Murder on the Mauretania (21 page)

Mrs. Cameron blanched. “They’re not mine!” she gasped.

Moving in swiftly, Dillman extracted the silver snuffbox. “No, Mrs. Cameron,” he confirmed. “This belongs to Stanley Rosenwald.”

Maurice Buxton completed his tour with a smile of satisfaction. The last of the property stolen from second class had now been restored to its grateful owner. The purser was content. Crimes had been solved and the good name of the Cunard Line had been vindicated. He felt a weight being lifted from his back. Two major problems still existed, however, and they brought the chevrons back to his brow. Though Max Hirsch’s haul had been found, the whereabouts of the thief himself were unknown. Also missing, and presumably hidden in the man’s briefcase, were the eyeglass case and the cutlery taken from first-class passengers. Ralph Goldblatt and Clifford Tavistock would continue to bang on the purser’s door to demand action. When Buxton reached that door, he found another unwelcome visitor loitering outside it.

Hester Littlejohn was consulting the notes in her pad. She looked up. “Ah, here he is!” she said, beaming at him. “Your assistant told me that you’d be back at your post very soon.”

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Littlejohn?”

“Confirm those rumors, for a start.”

“All I can say is what I told you earlier. Don’t listen to idle speculation.”

“But a trolley was stolen from the first-class kitchens.”

“If you care to go back there now, I think you’ll find that it’s been returned. It was probably only taken by way of a practical joke.”

“What about those tools from third class?”

“Mrs. Littlejohn—”

“And that box of silverware that went astray. Was that a practical joke as well?”

“If anything goes missing,” he said with controlled politeness, “the normal procedure is that the incident is reported to me before being handed over to the trained detectives we have on board. They are very efficient, Mrs. Littlejohn, as I have good reason to know, but they can do their job more effectively if they’re not tripping over inquisitive passengers.”

“But I’m not an inquisitive passenger,” she said. “I’m a nosy journalist.”

“That’s even worse.”

“So you don’t deny that those tools were stolen? And that cutlery.”

“Some people eat with crowbars. Others prefer knives and forks.”

Hester Littlejohn burst out laughing. “I like your sense of humor, Mr. Buxton,” she said. “I may even quote you. One last question, if I may.”

“Only if you promise to give me some breathing space afterward.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Right. Ask your question, Mrs. Littlejohn.”

“Who or what are they after?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Buxton. You understand everything that goes on aboard the
Mauretania
. Nobody clears his throat without you having a report of it. So tell me. What is the search looking for? And don’t try
to fob me off. I’ve seen a team of men working their way along various decks today. Why?” she pressed. “I’m no sailor, but I’ve got a nasty feeling that they weren’t looking for leaks.”

“And I have a nasty feeling that
you
are.”

“What are they trying to find?”

“Something that I’ve been missing ever since we met, Mrs. Littlejohn,” he said with a friendly grin. “Something that’s very precious to me.”

“And what’s that?” she asked.

“My peace of mind.”

He went into his office and closed the door firmly behind him.

“You were right, Genevieve,” he said with a congratulatory smile. “Wonderful intuition.”

“I was getting rather worried when we seemed to have drawn a blank.”

“So was I.”

“But I was convinced the loot was in there somewhere.”

“Tucked away in a hatbox.”

“Unkown to Mrs. Cameron.”

“Who but Hirsch would have thought of a place like that?” said Dillman. “When you opened that box, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he’d popped out of it like a white rabbit.” He became serious. “Except that he’s given us another trick from his extensive repertoire.”

“ ‘The Vanishing Act.’ ”

After handing over the recovered property to the purser, they had adjourned to Dillman’s cabin to review the situation. Delighted to have made some progress, they were both saddened that they’d had to do so at the expense of Agnes Cameron. She had been horrified at the discovery in her wardrobe, and heartbroken to learn that her romance with Max Hirsch had a mercenary side to it. Genevieve wanted to stay to comfort her, but the older woman insisted on being left alone. A woman of delicate sensibilities she was hurt by the way her private life had been exposed. All that Mrs. Cameron wanted now was to withdraw from sight in order to lick her wounds.

