The Pleasure Cruise Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “Then that accounts for your fancies. You can take it from me that there’s nothing shady about this affair.”

  “You’re trying to destroy one of my beliefs now, doctor, and I’m as obstinate as an ass,” said Vereker with a disarming laugh.

  “Tell me the reasons for your belief, Mr. Vereker. I’m interested in more ways than one. We’ve got to be jolly careful on board ship, as you know.”

  “Yes, I know, but you’ll have to hear my story another time, say over a peg of whisky in my cabin. I suppose they’ll bury the lady at sea?”

  “Well, we can’t keep the body for the duration of the cruise. You know the usual rule at sea?”

  “Yes, but I thought the Colvins would cut their trip and take the body ashore at Lisbon. We put in at Lisbon tomorrow.”

  “That would suit the skipper, but the Colvins seem to be anxious for a burial at sea.”

  “You ought to persuade them to put ashore. There may be an unpleasant resurrection of the whole affair when I get back to England. I may leave the ‘Mars’ at Lisbon and return with one of the Blue Star homeward bound liners.”

  “Ah,” said the doctor uneasily, “you’re going to pursue the matter further.”

  “I shall see my friend Chief Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard immediately I get back, and we’ll ferret out the whole business together if it’s humanly possible. This mystery wasn’t born on the ‘Mars’.”

  For some minutes Doctor Macpherson was silent, and then said, “I’ll see the skipper this evening. He may alter his plans, but for heaven’s sake say nothing about this affair to anyone.”

  “D’you think he’d mind if I persuaded the Colvins to put ashore with the body at Lisbon? It would save him a lot of trouble.”

  “He’d be jolly glad.”

  “Then tell him definitely that they’re going to do so and leave the rest to me. I’ll be discretion itself.”

  “Very good. We’ll leave it at that,” replied the doctor. “You’ve roused my curiosity, Mr. Vereker, so much that I won’t be satisfied until you let me into your secret theory.”

  “If I don’t let you into it before I leave the ship tomorrow, doctor, I’ll come aboard when you return from this trip and tell you my yarn. It’ll cost you a dinner.”

  “I’ll put the dinner on the company, but I’ll foot the wine bill. Is it a bet?”

  “Certainly, and in the meantime may I come and ask you seemingly irrelevant questions?”

  “Do by all means. You know my cabin. Pop round any time after lunch or dinner. I’ll be in.”

  II

  At quarter-past eleven Vereker put in an appearance at the races held under the rules of “The Mars Turf Club”. The course, marked out in chalk on the main promenade deck, was thronged with eager racegoers who, having backed their fancy with the totalisator, were excitedly watching the throwing of the dice that sent the six horses of the field forward at varying paces. Procuring a race-card from one of the stewards, Vereker learned that the first race on the flat was for the Mars Cup. Glancing down the list of horses and owners he found that the third horse, “Serial Rights,” was owned by Mr. Manuel Ricardo. The owner’s stakes were three pounds. The betting booth was doing a lively business in shilling tickets. As he wandered in the bright sunshine round the thronged deck with its happy faces, excited chatter and gay laughter, Vereker remembered that in a cabin above lay the body of a woman whom he felt certain had met her death by foul means, possibly for the very material gain which in a minor degree lent zest to the human play going on around him. His thoughts reverted to the book by Professor Dorsey that he had been reading. “Human hogs,” said that writer, “are made not born. Greed is not part of our inheritance, not to the stuff we are made of has it biologic value.” He was pondering on this statement. It appeared too sweeping an assertion. “Hunger,” said the same writer, “is back of life, the primordial drive in life. Hunger has led to crime, suicide, cannibalism…” There seemed to Vereker some contradiction here, for greed was simply intensified hunger. Certainly hunger either for money or woman was the main incentive to murder. And a lively social instinct, the fear of and desire to avoid the censure of one’s fellow beings, paradoxically another powerful motive. Hunger, an impulse for satisfaction, certainly was part of “our inheritance”. He was musing on the subject, for the psychology of crime and the criminal interested him deeply, when he ran across Manuel Ricardo in company with Miss Renée Gautier. Ricky had evidently managed to make the acquaintance of that lady and was in animated conversation with her regarding the chance of his horse, “Serial Rights”. He was laughingly persuading her to “put her camisole on it”. Vereker strolled up to them leisurely and was informally introduced. He seized the opportunity during the ensuing conversation to have a good look at Mrs. Mesado’s maid. She was undoubtedly a very fascinating specimen of young womanhood. Her figure was what is called svelte, one of those French terms that seem to express so much more than any equivalent English epithet. Vereker for some unknown reason disliked the word, but it instinctively rose to his mind. Her hair was dark, her eyebrows had been trimmed into a perfection of curve that lost the charming irregularity of nature and detracted from individuality. Her lips, well shaped but inclined to severity, had been loosened by art into curved bows. As she turned to greet Vereker she looked at him with disconcerting directness with a pair of very pale grey-blue eyes. There was a peculiar penetration and hardness in their glance which stole something from the attractiveness of the face, from the general feminine appeal of her whole person.

