Murder on the Mauretania (20 page)

“He was almost human,” said Belfrage grudgingly.

“Unlike you,” murmured Ruth.

“Do you suppose he plays bridge?” asked Denning.

“Mr. Delaney prefers chess, actually,” said Genevieve.

“You’re obviously on intimate terms with him.”

“I hardly know the man.”

“Accepting presents from him. Taking his advice about what to read. Knowing his habits and preferences.” He gave her a shrewd look. “You’ve obviously been improving Anglo–American relations, Genevieve.”

“I’m glad that somebody has,” said Ruth sharply. “If it was left to Donald, we’d be sailing to America in order to declare war on the country.”

“Colonials must be kept in their place.”

“They’re not in the Empire any longer, Donald.”

“More’s the pity!”

On that slightly sour note, the meal came to an end. As they got up from the table, Genevieve refused the invitation to join them in the lounge, saying she had an appointment. Denning clutched his hands against his heart in a gesture of despair, but Donald Belfrage was even more expressive. Touching her lightly on the elbow, he gave Genevieve a kiss on the cheek and whispered something in her ear that she did not quite catch. She responded to the communal farewell and made
for the grand staircase, more confused than ever about the authorship of her nocturnal missive. Three men had spoken to her in the dining saloon, and each one of them was a potential correspondent.

As she descended the stairs, a fourth name resurfaced. Standing at the bottom of the first flight, Patrick Skelton looked up at her with the same intensity he had shown before. It was almost as if he were waiting for her. Genevieve was determined not to stop.

“Hello, Mr. Skelton,” she said.

“Good day to you, Miss Masefield,” he replied civilly.

Skelton stepped aside so that she could move past him. Genevieve went on down the next flight without daring to look behind her, feeling his gaze follow her all the way.

Alone in his cabin, George Porter Dillman unrolled the map on his table and held its curling edges in place with a tooth mug, a bunch of keys, and two bars of soap. A detailed plan of the
Mauretania
lay before him, showing him all that he needed to see of her interior. To Dillman’s practiced eye, the ship was a true marvel, but he did not allow himself to savor the finer points of naval architecture. What he was looking for were places where Max Hirsch could conceivably be hiding, held against his will, or—the possibility had to be considered—lying dead from natural or foul means. There were nine decks in all, seven above the load line. Each offered an array of potential refuges. The orlop deck was given over exclusively to machinery, with the exception of the forward holds, where insulated space was provided for the storage of food and perishable cargo. The lower orlop deck could also be discounted.

Passenger and crew accommodations accounted for large areas of the vessel. The missing man could be in any one of several hundred cabins. The more Dillman studied the plan, the more difficult the problem became. It would take days for him to search every last corner of the vessel, and instinct was telling him that his efforts would be futile. By the time Genevieve arrived, he was starting to accept the inevitable conclusion.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, accepting his kiss of welcome
as he admitted her to the cabin. “It was tricky getting away from the luncheon table.”

“At least you sat down at one, Genevieve. I missed out on food altogether.”

“An upset tummy, or a devotion to duty?”

“I simply want to find Max Hirsch.”

“I can endorse that wish, George. So can Mrs. Cameron.” She saw the map. “That’s a novel use for a couple of bars of soap.”

“I had to improvise.”

“So did I,” sighed Genevieve. “All the way through the meal.”

“How did you get on with Mrs. Cameron?”

“She was on the verge of collapse, poor thing. I did all I could to be supportive, but she’s starting to fear the worst. It’s now over twenty-four hours since she last saw him.”

“Did she have no idea of where he might be?”

“None at all. She was very grateful for the way you consoled her earlier, but rather ashamed that she’d broken down in front of you like that.”

“I didn’t mind, Genevieve.”

“I don’t think she realized just how much she cared for Max Hirsch.”

“How
did
he do it?” asked Dillman skeptically. “Hypnosis?”

Genevieve sat down and took out her notebook to refresh her memory before giving him a concise account of her interview with Agnes Cameron. Dillman heard nothing he did not expect. He ran a meditative hand through his hair.

