Murder on the Minnesota (4 page)

It was a delicious meal. The more time passed, the more pleasure Genevieve took from her companions. After his earlier outburst, Joseph McDade was more restrained, saving his energies for the rich food and fine wine that were set in front of him. When he did contribute, he entertained the whole table with anecdotes about the problems of running a copper mine. Blanche McDade came out of her shell to toss in a supportive comment from time to time, and Fay Brinkley turned out to have an uncle who was involved with the copper industry in Arizona. Connections were gradually made between all eight of them. Even Henrik Olsen, the natural outsider, found points of contact with the others. By the end of the meal, they were confirmed friends. Only David Seymour-Jones held aloof from
the pervading togetherness. While the other men adjourned to the smoking room for a cigar, he mumbled an excuse and went off to his cabin. Blanche McDade also felt the need of an early night. When she withdrew from the table, the other three women were left alone.

As the self-appointed hostess, Etta Langmead thought an apology was in order.

“I’m sorry about that, Miss Masefield,” she said. “I hoped that you might be able to bring him out a little. Mr. Seymour-Jones seems so detached.”

“English reserve, Mrs. Langmead.”

“You don’t suffer from it.”

“Is that a compliment or a criticism?”

Etta giggled. “Oh, a compliment. That’s why I put you next to him.”

“He was pleasant enough company.”

“But he hardly
said
anything.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying himself,” remarked Fay Brinkley rising from her seat. “Mr. Seymour-Jones may have been on the quiet side but I fancy that there was a lot going on beneath the surface.”

“That was my impression,” said Genevieve, getting up.

“Oh, well,” decided Etta, joining them as they headed for the exit. “Perhaps he’ll improve on acquaintance. We met him on deck when we were about to sail. He was doing the most brilliant sketch of the harbor. I saw it over his shoulder. I just had to tell him how wonderful it was. He seemed so lonely and neglected. That’s why I invited him to join us. Artists are usually such intriguing people. Oh!” she exclaimed, coming to a halt as she remembered something. “Silly me! I’ve left my purse at the table. Do go on, ladies. I’ll join you in a minute.”

While Etta Langmead scurried back into the dining room, Genevieve fell in beside Fay Brinkley. She was glad of a moment alone with the older woman.

“I do admire your self-control,” she told her.

“Self-control?”

“I could see how much you disagreed with Mr. McDade when he was making those disparaging comments about President Roosevelt. But you never once lost your composure and started an argument.”

“What was the point?” said Fay. “Prejudice of that kind is impervious to reason.”

“Mr. McDade does tend to rant.”

“His poor wife was squirming with embarrassment.”

“I noticed.”

“Yet she’s very loyal,” noted Fay. “Blanche McDade must have heard those stories about the copper mine a hundred times, yet she still pretended to be interested.”

“What did you make of the others?”

“Mr. Olsen was sweet, and the Langmeads are a charming couple. They work as a team. I liked that about them.” She lowered her voice. “Though I do think that Mrs. Langmead is wrong about our artist. He wasn’t as detached from it all as he looked.”

“Oh?”

“I was sitting opposite him. I had a perfect view of Mr. Seymour-Jones.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only this,” confided Fay. “There was a more important item on his agenda than good food and conversation. I could see it clearly in his manner, and in the way he kept shooting those sly glances.”

“I saw no sly glances.”

“You weren’t supposed to, Miss Masefield. They were aimed at you.”

Genevieve was startled. “At me?”

“Of course. Who else? In my opinion, David Seymour-Jones doesn’t have an ounce of English reserve. The reason he was so silent is that he was considering what to do about it.”

“About what?”

“You, Miss Masefield. He’s smitten.” She arched an eyebrow. “Surely, you realized that? You’ve made a conquest.”

______

George Porter Dillman dined at a table for four that was set in a quiet corner. He was grateful to be well clear of Father Slattery, who was dominating his dinner companions on the other side of the room as if occupying a pulpit. Even from that distance, he could hear the priest’s voice in hortatory vein. Dillman preferred the company of Rutherford Blaine, a relaxed, urbane man with a dry sense of humor. Also at the table were the Changs, a Chinese-American couple who were returning to their native country for a vacation. Small, neat, and unfailingly polite, they wore Western dress and spoke faultless English. Li Chang was very proud to be an American citizen, but he had risen from humble origins.

