Murder on the Minnesota (15 page)

“Am I?”

“I’ve been on voyages before, Mr. Dillman. Unattached young people tend to seek each other out. It’s perfectly natural, after all. And there’s something about oceanic travel that does lend itself to that kind of thing.”

“You’re assuming that I’m unattached.”

“Well, you’re clearly not married.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been sitting next to you for the past three hours,” she said wryly. “Married men behave like Mr. Chang. Or, if their wives are not there, like Mr. Blaine. Did you hear how many times he worked Mrs. Blaine into the conversation?”

“I thought that rather touching.”

“It was. I’m a great champion of happy marriages. I’m the victim of an unhappy one, but I don’t feel at all bitter about the institution itself. I envy people like the Changs and the Blaines.” She put her head to one side as she watched him. “What about you?”

“I envy them as well.”

“Yet you’ve never married.”

“No, Mrs. Brinkley.”

“Then you must have someone in prospect.”

“Not at the moment,” he said. “I’m too fond of my freedom.”

“Freedom can be very lonely at times, Mr. Dillman,” she said quietly. “Even you must feel the need for company now and then. There are some beautiful young ladies on this voyage. Are you going to neglect them?”

“We shall see.”

Their eyes locked for a moment, and Dillman saw something that had not been there before. It was a mixture of curiosity and invitation. He felt he was being challenged. At the same time, there was a hint of vulnerability in her gaze. Fay Brinkley was not making any crude bid for his affection. She was lowering her mask slightly. It was done with great subtlety. Dillman was fascinated. Genevieve had not warned him about this aspect of her friend. He held her gaze.

“I don’t think it was an accident that you sat at this table, was it?”

“No, Mr. Dillman,” she said. “I never do anything by accident.”

It was not the best time for a rehearsal. They had to wait for almost an hour before the room cleared. When they finally started, Maxine Gilpatrick was feeling jaded, and Genevieve Masefield was worried that she would be late for her meeting with Dillman. She had so much to tell him that she was anxious to get away, but the commitment had to be honored. They stumbled their way through a couple of songs before Maxine found her timing. Genevieve, too, improved with practice. Schooled by the vocalist, she learned how to set the pace without forcing it and how to accommodate Maxine’s various idiosyncrasies. Doubts still assailed her. She did not feel equal to the task, but she received no criticism from her partner. Maxine was very supportive. When they achieved a passable version of “Jeanie With the Light Brown Hair,” they decided to break off the rehearsal. It was well past eleven when they parted.

Genevieve was hurrying up the stairs to the promenade deck, eager to get to Dillman. A man appeared at the top with a smile of greeting. Willoughby Kincaid leaned nonchalantly against the wall as she climbed toward him. Genevieve’s heart sank.

“So there you are, Miss Masefield!” he said. “Where have you been hiding?”

“Nowhere.”

“I searched for you all over the place.”

“I was with friends,” she said pointedly.

“Aren’t I included in your circle of friends? We did, after all, meet in England.”

“Did we, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Of course. That party at Lord Wilmshurst’s?”

“Which Lord Wilmshurst would that be?” she asked, confronting him. “The one you think lives in Mayfair, or the one I’m certain has a house in Chelsea?”

He laughed merrily. “You’ve been checking up on me.”

“No, Mr. Kincaid. It’s the other way around, and I object very strongly.”

“What have I done?” he asked, miming innocence.

“You know quite well. I don’t believe you ever met Lord Wilmshurst.”

“Then how do I know his name?”

“My guess is that you got it from Mr. Legge,” she accused. “According to his wife, you met him at the bridge table. Earlier in the day, I shared a table with Mr. and Mrs. Legge, as you well know. You pumped them for information about me.”

“What a suspicious mind you have!”

“I don’t like being spied on, Mr. Kincaid.”

“A little well-meant admiration never hurt any woman.”

“Please don’t bother me anymore.”

He looked shocked. “Have I been bothering you, Miss Masefield?” He put a hand to his heart. “I’m desperately sorry. It won’t happen again, I assure you.” He stood aside. “I won’t hold you up.” He made a gallant gesture. “I bid you good-night.”

