Murder on the Salsette (18 page)

He was amazed. “You mean that she's been going to and fro across the Arabian Sea?”

“Apparently.”

“Why?” he asked, rubbing a hand across his chin. “What's the point of going to India if you come straight back again?”

“It doesn't make sense.”

“Madame Roussel must have a very good reason to do that.”

“I can't think of one.”

“I can, Genevieve,” he said, trying to work it out in his mind. “Suppose that she pulled the wool over our eyes. Suppose that she's been working this ship because there are such easy pickings.”

“Madame Roussel is the
thief?
”

“It's one explanation.”

“But she was the first victim, George.”

“That's how she presented herself to us. What better way to throw us off the scent? She must have an accomplice—the man she's been careful not to name. He took the jewelry from her cabin and she left the door unlocked to make it easy for him. The other thefts were opportune crimes on deck.”

“Hers is the one cabin we'd never think of searching.”

“Until now.”

“Do you really think she'd devious enough to do this?”

“Yes, I do,” he decided. “I think she's a good actress. She can turn that outrage on and off like a tap. It's such a cunning trick.”

“What is?”

“Arranging to have her own jewelry stolen then blaming the P and O. She'll get the insurance money and—if she yells loud enough—some added compensation from the company. And all for valuables that are still hers.”

“I just can't think of Madame Roussel as a criminal somehow.”

“That's because of the way she's deceived us.”

“I wonder.” She looked at him. “What are we going to do?”

“Watch her very carefully, Genevieve.”

“Why?”

“Because if my theory is right,” he said, “she won't stop there.”

“I'm not sure that your theory
is
right. The other evening, you
spoke to her outside her cabin. Shortly afterwards, you were certain that you'd almost brushed shoulders with the thief. How could Madame Roussel be in two places at once?”

“She wasn't—her accomplice was. No wonder she won't tell us his name. All right,” he went on, “I know you have reservations and so do I. But I guarantee that we'll soon have another theft on this ship.”

Madame Roussel walked quickly along the corridor, checked the number of a cabin, and inserted the key into the lock. Ensuring that nobody could see her, she darted inside.

ELEVEN

A
fter her argument with Dillman, Genevieve had to accept that Guljar Singh was almost certainly not the culprit, and that she therefore had to look elsewhere. The suggestion that Madame Roussel might be a thief—or at the very least that she was working in partnership with one—forced Genevieve Masefield to think very hard about her strategy for solving the crimes. It was true that the Frenchwoman had been the first to report a theft on ship, but Genevieve had encountered such a ruse before. As well as deflecting suspicion from Madame Roussel, it would also enable her to find out who the ship's detectives might be, a crucial piece of information for any criminal.

The problem was that Genevieve could not devote all her time to watching Madame Roussel in the hope that she might give herself away. Unlike Dillman, during his days as a Pinkerton agent, she had not been trained to shadow someone without being seen, and there was the simple fact that the Frenchwoman did not like
or trust her. If she became aware of Genevieve's surveillance—and if she proved to be innocent of the crimes—Madame Roussel would report the female detective to the captain, and that would have unpleasant repercussions for her.

Genevieve had to achieve her objective by other means. Left alone in her cabin, she wrestled with her dilemma for some time until she realized that she knew exactly the right person to help her. Hurrying to the second-class area of the ship, she sought out Paulo Morelli. After commiserating at length with him over his dismissal, she asked him if he would like the opportunity to redeem himself.

“I would do
anything
,” he declared, hands together as if in prayer. “I belong in first class. Please tell me how I can get back there.”

“I can offer you no firm promises,” she said, “but it will advance your case a great deal if you assist me.”

“What must I do?”

“First of all, Paulo, you have to keep a secret.”

“Oh, I am very good at that,
signorina
. I know how to seal the lips.”

“I hope so,” she warned. “Because if you divulge what I'm about to tell you, there'll be no chance at all of you returning to first class. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, yes.”

He nodded vigorously. They were standing outside the quarters used by second-class stewards. Morelli was now sharing a cabin with five other men, all of whom he considered to be inferior in ability and status. He was desperate to escape from the ignominy of being demoted. For that reason, Genevieve decided that she could put her faith in him.

“I'm not simply a passenger traveling on the
Salsette
,” she said. “I work for P and O as a detective.” He was stunned by the news.
“Yes, it may be difficult to believe, Paulo, but it's true. Some thefts have taken place aboard and it's my job to find the thief.”

“
You
are a policeman?” he said, incredulously.