“As I see it,” he decided, “there are three possibilities. Suicide can be excluded because Hirsch just wasn’t the type. Besides, he had far too much to live for. That leaves us with the possibility that he’s on board somewhere, alive or dead. The second option is that he went up on the deck during that storm yesterday and was washed overboard.”

“Only a maniac would have gone out in that tempest.”

“You’re looking at one,” said Dillman with a smile. “We now come to the third and most serious possibility. Max Hirsch is no longer on the vessel because somebody deliberately helped him off it.”

“Why would anyone do that, George?”

“Ask the Goldblatts. Ask Clifford Tavistock. Ask any of the people he robbed.” He raised a finger. “Apart from the Rosenwalds, that is. If Hirsch went into the water, they’d be more likely to raise the alarm and man a lifeboat. Stanley and Miriam Rosenwald don’t have a vengeful bone in their bodies.”

“What about his other victims? Would they hate him enough to kill him?”

“To
want
to kill him perhaps,” said Dillman, “but I can’t see any of them actually going through with it. Besides, they don’t even know that Max Hirsch is the man who stole their property. They simply couldn’t strike out at him.”

“So who did?”

“We don’t know that anyone did, Genevieve,” he cautioned. “All we can do is to make educated guesses, based on our knowledge of Max Hirsch and his movements.”

“Most of those seem to have been in the direction of Mrs. Cameron.”

Dillman nodded and walked across to the porthole. He gazed out at the sea, which was still turbulent but causing none of the havoc of the previous day. After again sifting through all the unanswered questions in his mind, he turned to face Genevieve.

“Where’s that briefcase?” he asked.

“Briefcase?”

“According to those two Welshmen who saw him on the prowl, Hirsch was carrying a briefcase. He’d needed something to put his loot in, and a briefcase would attract less notice than a large bundle marked ‘Swag.’ Where is it?” he asked, moving across to her. “Yesterday afternoon it must have contained a silver-and-ivory eyeglass case and sixty-four pieces of solid silver cutlery. Nobody would throw that kind of haul overboard, surely?”

“It must still be on the ship, George.”

“And so must all the other stuff he stole. There was no sign of it in his cabin, nor of that briefcase. I was very thorough in my search. In fact,” he recalled, “when I first began to put pressure on Hirsch, he offered me the key to his cabin. That meant he had nothing incriminating stowed away in it.”

“So where did he hide his loot?”

“With an accomplice. Except that he gave every indication of being a lone wolf.”

“Wait a moment,” said Genevieve, getting to her feet. “Perhaps he did have an accomplice. An unwitting one maybe, but she might have provided a hiding place for him.”

“She?”

“Mrs. Cameron. I sensed that she was holding something back from me. Now I know what it was, George. Ridiculous as this may sound, I believe that Hirsch spent Sunday night in her cabin.”

“They
slept
together?” he exclaimed in astonishment.

“That’s their business. I’m not their moral guardian. What I can say is that their relationship had reached a very critical point. Mrs. Cameron more or less admitted it.”

“But they only met on the boat train.”

“Passion can bubble very quickly at times,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “It has to be the explanation, don’t you see? Hirsch wooed her in order to have somewhere safe to hide whatever he stole. He spent the night with her on Sunday.”

“Are you certain about that?”

“Yes, George, and I’m certain about something else as well.”

“What’s that?”

“Hirsch took a lot more into that cabin than a pair of pajamas.”

THIRTEEN

A
lexandra Jarvis was young enough to look disarmingly innocent, but old enough to have mastered the arts of manipulation. When she wanted something enough, there were usually ways to secure it. After displaying ten minutes of sincere but calculated affection for her grandmother, she nestled into the old woman’s shoulder.

“Can I go for a walk, please, Granny?” she asked.

“No, Ally. You’re to stay in here with me.”

“But I’ve finished my book and there’s nothing else to read.”

“You heard what your parents said.”

“All they told me to do was to look after you,” said the girl artlessly.

Lily Pomeroy grinned. “I thought it was the other way around,” she remarked, “but I suppose that it’s a bit of both, really. Anyway, you’re staying put, young lady.”