“Be honest, Mr. Kincaid. You never set eyes on Lord Wilmshurst, did you?”

“Probably not,” he admitted with a laugh, “though I can’t be sure. I do like to enjoy myself at parties. Faces all start to look the same after a while. But I did elicit a certain amount of gossip out of the Legges, it’s true. I’m not ashamed of that. What else is a fellow to do if he wants an introduction?”

“Behave more honorably.”

“Honor has no part in a romance, Miss Masefield. It gets in the way.”

His laughter was so disarming that Genevieve found it difficult not to smile. She gave him a nod of farewell and moved off. Afraid that he might follow her, she waited when she turned a corner, but there was no pursuit. For that night at least, she had shaken off her incorrigible suitor. When she got to her cabin, she saw no sign of Dillman and feared that he had gone away. As soon as she let herself in, however, he was tapping on the door. He waved away her apologies for lateness and sat in the chair.

“How have you got on?” he asked.

“Better than I expected,” she said, sitting opposite him.

“Did you have a word with your artist?”

“Yes, George.”

“Well?”

“Mr. Seymour-Jones not only volunteered the information that he drew that portrait, he showed me another sketch of Father Slattery.”

Dillman was intrigued to hear what she had gleaned from the artist. The name of Tadu Natsuki provoked especial interest. Genevieve also told him about the comments she had overheard from Gilpatrick at the table and of his meeting with the priest. It was a remark of Maxine Gilpatrick’s that caught Dillman’s attention.

“So he has some of his thugs aboard, does he?”

“Maxine said that her husband would set them on to Mr. Kincaid, if necessary.”

“I’m wondering if one of them has already been in action, Genevieve.”

“Where?”

“In cabin number twenty-five.”

“Do you really think that Gilpatrick would have someone killed because he had an argument with him?”

“It sounds unlikely, perhaps,” he agreed, “but we have to put
his name alongside that of Mr. Natsuki. Both of them crossed swords with Father Slattery. I’m not surprised that Gilpatrick has someone to do his dirty work. It would be helpful to know who it is.”

“I’ll see if I can find out.”

“Check up on Mr. Hayashi while you’re at it.”

“Hayashi?”

Dillman told her about the alleged theft of the jewelry. She was amused to hear that he had turned himself into the deputy purser for the occasion, but she was also alarmed. It showed how keen Gilpatrick was to identify the detectives on the ship. If he realized that she was one of them, she knew that he would be vengeful. Genevieve began to doubt the wisdom of her friendship with Maxine. She was playing a dangerous game. It was the news about Slattery’s diary that jerked her out of her fear.

“Mr. Natsuki’s name was in it?” she said.

“With four exclamation marks.”

“No other comment?”

“None, Genevieve,” he said. “Now that I know about his argument with Natsuki, I suspect the exclamation marks represent a conflict.”

“Was Gilpatrick mentioned in the diary?”

“No, but Father Slattery might not have known his name. If it was a chance encounter on the boat deck, introductions may not have been made. And from what you say, the meeting was nasty, brutish, and short.”

“That was the impression Maxine gave.”

“I need to do more work on that diary,” said Dillman. “I’ll have to interview the people he met since he came aboard—including Mr. Natsuki. The names are all in the diary. You concentrate on Gilpatrick and his wife. How did the rehearsal go?”

“Badly.”

“Why?”

“We were both tired.”

“What did Mrs. Gilpatrick say?”

“That we need more practice than she thought.”

“It could work to our advantage, Genevieve. I know it’s uncomfortable for you, being thrown together with her so much, but she’s the best lead we have.” He rose to his feet. “It’s late. Maybe we should get some sleep.”

“You haven’t told me about Fay Brinkley yet.”

“I was forgetting her.”

“The two of you seemed to be getting on well together.”

“We were,” said Dillman, resuming his seat. “She’s an interesting woman. I suspect that’s what really upset Mrs. Van Bergen. She was the other woman at our table. When the subject of women’s suffrage came up, Mrs. Van Bergen became aggressive. She believes that a woman’s place is in the home, even though she doesn’t seem to do very much in her own. Fay Brinkley cut her to pieces.”