  “Miss Gautier has plunged heavily on my gee, Algernon,” said Ricky jovially. “Knowing that he’s out of ‘Royalties’ by ‘Best Seller,’ I think she has invested her money well.”

  “I didn’t know you owned a stable, Ricky,” said Vereker banteringly.

  “Your education has been sadly neglected, Algernon. We train on the high seas. You might say our nags are sea-horses. The only thing that worries me is that I stand to lose three quid on my own account, and several bob on Miss Gautier’s.”

  “You’re usually lucky, Ricky,” commented Vereker.

  “Great Scot, it looks like it! They’ve just put ‘Serial Rights’ two spaces—I might say instalments—backwards! I wish you’d go away, Algernon. You remind me of my car mascot. It was a skeleton, by the way, and the first day I fixed him up on my M.G. I ran into a fruit barrow and lost heavily on a pile of squashed grapes. I had several bones broken and the coster who picked me up remarked sympathetically to a pal, ‘Blimey, if ’e ain’t like a bag of walnuts, Alf!’ You’re a spectre on the course. Avaunt and have a Vichy water at my expense at the bar.”

  “I was thinking of backing a horse,” replied Vereker.

  “Then back ‘Argent’ for the next race. It belongs to Miguel Dias. I’ll give you the stake knowing you’ll ruin his chances.”

  “I hope Mr. Dias is not a particular friend of yours, Miss Gautier,” he added, turning to his new acquaintance.

  “Oh, no, not at all,” said Miss Gautier. “He was a friend, but not a very great friend, of Mr. Mesado. I was Mrs. Mesado’s companion and maid rolled into one, but I had to observe certain social distinctions. He has only known the Mesados for a few months. Do you dislike him?”

  “He stole my dance partner from me last night. I was horribly jealous, but I hope I shall be able to console myself.” Manuel Ricardo flung Miss Gautier an imploring glance with such facial grotesqueness that she burst into hearty laughter.

  “Who was the lady, Mr. Ricardo?”

  “Miss Penteado.”

  “Ah, very charming too,” said Miss Gautier with an almost imperceptible frown which did not escape Vereker, who was admiring Manuel’s skill in gathering information.

  “Perhaps her wealth appeals to Mr. Dias,” suggested Ricardo boldly.

  “But Mr. Dias is enormously wealthy too,” said Miss Gautier.

  “Deep calling to deep. My means are slender, and Slender was cousin to Shallow, so I’m out
of it,” said Ricardo, and added, “You must pardon my puns, Miss Gautier; they’re nearly as bad as Will Shakespeare’s in the Merry Wives of Windsor.”

  “Doesn’t wealth attract you, Mr. Ricardo?” asked Miss Gautier archly.

  “Overwhelmingly, but the converse is the trouble. I can’t attract wealth. In any case, for a pleasure cruise beauty is sufficient. Money only confuses the issue and makes the lady think you’re suffering from double vision. By Jove, ‘Serial Right’ has advanced six spaces! That’s because you weren’t looking, Algernon. I wish you’d disperse.”

  “Well, I won’t ruin your luck, Ricky. What’s going to happen if you win?” asked Vereker as he was moving away.

  “A miracle in the first place. Secondly, I’ll stand you a bottle of your favourite claret. Thirdly and not least, Miss Gautier and I are going to paint the ‘Mars’ red tonight. There’s a cinema show. The film is Passion’s Dupe; it behoves me to attend. Au revoir. I’ll see you ten minutes before lunch. Mine’s a ‘John Collins’ as usual.”