“Not if
you
come for a walk with me.”

“What?”

“You must be as bored as I am with looking at the same walls. Let’s go for a stroll. That’s where Mummy and Daddy have gone.”

“Then you should have tagged along with them.”

“But I’d much rather be with you, Granny,” said Alexandra, leaning
over to give her a kiss. “You’re kind to me. And I didn’t want to have another row with Noel.”

Mrs. Pomeroy sighed and hauled herself out of her seat. “I suppose it won’t do me any harm to stretch my legs, though we’re not going out on deck. It’s far too cold. Hold my hand,” she ordered, grasping the girl’s palm. “I don’t want you running off.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Granny.”

“Yes you would.” They headed for the door. “Where shall we go?”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll just walk and be together.”

But she knew exactly where she wanted to take her grandmother. For her part, Lily Pomeroy had the feeling that the casual stroll had a fixed destination. She did not mind. Though she had been maneuvered into the situation, she was prepared to indulge Alexandra. She remembered the warnings that Oliver Jarvis had given his daughter, but for the moment, her son-in-law’s strictures could be quietly forgotten.

Delighted to have her own way, Alexandra led her grandmother toward the officers’ quarters at a gentle pace. When she saw the door of Reynolds’ cabin ajar, her hopes were raised and she broke clear of the old woman to run forward. She tapped on the door, then opened it, expecting to see Bobo munching his way through his afternoon meal. But there was no sign of the black cat. The scraps of meat in his feeding bowl were untouched. She looked up in despair at the officer.

“Where is he, Mr. Reynolds?” she whimpered.

“I don’t know, Alexandra,” he admitted. “Bobo will turn up soon, I’m sure.”

His smile was confident, but she saw the lingering doubt in his eyes.

Agnes Cameron was both surprised and alarmed when the two of them called on her. It was only when Dillman introduced himself properly and explained that he was leading the search for her erstwhile friend that she agreed to let them both into the cabin.

“Is there any news, Mr. Dillman?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Cameron,” he said, “but the search continues.”

“Why on earth can’t you find him?”

“The M
auretania
is the largest ship in the world. It takes time to
work our way through it. After I reported Mr. Hirsch’s disappearance this morning, I led a team of men on an immediate sweep of the vessel. We looked everywhere but saw no trace of him.”

“Something has happened to him,” she said, sinking into a chair.

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Mrs. Cameron,” advised Genevieve softly.

“Max has had an accident of some sort.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I do, Miss Masefield,” said the other wearily. “I sensed it as soon as I woke up this morning. Max just wouldn’t let me down this way. He’s far too considerate.” She turned to Dillman. “Tell me the truth, Mr. Dillman. Please. Don’t hide it from me.”

“Very well,” he said, lowering his voice. “Until we learn otherwise, Max Hirsch is missing, presumed dead.”

Agnes Cameron gasped. Genevieve touched her shoulder in a gesture of sympathy then sat beside her. Dillman remained on his feet. The older woman was in a delicate condition. Her hands tightly bunched, she was trembling with apprehension. Dillman knew that he would have to proceed with great care. Not wishing to cause her more pain, he foresaw that some distress was inevitable. Tact and discretion might help to alleviate it. Genevieve’s presence was another valuable factor. They had rehearsed their approach.

“Mr. Dillman would like to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Cameron.”

“But I’ve told you all I can,” protested Mrs. Cameron.

“You were extremely helpful,” said Genevieve, “and we’re very grateful. But there are one or two things that I didn’t touch on.”

“What sort of things?”

“I’ll let Mr. Dillman explain.”

“Mrs. Cameron,” he said gently, “I’m sorry that we have to intrude into your private life, but we need to build up a clear picture of Mr. Hirsch.”

“But you knew him yourself, Mr. Dillman,” said Mrs. Cameron. “That’s how we first met. You were talking to Max on Sunday night.” She sounded faintly betrayed. “Of course I didn’t know then that you were a detective.”

“I need to ask you about Mr. Hirsch’s briefcase.”