“I can imagine. Fay has progressive views.”

“Mr. Blaine shared them. He and Fay had a real affinity. It was a pity he had to leave the table so abruptly. Heaven knows why he dashed off like that, but it must have been something important.”

“Are you complaining?” she teased. “It left the field clear for you.”

“In a sense. Fay and I certainly had a most intriguing conversation.”

“Intriguing?”

“Yes, Genevieve. I felt as if I was being expertly interrogated.”

“About what?”

“The life and times of George Porter Dillman.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Enough of the truth to satisfy her.”

“Fay is a very shrewd woman.”

“I discovered that.”

“She picks up nuances that most of us never even see. After all, it was Fay who first warned me about David Seymour-Jones. She was horribly right about him.”

“Yes,” said Dillman with a reflective smile. “Mrs. Brinkley does have a nose for the merest possibilities of romance.”

It was almost midnight when he left Genevieve. Instead of returning to his own cabin, Dillman went out on deck to clear his head and to enjoy some solitude. There was nobody about at that time. The night air was chill, but he found it refreshing. A crescent moon shed a dull amber light. Silhouetted against the sky, the massive single funnel belched out smoke as the ship steamed on across the Pacific. Dillman leaned against the rail and stared out across the water. The murder investigation was at the forefront of his mind. Having assimilated all the information he had garnered from Genevieve, however, his thoughts drifted to Fay Brinkley. Their conversation alone had produced a mild frisson that he had been careful not to mention to Genevieve. He wondered why. He did not feel either threatened or tempted by Fay, and took her interest in him as a compliment. He liked her very much. She was not the first older woman to offer him affection, and she would not be the last. But Dillman was impervious to such offers, however discreetly they were made. Since he had met Genevieve Masefield, he had not looked seriously at anyone else. Beside her, even the self-possessed Fay Brinkley was invisible. That made it all the more puzzling that he had deliberately held something back from Genevieve. Was he afraid that she would be disappointed in her friend if he revealed a new side to Fay Brinkley? Or was there another reason?

The wind stiffened and he gave a shiver. It was time to abandon his speculation. Taking a last deep breath of fresh air, he headed for the stairs that would take him down to his own deck. He was still some ways from his cabin when he heard the noise. It seemed to come from a companionway that he had just passed. Dillman stopped to listen. When he heard clear sounds of a scuffle he went to investigate, but he did not get far. No sooner did he reach the companionway than someone
came hurtling swiftly down it in a series of somersaults. Dillman jumped back as the man landed at his feet with a thud.

“Are you all right?” he said solicitously, bending over the man. “What happened?”

The victim groaned. He was stocky young man in a dark suit. Blood was oozing from a wound on the back of his head. Dillman pulled out a handkerchief and used it to stem the flow. He was in a quandary. Needing to help the man, he also wanted to pursue the person who had attacked him. He stared up the companionway.

“Who hit you?”

“Nobody,” said the man, wincing with pain.

“You were involved in a fight.”

“No.”

“I heard the noise.”

“I fell.” The man tried to move and groaned again, clutching his arm.

“Stay here,” said Dillman. “I’ll fetch the doctor.”

“No,” said the man. “Leave me alone.”

“But you were assaulted.”

“I fell down the steps. It was my own fault.”

“Someone hit you on the head. It’s a nasty wound.”

“Leave me alone, I tell you,” grunted the man.

Holding his arm and gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up and swayed unsteadily. When Dillman reached out a hand to help, the man shrugged him away and went blundering off down the corridor. He was in great pain and still partially dazed, but he wanted no assistance. Dillman’s first instinct was to go after him. Then he noticed an object on the floor and picked it up immediately. In the course of his fall, something had dropped out from inside the man’s jacket.

Dillman was holding a revolver.

