Murder on the Minnesota (17 page)

“Where did you grow up?”

“In Nebraska.”

“Is that where you met Mr. McDade?”

“No, that was in Chicago,” she said with a rueful smile. “We were attending the wedding of a mutual friend. I’m Joe’s second wife, you know,” she explained. “We’ve only been together for ten years.”

Genevieve was surprised. “You seem to have been together for longer than that.”

“I know. It feels like an eternity sometimes.”

“Is your husband a reader?”

“He never has time, Miss Masefield. The only thing that Joe ever reads is the financial pages in the newspapers. He’s a businessman. He always will be. I accepted that when we married. But he’s a good husband,” she said loyally. “I want for nothing.”

“Except his company, I should imagine.”

“Joe is a busy man. Besides, I do like to be on my own sometimes.”

“Are you enjoying the voyage?”

“Oh, yes,” said Blanche, taking down a book to examine it. “It’s much more comfortable than I thought it would be. And we’ve met such interesting people.”

“That’s the beauty of traveling by sea. You have time to develop friendships.” Selecting a book of her own, Genevieve flicked through it. “I understand that you know Mr. Gilpatrick,” she said casually.

“Joe does. I’ve never met him before.”

“He’s a fascinating man. I was lucky enough to be at Mr. Gilpatrick’s table last night. I’ve never met anyone who’s done so much and been so far.”

“That’s what Joe says about him.”

“Are they business acquaintances?”

“Oh, yes,” said Blanche sadly. “My husband doesn’t have any other kind.”

“What about you, Mrs. McDade?”

“I have my books.” She replaced one volume and took out another. “You must have met Mrs. Gilpatrick, then.”

“Yes,” said Genevieve, “she’s a delightful woman.”

“Joe says I must be nice to her. He needs to talk business with Mr. Gilpatrick after lunch, so he wants me to keep Mrs. Gilpatrick occupied. I’m not very good at that sort of thing, Miss Masefield,” she said shyly. “I’m sure that you noticed.”

“You’ll have no problems with Maxine Gilpatrick.”

“Joe said that she used to sing professionally.”

“That’s right.”

“I wish that I could have done something like that,” said Blanche wistfully, “but I was brought up in a strict household. My father wouldn’t let any of us develop our interests. The only singing I was allowed to do was in church.”

Genevieve exchanged her book for another. “What sort of business does your husband do with Mr. Gilpatrick?” she asked, reading the title page.

“They export things together.”

“Copper?”

“Oh, no. Something quite different. Joe never talks about it to me, but I think it’s to do with those catalogs of his.”

“Catalogs?”

“Yes, he brought them with him to show to Mr. Gilpatrick.”

“Do you know what’s in the catalogs?”

“I haven’t a clue, Miss Masefield. To be honest, I daren’t look.”

Annoyed with himself and in continual pain, Jake Poole was propped up on his bunk. His right arm was in a splint and supported by a sling. Heavy strapping had been put around his ribs. Dark bruises showed on his face and hands. Dillman was sympathetic.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked.

“Frustrated, Mr. Dillman. I want to be out there after that bastard.”

“Not while you’re in that state.”

“He caught me when I wasn’t looking.”

“You’re young and fit,” Dillman pointed out. “If Mr. Blaine had been clubbed over the head and pushed down those stairs, he might not be here to tell the tale.”

“That’s the one consolation. I protected Mr. Blaine.”

“Any idea who the man was?”

“None at all,” said Poole. “He came out of the blue.”

“Were you expecting an attack?”

“Not at the start, Mr. Dillman. I thought this would be a routine mission. It’s not the first time I’ve kept an eye on Mr. Blaine when he’s visited Japan. In the past, we had no problems at all.”

“Why was that?”

“Because nobody knew who we were and why we were traveling.”

“How did they find out this time?” said Dillman.

Poole was vengeful. “I wish I knew!”

The talk with the bodyguard was revealing. Though he knew no details of the discussions that were to take place, he gave Dillman a clear indication of Blaine’s importance in diplomatic circles. For some years, Blaine had had ambassadorial duties. Close to the president, he was tried and trusted. Poole also stressed what an easy man he was to work beside. The two of them had been all over the Orient together.

