Murder on the Mauretania (13 page)

“Ugly little chap,” added Price. “Had a bald head.”

“So he wasn’t wearing a hat?” asked Dillman.

“No.”

“What about an overcoat?”

“He just had this suit on.”

“Did you see him on the main deck?”

“Yes,” volunteered Bowen. “And on the two decks above that.”

“The upper deck and the shelter deck?” He smiled. “You obviously got around.”

“Only because we was trying to find our way back, Mr. Dillman.”

“Of course. So you saw this man—what? Three times?”

“Yes.”

“Close enough to get a good look at him?”

“He passed within a couple of feet of us,” said Price. “We ducked into an alcove and he walked by with this little case in his hand.”

“A briefcase?” The other nodded. “What was suspicious about him?”

“It was the way he kept pausing at different cabins, tapping their doors.

“He had this list in his hand,” recalled Bowen. “Kept checking it.”

“This is all extremely helpful,” said Dillman. “I had a feeling that you might just have seen something. Do you think you’d recognize this man again?”

“Yes,” said Bowen.

“No!” boomed Price, countermanding him at once. “We wouldn’t, Mr. Dillman. Glyn and me don’t want to get involved, see? We told you all we know.”

“Is there anything else you can remember about him?”

“We only got these glimpses of the man.”

“Short, stocky, bald-headed. Wearing a suit.”

“An expensive suit,” said Bowen. “You could see that. And there was one other thing.”

“Go on,” said Dillman.

“Well, we never heard him speak, mind, but I got the feeling that he wasn’t British. It was the way he looked and strutted along. Like he owned the ship. No offense, Mr. Dillman,” he said cautiously, “but I think he was an American.”

“Have you had time to read that story I gave you, Miss Masefield?” asked Orvill Delaney.

“Yes,” said Genevieve. “It was very clever and wonderfully amusing.”

“O. Henry is more entertaining than
Moby Dick
. Besides, you don’t look like a Melville devotee. I’d say that you were more attuned to British authors. When I first saw you,” he admitted, “I put you down as a Jane Austen reader.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I leave you to judge that.”

“What about me, Mr. Delaney?” asked Ruth Constantine. “Since you can classify us so readily at a glance, who’s my favorite author?”

“I don’t think you have one.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t read books, Miss Constantine. You read people instead.”

“That’s very perceptive of you.” She gave him a smile of approval, then switched her gaze to the other man. “What about you, Mr. Skelton? Are you a literary man?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said diffidently.

“Patrick is an accountant,” explained Delaney. “All that he reads are balance sheets. Though some of those can have a swirling drama to them, can’t they?”

“Yes, Mr. Delaney.”

“Figures can be just as expressive as words.”

Genevieve was pleased to be able to talk to Orvill Delaney and she could see that he was making a good impression on Ruth, but she was finding his colleague far too stiff and reticent. A personable young man with a deep voice, Skelton never actually initiated conversation. He confined himself to polite nods of agreement and the briefest of neutral comments. Genevieve could not decide whether he was shy or merely uninterested in their chatter. Ruth tried to draw him out with a few acid comments about the British male, but Skelton did not respond. He left most of the talking to Orvill Delaney.

“I once met O. Henry,” said the latter airily. “At least, I met the man who used that name as his pseudonym. It wasn’t what you might call a marriage of true minds. We were in a bar in Manhattan at the time and he was rather more enthusiastic about drinking his whiskey than in listening to my fulsome praise. But,” he continued, “I still think he writes like an angel, albeit a tarnished one.”

“The best kind,” remarked Ruth.

“Do you have a liking for tarnished angels, Miss Constantine?”

“That depends on how far they’ve fallen from grace, Mr. Delaney.”

“What about you, Patrick?” he asked. “Where do you stand on angels?”

“I’m not sure that I believe in them,” replied the other quietly.

“When you have two of them sitting right in front of you?” scolded Delaney.

“Present company excepted, of course,” added Skelton, dividing an awkward smile between the two ladies. “Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you both,” he said, rising to his feet, “but you must excuse me. I have some work to do before I retire.”

“Work?” said Ruth. “At a time like this?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Delaney.”

After an exchange of farewells, Skelton marched swiftly out of the room.

“You’ll have to excuse Patrick,” said Delaney, looking after him. “Accountants are not the most sociable people at the best of times. Also, it’s his first voyage and he’s heard too many horror stories about Atlantic crossings at this time of year. Patrick still has a sneaking fear that we’re all going to finish up at the bottom of the sea.” He looked at Genevieve. “He has none of that indomitable Captain Ahab spirit.”

