Murder on the Mauretania (23 page)

“Perhaps it’s better that it came sooner rather than later.”

“Hardly.”

“Why do you say that?”

“In spite of everything, Mrs. Cameron still cares for him. Deep in her heart, she believes that Hirsch is being maligned and that he could explain everything if only he were here. Yet he’s disappeared. That’s causing her more distress than the thought that he might have misled her.”

“The cunning devil
used
her. Can’t she see that?”

“It’ll take time for her to get it all into perspective.”

“Meanwhile,” said the purser, brightening, “the good news I have to report is that there’s been no bad news to report.”

“No more thefts?”

“Lose a thief and you lose his crime dossier.”

“There are still two victims to be appeased, Mr. Buxton,” said Dillman. “The items taken from first class were—if my guess is right—hidden in that briefcase, and that’s gone missing as well. I know that he had it with him. Mr. Rosenwald actually saw Hirsch sneaking into the first-class section on Monday afternoon.”

“What about the third-class galley?”

“Not much chance of solid silver being down there.”

“Those tools were stolen, Mr. Dillman. Let’s not forget them. What would Hirsch want with crowbars, a chisel, and a lump hammer?”

“We don’t know that he took them.”

“Somebody did. Where are they?”

“If we search hard enough, they’ll turn up.”

“I hope so,” said Buxton, exhaling smoke. “We don’t want another thief aboard. By the way, a word of warning. Somebody’s on to us.”

“What do you mean?”

“That busy little American journalist, Mrs. Littlejohn, has been hounding me. She’s spotted our men searching the vessel and wants to know what we’re after. I made no comment, naturally, but that only made her more inquisitive.”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “Mrs. Littlejohn is indefatigable.”

“Watch out for her. It was bad enough when she was trying to stir up the crew to mutiny, a real female Fletcher Christian. She seems to think that the Cunard Line is the twentieth century equivalent of Captain Bligh. Mrs. Littlejohn has been scouring the ship for underpaid malcontents. She’s looking for a nonexistent scandal to expose. Let her
carry on,” he said wearily, “as long as she doesn’t discover what’s really been happening aboard.”

“The lady is very well intentioned, Mr. Buxton.”

“They’re always the worst kind.”

“She has the curiosity of a cat.”

“Don’t mention cats!” wailed the other with mock horror. “That’s another name on the Missing Persons’ list. Bobo, the ship’s mascot. It’s incredible. Since we set sail from Queenstown, we’ve somehow lost a passenger, an eyeglass case, a set of cutlery, a collection of tools, a trolley, since returned, several windows on the promenade deck, and a large black cat. What’s next in line?”

“Wait and see.”

“I daren’t look.”

“Then I’ll leave you to enjoy your pipe. Oh,” he said, checking himself, “I need to ask you a favor first. Where might I find an attractive young stewardess?”

Buxton was surprised. “Are you that desperate, Mr. Dillman?”

“Of course not.”

“The duties of a stewardess extend only so far, you know.”

“I understand that, Mr. Buxton. It’s not a personal request.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” said the other, grinning.

“I need a stewardess to perform a very special service for a jaded passenger. Somehow, I feel that the lady would appreciate it.”

“What lady?”

“A hungry one.”

Agnes Cameron spent the whole day in her cabin, regretting her decision to book a passage on the
Mauretania
. Setting out on a journey in memory of her husband, she had found herself embroiled in a situation that would have appalled him. She had been foolish, impulsive, and unguarded. What shocked her most was that she had not behaved like the respectable, middle-aged woman she took herself to be. Max Hirsch had unlocked something in her that she had not even known was there, and it was, in retrospect, quite frightening. Mrs. Cameron had been duped. She had to accept that, even though it was difficult to believe that a man who had been so tender could also be so devious.
Yet she still had a vestigial fondness for him. Whatever he had done to her, she did not wish him to come to any harm. While agonizing about her own problems, she still found a moment to worry about Hirsch and to speculate anxiously about his whereabouts.

When the tap came on her door, she sat up with a cry of surprise, wondering at first if Hirsch had come back to her. How should she react? With pleasure or disgust? Was it conceivable that he might not, after all, be the villain that she imagined?

