Murder on the Mauretania (22 page)

“He did,” recalled Mrs. Pomeroy. “Ernestine was always the impetuous one, Mr. Dillman. She fell head over heels in love with him. I think she’d have followed him to the North Pole if he’d asked her. Ernestine is not like my other daughter.” She lowered her voice. “Vanessa is the cautious one. That’s why she chose a banker.”

“Mr. Dillman doesn’t want to hear tittle-tattle,” said Jarvis, frowning.

“It’s the truth, Oliver.”

“Be that as it may.”

“The strange thing is,” she continued, ignoring him, “that Wesley is not handsome at all. To be honest, he’s rather ugly in some ways, but Ernestine loves him and that’s all that matters. Wesley has been very good to her, Mr. Dillman. According to my daughter, they live in a wonderful house. I’ve always wanted to see it.” She loaded her fork with another cargo of food. “That’s why we’re making the effort to visit them for their silver wedding anniversary.”

Dillman had heard the details before, but he nevertheless showed interest. After the trials of his day, it was a relief to spend time with the Jarvis family and experience a return to normality There were no daring thefts and missing passengers in their world. The most dramatic thing to touch one of them was the disappearance of a cat, and that, he felt, was only a temporary problem. Catching her eye again, he gave Alexandra another wink. She responded with a grin this time, then pretended to stroke a cat before hunching her shoulders to indicate bafflement. Dillman nodded to show that he understood.

“What are you doing, Alexandra?” asked the watchful Jarvis.

“Nothing, Daddy.”

“Don’t bother Mr. Dillman. Let him eat his food.”

It was an order that the detective obeyed with alacrity.

Kept up beyond their usual bedtime, both Alexandra and her brother began to tire. Their parents finished their meal, made their excuses, and whisked the weary children off to their cabin, leaving Mrs. Pomeroy to attack her dessert and dispense more wheezing reminiscences about her American son-in-law. Other tables were beginning to shed their diners and Dillman watched them go, garnering smiles of gratitude from the people whose stolen property he had recovered. He waited until Mrs. Pomeroy and his other companions had finished their coffee, then he quit the table himself.

An elderly couple waylaid him as he left the dining saloon. “We didn’t want to interrupt you during your meal. Mr. Dillman.” said Stanley Rosenwald, “but we just had to thank you.”

“Yes,” said his wife earnestly. “To be frank, I never thought we’d get our things back. Then Mr. Buxton handed them over to us. He was full of praise for you.”

“I did have some help, Mrs. Rosenwald,” admitted Dillman. He turned to her husband. “I noticed you took a pill out of your snuffbox during the meal.”

“Just like old times,” said Rosenwald, patting his waistcoat pocket. “It’s back where it belongs and it’s going to stay there. As a matter of interest,” he asked, moving in closer, “who was the thief?”

“He’s not in custody yet, Mr. Rosenwald.”

“But you know who he is?”

“We think so.”

“Good. You deserve our congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Another elderly couple passed, and Miriam Rosenwald broke away to exchange a few words with them. Her husband took the opportunity to express a concern.

“We haven’t seen Mr. Hirsch all day,” he said.

“No?”

“It’s a great pity. He did enliven the table so much. We were supposed to have dinner with him last night, but he didn’t turn up then either. Have you any idea of why not?”

“None at all,” said Dillman.

“Miriam has grown quite fond of him. And so, of course, has Mrs. Cameron.”

“Yes, I did notice a friendship developing there.”

“It may be more than a friendship,” said Rosenwald with a sly grin. “Perhaps that’s where he is—dining in private with Mrs. Cameron. She’s a fine-looking woman. Mr. Hirsch was so kind to her when that bad weather was brewing yesterday. He escorted her to her cabin even though he felt queasy himself.” He scowled as he remembered something. “Though he didn’t look at all queasy when I saw him later on.”

“Oh?” said Dillman, his interest quickening. “When was that?”

“Yesterday afternoon. During the bad weather.”

“Could you put a time on it, Mr. Rosenwald?”

