Murder on the Minnesota (19 page)

“That’s Tommy Gault, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, my friend,” said Gilpatrick pleasantly. “Are you a boxing fan?”

“I used to be. I once saw him fighting in Seattle,” lied Dillman, repeating what the purser had told him. “A middleweight contest. He was so quick on his feet, I remember that, and he had a mean punch.”

“Fourteen knockouts all told.”

“He still looks pretty fit.”

“Tommy is just showing off for the benefit of the kids,” said Gilpatrick. “They watched him skipping earlier on. He knows how to please a crowd.”

“Does he still fight?”

“No, my friend. He retired from the ring a few years ago.”

“Too much punishment?”

“Too much whiskey,” explained Gilpatrick, “and that can be as punishing as anything. It finished his career.”

“You seem to know a lot about him, sir,” said Dillman, turning to him. “Were you his manager or something?”

“No, just a friend.” He stuck out a hand. “Rance Gilpatrick.”

“George Dillman,” said the other, feeling a firm handshake.

“Where are you heading, Mr. Dillman?”

“I’m on vacation to see as much of Japan and China as I can. What about you?”

“It’s a sort of vacation, but I hope to fit in some business along the way.”

“How do you find the ship, Mr. Gilpatrick?”

“I like it. I’ve sailed on the
Minnesota
before.”

“Really?” said Dillman, feigning surprise. “Then you have an advantage over me. Mind you, I was there when it was launched. They had a few problems that day.”

“So I heard,” said Gilpatrick.

“But not so many as its sister ship, the
Dakota.
That fell foul of a group of women reformers from North and South Dakota. They were part of a temperance campaign,” he explained, “and objected very strongly to the alcohol that was going to be served at the launch. After all, the ship bore their name. They kicked up a real fuss.”

“I seem to recall reading about that, Mr. Dillman.”

“It caused a lot of bad publicity.”

“People are entitled to a drink.”

“That’s what Jim Hill thought, and he owned the vessel. He decided to ignore their protest. That really set the cat among the pigeons,” said Dillman with a smile. “The women got together and passed a series of resolutions, stating that they hoped bad luck would attend the ship. I guess that you know the rest.”

Gilpatrick nodded. “The
Dakota
sank off the Japanese coast.”

“I think it was pure coincidence myself, but I daresay some of those women jumped for joy when they heard the news. One paper even talked about witchcraft. Hell hath no fury like a temperance movement scorned.”

“It’s a pity they weren’t aboard the vessel when it sank!”

“The prohibition call is very loud in North and South Dakota.”

“Well, I’ll never listen to it,” said Gilpatrick rancorously. “I’m in the liquor business myself, among other things. Last thing I need is a group of harpies telling me how I should live!” He
relaxed as Gault strode across to them. “Well done, Tommy. You gave those kids a lot of harmless fun. Oh, this is Mr. Dillman, by the way. He saw you fight back in the old days.”

“Did you?” said Gault, squeezing his hand. “Who did I beat?”

“I can’t remember his name,” said Dillman. “He didn’t stay upright long enough for me to catch it.” The others laughed. “That was quite a demonstration you put on.”

“Like to take a shot at me yourself?” invited Gault, opening his coat.

“No, no. I’m a bit stronger than those kids. It would be unfair.”

“Come on. I can take it.”

“Throw a punch, Mr. Dillman,” said Gilpatrick, sizing him up. “You look as if you take care of yourself. Test yourself on Tommy. You won’t hurt him.”

“What if I do?”

“You’ll be the first man who did since Whitey Thompson,” replied Gault proudly. “He was a champ. Nobody ever had the power in his fists that Whitey did.”

The two men continued to encourage him and the children came over to add their exhortations. Having barked their knuckles on the former boxer’s stomach, they wanted to see someone get revenge on their behalf. Dillman eventually agreed and slipped off his coat. Tempted to put full power into his punch, he instead pulled it at the last moment. His fist bounced off and Gault laughed derisively. While Dillman pretended to rub his knuckles, the children drifted away in disappointment.

“I did warn you, Mr. Dillman,” said the chuckling Gilpatrick.

“What have you got down there?” asked Dillman, indicating Gault’s stomach. “It felt like solid steel.”

