Murder on the Mauretania (3 page)

“None at all,” he flattered her.

“I just prefer to be with my own kind.”

“I rest my case,” said Ruth.

She caught Genevieve’s eye and they traded an understanding look.

The lights of Liverpool had now dropped astern as the four monstrous screw propellers churned up the dark waters of the Mersey and sent the vessel onward with gathering speed. Half an hour after departure, a bugle sounded. Susan was startled.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“The signal for dinner,” explained Harvey. “We can adjourn to the dining saloon so that Donald and Theodora can patronize all those Americans.” He rode over their spluttered protests with a grin. “As for the safety of the ship, you omitted the strongest argument of all, one that even Samuel Johnson would have to accept.”

“We’re not back to him, are we?”

“No, Susan.”

“Then what’s this strongest argument?”

“The
Mauretania
has the most valuable cargo ever to leave the British shore.”

“Is he trying to pay us a compliment?” asked Theodora suspiciously.

“No,” he returned gallantly. “But then, anyone as gorgeous as you are will fly through life on a magic carpet of compliments. What you’re all forgetting is the money famine in New York. This ship is carrying almost three million pounds in gold bullion to relieve the financial crisis across the water. Bankers are the most cautious people in the world,” he pointed out. “Do you think they’d risk putting all that wealth aboard a ship if they were not absolutely certain that it would reach its destination? It’s something to reflect upon while we dine this evening. We’re not simply traveling with precious friends beside us,” he said, waving an arm to include them all, “we’re sailing with a veritable fortune. Britannia is ruling the waves with a gold-bullion smile.”

THREE

G
eorge Porter Dillman was called into action that very evening. After sharing a table with the Jarvis family in the second-class dining saloon, he hovered near the door for a few minutes, chatting to a steward while keeping one eye on a man in the far corner whose behavior had aroused his suspicion.

“Splendid meal!” said Dillman with evident sincerity.

“Thank you, sir,” replied the steward.

“My compliments to the chef.”

“I’ll pass them on.”

“What’s on the menu for breakfast?”

“You’re a man who likes his food, sir, I can see that.”

“One of the pleasures of traveling on the Cunard Line.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

While the steward listed the items on the breakfast menu for the following day, Dillman changed his position slightly so that he could get a better view of the dinner guest in the corner. The man had waited until everyone else had vacated his table, then shifted surreptitiously from his own seat to the next one so that his back faced into the saloon and obscured the movements of his hands. Dillman had no idea of what he was about to steal, but he saw the swift grab and knew that
something had been snatched with professional ease. Draining his glass of whiskey, the man rose to his feet, glanced around, then strode casually underneath the lofty dome in the center of the room and toward the exit. Short, stubby, and smartly dressed, he looked more like a successful realtor than a thief. His bald head glistened under the light of the crystal chandeliers. When he passed Dillman and the steward, he gave them a token smile of farewell before going out.

After waiting for a few moments, Dillman excused himself in order to follow the man. The second-class dining saloon was on the upper deck and opened off the grand staircase. It could accommodate two hundred and fifty people at its refectory-style tables, but only one of the diners interested Dillman at that juncture. Instead of joining the other second-class passengers in the lounge, the drawing room or the smoking room, the man headed for his cabin, sauntering along with a law-abiding gait, quite unaware of the fact that he was being trailed at a discreet distance. Dillman waited until the man reached his door before he moved in.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, closing in briskly, “but I believe you may inadvertently have taken something from the dining saloon that doesn’t belong to you.”

The man stiffened. “You’re crazy!” he retorted.

“I watched you put it in your pocket, sir.”

“Then you need your eyes tested, mister.”

He glared at Dillman with controlled belligerence, as if deeply offended by the charge. His accent had Brooklyn overtones. Dillman remained deliberately polite.

“Would you have any objection to emptying your pockets, sir?”

“You bet I would!”

“Then we’ll have to discuss the whole matter with the purser.”

“Whatever for?”

“He doesn’t approve of theft.”

“And I don’t approve of being accused of something I haven’t done!” said the other, flaring up. “Can’t a man enjoy a meal without having someone spy on him? Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I work for the Cunard Line, sir.”

“Well, I’m a passenger, buddy. That means I help to pay your wages, indirectly. It also means you’re supposed to be nice to me. Got it?”

“In the circumstances, I’m being extremely nice,” said Dillman, letting his voice and eyes harden slightly. “The Cunard Line has certain idiosyncrasies, I’m afraid. One of them is that it doesn’t condone the loss of its property. If you’d care to come with me to the purser, I’m sure that he’ll explain the rules to you in full.”

“Listen here, wise guy!”

