieve. “That’s out of the question. I wanted to call on him myself but I was told that he’s in no state to receive visitors. I’m sorry, Myra. We’re going to have to manage without him for a while.”

There were tears in the older woman’s eyes, as if she were just realizing how fond she was of Walter Dugdale. She pressed for more details, but Genevieve had none to give, following Dillman’s advice to say as little as possible. She regretted having to tell Myra a lie but there was no alternative. Upset by the information that a friend was seriously ill, Myra would have been devastated to learn that he had, in fact, been murdered in his cabin. Genevieve felt that it was a kindness to keep the hideous truth from her.

The two women were having breakfast alone together and that made it much easier for Genevieve to break the news. Lilian’s
presence would have made the situation more awkward, not least because she saw Walter Dugdale as a bad influence on her mother; and, though most likely sorry to hear of his putative suffering, Lilian would be relieved by his sudden disappearance. Genevieve knew that Karl-Jurgen Lenz, too, would spare little sympathy for Dugdale. His rival would be out of the way.

“I must send him something,” announced Myra, still fretting. “A letter, perhaps. Or something to cheer him up. What would you suggest?”

“Nothing, at the moment,” said Genevieve. “He’s in no position to read just yet and simply wishes to be left alone.”

“How will I be able to check on his condition?”

“Speak to Mr. Grandage, the deputy purser. He’ll know much more than I do.”

Myra gave a wan smile. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” she said.

“What is?”

“Well, Lilian made me sit at another table because she feels unsettled by Walter’s interest in me, but we had a miserable time. Even Lilian admitted that. We found ourselves stuck with an Egyptian lady who could speak almost no English and a Frenchman who talked our ears off. The worst of it was,” said Myra, “that he had the temerity to say some very spiteful things about Walter.”

“Why?”

“They fell out over something or other. The Frenchman really hated him.”

“Oh?” Genevieve said with interest. “What was his name?”

“Vivet,” replied Myra. “Claude Vivet.”

NINE

G
eorge Porter Dillman had breakfast alone in his cabin so he could pore over the address book that had belonged to Walter Dugdale. It disclosed a large amount of information about the dead man. Dillman learned that Dugdale owned a house on Lake Shore Drive, and he knew enough about Chicago to recognize the location as a prestigious one. Evidently, Dugdale was a wealthy man. He also had a wide circle of friends, most of them in America, but several scattered around the world. There were two problems for the detective. Dugdale’s handwriting was something close to a hurried scrawl and he had a habit of using abbreviations throughout.

It meant that Dillman could not always identify the names of people whose addresses were recorded in a squiggly hand. When no abbreviation was used—especially where women were concerned—often only a first name was given. Dillman counted no less than four people named Helen and three called Edith. Presumably, he concluded, the gregarious Dugdale told them apart
by their addresses, though the ticks, circles, or tiny question marks against the various names suggested a secret code that would also assist identification. The name and address of one recent female friend was written in full. It was that of Myra Cathcart, from Leicester, England. Beside it was an exclamation mark.

Two items held a particular interest for Dillman because they were jotted on the last page of the address book along with the name of a hotel in London and details of the
Marmora
’s departure from Tilbury. Since both addresses were in Perth, the detective guessed that Dugdale had intended to visit them when he got to Australia. No names were given, only initials. Dillman wondered who “P.B.S.” might be, and why “W.A.P.” had a circle drawn around it. The two people who were awaiting the arrival of Walter Dugdale would be very disappointed. Since it was impossible to tell whether they represented friends or business contacts, the sets of initials shed no light on the purpose of Dugdale’s visit to Australia.

A careful perusal of the address book had taught Dillman a great deal about the character of the man whose murder he was investigating. It also provided a name for the daughter whose photograph he had seen in the billfold. Anna Dugdale, who lived in New York City, was in for a profound shock. Dillman hoped that by the time she was informed of the circumstances of her father’s death, the killer might be in custody. Feeling that the book contained clues that he had not yet deciphered, he set it aside for a second look at a later date.

There was a tap on the door and he opened it to see Martin Grandage outside.

“Thank you,” the deputy purser said as he was invited in. “I just wanted a quick word with you, Mr. Dillman. You’ll recall that I asked you and Miss Masefield to keep an eye on the royal party.”

Dillman shut the door. “It may be rather difficult now, I fear.”

“That’s why I’ve asked two members of the crew to take over. Being in uniform, they’ll be more conspicuous, of course, but it
can’t be helped. The Duke and Duchess need protection for themselves and their daughters.”

“It looked to me as if Mr. Jellings was providing that,” said Dillman. “I watched him yesterday, dealing with a photographer who tried to take pictures without permission. Mr. Jellings was polite but forceful.”