“His briefcase?”

“Were you aware that he had one?”

“Well, yes. He came in here with it, as it happens.”

“How many times? Once? Twice?”

“I don’t think that’s any business of yours, Mr. Dillman,” she said, bridling.

“It’s important for us to know,” explained Genevieve, leaning over to her. “We believe that the briefcase may give us some important clues.”

“I don’t see how, Miss Masefield.”

“You admit that he did bring it in here?” asked Dillman, taking over again.

“Yes,” conceded Mrs. Cameron.

“And is it in here now, by any chance?”

“No,” she denied hotly. “It’s not, Mr. Dillman. And I fail to see that Max’s briefcase has anything to do with his disappearance. The most likely place you’ll find it is where it should be—in his cabin.”

“I’ve already searched that, Mrs. Cameron. The briefcase is not there.”

“Oh. I see.”

“So Mr. Hirsch must have had it with him when he disappeared. However,” he went on, “since he did bring it into your cabin, there’s a possibility that he might have left some of its contents here.”

Mrs. Cameron jumped to her feet. “He left nothing here!” she insisted.

“Are you quite certain?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman.”

“Mr. Hirsch didn’t ask you to hide anything for him?”

“Why should he?”

“I was hoping that you might tell me that.”

“Max never asked me to keep anything in here,” she answered firmly. “I’m bound to say that I find some of your questions very impertinent. You’ve no right to come in here and badger me like this. If this goes on, I shall complain to the purser.” She sat down again. “You should be out there right now searching for Max, not bothering me with irrelevant questions about his briefcase.”

“Unfortunately,” he said, “they’re not irrelevant.”

There was no easy way to secure her cooperation. It was time to let Genevieve take over once more. Moving a step back, Dillman gave her a nod and watched Mrs. Cameron closely. Her anger was natural and her denials genuine. If she had been Hirsch’s accomplice, she obviously knew nothing about it.

“Mrs. Cameron,” began Genevieve, “there are certain things that you don’t know about Mr. Hirsch. He may have been everything that you describe, and I can understand your affection for him. By the same token,” she said, slipping in a soothing compliment, “I can see why he was drawn to you. Mr. Hirsch was a fortunate man.”

“What is it that I’m not supposed to know about him?”

“It may come as something of a shock.”

“I won’t listen to any slander about Max!” cautioned the other.

“It’s not slander, Mrs. Cameron. Do you recall what you told me about Saturday evening? Over dinner, Mr. Hirsch invited you to take a stroll on deck.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Except that he postponed the walk until later on.”

“Max said that he had some business to attend to. I went back to my cabin to wrap up warmly and he stayed in the dining saloon.”

“The business he had to attend to was witnessed by Mr. Dillman.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I saw him steal some items from the table.”

“Never!” protested Mrs. Cameron.

“I have sharp eyes. There was no doubt about it.”

“Max isn’t a thief! He’s the most honest man I’ve ever met.”

“He didn’t show much of that honesty when I challenged him,” said Dillman. “After the usual bluster that I get on these occasions, he admitted the theft and told me he’d acted on impulse. What he’d taken were a silver saltcellar and a pepper pot. He claimed that he wanted them as souvenirs for his wife.”

“But he doesn’t have a wife.”

“Who knows? At the time, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. It was a grave mistake,” said Dillman, sighing heavily with regret. “I let him go with a stern warning. If I’d had the sense to arrest him and
report the theft, none of the other robberies would have occurred, because I’d bet my bottom dollar that he’s behind them.”

Mrs. Cameron could not take it all in. The disappearance of a dear friend was a hard enough blow to bear. To hear that the man she revered was actually a thief was unendurable. She could only cope by disbelieving the charge. Swaying to and fro, she beat her fists on her knees.

“No, no, no!” she exclaimed. “It’s not true! It can’t be true!”

“He was caught,” whispered Genevieve. “Mr. Hirsch admitted the theft.”

“But he had no reason to steal. He was comfortably off.”

“On the proceeds of other robberies.”

“Max was a good man, Miss Masefield.”