“I hope she has the courage to venture out for dinner,” said Dillman.

“I doubt it, George. In her position, I’d barricade myself in.”

“We’d better keep an eye on her. Have food sent to her cabin, if necessary. We don’t want Mrs. Cameron to die of starvation. She must feel rotten.”

“And so guilty. To realize that she’d been party to a series of thefts.”

“Only indirectly.”

“It still cut her to the quick. You could see that.”

“Max Hirsch has a lot to answer for, Genevieve—”

“We’ll never find him. He’s gone for good.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But I don’t imagine that Hirsch dived off the boat deck just to prove that he could swim. Someone else was involved. We have to find out who it was.”

“How?”

“It means going back over Hirsch’s tracks, talking to all the people he met since he came aboard. The ones he befriended and, more important, the ones he may have upset.”

“They’ll all be in second class, won’t they?”

“For the most part,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “That’s my territory. But he may not be unknown in first class. My guess is that Hirsch sailed to and fro on a regular basis, taking advantage of gullible ladies like Mrs. Cameron and helping himself to anything that would fit into that briefcase of his. He could probably afford to travel in style but shifted between first and second class as a safety measure. Who knows?” He went on. “Perhaps one of his former victims recognized him when he was embarking and decided to get revenge. The man we’re after may be sleeping soundly in a first-class cabin tonight.”

I
wish they all did that
, she thought to herself, remembering the note pushed under her cabin door. “Well,” she said, “I’d better be off. Time to dress for dinner.”

“Keep your eyes peeled, Genevieve.”

“Oh, I will. For my own sake.”

“Why?” he asked, concerned. “Is someone pestering you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Would you like me to have a quiet word with him?”

“That’s very sweet of you, George,” she said, kissing him on the cheek, “but I can cope. Besides, you can’t have a quiet word with him when I don’t know who he is.”

“A mystery stalker, is he?”

“Only time will tell.” She was about to leave when something else popped into her mind. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd?”

“What?”

“The fact that Hirsch had that briefcase with him.”

“Not really, Genevieve.”

“Nobody walks around a ship with a briefcase.”

“I suppose it lent him a businesslike air.”

“That’s my point,” she said, puzzled. “It’s so odd. I mean, what sort of thief steals people’s property with a businesslike air?”

“They’re called bank managers,” he explained.

Dressed for dinner, Ruth Constantine waited for her friends in the first-class lounge and whiled away the time by glancing through a newspaper. Her black evening gown was plain and unrelieved by jewelry, her one concession to style and color being the red rose pinned into her hair. When a shadow fell across her, she looked up to see Orvill Delaney, at his most debonair in white tie and tails.

“Good evening, Miss Constantine,” he said, inclining his head.

“Hello, Mr. Delaney.”

“May I say how attractive you look this evening?”

“Then I obviously failed in my mission,” she said crisply. “I don’t believe in striving to look attractive with a new hairstyle and an expensive gown. Why betray nature’s intentions? I let people take me as I am.”

“That’s an attitude I find very attractive in itself.”

“Even though it’s not one you share,” she observed, running an eye over his well-groomed appearance. “You cut a fine figure, Mr. Delaney.”

“Thank you. But I didn’t know that newspapers were delivered on board,” he said. “I would have thought it beyond even Cunard’s ingenuity .”

“This one is days old,” she explained, putting aside her copy of the
Westminster Gazette
. “I brought it with me but haven’t had time to read it until now. My friends don’t allow me room to do anything as normal as reading a newspaper.”

“So I’ve noticed. You make a lively party.”

“It can get tiresome on occasion.”

“Not with someone like Miss Masefield around, surely?” he said. “She seems a most interesting and charming young lady.”

“Genevieve is a delight.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Why do you ask?”

He gave a shrug. “No reason. Ignore the question if it’s offensive.”

“I find it rather unnecessary, that’s all,” she said tensely. “You’ve spoken to Genevieve on more than one occasion, so I’m sure you’ve figured out that she’s a very recent addition to our circle. In point of fact, we met on the boat train.”