NINE

D
illman examined the weapon with care. It was loaded. The detective went after the wounded man to question him, but he had already vanished around a corner. Dillman searched for him without success, wondering where he could possibly have gone. He could hardly bang on the door of every cabin in pursuit of him. Abandoning the search, he then went back to the companionway where the scuffle had occurred and climbed to the top. The corridor on the promenade deck was deserted, and there were no indications that a struggle had taken place. Dillman reasoned that it had been short-lived. The fact that nobody had been aroused by the sound showed how quickly the fight had been resolved. When he tumbled down the steps, the noise the man made was partially muffled by the constant hum of the ship’s engines. Dillman speculated on whether or not his presence had brought an end to the assault. Had the attacker simply pushed his victim down the steps, or would he have followed to inflict further damage? Whatever the truth, Dillman was grateful that he was passing when he did.

What mystified him was the victim’s reaction. Anyone else
who was injured in that way would have welcomed help, yet the man had spurned it completely. He had not even admitted that the fight had taken place. Dillman wondered who he was. It was evident from his clothing that he had not dined in the first-class saloon, and Dillman did not recall having seen him on the ship before. Yet he had disappeared so quickly that he must have had a cabin on the upper deck. Dillman looked more closely at the weapon. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 Hand Ejector with a swing-out cylinder that was opened by a thumb-operated catch on the frame. He noted the locking lug under the barrel into which the front end of the ejector rod was engaged, thus securing the cylinder head at both ends. It was a refinement introduced by the manufacturer some years earlier. Dillman had once carried a revolver of that type in the course of his work as an operative for the Pinkerton Agency. It was an effective weapon, and the last thing he would have expected to find on a passenger.

The sound of footsteps down below alerted him. Thrusting the gun into his belt, he descended the steps at speed. Dillman reached the passageway below in time to see a figure walking casually away from him.

“Mr. Blaine?” he called.

He stopped and turned. “Why, Mr. Dillman. What are you doing about so late?”

“I was enjoying a walk on deck.”

“Wasn’t it rather cold out there?”

“A trifle.”

“I lingered rather longer in the smoking room than I intended,” said Blaine with a polite yawn. “I was sorry to desert you and Mrs. Brinkley like that.”

“Not at all. You obviously had an important summons.”

“It was a false alarm, as it happens,” said the other with a bland smile. “I wish I’d stayed to enjoy another brandy. Charming lady, isn’t she?” He gave another smile. “Mrs. Brinkley, I mean.”

“’I didn’t think that you were referring to Mrs. Van Bergen.”

“Poor woman. I hope that she didn’t feel we were ganging up on her.”

“We’ll know tomorrow when she chooses her table.”

Blaine pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Heavens! It
is
tomorrow,” he said, putting the watch away. “I’m far too old to be up this late, Mr. Dillman.”

“We all need our sleep.”

Dillman followed him along the passageway and around the corner. Blaine paused outside the door to his cabin. He turned to look at his companion.

“By the way,” he said, “have you had any more sightings of the gentleman?”

“Which gentleman?”

“The one you thought was watching us.”

“My feeling is that he was keeping an eye on me,” said Dillman. “But I haven’t been aware of him since. He’s either leaving me alone or being more careful.”

“I hope it’s the former. That kind of thing is irritating.”

“I take it that you haven’t been troubled by him, Mr. Blaine?”

“No,” said the other cheerily. “I’ve had a wonderfully untroubled voyage so far. Apart from being ejected from my original cabin, that is. But one takes that kind of thing in one’s stride. Good night, Mr. Dillman. Sleep well.”

Their second session was far more successful. It took place shortly after breakfast. Genevieve played the piano in the rehearsal room used by the orchestra. At Maxine’s suggestion, they concentrated on only a few songs, working hard on each one until they had refined their performance. When they broke off, Maxine was thrilled.

“We’re getting somewhere at last, Jenny,” she said.

“
You
are, Maxine,” replied Genevieve. “You got better and better. I was more or less the same throughout.”

“No, you weren’t. You improved each time.”

“Did I?”

“Of course,” said Maxine, giving her a warm hug. “I’d choose
you as my accompanist any day. Apart from anything else,” she added with a cackle, “you don’t try to pinch my ass like the men who’ve played piano for me.”

Genevieve gathered up the sheets of music. “Look, I hope you don’t mind,” she said uncertainly, “but I agreed to have luncheon with Fay Brinkley today.”

“That’s fine by me, honey.”

“You must be getting fed up with me by now, anyway.”