“Why didn’t you take advantage of onboard security?” asked Dillman. “If we’d known who Mr. Blaine was, we could have arranged additional protection.”

“It’s never been needed before,” said Poole. “Besides, we were anxious not to draw attention to ourselves. The point about secret missions is that they’re supposed to be secret. We assumed that this one was.”

“Until you had suspicions about Father Slattery.”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman. It was so strange for him to disappear like that. And he was occupying the cabin that was originally
assigned to Mr. Blaine. That worried us,” he admitted. “When he didn’t appear for dinner, I broke into the cabin to see for myself. It was then that I knew we had a real problem.”

“Why not go straight to the purser?”

“I thought I could take care of it myself.”

“Well, you couldn’t,” said Dillman reasonably. “If you’d been a little less secret and a little more sensible, none of this would have happened.”

Poole was defiant. “I know my job, Mr. Dillman.”

“There are times when even the best of us need help. You shouldn’t have pushed me away like that last night. I might have saved you a lot of pain.”

“I didn’t want you to find out what I was doing onboard.”

“Well, I know now, Mr. Poole. That’s why I’ve come here. I need your advice.”

“Have you protected anyone before?”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “When I was with the Pinkerton Agency. I was hired to protect someone who shut the workers out of his factory. It got pretty hectic at times. I can’t say that it was a job that I enjoyed.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t take to the man I was supposed to protect, and my sympathies were very much with his employees. Still,” he said resignedly, “I wasn’t paid to take sides. I kept him out of trouble and that was that. But this situation is rather different.”

“It is, Mr. Dillman. There’s no place you can hide on a ship.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Jake Poole’s physical injuries had not affected his brain. His advice was clear, practical, and based on experience. Eager to learn, Dillman paid close attention. Most of his own work had been investigative. It was intriguing to listen to a specialist like Poole.

“You’re the first guy that spotted me,” confessed the bodyguard.

“Only out of the corner of my eye.”

“That never happens as a rule. I pride myself on being a
good shadow. Most of the time, Mr. Blaine doesn’t even know that I’m there.”

“Someone did, Mr. Poole.”

“Yes,” said the other, wincing as a spasm of pain shot through him. “If they knew that Mr. Blaine was on the ship, they’d figure that he’d have cover of some kind. They must know that I’m out of action now. Be careful, Mr. Dillman.”

“I will.”

“You’ll be a marked man.”

“Only if they realize that I’ve replaced you.”

“Are you armed?”

“No, but I’m forewarned.”

“Borrow my revolver.”

“I don’t think I’ll need that.”

“You might,” said Poole. “They made one mistake, choosing the wrong cabin. Don’t bank on them to make another.”

“Their mistake was to travel on the same ship as me,” said Dillman with a determined glint. “Someone had the temerity to commit murder right under my nose. That offended me deeply, Mr. Poole. Like you, I take pride in my job. I won’t just be looking after Mr. Blaine from now on. I’ll find the person or persons behind this murder,” he vowed. “When I’m the ship’s detective, I like to keep it spick-and-span.”

Genevieve Masefield strolled toward the dining saloon with Fay Brinkley beside her.

“What book did Mrs. McDade choose in the end?” asked Fay.

“It was called
The Love of His Life
.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t written by her husband,” said Fay crisply. “Mr. McDade hardly notices that the poor woman is there.”

“She’s his second wife,” explained Genevieve. “The first one died.”

“What of—neglect or humiliation?”

“Don’t be so cynical, Fay.”

“Some men treat their wives abominably.”

“The wives must take a little of the blame for that,” said Genevieve. “They should stand up for themselves.”

“Wait until you get married,” warned Fay. “You’ll see how difficult it is.”

“I’m sure that you stood up for yourself.”

“Of course, Genevieve. I like things my own way.”

Fay laughed and led the way into the dining saloon. They were at a table with the Langmeads, Mr. and Mrs. Natsuki, and an elderly man called Vernon Silverstein. He greeted them with a smile, but used a battered ear trumpet when introductions were made. Silverstein had once worked in the Imperial Maritime Customs Service and was returning to China to visit old friends. In spite of his hearing difficulties, he took a full part in the conversation and displayed a gift for anecdote from the very start. The eighth chair at the table remained empty, and Genevieve assumed that nobody would take it. Just before the meal was served, however, a disheveled David Seymour-Jones slipped into the seat and murmured his apologies. He had to repeat his words more loudly into the ear trumpet for the benefit of Silverstein.