“That’s what all the ladies tell me,” replied the other.

And he went off into a peal of raucous laughter.

______

In view of the circumstances, Genevieve found it very difficult to concentrate on the music. She was wedged in between the wife of a known criminal and an amorous Englishman with designs on her. Her discomfort was intensified when the pianist took over to play a Beethoven sonata. The sight of a professional musician, sitting at the instrument with such dignity and authority, made her shudder slightly. She could never coax the notes out so smoothly or so crisply. Doubts about the wisdom of agreeing to accompany Maxine Gilpatrick changed into apprehension. There was one source of relief. Willoughby Kincaid made no attempt to touch, fondle, or hassle her. He led the applause at the end of each item and restricted himself to a few knowledgeable comments about the various composers. Franz Schubert was featured most prominently, but work by four others was also included. Kincaid was so well informed that she wondered if he had been doing some research in order to impress her. When she had been in the library, she had noticed a copy of Grove’s
Dictionary of Music and Musicians
on the shelf. Kincaid, she decided, might well have resorted to it for factual detail when he saw what the program was that afternoon.

At the end of the concert, he dispelled her suspicions with a polite explanation.

“I’m so sorry if I bored you with my comments,” he said to them, “but I grew up in a musical family. My father was a conductor. He gave me my first piano lesson when I was three. I spent years in the school orchestra at Eton. I’d moved on to violin by then. Music is one of the many things I miss, keeping on the move so much. There are not many concerts in the sort of places that I visit.”

“I suppose not.”

“Anyway, thank you for your company, ladies.”

He rose from his seat and led the way to the aisle. The audience was dispersing in a hubbub of satisfaction. The three of them joined the queue for the exit. Genevieve felt less
irritated by Kincaid than before. It allowed her curiosity to take over.

“I’m told that you’ve done some big-game hunting, Mr. Kincaid.”

“He’s still at it, honey,” warned Maxine in her ear.

“Is it true?” asked Genevieve.

“Of course it is,” he replied. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Not everything you tell us has the ring of honesty about it.”

He laughed gaily. “You put that so elegantly.”

“It was Mrs. Legge who told me about your hunting exploits. Were they real or were you just trying make an impression on her?”

“I’m always keen to make an impression on ladies, Miss Masefield.”

“We noticed,” said Maxine cynically.

“Mrs. Legge said that you’d hunted in Africa and India,” recalled Genevieve.

“Wherever I can,” he said airily. “Lions and tigers are my preference, but I’ve tackled a rhino on occasion. They take some stopping. Mind you, I don’t expect to shoot anything larger than duck or quail in China. I can use the Purdy for that kind of thing.”

“The what?” asked Maxine.

“A Purdy is the finest sporting rifle in existence, Mrs. Gilpatrick. English craftsmanship at its best. I never travel without it. I’ve also brought my big hunting rifle with me, but I doubt if I’ll ever take it out of its case on this trip. It’s the truth, I assure you,” he said, stopping as they went out into the passageway. “I
do
know something about music and I
am
a dead shot. Those are two things I’d never dare to lie about. I don’t need to, you see.” He gave a little bow. “I bid you farewell, ladies.”

They wished him good-bye, then turned to face each other. Maxine was skeptical.

“I still think he’s making it up.”

“We could always call his bluff about the violin,” said Genevieve. “We could borrow one from the orchestra and put him to the test. My guess is that he’ll come through it with flying colors.”

Maxine grinned. “I think he’d prefer you to put him to a different kind of test.”

“No, thank you!”

“I have to admit it. The guy was almost bearable today.”

“He’s clearly had a musical education.”

“I’d be more worried about his claim to be a hunter, if I were you.”

“Why?”

“He may settle for duck and quail in China,” she said, “but he’s after something much bigger at the moment. Her name is Genevieve Masefield, and I reckon that he was just stalking her.”

“That’s the strange thing,” said Genevieve. “I didn’t feel stalked.”

“Neither do the lions and tigers, honey. Until it’s too late.”