“I'm a private detective, working onboard with a partner. There's no need for you to know his identity just yet. Like me, he's been operating quietly behind the scenes.”

“This is wonderful,
signorina
. You are not only the most beautiful lady on the ship, you catch the thieves, as well.”

“I
try
to catch them, Paulo.”

“Why do you tell this to me?”

“Because I need your assistance.”

“Me?” The notion delighted him. “I am to help a detective?”

“I hope so, Paulo.”

“What must I do?”

“Keep an eye on a second-class passenger for me.”

“It will not be easy for me,” he explained. “I have many duties.”

“I'll speak to the chief steward,” she said, “and get him to relieve you of some of them. This investigation is more important than whether or not someone gets the towels changed in their cabin.”

“
Grazie, grazie
.”

“The main thing is that you are discreet.”

“Oh, I always am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Not according to Mr. Cannadine.”

“Do not believe all you hear,” he said defensively. “The complaints against me are all from ladies who wish me to pay more attention to them than I am allowed to do. So they report me.”

“If you obey my instructions, I'll report you, as well—only my report will show you in the most favorable light.”

“I like that very much. Who must I keep the eye on?”

“A French lady named Madame Roussel.”

“But I already know her,” he said with a laugh. “I meet her before. She is on the
Salsette
again?”

“Yes, Paulo. Apparently, it's her fourth trip.”

“She always travel in first class. Madame Roussel is very lovely. Why is she sailing in second class this time?”

“That's something I need to look into,” said Genevieve. “Since you already know who she is, it will make your job a little easier. Now, this is what I want you to do, Paulo.” And she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

George Dillman was leaving the purser's office when he saw her walking toward him down the corridor. Lois Greenwood gave a cry of surprise.

“I was just coming in search of you, Mr. Dillman,” she said.

“Were you?”

“Yes, I was going to ask the purser if he could tell me which cabin you were in.” She held up an envelope. “I intended to slip this note under your door.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to say sorry.”

“You've no need to do that, Miss Greenwood,” he said.

“But I feel that I do. Daddy tells me that he spoke to you.”

“That's true.”

“And I can guess what he said. He's not a man to mince his words when he's angry. For some reason, he's been caught on the raw. He made me repeat almost every word we've exchanged.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No, Mr. Dillman. It was like being in the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Then I should be apologizing to you. If you hadn't talked to me on deck last night, you wouldn't be in such hot water.”

“Oh, yes, I would,” she told him. “Daddy didn't even know that
I'd brought my roller skates on this trip. He thought that it was disgraceful of me to skate around the deck at night—disgraceful and dangerous. I might have had an accident and broken my leg.”

“Or collided with someone,” he reminded her gently.

“Exactly—that's why I wanted you to read this.” She gave him the envelope. “Though now that I'm here, I might as well tell you what's in it.”

Pleased to see her, Dillman was also worried about Lois. Red marks around her eyes showed that she had been crying, and he knew that she had been confined to her cabin as a result of her last meeting with him. Evidently, she was acting in open defiance of her father, and that showed courage on her behalf. However, Dillman did not want to get her into any more trouble.

“Look,” he said, “perhaps we shouldn't be seen here like this.”

“It's all right. Daddy is in the lounge with some friends.”

“Does he know that you've left your cabin?”

“Yes and no.”

“In other words, he gave you permission to leave on condition that you wouldn't speak to me again.”

“Something like that,” she admitted. “But I'm not really breaking my promise, because I didn't expect to find you. I just wanted to put that note under your door. Now that we have met, I don't feel at all guilty. Daddy had no right to criticize you like that,” she continued. “I'm to blame. If I hadn't skated into you on that first night, none of this would have happened.”

Dillman was in a quandary. Presented with a chance to glean more information from her about Sylvester Greenwood, he was not sure whether it was right to do so. It meant talking to her under false pretences, and perhaps getting her to incriminate her father. On the other hand, he told himself, he would be foolish not to exploit such an unexpected opportunity. The chances of meeting Lois Greenwood again before the end of the voyage were extremely slim.
Dillman had to strike now. When he reminded himself what was at stake—the arrest of a brutal killer—he put aside his affection for the girl. Any detail she could tell him about her father might be valuable.

“Listen,” he said, glancing up and down the corridor, “this is not the best place for a chat. Somebody else will be here any moment to bang on Mr. Cannadine's door. Let's find a quieter spot, shall we?”

“Lead the way.”