“Three o’clock. Three-thirty at the latest.”

“And where exactly did you see him?”

“Walking along the corridor as jauntily as if he were strolling down Fifth Avenue on a sunny day. It was almost as if he enjoyed the rolling of the ship.”

“Did he see you, Mr. Rosenwald?” asked Dillman.

“Oh, no. I was on my way to the dispensary to get some tablets for Miriam, so I was going in the opposite direction. I would have called out,” he explained, “but he vanished up those stairs and I was too law-abiding to follow.”

“Law-abiding?”

“I always obey printed warnings, Mr. Dillman.”

“What did this one say?”

“ ‘Only First-Class Passengers Allowed Beyond This Point.’ ”

“That didn’t deter Mr. Hirsch?”

“I don’t think anything could do that,” said the other with affection. “He’s his own man, Mr. Dillman. He goes wherever he likes. That was the other surprise.”

“What was, Mr. Rosenwald?”

“He was carrying a briefcase. With the ship heaving violently, he was walking along without a care in the world, holding this briefcase in his hand.” He bared a set of yellowing false teeth. “It was almost as if he were going off to an important meeting.”

Dillman was glad he had restored the silver snuffbox to Stanley Rosenwald. In return, and without even knowing it, the man had just given him some valuable evidence.

Dinner in the first-class saloon that evening was a heady mixture of high fashion, sophistication, wealth, decorum, arrogance, and blatant glamour. The orchestra wrapped the whole occasion in a cocoon of light music. Rich men brought their gorgeous wives into the room like champion sportsmen displaying their trophies. New friendships took on more substance around noisy tables. Romances were blossoming between couples who had never met until they stepped aboard. Wit and repartee dominated. The tone was set by the captain and his entourage, occupying pride of place and acting as the hub around which the glittering wheel spun with dizzying speed. A veritable banquet was
served, each course surpassing its predecessor, each glass of wine coinciding with the right food to produce a sense of consummate wholeness. It was difficult not to be caught up in the atmosphere of privileged joy, and Genevieve Masefield had to remind herself to hold out against its seductive effect.

Seated with her friends at a table for six in the lower half of the saloon, she noticed the glances that Patrick Skelton was sending her, a worrying blend of hostility and lust. He was situated at a large table some distance away, but his interest in her still managed to be oppressive. Genevieve wondered why he took so little part in the conversation of those around him. Orvill Delaney, by contrast, was completely at ease with his dinner companions. His table was much closer to Genevieve’s and she could hear his laugh clearly and catch an occasional comment. Apart from the warm greeting he had exchanged with her, Delaney took no notice of her. Genevieve was nonplussed.

As the evening wore on, the shortcomings of tying herself to one table became increasingly apparent. Genevieve felt restricted. The badinage was as amusing as always, but she wanted to share in the hilarity at Delaney’s table, or hear the captain’s anecdotes, or try to cheer up the Goldblatts, or sit beside the ramrod figure of Edgar Fenby in a bid to make him relax, or compete with Katherine Wymark at the table of which she was the acknowledged queen, or even listen to sad Clifford Tavistock talking about his beloved eyeglass case. Genevieve was simultaneously urged to leave her table, and denied the opportunity. She was also beginning to miss Dillman more painfully than ever.

“Be serious, Ruth,” said Donald Belfrage. “You can’t really admire the man.”

“Yes I can,” said Ruth Constantine.

“Mr. Delaney is almost twice your age.”

“So? Don’t be so conventional, Donald.”

“He’s being realistic, darling,” said Theodora with a giggle. “Do I need to spell it out? Some things just don’t improve with the passage of time.”

“Do you speak from direct experience?” challenged Denning.

“Of course I don’t.”

“No wild affairs with ancient suitors?”

“Harvey!”

“Then don’t make disparaging remarks about virility and the older man,” he warned. “Look at the king, for instance. Well over sixty and still in his prime. You can hardly call Edward the Seventh a martyr to impotence or half the women in England would shout you down.”