“Yet she fits into your group so well.”

“It’s been one of the consolations of the voyage.”

“You sound like a reluctant passenger, Miss Constantine.”

“I never expect to enjoy myself.”

“What a pity! I always do.”

“I can see that, Mr. Delaney.”

He gave her a cordial smile and she returned it. “Coming back to Miss Masefield,” he said casually. “What exactly does she do?”

“Do?”

“What profession or line of work is she in?”

“Really!” she said with mock scorn. “That’s not the sort of thing you should ask about a lady. It’s so vulgar. All I can tell you is what Genevieve is doing on this ship.”

“And what’s that?”

“What every unattached young lady is doing, Mr. Delaney. Keeping clear of the elegant male predators who always come out panting at a time like this.”

“Is that what
you
do, Miss Constantine?” he asked with amusement. “Keep clear of panting predators?”

Ruth was brusque. “I don’t need to,” she said. Her manner softened
as she picked up the newspaper again. “But there was something in here that might interest you.”

“Old news is dead news.”

“This was a report of the Carlsbad Tournament.”

“Why should that have any appeal for me?”

“Because it involves the finest chess players in the world. The grandmasters of the game. You told me that you play chess yourself.”

“From time to time.”

“Rubinstein was in the lead when this was published,” she said, finding the appropriate page. “He’d won eight games out of ten. Maroczy was hot on his heels, though. How would you rate your chances against men of that caliber?”

“I wouldn’t, Miss Constantine.”

“Why not? Do they make you feel intimidated?”

“No,” he replied easily. “They make me feel grateful that I don’t approach the game in the spirit they do. I’m a practical man. While they play for pride, I only play for money. It’s far more exciting.”

“Not if you lose, surely?”

“I do my best to ensure that I don’t.”

“And how do you do that?”

“That’s a trade secret.” He gave her a quiet smile and offered his hand. “May I escort you into the dining saloon, Miss Constantine?”

“Thank you,” she said, putting the newspaper down once more and letting him help her up. “You’re a gentleman, Mr. Delaney.”

“That sounds better than being an elegant male predator.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.”

He laughed, then conducted her toward the dining saloon. Ruth was pleased to be seen with him. It would raise eyebrows among her friends and provide a good talking point. She liked Orvill Delaney, and he seemed to appreciate her idiosyncrasies. It prompted her to give him some friendly advice.

“Don’t become too curious about Genevieve Masefield,” she warned.

“Why not?”

“You can see how beautiful she is.”

“Are you telling me that I’d have lots of younger rivals?”

“Put it this way,” she said. “If you went to tap on her cabin door tonight, you might find yourself at the back of a very long queue.”

He laughed again. “They must’ve heard about that magazine with the story by O. Henry in it,” he said amiably. “I’ve read it, so I don’t need to join the queue.”

Until he sat down in the second-class dining saloon, Dillman did not realize just how hungry he was. It was suddenly borne in on him that he had eaten almost nothing since breakfast. Sharing a table with the Jarvis family and a few other friends they had acquired, he addressed his food with a zeal that was matched only by Lily Pomeroy, though he consumed his meal at a slower pace and without any of the weird gurgling noises the old woman managed to produce. Alexandra was very subdued and he deduced that Bobo still had not been found. What made the girl’s suffering more acute was the fact that she could not confide in him during the meal because her father was listening and would be furious if he learned about the way she had coaxed her grandmother into taking her off in search of the ship’s mascot. Dillman gave her a friendly wink, but even that did not revive her.

“What’s the weather apt to be like in New York, Mr. Dillman?” asked Oliver Jarvis.

“Much the same as in London, I expect.”

“Cold, dull, and dreary.”

“But there’ll be so much to see,” said Vanessa Jarvis. “My sister was quite overwhelmed when she first went to America. She said the buildings were so tall that she felt like a tiny ant crawling along the street. Ernestine never thought she’d actually end up living in New York.”

“Then your sister shouldn’t have made the mistake of marrying a handsome American,” said Dillman pleasantly. “He must have swept her off her feet if she was willing to leave her own country.”