Squaring up to Dillman, he seemed to be on the point of striking him, but he quickly repented of his hasty action. Dillman did not flinch. Not only was the detective much younger and taller, he looked as if he knew how to handle himself in a fight. The man changed his tack at once, shrugging off his anger and extending apologetic palms.

“Look, there’s been a misunderstanding here,” he soothed.

“Has there, sir?”

“Okay. I’ll come clean. I’m no kleptomaniac. You did see me take something off the table,” he admitted, slipping a hand inside his coat, “but it was only this.” The menu was waved under Dillman’s nose. “What’s more, the steward told me I could have it as a souvenir, so I guess he’s an accessory before the crime. Satisfied now?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“You going to march me off to the purser because I take a lousy menu? Here,” he said, thrusting it at him. “Have it back.”

“It’s the other item I’m after,” persisted Dillman. “The one that the steward didn’t give you permission to steal. Let’s do this properly, shall we? Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell me your name, sir.”

“Mind your goddam business!”

“It won’t be difficult to find it out. I know your cabin. All I have to do is check the passenger list. Now, why don’t you start cooperating, Mr.—?”

Dillman’s composure was slowly unnerving the man. He eventually capitulated. “Hirsch,” he grunted sourly. “Max Hirsch.”

“How do you do, Mr. Hirsch? My name is George Dillman.”

“I have another name for you.”

Three elderly passengers came along the corridor and walked past.
Hirsch looked embarrassed. It was time to move the interrogation to a more private venue.

“Could I suggest that we step inside your cabin?” said Dillman.

“Why?” challenged the other with vestigial defiance.

“It’s either here or in the purser’s quarters. Your choice, Mr. Hirsch.”

Cursing under his breath, Hirsch unlocked the door of his cabin and led the way in. Dillman shut the door behind him and glanced around appreciatively.

“Almost identical to my own,” he commented. “Second-class cabins on the Cunard Line are now as good as first-class accommodation on earlier vessels.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You sound like a seasoned traveler, Mr. Hirsch.”

“Not really.”

“How many times have you crossed the Atlantic?”

“Enough,” said the other. “And if this is the kind of treatment I get from Cunard, I sure won’t be booking my passage on one of its liners again.”

“Unless we can sort out this matter amicably,” warned Dillman, “you may not be allowed on board a Cunard ship again. Why not cut the shadow boxing? We both know that you took something off that table. I want to see what it is.”

Max Hirsch studied him with a mixture of exasperation and respect. Dillman was a handsome man with a hint of a dandy about him, but the broad shoulders and lithe movements indicated someone who kept himself in prime physical condition. There was a quiet intelligence about him, and his eyesight was evidently keen. Hirsch’s only hope lay in trying to talk himself out of his predicament. Holding out both arms, he let them flap to the sides of his thighs.

“They put the right man on the job, Mr. Dillman,” he complimented.

“Thanks.”

“Trouble is, you picked the wrong culprit. That’s to say, I’m no light-fingered thief. I did what a lot of guys might’ve done in my position and acted on impulse.”

“And what did this impulse lead you to take, Mr. Hirsch?”

“These.”

Putting a hand in his trouser pocket, he extracted a silver saltcellar and a pepper pot. Dillman took them from him and wrapped them carefully in a handkerchief.

“You forgot the vinegar, Mr. Hirsch.”

“If I’d stashed that in my pocket, the stopper would’ve come out and I’d have ended up looking as if I’d pissed in my pants. That’s it, Mr. Dillman. On the level.” He spread his arms. “Frisk me if you don’t believe me.”

“No need. I’ve got what I want. Apart from an explanation, that is.”

Max Hirsch let out a world-weary sigh and flopped into a chair. “Where do I start?” he wondered, scratching his head. “Do you want the full story, or will you settle for the shorter version?”

“The shorter one, please.”

“Then the truth is that I felt Cunard owed me a silver cruet. At the very least.”

“Why?”

“Because they managed to lose some of my baggage on the voyage from New York. God knows how. I mean, they load the stuff into the hold and they take it out again at the other end. How could it possibly go astray?”

“Pilfering is not unknown,” said Dillman impassively. “Besides, I can’t believe that you didn’t insure the baggage against loss or breakage. The rates are very low.”

“Yeah. Everything was insured. But it takes an age for the dough to come through. In any case, some of the things they lost were irreplaceable. They had sentimental value. Rachel will be real upset.”

“Rachel?”