“That’s a very tasteless remark, Harvey,” chided Belfrage.

“Why else do you think I made it?”

“I want to hear about this romance between Ruth and Mr. Delaney,” said Susan Faulconbridge, draining her glass. “When I saw the two of them coming in here this evening, I couldn’t believe my eyes. As a rule, Ruth has so little time for men.”

“One day you’ll discover why, Susan,” said Ruth.

“What’s different about Mr. Delaney?”

“He
knows
himself.”

“That’s an absurd thing to say,” complained Belfrage. “We all know ourselves.”

“Not in the sense that Ruth means,” commented Genevieve. “Most of us have never really plumbed the full depths of our character. We’ve never had to battle against the odds, survive tragedies, and explore the extremities of life. Mr. Delaney gives the impression of having done all those things. He’s been through the flames and come out a better man as a result.”

“We are into high-flown rhetoric!” mocked Denning.

“Genevieve is right,” said Ruth. “Mr. Delaney has lived, while you merely exist.”

“
I’ve
lived,” asserted Belfrage.

“And I’ve survived tragedies,” said Theodora.

“Yes, darling,” prodded Denning. “You met Donald and married him.”

“I was talking about the operation to remove my wisdom teeth,” she said over the laughter. “It was touch and go. Then there was the time I had that strange disease.”

“He’s sitting beside you,” murmured Ruth with a glance at Belfrage.

“I’m not letting you off the hook, Ruth,” said Susan, wagging a finger. “I think there’s something between you and Mr. Delaney. What is it?”

“Three thousand miles of ocean and a cultural chasm.”

“You came into dinner with him.”

“So? That doesn’t mean the banns are being read, Susan. Look behind you,” she suggested, nodding toward Delaney. “I can count five attractive women at his table and they’re all salivating over him. He’s completely forgotten me.”

“I haven’t, Ruth,” said Denning, twitching his lips. “Name the time and place.”

“You never give up, Harvey, do you?”

“Some things are worth the wait.”

“Come back in fifty years’ time,” she said curtly. “You might be civilized then.”

The chatter rolled on and Genevieve contributed her fair share. Because he had taken charge of the seating arrangements, Belfrage had put her at his side, but there was no contact with his foot this time. Genevieve was more disturbed by the ongoing surveillance by Patrick Skelton, a smart figure in his white tie and tails, yet uneasy in his surroundings. The more he stared, the more certain she became that he had slipped the message under her door. Harvey Denning was unlikely to resort to pen and ink; voice and appearance were his calling cards. He could be ruled out, along with Orvill Delaney. The American would be too gallant to resort to three words on a piece of paper. He would realize the distress they might cause her.

Having gone through a process of elimination, Genevieve was left with a man who had hardly exchanged a word with her on the one occasion when they met. Yet here he was now, looking up at regular intervals, watching her intently, conveying a desire of some sort, even rising to a cold smile at one point. Presentable as he was, the young accountant seemed faintly menacing to her. She wondered how she would cope with the situation if Patrick Skelton came to her cabin that night. He would have gone beyond the stage of pushing a note under her door; she had seen how much he had been drinking in the course of the evening. That might spur him on. Genevieve had never needed Dillman beside her as much before, but he was out of reach. She would have to deal with Skelton on her own and repulse the man she was now convinced had sent her the note. At that point, something happened to change her mind.

Donald Belfrage put his warm hand familiarly on her thigh.

FOURTEEN

T
hough the third-class dining saloon was crammed to capacity, Glyn Bowen heard nothing of its cacophony and smelled none of its pungent odors. As he sat at one of the long tables, he hardly touched the food that was set in front of him. Waiters moved swiftly up and down the rows of hungry diners in a continual stream, but they were just a blur before his eyes. Apprehension filled him. Thanks to his friend, he was committed to an enterprise that was foolish, dangerous, and potentially catastrophic. Bowen had little faith in the plan. All that he could see were the hazards. Instead of arriving in America to start the new life they had promised themselves, he and Mansell Price might find themselves held in custody before being handed over to the New York Police Department. He began to wish he had stayed in South Wales. There might be hardship, but there were also basic certainties there.