“I still think that we need additional cover. Especially now.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have a killer aboard,” said Grandage. “I didn’t actually see his handiwork myself but I talked to Dr. Quaid about it. He told me this man is very dangerous.”

“There’s no question about that.”

“Then it behooves us to mount a special guard on our royal passengers.”

“I don’t believe they’re at risk,” said Dillman. “It was a vicious crime, I grant you, but Walter Dugdale was murdered for a specific reason. I think it’s highly unlikely that the killer will strike again.”

“We can’t take any chances, Mr. Dillman.”

“I agree. Safety precautions are always wise. And I’m grateful that we’ve been freed to devote all our attention to the hunt for the murderer.”

“Do you have anything to go on?”

“Not yet, Mr. Grandage. We’re looking into various possibilities. By the way,” he said, “the purser asked me to report directly to him on this.”

“That’s fine with me. Brian will keep me abreast of any developments.”

“As long as neither of you expects immediate results.”

“Take your time, Mr. Dillman. We want you to get the right man.”

“Or men,” corrected the other. “More than one person may be involved.”

Grandage blinked. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I never thought
of that. Listen,” he said, taking a step nearer, “there’s something else you need to know. I’m sure Miss Masefield has told you about the second theft that occurred.”

“From a German passenger. Frau Zumpe.”

“Not the most amenable lady.”

“I understand that she lost a sizable amount of money.”

“She did, Mr. Dillman. That’s what I wanted to mention to you. There’s been an odd coincidence. At least, I think so. It could be something a little more sinister.”

“ ‘Sinister?’ ”

“Well, most passengers deposit money and valuables with us at the very start of the voyage then take them out of the safe, as and when they need them. At dinner, for instance, when ladies tend to reclaim pearl necklaces or diamond tiaras.”

“Or when gentlemen need a supply of money for cards.”

“Exactly,” said Grandage. “It’s not often that anyone comes to us two or three times in a row to have some cash locked away. Particularly when they leave hundreds of pounds with us on each occasion.”

“When was the most recent deposit?”

“First thing this morning. That’s what made me sit up and think.”

“Why?”

“Because yesterday, the same man gave us three hundred pounds to look after.”

“I see,” said Dillman. “You’re bound to wonder if it might have come from Frau Zumpe’s cabin. It is an odd coincidence, Mr. Grandage. What was the passenger’s name?”

“Mr. Roland Pountney.”

The photographs were excellent. Nigel and Araminta Wilmshurst had nothing but praise for them as they leafed through the collection in their cabin. There were a dozen of them altogether. The composition of each photograph was striking, and the definition
remarkable. Karl-Jurgen Lenz was clearly a professional.

“These are first-rate, Herr Lenz,” said Wilmshurst. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” replied the German. “I know my trade.”

“I’ve never seen such lovely portraits,” said Araminta, holding a photograph of an elderly lady, seated in a garden. “Could we expect to get the same quality?”

“Of course. All my work is of this standard.”

“Where do you do the developing?” asked Wilmshurst.

“In my cabin,” said Lenz. “I always travel with my equipment.”

“It’s just as well, then, because I think that you have two more customers.”

“Yes,” Araminta agreed eagerly. “We’d love you to photograph us, Herr Lenz.”

Lenz inclined his head in a token bow then collected up the examples he had brought of his work. Wilmshurst had a strong distaste for foreigners of all kinds and he was irked by the curt formality of Lenz’s matter. But there was no denying the man’s talent, and the bridegroom was keen to please his bride.

“How much do you charge, Herr Lenz?” he asked.

“That depends on how many photographs you want, sir. Would you like them taken indoors or on deck? I think maybe we have better light outside.”

“Araminta?” said Wilmshurst, inviting her opinion.

“It might be better in private, Nigel,” she said. “I don’t want to be watched by a crowd of people on deck. They’ll guess that we’re on honeymoon.”

“That little secret was given away the moment you walked into the dining room.”

She giggled. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” said her husband, “but it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I daresay that we’re not the only newly married couple on the ship. We don’t need to hide away any longer. Now, be honest, darling,”
he urged. “If you could be photographed anywhere on the
Marmora
, where would it be?”

“Anywhere at all?”

“Anywhere. Standing on the bridge beside the captain, if need be.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “That’s not what I’d choose, Nigel. I’d like a photograph of the two of us in here, of course, but there’s something I might want even more. And that’s one taken with the Duke and Duchess of Fife.”

Lenz was alert. “You
know
them, perhaps?”

“Yes,” Wilmshurst said airily. “We had drinks with them only yesterday.”

“And you wish me to take a photograph of them with you?”