“You’re obviously a veteran sailor,” she said.

“Well, I have been lucky enough to visit your country a number of times.”

“Have you never encountered bad weather while en route?”

“Of course, Miss Masefield. But always we came through it without any problem.”

“How do you rate the
Mauretania
?” asked Ruth.

“She has to be my first choice.”

“Why is that?”

“Lots of reasons, Miss Constantine. Two of them are seated opposite me.”

Ruth tried to probe more deeply into his background, but it was soon Delaney’s turn to leave. On the other side of the lounge, Katherine Wymark and her husband got up from their seats and walked arm in arm toward the door. Before they went out, Walter Wymark waved a hand in the direction of Delaney.

“Ah!” said the latter. “I’m sorry, ladies, but that’s my signal to go. I promised to play chess with someone and I always keep my promises.” He stood up and looked down at Ruth. “Do you play chess, Miss Constantine?”

“I thought that we’d just been having a game,” she answered.

Delaney laughed, then bowed. “Good night, ladies! Sleep well.”

“Good night.”

Genevieve added her own farewell, then waited until he was out of earshot. “What did you think of him, Ruth?” she asked.

“Exactly the same as you. He’s witty, sophisticated, and very wealthy.”

“He obviously liked you.”

“Oh, let’s not fool ourselves, Genevieve. You were the person he really came to see, though I wish he hadn’t brought that dry stick of an accountant with him. Orvill Delaney is entranced with you.”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“I was using a polite word for it,” said Ruth. “Put it this way—if there’s a tap on your door tonight, it won’t be Harvey Denning, I assure you. It will be Mr. Delaney.” She looked after him. “And he won’t be carrying a chess set.”

Dillman had to admire the man’s effrontery. When he got back to the second-class lounge, the detective saw him at once. Seated in a chair beside Agnes Cameron was the stubby figure of Max Hirsch, gesticulating with both hands as he talked to Stanley and Miriam Rosenwald holding them enthralled with his tale and treating them as good friends, when in fact he had, Dillman believed, stolen property from them. Hirsch was a consummate performer. He might have been their stockbroker, advising them about an investment, or a lawyer, reassuring them about some litigation in which they were involved. Judging by the expressions on their faces, the Rosenwalds were very happy with what they heard, and Mrs. Cameron was plainly entranced. Her gaze never left Hirsch’s mobile face and her hand fluttered to his arm more than once.

Eventually the Rosenwalds made their excuse and began to leave. Dillman saw Mrs. Cameron lean across to squeeze Hirsch’s hand. When he whispered something in her ear, she gave a laugh and administered a harmless slap on the wrist. Standing near the exit, Dillman offered the Rosenwalds a token smile as they approached.

“Any news, Mr. Dillman?” asked Stanley Rosenwald.

“Not yet, sir.”

“I’d so like to get that snuffbox back.”

“It was an antique,” his wife insisted. “An expensive one at that.”

“That’s why it was taken, I’m afraid, Mrs. Rosenwald. Thieves don’t usually bother with trinkets. They tend to know the value of things.”

“Can we hold out any hope?” asked Rosenwald.

“Yes,” said Dillman with more confidence than he actually felt. “There’s every hope, sir. It’s simply a case of amassing enough evidence to make an arrest.”

“Do you have any idea of who the thief is?”

“I think so.”

“We didn’t realize that criminals operated on these ships,” said Rosenwald with rueful innocence, “but our friend Mr. Hirsch was just telling us about a pickpocket whom they caught on the
Campania
. He made a comfortable living out of it, apparently.”

“Until they arrested him,” said his wife.

“We always catch them in the end, Mrs. Rosenwald.”

He sent them off to their cabin with at least a degree of optimism, then looked across at Max Hirsch again. The man replied with an impudent grin. Dillman strolled across and exchanged polite greetings with him and Agnes Cameron.

“Did you enjoy the meal, Mr. Dillman?” Agnes asked.

“Very much,” he said.

“Then why did you charge off in the middle of it?” demanded Hirsch. “A call of nature?”

“Not exactly, Mr. Hirsch.”

“Agnes and I had a wonderful time, didn’t we, honey?”

“Yes, Max. Heavenly.”

“This is the best voyage I’ve ever had, bar none.”