Mansell Price had no fears about the task that lay ahead. Far from robbing him of his appetite, the idea of breaking into the security room only served to sharpen it. Sitting opposite his friend, he chewed happily through his food.

“Eat up, Glyn,” he urged. There was no response. “Glyn!”

The kick against his shin brought Bowen out of his morose introspection. “What’s wrong?” he said, blinking.

“You haven’t touched your grub.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s good stuff, mun. Get it down you.”

Bowen picked up his fork and pronged a potato. He ate without enthusiasm, then took a drink of water. Setting the fork down, he pushed the plate away.

“Don’t you want it?” asked Price.

“No, Mansell.”

“Well, it won’t be wasted,” said the other, grabbing the plate and using a knife to scrape its contents onto his own. “Cheer up!” he said, putting Bowen’s plate aside. “It’s a big night for us. A nice meal would set you up.”

Bowen shook his head. With other passengers all around them, it was impossible to discuss the projected crime with his friend. He knew, in any case, that it would be futile to protest. Even when they were boys, Price had been the unchallenged leader of the local gang. He was big, strong, and decisive. Nobody dared argue with him. As they grew older and the other boys fell away, Bowen remained at his side like a faithful hound. Price’s friendship had its advantages; it gave Bowen protection in a boisterous community, and a feeling of being needed. There was another bonus. Price had a knack of making girls like him. He not only found girlfriends for himself, he provided the more tongue-tied Bowen with an occasional girlfriend as well. It never troubled the latter that Mansell Price always had first choice.

“Remember that girl from Porth?” asked Price.

“What?” Bowen was jerked out of his reverie again.

“That girl, mun.”

“Which one?”

“From Porth. What was her name again?”

“Catrin.”

“That’s it. Catrin.”

“Catrin Thomas,” said the other bleakly.

“She liked you.”

“Nice girl.”

“How nice?” asked his friend with a grin.

“Nice, Mansell. Easy to be with.”

“But you took her out for weeks.”

“Yes,” said Bowen sadly. “Then I told her about going to America.”

It was one of the many things he had left behind him. The burgeoning friendship with the girl had been scotched instantly when she learned of his plan to emigrate. Bowen winced as he recalled their last meeting. He had grown very fond of Catrin Thomas and she had been drawn to him. The girl had been stunned by the news of his imminent departure. His mumbled promises to send for her once he was settled in America were met with scorn and disbelief. He could still see the pain on her face.

“I bet you wish she was here now,” said Price.

“Who?”

“Catrin. At least
she
wouldn’t play the mouth organ in our cabin.”

“No.”

“Might even enjoy this voyage myself if I had Catrin Thomas on board. I know one thing. She’d be livelier company than you.” He kicked the other shin. “Wake up, mun. You’re still asleep. I need you with your eyes open.”

The reminder sent a mild shudder through Bowen. He felt ill. What he really wanted to do was to get up from the table and go back to the cabin to lie down, but he was afraid to move. Price would not accept sickness as an excuse. There was no way out of the predicament. Bowen would simply have to go through with the plan.

“What’s
wrong
with you?” demanded Price.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine, Mansell,” he muttered.

While his friend ate heartily on, Bowen continued to suffer in silence.

When the festivities were over in the first-class dining saloon, most of the passengers began to gravitate toward the lounge or the smoking room. Genevieve Masefield’s own party began to disintegrate. Harvey Denning and Susan Faulconbridge were partnering each other in a
game of bridge and went off immediately to find their opponents. Donald and Theodora Belfrage adjourned to the lounge for drinks but soon peeled off to have an early night. Genevieve was left alone again with Ruth Constantine.

“Susan was in a peculiar mood this evening,” she observed.

“Peculiar?” said Ruth.

“She was as jolly as ever at the start of the meal but it didn’t seem to last. I had the feeling that she was on edge.”

“In her shoes, you might be the same, Genevieve.”