The remark gave Genevieve food for thought as she headed back alone to her cabin. It was not long before she sensed that someone was following her. Kincaid was trying to get her on her own, she feared, separating her from the herd. Her first instinct was to increase her speed, get to her cabin, and shut the door in his face. But that would only give her a temporary respite. It was time to confront him and issue a more forceful rejection. She waited until she had almost reached her cabin, then swung around angrily. Certain that she had been trailed by Willoughby Kincaid, she was astonished to see David Seymour-Jones. A sketch pad under one arm, he gestured apologetically with the other.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Masefield, but I understand that you’ll be taking part in a song recital. Mr. Gilpatrick has asked me to do some posters for the event. They’ll be in color, of course,” he said earnestly. “I have my paints with me. The
trouble is that I know nothing about it.” He smiled nervously. “I wondered if you could possibly give me some details, please?”

“You should speak to Mrs. Gilpatrick,” she replied. “The event is her idea and she’s the real star of it, as I’m sure her husband told you.”

“I’d prefer to deal with you.”

Genevieve was torn. The request was double-edged. Though she was willing to give him the information he needed, she knew that he was only seeking it as an excuse to be alone with her. Seymour-Jones was gentle and unthreatening, but his infatuation with her was causing her some distress. She was unsure whether to provide him with the relevant details or to take the opportunity to distance herself from him.

“This is an inconvenient time,” she said at length. “Why don’t we meet for ten minutes before dinner this evening? I can tell you everything then.”

His face lit up with gratitude. When they had arranged a time, Seymour-Jones went off happily, relieved that he had not been spurned and looking forward to the rendezvous. Genevieve felt only a sense of relief that she had got rid of him. Letting herself into her cabin, she closed the door and put her back against it. Relief soon faded. As she looked around the room, she became aware that certain items had been moved slightly. Even her slippers had been shifted. It was unsettling. When she opened the wardrobe, she could see that her dresses had been rearranged, and there was the same evidence of tampering in the chest of drawers. Nothing had been stolen, but that did not reassure Genevieve. Her cabin had been searched.

George Porter Dillman had to wait for ten minutes while the purser placated an irate passenger. Mike Roebuck was patient and adroit. When the elderly woman left, she had calmed down completely. Dillman stepped into the office.

“What was all that about, Mike?” he asked.

“Complaints about the food. Mrs. Atticus doesn’t like meat.”

“Then why does she eat it?”

“She likes the alternatives even less.”

“What does she live on—fresh air?”

“It’s nothing to do with the taste of the food, George,” said the purser. “When I worked that out, I was able to suggest an individual menu for her that avoided her embarrassing problem.”

“Problem?”

“False teeth. Badly fitted by her dentist. When she tried to bite her way into the beef that was served at luncheon, her top set all but popped out.” He gave a chuckle. “I smoothed her feathers and assured her it would never happen again.”

“You’re as much of a diplomat as Mr. Blaine.”

Roebuck frowned. “He’s my real headache,” he admitted. “Mrs. Atticus is only in danger of losing her teeth. Mr. Blaine’s life is at risk.”

“Not if we catch the man who’s trying to take it.”

“That’s proving difficult so far, George. We’ve already got a dead priest and a wounded bodyguard. How many other casualties will there be?”

“None, if I can help it,” said Dillman. “By the way, I managed to find Tommy Gault. That ear of his could only have been collected in a boxing ring. I wanted to weigh him up in case he might be our mystery assassin.”

“Well?”

“He’s strong enough and lithe enough.”

“And short. Mr. Poole said his attacker was short and compact.”

“I had an unexpected bonus.”

“Did you?”

“While I was there,” said Dillman, “Rance Gilpatrick came in search of Gault, so I exchanged a few friendly words to see if I could draw him out. Tommy Gault may be the boxer, but it’s Gilpatrick who oozes power. When you stand close to him, you can feel it.”

“I’m not sure that I’d want to stand close to Gilpatrick. Or downwind of him.”

“Why has he brought someone like Gault with him?”

“Not for his scintillating conversation, that’s for sure.”

“Exactly, Mike.”

“So what
is
Tommy here for?”

“It’ll be interesting to find out. Is everything set up for this evening?”

“Of course,” said Roebuck. “Pete Carroll will see that Mr. Blaine gets safely to the dining saloon, then someone else will walk him back to his cabin. They’ve been told to make it look natural.”