A second tap brought her to her feet, but she could move no farther.

“Mrs. Cameron?” said a female voice. “Are you in there?”

“Who is it?” she asked.

“A stewardess, madam. I have something for you.”

“Wait a moment.”

Mrs. Cameron looked in the mirror while she tidied her hair, then straightened her dressing gown. Wondering what her visitor had brought, she crossed to the door and opened it a few inches. A pert young stewardess was standing there with a tray of food covered by a linen cloth. The visitor gave her a kind smile.

“With the compliments of Mr. Dillman,” she said.

“Mr. Dillman?”

“He thought you might be hungry.”

“Oh … well, yes.”

“Would you open the door a little wider, please?”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Cameron opened the door and stepped back so the stewardess could bring the tray into the cabin and set it on the table. Mrs. Cameron was touched. As the stewardess was leaving, she called after her.

“Thank Mr. Dillman for me, will you?”

The pleasures of discovering his new kingdom were starting to wane after twenty-four hours. Bobo was both lonely and famished. Several circuits of the cargo hold had shown him that he would get neither company nor food down there. He yearned for release. Most of the time was spent sleeping near the door, through which he first came, but one ear was always cocked for the approach of any rescuers. Eventually his patience was rewarded. He heard footsteps coming and
dropped at once to the floor. Something was inserted into the keyhole. There was a scraping sound as the blade of a knife tried to coax the lock into obedience. After some delay, there was a click that made the cat tense himself in readiness. He did not linger for any introductions. When the door swung open, he sped through it as if his tail were on fire.

Glyn Bowen gave a yelp as the animal brushed past his leg again. “There!” he said. “I told you it was a cat.”

“A black cat,” noted Price, recovering from his own surprise. “You know what that means, Glyn. It’s a sign of good luck.”

“But it was running away from us.”

“So?”

“Doesn’t that mean the opposite?”

“No,” said the other, bending down to grope behind the box. “Of course not.”

“I don’t like it, Mansell. That cat was a warning.”

Price gathered up the bundle of tools and handed them over to his friend. “Carry these,” he ordered, “and stop worrying.”

“I’m bound to worry. Look, I’m shivering.”

“Get a grip on yourself.”

“I’m scared of what might happen, Mansell.”

Price was grinning with sheer excitement. He gave Bowen an encouraging push. “Trust me,” he said. “Nothing can possibly go wrong.”

The population of the first-class lounge was steadily thinning as people drifted off to bed or to private parties in their cabins. Genevieve had been so absorbed in her conversation with Ruth Constantine that she did not notice the passage of time. It was only when she glanced around that she saw how few people were still left.

“Heavens!” she said. “We’re almost the last ones here.”

“Not quite, Genevieve. The urbane Mr. Delaney is still over there in the corner with his friends, and I think there’s another group behind those potted palms.”

Genevieve surveyed the room. Orvill Delaney was reclining in a chair, talking to two elderly men and their wives. He seemed almost youthful in their company. Though she could not see the people who
were screened by the potted palms, she could hear Katherine Wymark’s voice as she held court among an admiring circle. The one member of the group who was visible was Edgar Fenby, holding a pose in his chair and looking as relaxed as a dummy in a menswear department.

“I must let you get to bed, Genevieve,” said Ruth.

“But I’m not tired.”

“I am. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

“I’d like that. And thank you, Ruth.”

“For what?”

“Giving me a few insights.”

“Fair exchange,” said the other. “You provided me with a few of your own.”

As they were rising from their chairs, they heard a succession of farewells from behind the potted palms. Katherine Wymark then swept into view on her husband’s arm. They were a striking couple. She had chosen an evening gown of white satin with elaborate patterns sewn into it with gold thread. Her diamond necklace and earrings shimmered as she glided across the lounge. Walter Wymark was mocked rather than flattered by his apparel, but that did not concern him. He looked smug and happy as he escorted his wife along. Genevieve waited to introduce Ruth to them.

“I believe I saw you at the captain’s table yesterday,” said Ruth.

“That’s right,” said Wymark easily. “It was an honor.”

“Captain Pritchard is such a darling man,” added Katherine. “It’s so reassuring to have someone of his vast experience at the helm.”