“What do you mean?”

“Susan was sitting opposite Donald. How would you like to watch the man you love being pampered by his wife? And what a wife!” sighed Ruth. “Theodora is like some little bird, twittering away and flying here, there, and everywhere. Susan must want to throttle the woman. Then, of course, there’s the problem of Harvey.”

“Problem?”

“Will he or won’t he?”

“I got the impression that he—and they—already had.”

“Not on this voyage, Genevieve. I can tell from the look in her eyes. What’s the point of sitting up late in your cabin if your beau forgets to call? Or what’s far worse, if you suspect he’s paying a visit elsewhere.” Ruth lowered her voice. “That’s why Susan gave you those envious glances.”

“I didn’t notice her doing that.”

“You wouldn’t. She’s very discreet about it.”

“Why should Susan be envious of me?”

“Since her bridge partner is not showing interest in her, she’s bound to wonder if he’s transferred his affections to you.”

“Not in the sense you mean,” said Genevieve firmly.

“We know that. Susan doesn’t.”

“I’d hate for her to get the wrong idea.”

Ruth grinned. “I’d do everything I could to encourage it.”

Genevieve had never met anyone so unashamedly candid as Ruth Constantine. In the woman’s honest, fearless, sardonic way, she said things that others only dared to think. It was a little startling at times,
but Genevieve found it refreshing also. She was sorry to hear that Susan was feeling vague pangs of jealousy because of her, and she hoped to find a way to disperse them. Harvey Denning was not the suitor who had courted her at the table. The hand on her thigh had belonged to someone else.

“You don’t like Donald, do you?” she asked.

“Don’t I?”

“I think you despise him for marrying someone like Theodora.”

“Not at all,” said Ruth. “I’m more likely to despise her for having married him without realizing exactly what she was letting herself in for. Theodora’s pillow will be soaked with tears before too long. As for Donald … well, it’s impossible not to like someone who gives me so many opportunities to fire my arrows at him.”

“Why does he put up with it?”

“Because it keeps me around.”

“You mean it’s a price he has to pay?”

“Something like that,” said Ruth, smiling to herself. “The truth is that I fascinate Donald Belfrage. I’m unattainable. I’m the one woman he can’t have at his feet. Susan worships him, Theodora dotes on him, and there are dozens of others who think he’s a Greek god in the shape of an English aristocrat. But I’m not drawn by that combination of money, pomposity, imbecility, and good looks.”

“Don’t you find Donald attractive?”

“Of course,” confessed Ruth. “He has a wonderful body and great stamina, but I doubt that he’d bring any finesse to an intimate moment. Subtlety is not Donald’s forte. He’s more likely to grab a woman as if she’s an oar in a rowing eight. Then,” she added with a roll of the eyes, “there’s his other fatal shortcoming.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve heard him talk.”

Genevieve laughed. “I take your point.”

“Can you imagine what Donald would say to you afterward?”

“I’d rather not, Ruth!”

“Harvey has his drawbacks,” sighed the other, “but at least he’d be relaxed and amusing in those circumstances. He’d know the right
words to say to a woman. But not Donald Belfrage. Oh, heavens! You’d get his views on the British Empire or his memoirs of the Boat Race. He has no lightness of touch.”

“How did you meet him?”

“When he was playing polo down in Sussex. He looks quite splendid astride a polo pony. Let me be honest—I was struck by him. It was only later that I discovered I might have got more intelligent conversation from the pony.”

“Yet he has a degree from Oxford.”

“A fourth in Greats. He barely scraped through.”

“I got the idea that he’d had a dazzling university career.”

“Oh, yes,” said Ruth. “Donald likes to dazzle.”

Genevieve felt much better about the incident at the dinner table. In cutting Donald Belfrage down to size, Ruth had made him seem less threatening. The hand on the thigh was no longer a menacing prelude; it should be dismissed as an improper gesture and quietly forgotten. She was grateful that Susan Faulconbridge had not been aware of what was going on beneath the table or her jealousy would have been fueled even more. Theodora Belfrage, she suspected, would have been far more than jealous. The maiden voyage was like an extended honeymoon to her. It saddened Genevieve that the woman’s husband was already taking a first look outside the marriage.