  III

  As Vereker passed through the garden lounge on his way to his cabin he noticed that Miguel Dias and Miss Penteado were seated at one of the small tables smoking and chatting. Dias every now and then glanced at her with that ludicrous ardour that only a Latin can conjure into his eyes, and Miss Penteado rewarded his efforts with a shining toothpaste smile. As he passed close to them he heard Dias remark:

  “But, Miss Penteado, you are irresistible!”

  “Please don’t say that, Mr. Dias; you make me think I’ve said something rather silly,” she replied with sudden reproach.

  “But that would be impossible… fantastic, mysterious, but never silly. You are just being delightful…”

  Vereker passed out of earshot, and reflected that Miguel Dias was making rather blatant advances to the wealthy Argentine. Perhaps, as Ricardo had put it, he was suffering from double vision in spite of his reputed wealth. He remembered distinctly the sudden frown that had passed over Miss Gautier’s face when Manuel had told her that Dias had stolen his dance partner. Had she any interest in Dias’s activities? In spite of her protestation that she was not at all friendly with him owing to a difference in social status, it might be possible. In the light of his own theories it was rather more than probable. He made a mental note that it was a matter into which he must probe discreetly when the opportunity arose. That opportunity came sooner than he expected. As he passed the bar situated at the foot of the companion leading up to D deck he ran into Colvin standing there with an appropriately gloomy countenance. On seeing Vereker his face brightened discreetly.

  “What will you have, Vereker?” he asked cordially.

  “A small whisky and soda,” replied Vereker. “I’ve just attended the race meeting. My friend Ricardo is running a horse in one of the races and seems to be having a lively time with Miss Gautier.”

  “She’s a jolly girl, well educated and up to snuff, to put it vulgarly.”

  “French, I suppose?”

  “Some generations back. English to all intents and purposes. Beryl, that’s Mrs. Mesado, treated her more as a companion than a maid. My wife doesn’t cotton to her; thinks she isn’t quite trustworthy.”

  “Been with Mrs. Mesado long?”

  “About nine months. Beryl brought her back from Buenos Aires. Miguel Dias, who was a business acquaintance of Mesado’s, recommended her very highly.”

  “Had she been in Dias’s service?”

  “No. He told us sub rosa that she was really distantly related to himself—umpteenth cousin—poor branch of the family. He seemed eager to help them in some way. She was too independent to take money and wanted to earn her own living.”

  “What d’you think of her yourself?”

  “She’s O.K. Knows her job inside out, and Beryl was delighted with her. Speaking confidentially, I should say she likes to exert her charms but thinks they have a high commodity value. From a man’s point of view, too damned clever by half!”

  “Do you think she’s trustworthy?”

  “Rationally rather than from moral principle. Most people are. It’s the business instinct. Of course, Constance is biased against her. Constance is simple, tender-hearted and as straight as a gun-barrel, but with a curious spiritual rigidity. Not much ‘play’ in her somewhat mechanical philosophy.”

  “Some good people have an uncanny intuition at times. They see through studied charm to the unstudied reality. It’s a disconcerting gift.”

  “She damn well sees through me all right!” exclaimed Colvin with a loud laugh, “and I can tell you it’s often very disconcerting. That reminds me. I must join her; she’ll be wondering where the devil I’ve got to.”

  “I think she’d know fairly definitely,” remarked Vereker, a cheery smile blunting the pointedness of his remark.

  “Any news?” asked Colvin mysteriously.

  “You might look me up in my cabin after lunch. I should like to have a quiet talk with you.”

  “I’ll be there without fail,” replied Colvin and hurried away.

  IV

  Vereker had ordered a “John Collins”, and the steward had just left when Manuel Ricardo burst unceremoniously into his friend’s cabin.

  “Algernon, old fruit, my horse won, won in a common canter, and brought home the dough!” he shouted, boisterously waving a bunch of pound notes in Vereker’s face. “We must convert the dough into cakes, if not ale, as quickly as possible. Renée has retired to her bower staggering under a load of specie.”

  “You’ve got as far as calling her Renée?” asked Vereker quietly.

  “She said I was a perfect darling when ‘Serial Rights’ romped home, so I promptly took the liberty of treating her as if I’d known her since she sucked her thumbs and was cocktailed with dill water. Ah, I see you’ve got my ‘John Collins’! Racing always gives one a thirst. When you win you celebrate; when you lose you drown your woes.”