“My wife,” he said, heaving another sigh. “She bought several of those things for me. I’m not looking forward to breaking the news to her, I can tell you. Rachel was to have made the trip with me, see, but she came down with an attack of shingles. I offered to cancel the whole vacation, of course, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’s that kind of woman, wanted me to have the experience for both of us.” He grimaced. “All the experience has amounted to so far is suffering a rough
crossing on the
Saxonia
, losing some of my baggage, staying in a rotten hotel in London, missing my wife like hell, and getting hassled by you. Some vacation!”

“You said earlier that you acted on impulse.”

“Yeah, I did. And it wasn’t only an impulse of revenge. Love came into it as well. Rachel begged me to bring her back a souvenir from the
Mauretania
.” Sadness came into his eyes. “I couldn’t help myself, Mr. Dillman. I promised her. My wife has a thing about silver, see.”

“So does the Cunard Line. It likes to keep its supply intact.”

“It’s not going to miss a saltcellar and a pepper pot.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to take them.”

“No, it doesn’t,” confessed the other, “and I’m ashamed of what I did. It was a dumb thing to do. I’ll happily pay for them.” He produced a wallet and flipped it open. “How much do you reckon they’re worth, Mr. Dillman?”

“They’re not for sale, sir,” said Dillman pointedly. “Neither am I.”

“That wasn’t a bribe I was offering you, I swear it. What kind of man do you take me for?” He put his wallet away. “Look, let’s be realistic here. I grabbed those things and I’ve told you why. Human nature being what it is, they won’t be the only souvenirs that get snatched aboard this ship. So what do you say, Mr. Dillman?” he asked, adopting a jocular tone. “It’s hardly the crime of the century, is it? What are you going to do with me—lock me up in the brig?” He offered his wrists. “Come on. Cuff me if you have to. I’ll go quietly.”

Dillman needed a full minute to reach his decision. He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Hirsch.”

“So what happens? A diet of bread and water from now on?”

“No, sir,” said Dillman pleasantly. “You can continue to use the facilities that other second-class passengers enjoy. Now that you’ve explained it to me, I can see how it must have happened and I’m certain it was an isolated incident.”

“You can count on that.”

“Then I suggest we forget the whole thing.”

Hirsch brightened. “You won’t report this to the purser?”

“Not this time.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dillman. You’re a pal.”

“No, sir,” said Dillman coolly. “This has nothing to do with friendship. I’m hired to keep a lookout for genuine thieves, and I don’t believe you fall into that category.”

“Hell, no!” exclaimed the other. “If I were a pro, I wouldn’t be trying to sneak off with a saltcellar and a pepper pot. Why settle for a pocketful of silver when there’s almost three million in gold bullion aboard?
That’s
what I’d be after, I tell you.”

“Fair comment, Mr. Hirsch.”

“Say, while you’re here, can I offer you a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“Sure? I always keep a bottle handy.”

“Another time perhaps,” said Dillman, opening the door. “I have to return these items to the dining saloon before anyone misses them. Good night, Mr. Hirsch. I’m glad we were able to sort this out.”

“So am I.”

“Confession is good for the soul.”

“Sweet dreams!”

Dillman stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind him. As he headed back to the dining saloon, he gave a wry smile. Max Hirsch was too plausible to be true. Dillman did not believe a word of his explanation and doubted if the man even had a wife, let alone one called Rachel, conveniently afflicted by shingles. When he first spotted Hirsch during the meal, Dillman saw him paying court to a middle-aged woman beside him in a blue-satin dress. Judging by the way she had lapped up his flattery, she had taken Max Hirsch at face value. It was a mistake that Dillman would never make.

Their paths would definitely cross again; Hirsch was no first-time offender who had learned his lesson. What gave him away was the fact that he’d recognized the detective for what he was without even asking to be shown credentials. He would soon be prowling after fresh spoils. Having caught him red-handed, Dillman had released him so the man would think he had gotten away with the crime. Hirsch would be emboldened to strike again. Dillman would be ready for him, eager to arrest the man for something more serious than the theft of a saltcellar and a pepper pot.

All he had to do was to bide his time.

_____

Harvey Denning inhaled the smoke from his cigarette, then blew it slowly out again. “Why have you never married?” he asked softly.

“I might ask you the same question,” replied Genevieve.

“There’s an easy answer to that. I’m simply not the marrying kind.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What it says. I enjoy the chase but have no wish to chain myself to the quarry for the rest of my life. I thrive on risk and novelty.”

“I gathered that.”

“Also,” he continued smoothly, “I happen to think that connubial bliss is a myth. Show me a marriage that doesn’t start to creak and groan very early on. A wedding ring may give you a momentary feeling of possession, but it’s no guarantee of happiness.”

“Donald and Theodora seem happy enough.”

“A temporary illusion.”

“They’re besotted with each other, Harvey.”