“Not at all,” said Maxine, “but you mustn’t feel tied to us. Rance was saying only last night how surprised he was that you didn’t spread your wings a little. Give all those single guys aboard a chance.”

“Some of them don’t need encouragement, Maxine.”

“You still having a problem with Mr. Kincaid?”

“Not really. But he did try to waylay me last night.”

“We can soon put a stop to that.”

“I coped.”

“Let me speak to Rance. He’ll deal with it.”

“No, Maxine. I don’t want any violence.”

“There won’t be any,” promised the other. “Rance will get someone to have a quiet word with Mr. Kincaid. That’s all it will take. Tommy is an expert at quiet words.”

“Tommy?”

“Tommy Gault. He works for Rance.”

“Well, I don’t want him involved in this, thank you,” said Genevieve. “I had my own quiet word with Mr. Kincaid and left him in no doubt about my feelings. I don’t think he’ll bother me again.”

“Good. He’ll soon find someone else.”

“Men like him always do.”

“He’s still got that Mrs. Van Bergen eating out of his hand.”

“Who?” asked Genevieve, recalling Dillman’s mention of the name.

“Some fool of a woman who’s been taken in by him,” she explained. “They play bridge together, apparently. In fact, it was Mrs. Van Bergen who told him about our little performance of
‘Beautiful Dreamer.’ That’s how he got our names in the first place. Kincaid is a sly old fox.”

“He certainly knows how to exploit people.”

“Well, he’s not going to exploit you, honey.”

They left the room and walked along the passageway. Genevieve began to fish.

“I didn’t see Mr. Hayashi at our table last night,” she remarked.

“No, he was dining with some Japanese friends.”

“His wife wears the most beautiful clothes. I loved that jewelry in her hair.”

“Hayashi is a rich man and he dotes on his wife.”

“What sort of business is he in?”

“I’m not sure but it clearly pays. Rance has had a lot of dealings with him. We’ll be staying with Hayashi and his wife in Kobe. They’re lovely people. Whenever I ask Rance about Japan, all he can talk about is geishas,” she said with a snort. “What I want is one of those kimonos like Mrs. Hayashi. She’s got half a dozen of them. Pure silk.”

They came to the end of the passageway and stopped. Genevieve pointed.

“My cabin is this way,” she said, “so I’ll leave you here. Thank you, Maxine.”

“For what?”

“Putting up with my mistakes on the piano.”

Maxine grinned. “I didn’t notice any. We’ll have another practice tonight, Jenny. In the meantime, we can have a good rest from each other. Actually,” she said, “it’s a good job you won’t be sitting at our table today.”

“Why?”

“Things could get a little noisy. Joe McDade will be there.”

“Mr. McDade?” said Genevieve with interest. “I’ve met him.”

“Then you know how he can sound off. His poor wife must be deaf with that voice booming in her ear all the time. Anyway, Rance needs to talk business with Joe, so we’ll have to put up with him.”

“I thought that Mr. McDade was involved in copper mining.”

“He’s involved in everything, honey.” Maxine grinned. “Just like Rance.”

Mike Roebuck stared at the revolver in dismay. He looked up at Dillman with a frown.

“Where did you get this, George?”

“One of your passengers dropped it by mistake.”

“We can’t have people carrying weapons aboard the
Minnesota.
It’s against company rules. Somebody could get hurt.”

“Actually, it was the man who owned this who got injured, Mike.”

“How?”

“That’s what I came to tell you.”

Dillman gave him a succinct account of what had happened and Roebuck listened intently. When his friend had finished, the purser had some surprising news for him.

“And this guy vanished, you say?”

“Into thin air.”

“Not exactly, George. I had breakfast with Dr. Ramirez this morning. He was called out just after midnight to treat a wounded man. Whoever pushed him down those steps did a good job,” he said. “The guy had a broken arm and a couple of broken ribs. Quite apart from heavy bruising, that is.”

“What about the head wound?”

“Dr. Ramirez had to put in six stitches.”

“Did the man say how he’d come by the injuries?”

“He reckoned he’d had too much to drink and fallen down the steps, but Ramirez didn’t believe him. There wasn’t the slightest scent of alcohol on his breath. He looked stone-cold sober. Anyway,” he continued, handing the revolver back to Dillman, “I can explain how this guy disappeared before your eyes.”