  “Will you be serious, Ricky, and tell me if you’ve found out anything?” said Vereker.

  “Yes. Firstly, I’m a malicious brute. I was delighted when Dias’s horse flattered and then faded away. Argent didn’t shine. Ought to have run in the Eclipse Stakes or something of that sort. Dias turned up with Rosaura to see the finish of the race. When she saw that ‘Argent’ was last she appropriately gave a silvery little laugh. Dias laughed too. You know, the cackle that escapes from a man’s throat when he’s paying through the nose for the joke.”

  “I’m not interested in the turf history of the ship,” remarked Vereker curtly. “Did Gautier know anything about the missing necklace?”

  “She said Mrs. Colvin had merely mentioned the fact of its being missing. Renée was rather upset about it all. She knows Mrs. Colvin doesn’t suspect her for a moment, but it made her feel very uncomfortable. I sympathised with her. Who could help it? I like Renée’s cut, Algernon. She’s built for speed.”

  “Fast enough even for you, Ricky, eh? Did she say anything about alternate cinnamon and white diamonds?”

  “No. That’s just the point. She referred to the one with the emerald butterfly clasp. What d’you make of it?”

  “That’s most significant. And did you get round to the subject of the signet ring on Mrs. Mesado’s left hand?”

  “Very dexterously, if you’ll pardon the pun. Mrs. Mesado, it appears, never wore one. As I told you, Mrs. Colvin does, so you must have cleverly mixed the two women up.”

  “I don’t think so, Ricky. I’m certain of my facts. Miss Gautier is simply not telling the truth.”

  “Then it’s your fault, Algernon. Pretty women are born fibbers, but why push the darlings into it by asking them uncomfortable questions? Personally, I always pretend to believe what they say. They at once dub me a fool, and every one of them thinks it her mission in life to be a fool’s salvation. It’s the infant-rearing complex in terms of sex.”

  “Did you touch on Mrs. Mesado’s motor smash?”

  “Climbed up to it on top gear. Alg
ernon, that motor smash is all bunk. Renée didn’t know the make of Mrs. Mesado’s car. I forgave her that with difficulty, because it’s generally the only thing a woman knows about a car. She explained that she escaped injury because only the right portion of the windscreen hit a lamp standard. To convince me she became circumstantial. It’s a dangerous form of lying. I always avoid it nowadays. I let her run on and found that the car skidded from the left centre of the road on to the left-hand kerb. This seemed strange, so I asked her if the car turned at all in its course. She had warmed up by now and stated very definitely that it kept its head straight forward. I didn’t point out the silliness of this assertion, and casually remarked that the road must have been greasy. ‘It was raining,’ she remarked confidently. Now, Algernon, you know as well as I do that the 26th of March was a gloriously fine day. It didn’t rain at Rainham or anywhere else in the district on that day.”

  “Why at Rainham, Ricky?”

  “She said that the accident took place at Rainham, on the London-Tilbury road.”

  “Mrs. Colvin said it occurred at Stifford, which is well off that road. I think we may agree that it never took place at all.”

  “Then the yarn about her hands being cut by the windscreen is all poppycock?”

  “Absolutely. Those hands were never cut and bruised in a motor smash. Besides, I found no mark of an accelerator on the soles of Mrs. Mesado’s shoes, which I have carefully examined. The right shoe of a car driver invariably bears traces of the pressure on the accelerator. What does that convey to you, Ricky?”

  “Simply that the injuries were received otherwise.”

  “Yes, we know; but why all these lies? First about the motor smash, and then about the necklace.”

  “To prevent us getting at the truth unless it’s for the sheer joy of lying. Some people make a hobby of it. Outlet for an imagination that can’t find a publisher, I suppose.”

  “If it’s to prevent us getting at the truth, Ricky, the attempts have so far been decidedly feeble. Let us just review the facts. Mrs. Mesado and her maid are supposed to have travelled by car from London to Tilbury. The day was alleged to have been a wet one. The car skids on a greasy road and runs into a lamp standard, smashing the right side of the glass windscreen. Mrs. Mesado has her hands badly cut and bruised and two stones are knocked out of her marquise ring. Without troubling to bandage her injured hands she continues to wear a pair of chamois leather gauntlets which are too big for her and belong to her sister Constance.”