“Especially during that terrible storm,” said Genevieve. “Let’s hope there’s calmer weather ahead. We haven’t been out on deck all day.”

“Nor have we, Miss Masefield. But then, there’s so much to do indoors.”

“Yes,” agreed Wymark. “It’s a swell boat, honey.”

“Ship, Walter,” she corrected gently. “Remember what the captain told us. The
Mauretania
is a ship and we refer to her as ‘she.’ I’m not quite sure why, though. Do you know, Miss Constantine?” she asked, turning to Ruth. “Why should an enormous ship like this be designated a female?”

“Because she’ll spend her entire life carrying men around,” suggested Ruth.

Genevieve laughed at the rejoinder, but Wymark merely scowled.

“I never thought of that,” said Katherine with a studied smile. “You’re a perceptive woman, Miss Constantine. We must stick together. There aren’t many of us about.”

“Time to go, honey,” said Wymark.

“There’s no hurry, Walter,” she replied before looking across at Genevieve. “My husband is always trying to move me along. Like a tugboat pulling an ocean liner. Or are tugboats female as well?”

“You’ll have to ask the captain, Mrs. Wymark.”

“But I had the feeling that you were a veteran sailor.”

“No, I’m still a relative novice,” said Genevieve.

“Katherine,” murmured her husband.

“Yes, yes,” she said, squeezing his arm, “I’ll be there in a moment. Have
you
ever been married, Miss Constantine?”

“I can’t remember,” said Ruth lazily. “If I have been, it wasn’t a success.”

“Perhaps you didn’t work hard enough at it.”

“She’s teasing you, honey,” warned Wymark.

“I can see that, Walter. I like a woman with a sense of humor.”

“I prefer mine plain and simple.”

“Then you shouldn’t have chosen me.”

“But I had the feeling that you chose your husband,” said Ruth.

Wymark scowled again, but Katherine gave a serene smile. She raised a hand in farewell as they moved off to the door. Genevieve watched them go.

“I take back what I said about Donald,” commented Ruth. “Compared to someone like Walter Wymark, our Mr. Belfrage looks like a perfect husband.”

“Not for a woman like that, I suspect,” said Genevieve.

“Oh, no!”

“He’s not used to that degree of potency in a wife.”

“Mrs. Wymark would terrify him.”

“I fancy that her husband would terrify me,” admitted Genevieve, suppressing a yawn. “Oh, dear. I’m more tired than I thought.”

“Being among so many inferior men is very taxing.”

They strolled to the door, chatted for a few minutes, then went their separate ways. Since Ruth’s cabin was on the deck below, she descended the stairs, but Genevieve merely had to walk along a couple of passageways on the boat deck. Nevertheless, she hesitated, worried that she might return to her cabin to find another note waiting for her. What she really feared was being intercepted before she even got there. It was not fear of attack; she was certain that would not happen. It was fear of being the target for someone else’s emotional needs, fear of somehow being taken for granted by a man. When she was with Ruth, she was safe, but she was on her own now. She realized how much she missed Dillman at that moment.

Gritting her teeth, she set off briskly along the passageway. She had gone only a dozen yards when she had the feeling that she was being followed. Not daring to look back, she maintained her pace, came to a junction and turned to the right. Then she darted into an alcove, pressing herself against the wall so she was out of sight. She heard heavy footsteps reach the junction and she braced herself, but they did not attempt to follow her. Instead, the man turned to the left and walked off. Genevieve emerged from her hiding place and looked to see who it was. Alarmed that Patrick Skelton might be in pursuit of her, she was astonished to see instead that the man was Edgar Fenby, moving furtively along the passageway as he checked the numbers on the cabin doors.

It was late when he made his way to the third-class kitchens, and most of the staff had already retired to their quarters. All that remained were a few people washing the last of the dinner plates and a lackluster youth mopping the floor as if it were a punishment rather than a duty. Dillman introduced himself and took the youth aside.

“I understand that you had some tools taken,” he said.

“That’s right, sir,” replied the youth, leaning on his mop. “Crowbars and a few others.”

“Where were they kept?”

“In the cupboard with the brooms and mops.”

“And where’s that?”

“Just outside, sir.”

“So someone could rummage in the cupboard without being seen from here?”