“Whom would you choose, Genevieve?”

“Choose?”

“Yes,” said Ruth with cool directness. “You’ve been on the ship long enough to take stock of the possibilities. I’m sure you have the good sense to ignore both Donald and Harvey. So which man would you pick?”

“Do I have to pick any?”

“Not in reality. I’d just be interested in your taste.”

“Well, it’s difficult to make a decision,” said Genevieve, gazing around. “There’s something about a man in uniform that always impresses me. In the dining saloon, I might even have selected Captain Pritchard.”

“What about Mr. Delaney?”

“He wasn’t in uniform, Ruth.”

“Oh, yes he was. You didn’t recognize it, that’s all.”

“Tell me more.”

“In a moment,” said Ruth, nudging her. “We have company.”

Genevieve tensed slightly when she saw Patrick Skelton walking toward them. He was on his way to the exit and had to first pass them. There was a quiet determination in his manner as he paused beside them to exchange pleasantries.

“Have you enjoyed the evening, ladies?” he inquired.

“Very much,” said Ruth.

“And you, Miss Masefield?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“What about you, Mr. Skelton?” asked Ruth. “You’re not a good sailor, I hear.”

“I prefer solid ground beneath my feet.”

“Don’t we all?”

He switched his gaze to Genevieve. “I like to know where I stand,” he said.

“You’ll have to put up with it for a few more days,” she pointed out, “I hope you can find some consolations on the ship.”

“So do I, Miss Masefield.”

“What do accountants do when they want to cheer themselves up?” asked Ruth with a mocking smile. “Count money?”

“Something like that.” He gave a stiff bow. “Good night, ladies.”

They bade him farewell and watched his compact figure move on toward the exit. Skelton had been very polite, yet he left Genevieve feeling uneasy. She recalled those three words on the note that was put under her door and she bit her lip involuntarily. Ruth Constantine sensed her friend’s discomfort.

“I take it that Mr. Skelton is not your ideal man, Genevieve?”

“No,” said the other with feeling. “Now, tell me about Mr. Delaney’s uniform.”

Dillman kept on the move. The search for Max Hirsch had been abandoned for the day, but he was still involved in his own personal hunt, walking down passageways, opening storerooms, investigating the laundry area, peeping into larders, looking into cabins that were not
being used on the voyage, wandering into the hairdressing salon, and racking his brains to think of anywhere else a missing man might be. When he made his way to the purser’s office, he found Maurice Buxton lighting up his pipe.

“You don’t smoke, Mr. Dillman, do you?” the purser asked.

“No, Mr. Buxton, and I never have.”

“I can recommend a pipe. Very soothing.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“The funny thing is that I smoke it only aboard ship. When I’m ashore, my garden is my consolation. An hour or two out there does wonders for my frayed nerves. Once we set sail again, however,” he said, raising his pipe, “I reach for my tobacco.”

“Are your nerves feeling that frayed?” asked Dillman.

“Yes, it’s been a long day. Not without its triumphs, mark you. But it’s still left me feeling in need of a restorative pipe. What about you? Resting on your laurels?”

“There’s no time for that, Mr. Buxton.”

“But you recovered that stolen property. You’ve earned a break.”

“I can’t take one while Max Hirsch is still missing. I want to know what happened to him. In any case,” he added, “Genevieve Masefield deserves as many plaudits as I do. Her interview with Mrs. Cameron was the turning point.”

“How is the lady?”

“Grief-stricken.”

“I can imagine.”

“Mrs. Cameron won’t even leave her cabin.”

“Was she that involved with Hirsch?”

“No doubt about it.”

“What would have happened if he’d still been around?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Buxton,” said Dillman. “The chances are that Hirsch would have enjoyed his little romance until we reached New York, then dropped the poor woman like a stone. Either way, she was heading for disillusion.”