“Better than your trip on the
Campania
?” asked Dillman meaningfully. “I understand that you were talking about that to Mr. and Mrs. Rosenwald. You warned them to be wary of pickpockets.”

Hirsch’s grin returned. “That’s right, I did. You can never be too careful when you’re in the middle of so many strangers. Some people have no respect for other people’s property.”

“You surprise me,” said Dillman with faint sarcasm.

“I feel completely safe,” affirmed Mrs. Cameron. “Especially now that I have you to protect me, Max. He has such wonderful knowledge of the ways of the world, Mr. Dillman,” she went on. “He’s so cosmopolitan. You’d never think it of a man with his background.”

“And what sort of background would that be, Mrs. Cameron?” asked Dillman.

“He had his own business in Brooklyn.”

“His own business?”

“Yes,” she explained. “A very successful one at that.”

“Oh?”

“Max was a silversmith.”

Hirsch gave his broadest grin yet. He was reveling in his invincibility.

Emboldened by the unexpected pint of beer, Glyn Bowen decided to speak his mind. “I think we should call it off, Mansell,” he declared.

“What?”

“This wild idea of yours about that gold.”

“It’s not wild,” insisted Price. “I was talking to one of the lads who helps out in the galley. It’s his job to open up the boxes that he fetches from the storeroom down below. Know what he uses? A crowbar.”

“So what?”

“We borrow it, that’s what.”

They were in a corner of the third-class smoking room, taking turns to pull on the remains of a discarded cigarette that had been retrieved from the floor. Bowen was rapidly losing faith in the plan that his friend had worked out.

“Too many things can go wrong,” he said.

“Not if we choose our moment.”

“Suppose someone catches us?”

“How can they if you’re acting as lookout?”

“We were both on the lookout last night, mun, but that Mr. Dillman still managed to steal up on us. He worries me, Mansell.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. There’s something funny about him.”

“Yes,” said Price with a sneer. “He’s a Yank.”

“There’s something else. I mean, why should he be so friendly to us?”

“Haven’t you worked that out yet? Honestly, Glyn, you must be blind.”

“What do you mean?”

“You forgotten Sergeant Roberts already, mun?”

“Of course not.”

“Don’t you remember what he used to do?”

“Yes,” said Bowen with bitterness. “Give us hell during the week. Treat us like the scum of the earth. But on Saturdays, it was different. Off would come his uniform and on would go that old suit of his. There he’d be, propping up the bar in the pub, pretending to be one of us. It wasn’t Sergeant Roberts then.”

“No,” recalled Price. “He wanted us to call him ‘Denzil’ in there. Not a chance. Whatever he wore, he was still a lousy copper. On or off duty.”

Bowen was perplexed. “What are you trying to say, Mansell?”

“I think we got another Sergeant Roberts aboard.”

“Mr. Dillman?” said the other in surprise.

“I didn’t believe that rubbish about a friend having had something stolen,” said Price, pulling on the cigarette stub for the last time, then dropping it to the floor. He ground it beneath a foot. “He’s a copper of some sort. On the sniff.”

“All the more reason to drop your idea.”

“Never!”

“But he’s on to us, Mansell. He must sense something.”

“How can he, mun? All he wanted to know from us was whether or not we saw anyone on the prowl last night in second class. That’s Dillman’s beat. He won’t bother us down by the security room. Besides,” he said, hitching his belt, “he likes us. What we told him was a great help. You could see that. He trusts us.”

“Does he?” asked the other, unconvinced.

“Yes. If we turn up at the purser’s cabin with that gold, Dillman will be able to vouch for us. They’d have to give us a reward then.”

“I still have doubts, Mansell,” admitted the other.

“Then keep them to yourself. When the time is ripe, we go ahead with my plan. I’m not having you backing out on me, Glyn. Understand?” He squeezed the other’s arm until his friend yelped. “Understand?”

“Yes,” said Bowen, rubbing his arm. “I understand.”

The boat deck was swept by a stiff breeze, but it was not enough to frighten away the elderly couple who were taking a walk before they
retired to bed, the two ladies who were exercising their dogs, or the young couple who were embracing impulsively behind one of the large ventilation cowls. Nor was it enough to make Genevieve Masefield wish that Dillman had suggested somewhere else for a meeting at the end of the day. Warmly wrapped in a coat, scarf, and hat, she found him waiting for her beside one of the lifeboats. He, too, was wearing a thick overcoat, and a hat that all but concealed his face.