Genevieve remained composed but quailed inwardly. Since the artist was seated directly opposite her, she could not avoid his gaze. It was Fay who brought him into the general conversation.

“Are you still sketching the passengers, Mr. Seymour-Jones?” she asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Brinkley,” he replied. “I’ve filled one pad already.”

“Do I appear in it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Don’t I appeal to you as a subject?”

“Very much,” he said, “but you spend most of your time on the promenade deck and I tend to work elsewhere. Some of my best work has been done on the main deck among the steerage passengers. I have some wonderful group scenes.”

“What do you do with your drawings?” said Horace Langmead.

“I keep them as mementos.”

“You gave one to Miss Masefield,” recalled Fay.

“That was a rather special portrait.”

“I thought it was astonishingly lifelike.”

“Did you charge for it?” said Langmead.

“Horry!” chided his wife.

“It’s a simple question.”

“The simple answer is that I didn’t, Mr. Langmead,” said Seymour-Jones with a glance at Genevieve. “I never charge friends.”

Langmead chuckled. “I can see you don’t have an entrepreneurial spirit, my friend. If I had your talent, I’d be hawking it around the first-class passengers. Some of them would pay handsomely for a portrait. People are vain. They love to be flattered.”

“My portraits are not meant to flatter,” said the artist. “They record truth.”

“For whose benefit?”

“Mine, Mr. Langmead.”

“Well, I don’t know that I’d like the truth about my face,” said Etta Langmead lightheartedly. “I’d want you to take at least ten years off me.”

“You could take forty off me!” said Silverstein, listening through his ear trumpet.

The laughter coincided with the arrival of the waiter, and they broke off to place their orders. Seymour-Jones made a point of ordering everything that Genevieve did, and she was discomfited by that. However, he made no attempt to talk to her. He engaged Natsuki and his wife in a discussion about Japan, tossing in the occasional phrase in Japanese. They were impressed by his intimate knowledge of their country. Silverstein monopolized the Langmeads with stories of his time as a customs official, leaving Genevieve free to converse at length
with Fay Brinkley. The latter was delighted to renew their friendship.

“It’s ages since we had a proper talk, Genevieve,” she said. “I thought I’d lost you forever to the Gilpatricks.”

“They let me out on parole, Fay.”

“Gilpatrick is such an egregious character.”

“I can’t say that he’s the most prepossessing man I’ve met onboard.”

“Who is?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“Nobody at this table, I suspect,” said Fay conspiratorially.

“Hardly,” agreed Genevieve. “I seem to attract the wrong people. The latest is a dreadful man who pretended that he’d met me at a party in England. I believed him at first. He was so convincing.”

“What was his name?”

“Willoughby Kincaid. Watch out for him.”

“Why?”

“He’s the kind of man who makes a hobby out of preying on attractive women.”

“Nobody preys on me,” said Fay bluntly.

“I know,” returned Genevieve. “I’m not suggesting you’re at risk. I just thought you’d be amused by his seedy charm. Age doesn’t seem to be a factor for him. The idea of conquest is everything, however young or old a woman might be.”

“What is he? A disreputable English
roué
?”

“Judge for yourself. He’s very plausible on the surface.”

“What will I find underneath?”

“A self-appointed man of the world.”

“Oh dear!” said Fay. “One of those! I’ll give Mr. Kincaid a miss.”

“He may not let you, Fay. He seems to be working his way through all the unattached ladies. Your turn is bound to come.”

“He’ll be wasting his time with me, Genevieve.”

“You might enjoy seeing him in action.”

“No thanks,” said Fay. “I’m not providing target practice for
some rake. No disrespect to your nation, but I’ve never found the English male very appealing.”

“Why not?”

“I suppose it’s because they’re too English.”

Genevieve laughed. “I’m not letting you get away with a slur like that.”

“I speak as I find, Genevieve. The Englishmen I’ve met have always been so stiff and humorless. What they learn in those exclusive schools of theirs, I don’t know, but they’ve certainly never been taught how to talk to a woman. Actually, very few men have, whatever their nationality.” She gave a confiding smile. “Though I have met one man who passed the test.”