“Do you know what my father did?” he asked.

“No,” said Blaine pleasantly, “though I guess he was an immigrant.”

“He was, sir. Over forty years ago now.”

“What did your father do, Mr. Chang?”

“He worked on the Central Pacific Railroad.” Chang looked from one man to the other. “Have you heard about how it was built?”

“With great difficulty, I should imagine,” said Dillman.

“That’s an understatement,” added Blaine smoothly. “The Central Pacific was engaged in a fierce battle with the Union Pacific. They were both determined to be the first to offer a transcontinental service. Correct, Mr. Chang?”

“Yes, sir,” said Chang. “But it wasn’t a fair fight. The Union Pacific went over land that was largely flat and had a supply chain back to the east. My father’s company, the Central Pacific, was coming from the west, so it had to bring most of its materials and its locomotives around Cape Horn. Have you any idea how many miles that is?”

“Twelve thousand,” answered Dillman promptly.

Chang was surprised. “You’ve sailed around the Horn, sir?”

“No, but I’ve met many people who have. Go on with your tale, Mr. Chang.”

“The Eastern gangs were mostly Irish and defeated Southerners,” said the other, “but the Western crews came largely from China. There was an old joke that the Union Pacific was built on whiskey, while the Central Pacific was sustained by tea.” He shook with mirth and they smiled obligingly. Chang’s face darkened. “Whiskey and tea are different,” he continued sadly. “When the two crews finally passed each other, a war broke out. They fought with fists, pick handles, stones, even gunpowder. My father lost an eye in one battle.” His wife put a comforting hand on his arm. “That’s why I worked so hard to improve myself, you see. My father was only a coolie on the railroad, but I studied to become an engineer. I help to build railways on a drawing board.”

“What with?” asked Dillman gently. “Whiskey or tea?”

Chang laughed again and his wife grinned beside him. They were an amiable pair, and Dillman enjoyed talking to them. Blaine was more interested to hear about China, plying them with questions and asking them to speculate on the future of their homeland. The Changs had divided loyalties. Born in the East, they had both been brought up in America and saw that as their true home. Though he spoke lovingly about Peking, Li Chang readily admitted that he would not have prospered quite so well there.

“Are you on vacation as well, Mr. Dillman?” said Chang.

“Yes,” replied Dillman. “I’m fulfilling a lifetime’s dream.”

“And you, Mr. Blaine?”

“I’m going to Tokyo on business,” said the other. “I buy and sell.”

“What will you buy in Japan?”

“Whatever takes my fancy, Mr. Chang. No whiskey, perhaps, but plenty of tea.”

The remark set the Changs off again and they laughed in unison. While taking a full part in the conversation, Dillman was also keeping an eye out for his prime suspect. The purser had given him a description of Rance Gilpatrick, but the detective saw nobody who fitted that description. He decided that
Gilpatrick was either dining in his cabin with his current mistress or concealed somewhere in the mass of bodies. From where he sat, he could pick out Genevieve and was reassured to see how easily she had won acceptance in her little circle. When he noticed her leaving the saloon, he checked his watch. They had arranged to meet later on to compare notes, but there was still an hour to go. The Changs were tiring visibly. Excusing themselves from the table, they shook hands with both men before slipping away. Blaine turned to Dillman.

“Nice people,” he observed.

“Delightful.”

“Don’t let me hold you up if you want to go to the smoking room.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Blaine,” said Dillman. “I don’t smoke.”

“Sensible man. Neither do I. Nasty habit.” He sat back in his chair. “In that case,” he said affably, “would you care to join me in a brandy?”

“Thank you.”

“My one indulgence. Brandy at bedtime.”

“As long as we agree on a plan of escape.”

“Escape?”

“Yes,” said Dillman, glancing across the room. “It looks as if Father Slattery is running out of parishioners. If he descends on us, we need to have an excuse ready.”

Blaine smiled as he let his gaze drift across the room. Slattery was in his element, holding forth with a finger raised in admonition. Only two of nine guests at his table were still there, trapped by the glare of his eyes like rabbits caught in the light of strong lamps.