Dillman guided her swiftly through a maze of corridors until they reached some storerooms used by the second-class stewards. Lois was duly impressed.

“You certainly know your way around the ship, Mr. Dillman.”

“Professional interest. I like to know exactly what I'm sailing on.”

“What's your verdict on the
Salsette
?”

“Sleek and fast, but in need of more stability.”

“That sounds like me when I first started skating,” she said with a giggle. “Not that I'll be doing any more of that for a while,” she went on sadly. “Daddy has locked my skates away.”

“Is he always so strict with you?”

“He didn't used to be—well, he was away on assignments for a lot of the time—but he is now. As a rule, Mummy is on my side, but she can't override his authority.”

“Was it her brother you visited in Bombay?”

“Yes, Uncle David. Honestly, he's made
so
much money out of exporting cotton. His house is three times the size of ours. He's a true businessman. He knows everyone of any importance in the city.”

“How does your mother get on with him?”

“Very well,” she replied, “though it was Daddy's idea to go to India.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, it was funny, really. I mean, Mummy was dying to see her brother, yet while we were there Uncle David spent far more time with Daddy.”

“Why was that, do you think?”

“Something to do with politics, I expect. Uncle David has a lot of contacts in Delhi,” she said. “There was one occasion when he showed Daddy a message he got from Delhi by telegraph. That's how we came to change the date we sailed.”

“You changed it?”

“Yes, Daddy postponed it by over a week.”

“He must have had a good reason to do that,” said Dillman.

“I didn't complain. It gave me a longer holiday in the sun. Back in England right now, they're probably shivering from the cold.”

“Did your father explain why he changed the departure date?”

“No,” she said blithely. “But then, I didn't ask. According to Mummy, someone was going to be sailing on the
Salsette
this week—a man that Daddy was keen to meet.”

“What was his name?” asked Dillman, fascinated by the revelation.

“I have no idea.”

“Is he a friend of your father's?”

“I suppose that he is. My guess is that he's another politician.”

“So you never actually met this man?”

“I didn't,” she said, “but I know that Daddy did.”

“How?”

“Because I overheard him talking to Mummy about it.”

“What did he say?”

“That he'd spotted the man aboard, and that he was going to have it out with him.”

“Have it out with him?” repeated Dillman.

“That was the phrase he used.”

“What did it mean?”

“I haven't a clue.”

“Do you happen to know if he did go to see the man?”

“Oh, yes. There's no doubt about that, Mr. Dillman. I heard him clearly over dinner that night. Daddy said that he'd been to the man's cabin and told him a few home truths.” Her face clouded. “Why are you so interested in all this?” She gave a sudden giggle. “I say, you're not
really
a spy, are you?”

“It was humiliating, Matilda,” she said. “I'll never forgive Gerald for this.”

“It was only a game of bridge,” Mrs. Kinnersley pointed out.

“It was much more than that. It was a battle of wills.”

“I can see that you'd hate to lose to people like the Simcoes.”

“The money was incidental. It was a matter of pride to beat them. And we could have done so,” insisted Phoebe Ackroyd, “if only my husband had managed to find his ear trumpet.”

“Gerald didn't lose it on purpose.”

“Perhaps not, but I blame him for being so careless.”

Time had not mellowed Phoebe Ackroyd. Well into the afternoon, she was still smarting over their defeat at the hands of Constance and Tabitha Simcoe. Taking tea with her in the first-class lounge, Matilda Kinnersley was not overly sympathetic.

“You shouldn't have bothered with undesirables like the Simcoes.”

“One can't always choose one's partners for bridge.”

“Romford and I always do.”

“That's why you play so infrequently,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “Gerald and I play all the time—at least three or four times a week back in England. We're not accustomed to losing.”

“Did that obnoxious Mrs. Simcoe gloat over their win?”

“No, Matilda. In fairness to her, she was very restrained, and so was her daughter. Of course, my immediate response was to take
them on again—when Gerald had found his ear trumpet, that is—but they already have other opponents lined up.”

“You wouldn't catch
us
at the same card table as them.”

“You're too selective.”

“It's a question of class, Phoebe. One must have standards.”

“We only played bridge with them,” countered Mrs. Ackroyd. “It's not as if we socialized with them. That, I agree, would be unwise.”

“What about Gerald's ear trumpet?”

“That's still missing. I sent him off in search of it.”

“If he mislaid it somewhere, I'm surprised that nobody has handed it in. An ear trumpet is hardly an object that anyone would want to hang on to. It's bound to turn up soon.”