“It would be such a thrill for me if that happened,” Araminta said excitedly.

“Then so it will,” her husband assured her. “Now, Herr Lenz. What about cost?”

“There is none,” said the other.

“None at all?”

No,” replied Lenz, smiling for the first time. “If I take photograph of you with the Duke and Duchess, there is no charge.”

Claude Vivet was playing the piano in the music room when Genevieve finally tracked him down. He was a dapper man in his forties with a pencil-thin moustache and dark hair that was combed neatly away from a center parting. His complexion was swarthy and, undeniably, in his younger days, he had been handsome. Vivet played well, and did so with dramatic movements, swaying to and fro over the keyboard and tossing his head back from time to time. The few people who were in the room were clearly enjoying his performance. Genevieve waited until he had finished before she came up behind him.

“Debussy,” she noted. “One of his ‘Images.’ ”

He spun round on his seat.
“Oui,”
he said, looking up at her with admiration. “He is my favorite composer.”

“You played that piece beautifully.”

“Merci.”
He took her hand and kissed it.
“Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle.”

Genevieve introduced herself and he jumped off his piano stool at once. Taking a card from his inside pocket, he handed it to her with a flourish. She was impressed with what she read.

“You are the head chef at Le Grand Hotel in Paris?” she asked.

“I was,” he replied, inflating his chest. “I make their restaurant the most famous in the city. You know the hotel?”

“Only by reputation.”

“I help to make the reputation.”

She offered him the card back, but he waved it away.

“No, no. You keep in case you forget my name. I think we will be friends, yes?”

“I’m not likely to forget you or your name, Monsieur Vivet,” Genevieve said as she slipped the card into her purse. “Nor will I forget how well you played Debussy.”

“You are a pianist as well?”

“Of a kind. But I’m nowhere near as good as you.”

“It is a rule in life with me,” he explained. “If I do something, I do it properly. Making the food, playing Debussy, or …” He broke off with a laugh. “I am a man of many talents, you see. Do you have time to hear about them?”

“Of course. Shall we go into the lounge? They’re serving coffee.”

“You are English, no? You prefer the tea.”

“Not at this time of the morning,
Monsieur.”

He took her off to the first-class lounge, unworried by the fact that Genevieve was a few inches taller. Claude Vivet strutted across the room then stood behind her chair as she lowered
herself into it. He came round to sit opposite her, appraising Genevieve with interest. A waiter glided up to them and coffee was ordered. The man departed.

“You are traveling alone?” he asked in surprise.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m very independent.”

“I can see that. How far do you go?”

“All the way to Australia.”

“
Mon dieu!
Such a long way. You think, maybe, I persuade you to stay in Egypt with me instead?” he said with a grin. “I go there for
les vacances
. Is very beautiful country. You like it there.”

“I’m sure that I would, but I have other plans.”

“That is a pity.” He looked around. “What you think of the
Marmora
?”

“She’s a very comfortable ship. I have no complaints.”

“I do,” he said, letting his eyebrows shoot up expressively. “The food is so bad I do not touch most of it. I would never dare to put such dishes in front of a customer.”

“I think that the meals on board are very good,” she said.

“Is because you are English. You are not used to good food there.”

“That’s a matter of opinion, Monsieur Vivet. We have some very fine chefs in London and they can compete with anyone. Why don’t you like the fare on board?”

It was a foolish question because it unleashed a diatribe that went on for the best part of ten minutes. Even the arrival of the coffee did not halt Vivet’s flow; indeed, it provoked further disdain as he explained why it was so tasteless. Genevieve let him rant on, observing how quickly he worked himself up into a state of outrage. In the end, he gave a gesture of dismissal.

“The chefs aboard are Italian,” he said. “That explains it.”

“I’m sorry they don’t meet your high standards.”

“I show how a meal should be prepared,” he boasted, tapping his chest. “One evening, I cook for the Duke and Duchess. They will see why French cuisine is the best.”

“Oh?” she said, impressed by his claim. “Have they agreed to let you prepare dinner for them?”

“Not yet, but they will. They see my card. How can they refuse?”

His vanity made him look ridiculous but Genevieve did not mock him. She had sought him out for a reason and worked her way around to the subject of Walter Dugdale.

“I understand that you dined with some friends of mine yesterday,” she said.

“The mother and daughter?”

“That’s right. Myra and Lilian Cathcart.”

“Nice English ladies. The daughter, too shy. She say nothing.”

“I think that she took exception to what you were saying, Monsieur Vivet.”

He looked surprised. “Me? I hope I not upset them.”

“They were a little disconcerted by some remarks you made about an American gentleman.” She saw his fists tighten. “His name was Mr. Dugdale.”