“I can see why his congregation clubbed together on his behalf,” said Blaine. “I bet they couldn’t wait to get rid of him. You have to feel sorry for China, don’t you? They give us all that excellent tea, and we give them someone like Father Slattery.” He summoned a waiter and ordered two glasses of brandy. “So, Mr. Dillman,” he resumed easily, “we’ve heard Mr. Chang’s life story. What’s yours?”

“Oh, it’s not nearly so interesting.”

“No one-eyed father?”

“And no pitched battles on the railroad.”

“You said that you came from Boston.”

“That’s right,” agreed Dillman. “I was groomed for the family business. We build ocean-going yachts for rich people who hear the call of the sea. It was very exciting at first and, of course, I had the opportunity to sail a great deal myself.”

“I had the feeling that you were an experienced sailor.”

“The sea is my first love. Unfortunately, it was displaced by another.”

“A lady, perhaps?”

“Yes, Mr. Blaine,” he confessed, “but not in the way you might assume. The lady in question was an actress in a play I saw at a theater in Boston. And I wasn’t so much entranced with her as with the whole idea of acting. She
moved
me. Simply by standing on a stage and declaiming lines written by someone else, the lady had the most profound impact on me—and on the rest of the audience. It was quite unnerving.”

“What did you about it?”

“I had this overpowering urge to be an actor. I longed to be up on that stage with the rest of them. Of course, I was much younger then,” said Dillman, “and much more impressionable. But the feeling was so intense. I wanted to belong to a profession that gives so much pleasure by working on people’s emotions.”

“How did your father take the news?”

“He was livid, Mr. Blaine.”

“In his shoes, I’d have been the same.”

“He did everything he could to stop me from leaving the firm but I felt I just had to strike out on my own. My father warned me that I’d be penniless inside a year, but he was quite wrong.” He smiled ruefully. “It only took six months.”

Blaine was amused. “We all have to suffer for our art,” he said. “But you have the looks for an actor, Mr. Dillman. I’d have thought you’d do well in the profession.”

“Acting takes time to learn. I gradually improved.”

“And are you established now?”

“I get by.”

“You must do, if you can afford a first-class cabin on the
Minnesota
.”

“I came into some money,” said Dillman airily, eager to halt any further probing into his life. “It enables me to see something of the world. So I intend to forget about everything else and simply enjoy myself.”

“Surrender to the experience?”

“Exactly, Mr. Blaine.”

“I envy you. Ah!” he said, looking up as the waiter arrived with their brandy. “We can both surrender to this experience.” He gave a nod of gratitude to the waiter, then lifted his glass to rub it gently between his palms. “Brandy is my idea of nectar.”

When his glass was warmed slightly, he raised it in a silent toast to Dillman, then took a first satisfying sip. Dillman was about to taste his own brandy when he became aware that they were being watched. It was an uncomfortable sensation. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of someone who was standing beside a potted palm. They were under surveillance, and he resented the fact. When Dillman suddenly looked around, however, the man had vanished.

“What’s the matter?” asked Blaine.

Dillman turned back to him. “Nothing,” he replied, sipping his brandy.

“Were you searching for someone?”

“No, no.”

“Do you know anyone else aboard?”

“Only the gentleman in cabin number twenty-five.”

Blaine grimaced slightly. “By the time we get to Japan, I have a horrible feeling that everybody on the ship will know Father Slattery. Our missionary intends to spread the Word of God far and wide.”

“He fully expects to make converts.”

“I’m one of them. He converted me out of one cabin and into another.”

Dillman put his glass down. “Does Mrs. Blaine never travel with you?”

“Not when I’m on business. It would be too unfair on Marie. Japan is a beautiful country that deserves to be explored at leisure. No wife wants to be left in a hotel room while her husband goes off to deal with his business associates. Marie would hate that.”

“Have the two of you ever had a vacation in Japan?”

“Not yet,” said Blaine with a note of regret. “But we will. I’ve promised her.”

“Everyone who’s been there speaks highly of it.”

“I’m sure that you will, Mr. Dillman.”

“How long are you staying?”

“A few days, that’s all.”

“You go all that way to spend such a short time there?”