“He was a thief, Mrs. Cameron,” she said, “and we believe that he might have disappeared as a result of his criminal activities. That’s why we need your help.” She held the other woman’s hands to stop the drumming fists. “You loved him, didn’t you?” she went on. “In his own way, I’m sure that Mr. Hirsch loved you.”

“He did,” murmured Mrs. Cameron. “He said so.”

Genevieve left a long pause. “When I spoke to you earlier,” she said at length, “there was something you held back from me. I don’t want to pry, but I have to ask you a very personal question. I think you can guess what it is, Mrs. Cameron, can’t you?”

The other woman nodded, then glanced up with embarrassment at Dillman.

“During the time that Mr. Hirsch stayed here on Sunday night—or on any of the other occasions when he was here, for that matter—was he alone for any length of time?”

“I had to visit the bathroom, if that’s what you mean.”

“What about Monday morning?”

“Really, Miss Masefield!” said the other, flushing visibly.

“I assume that Mr. Hirsch returned to his cabin?”

“Quite early in fact. He didn’t want to compromise me in any way.”

“Nor do we, Mrs. Cameron,” said Genevieve. “I can promise you that none of this will be heard outside these four walls. You’ve told us what we needed to know.”

Genevieve looked over at Dillman, convinced that their theory had substance to it. Mrs. Cameron was still trying to come to terms with what she had heard, shifting between disbelief and despondency, refusing to accept the charges they were making against her friend, yet sensing in her heart that the accusations might have some foundation. Her febrile mind replayed some of the conversations she’d had with Max Hirsch. Touching moments now came to seem like cruel charades. She turned to Dillman.

“Did he really tell you that he had a wife?” she asked.

“He said her name was Rachel,” he replied, “but there’s no reason to think that she ever existed. Mr. Hirsch may well have invented her on the spot.”

“Then again …”

“Forget about that,” said Genevieve, patting her wrist. “There’s no point in torturing yourself about whether or not he was married. The only way to learn the full truth about Mr. Hirsch is to find him. That brings us back to his briefcase.” She took a deep breath. “Mrs. Cameron, we’re going to ask you a very big favor.”

“Well?”

“We need your permission to search the cabin.”

“Whatever for?” retorted the other, coloring again.

“Evidence.”

“But there’s nothing here. I can’t let you go through my things, Miss Masefield. That would be a terrible invasion of my privacy.”

“Would you agree to conduct a search yourself?”

“There’s no point.”

“I’m afraid there is, Mrs. Cameron,” said Dillman, applying gentle pressure. “We’re making a polite request at the moment. If the purser is summoned, he’ll point out to you that we can insist on searching this cabin. We’d rather spare you any coercion.”

“Please,” coaxed Genevieve. “It won’t take long.”

“It would be a complete waste of time.”

“In that case, we’ll apologize and leave you alone.”

“You won’t find a thing, I tell you,” said Mrs. Cameron, getting up suddenly to pull open every drawer in the cabin. “See for yourself, Miss Masefield. Go on. And look in here while you’re at it,” she continued,
flinging open the doors of the wardrobe. “I have no idea of what you’re after, but I’m certain it couldn’t possibly be here.”

Genevieve carried out a quick but fruitless search of the drawers before moving to the wardrobe. She pushed all the garments aside so she could peer into every corner. Nothing was hidden away. Moving from indignation to open anger, Mrs. Cameron stood over her with her arms folded.

“Now are you satisfied?” she demanded.

“What’s in that box?” asked Dillman, indicating the upper shelf in the wardrobe.

“A new hat I bought in London.”

“Have you worn it on board?”

“No, Mr. Dillman. Max preferred me in one of my other hats.”

“So he would know that the new one would stay in its box?”

“May I?” said Genevieve, taking down the box. She put the lid aside. “What a pretty hat, Mrs. Cameron!” she added, lifting it out to admire it. “Where did you buy it?”

“On Oxford Street.”

Genevieve held the hatbox in front of her so she could look down into it. “Did you buy all these other items on Oxford Street as well?”