“Can you?”

“He popped into a cabin. Not far from yours, as it happens.
That’s where the doctor was summoned. Cabin number thirty-seven.”

“Thirty-seven?” Dillman was astonished. “That belongs to Mr. Blaine.”

When the visitors came, Rutherford Blaine was seated in a chair, reading through a document. The knock on his cabin door made him stiffen. He walked slowly over.

“Who is it?” he called.

“The purser, sir,” said Roebuck.

“This is not a convenient moment to call.”

“I can’t help that, Mr. Blaine. I need to speak to you urgently.”

“What about?”

“Last night.”

Blaine hesitated, considered the options, then reluctantly opened the door. Expecting to find the purser alone, he was taken aback to see that Dillman was standing beside him. Roebuck led the way into the cabin and the door was shut behind them.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Dillman?” asked Blaine.

“We’ll come to that in a moment, sir,” said Roebuck. “Is it true that you called the doctor to this cabin last night?”

“Yes. A friend of mine was injured.”

“The name he gave to Dr. Ramirez was Poole. Is that correct?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t it be?”

“I’m just confirming details, Mr. Blaine.”

“Jake Poole’s name is on the passenger list. Check it and see.”

“I already have, sir. Mr. Poole seems to have a cabin on this deck as well. Number forty-eight. It’s around the corner. I wondered why the doctor was summoned here and not there.”

“That’s easy to explain,” said Blaine calmly. “Jake fell down the steps of that companionway nearby. He was badly dazed.
Since my cabin was nearer, he came banging on my door and I took over.”

“Was this before or after you met me?” asked Dillman pointedly. “It couldn’t have been before, could it, Mr. Blaine, because you were in the smoking room until midnight. I must say, I find that odd. You told me that you didn’t smoke.”

Blaine became indignant. “Are you doubting my word?”

“Frankly, I am.”

“Why? Look, what are you doing here in the first place?”

“Hoping that you’ll tell us the truth, Mr. Blaine,” said Dillman coldly. “When I bumped into you last night, you weren’t returning from the smoking room at all. You were in that passageway to search for this.”

Opening his jacket, he produced the revolver and held it out. Blaine gasped.

“Mr. Dillman found it when the injured man fled,” explained Roebuck. “He couldn’t understand why someone with a broken arm and broken ribs refused his offer of help. The very least that Mr. Poole could have done was to ask him to fetch you.”

Running a tongue over his lips, Blaine looked from one man to another.

“I had a feeling that you were not an ordinary passenger, Mr. Dillman,” he said with grudging admiration. “You were rather too observant.”

“I’m employed as a detective on this vessel,” admitted Dillman, “and I’ve seen far too much to be deceived. I suggest that you stop lying to us, Mr. Blaine. We mean to get to the bottom of this matter.”

Blaine nodded. “You will. First, let me ask you an important question.”

“Go on.”

“What’s happened to Father Slattery?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Roebuck, exchanging a glance with Dillman. “I understand that Father Slattery is unwell. That’s why you haven’t seen him about.”

“So he’s still in his cabin?”

“Yes, Mr. Blaine.”

“Has the doctor been to see him?”

“Of course.”

“Now it’s you who’s lying,” accused the other. “There’s nobody in that cabin at all. The bed has been stripped and Father Slattery’s belongings have all been tidied away into the wardrobe. Don’t hide the truth,” he demanded. “He’s been killed, hasn’t he?”

Roebuck paused. “Father Slattery died,” he said eventually.

“He was murdered,” insisted the other. “There’s no other conclusion to be drawn. Jake Poole inspected the cabin last night.” He turned to Dillman. “That note you saw me receive in the dining saloon was from him.” They stared blankly at him. “You don’t understand, do you? It was a dreadful mistake. Father Slattery was not the intended target at all. He wasn’t supposed to be in cabin number twenty-five. I was.”

Dillman thought quickly. He looked down at the gun and remembered the man who had been watching them on their first night. The same man had been lurking in the area of his cabin. The detective was certain that he knew his name now.