by Conrad Allen
Dillman ate a frugal breakfast but lingered over it because he was enjoying the conversation so much. Walter Dugdale was clearly savoring the detective’s company. He could sense that he was talking to an experienced traveler.
“May I ask why you wear a Norfolk jacket?” said Dillman.
“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”
“None at all. But it did rather set you apart during dinner last night.”
Dugdale grinned. “That was the idea, Mr. Dillman,” he confided. “One of my blessings is that I don’t possess the herd instinct. I like to stand out. If every other man in here had dined in a Norfolk jacket, I’d probably have turned up in white tie and tails. Call it perversity, if you wish. Or call it a blow struck in the name of individuality.”
“That takes a certain amount of bravery,” Dillman said with admiration.
“Bravery or folly? The two are often interchangeable.” Dugdale fingered his jacket. “As for this,” he went on, “it’s warm, hard-wearing, and good enough for the King of England. Those are three excellent reasons to choose it. It’s the best possible souvenir of the Old Country.”
“Do you visit England often?”
“Whenever I can, Mr. Dillman. I’m a confirmed Anglophile.”
“So am I,” confessed Dillman. “London is so refreshingly different from any American city. I spent hours just wandering around its streets. There’s so much to see.”
“The sights I most enjoy in London tend to wear lovely dresses and have exquisite manners. The English lady is beyond compare, in my view,” announced Dugdale, with the air of a man who had made a special study of the subject. “You only have to look at some of the divine creatures who have graced this voyage with their presence. Nothing can touch a true English rose. Don’t you agree?”
Dillman thought about Genevieve. “I believe that I do, Mr. Dugdale.”
“I mean no disrespect to American women. They have their virtues, as I should know. I married two of them,” he said with a cackle. “But there’s something about their English counterparts that makes them effortlessly superior.”
“Breeding? Class?”
“It goes deeper than that, my friend.”
“Does it?”
“Oh, yes. When I find out the secret, I’ll let you know.”
Dillman smiled. “I think I’d prefer to look for that secret myself.”
“What better way to employ our leisure hours on the Marmora?”
Walter Dugdale’s eyes lit up as he saw Myra and Lilian Cathcart coming into the room. Gulping down the last of his coffee, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and rose from his seat with an apologetic smile.
“Do excuse me, Mr. Dillman,” he said, “but I have to continue my research.”
Nigel and Araminta Wilmshurst had breakfast in their cabin. Facing each other across the table, they were still in their dressing gowns as they picked their way through the generous spread before them. While the young bride was still bubbling with happiness, her husband seemed rather distracted.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing, Araminta.”
“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then what was I talking about?”
“Your parents.”
“That was five minutes ago, Nigel,” she said with mild reproof. “You see? You’re not listening at all. You were miles away.”
He blew her a kiss. “I’m sorry, darling. I promise to concentrate from now on.”
“Is there something on your mind?”
“Yes,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Pleasing my wife.”
“You haven’t been yourself since we left the dining room last night.”
“I ate something that disagreed with me, that’s all.”
“Really?” she said with anxiety. “Why didn’t you tell me? Have you taken anything for it? There’s a doctor on board, you know.”
“It wasn’t that serious, Araminta. Some minor tummy trouble.”
“Then you should complain. The food is supposed to be of the highest standard.”
“It is,” he said, indicating his empty plate. “You can see that from the way I tucked into my breakfast. I’m fine now. The problem came and went very quickly.”
“Are you sure? You’ve been acting so strangely.”
“I’m taking a little time to get used to the idea of being married.”
She giggled. “I’m not. I’m loving every minute of it.”
“So am I, Araminta.” He smiled warmly. “What would you like to do today?”
“Keep my husband’s attention.”
“You’ll have no difficulty doing that, I promise you. In fact, you may have to beat me off to get rid of me. Now,” he went on, setting his napkin aside, “I’ve got two nice surprises for you.”
“Wonderful! I adore surprises.”
“Sir Marcus Arundel has invited us for drinks this evening. It turns out the royal party will be there, so you’ll have the chance to meet them sooner than you thought. If we’re on our best behavior, I’m sure that the Duke and Duchess will be bound to accept the invitation to dine with us.”
“That’s marvelous, Nigel!”
“I strive to give you pleasure.”
“But you said there were two nice surprises.”
“I’ve discovered that there’s a photographer on the ship,” he said. “A German fellow who had an exhibition of his work in England, so he must be good. I thought it would be fun if I asked him to photograph us.”
“Oh, yes. It would be a lovely souvenir.”
“Only one of many that you’ll have on this trip.”
“Thank you, Nigel.”
“I haven’t asked him yet, mind you. He may refuse.”
“Nobody could refuse you a thing,” she said fondly, “because you’re the most gorgeous man in the world and I love you dearly. Who else would have thought of arranging a honeymoon like this?”
“I take all my wives to Egypt,” he teased. “Force of habit.”
Araminta giggled. She had forgotten how preoccupied her husband had been earlier on. He was hers again now, and that was all that mattered. When she finished her breakfast, she got up to give him a kiss then went off into the bathroom. A few minutes later, the steward arrived. Wilmshurst waited until the man had loaded everything onto his trolley before sidling across to him. He kept his voice low so that there was no danger of being overheard by his wife.
“I need a favor,” he said, taking some coins from his pocket to slip into the steward’s hand. “There’s a friend of mine aboard and I need to know the number of her cabin. Can you find it out for me, please?”
“Of course, sir. What was the name?”
“Masefield. Miss Genevieve Masefield.”
The man smirked. “Leave it to me, sir.”
Genevieve was in a quandary. If she had breakfast in the dining room, she risked the possibility of another brush with Nigel Wilmshurt; yet, if she stayed in her cabin, she was a sitting target for Myra and Lilian Cathcart, both of whom had tried to engage her as an ally. On balance, she preferred another rebuff from her former fiancé to being cornered by a mother and daughter who each sought her help. Accordingly, she braced herself and went off for a late breakfast. Genevieve was in luck. The Cathcarts were just leaving as she arrived, and neither Wilmshurst nor his wife was in the dining room. She was able to enjoy a meal with the Cheritons, a family of three—father, mother, and son—whom she had met on her way to Tilbury. Ill health was taking them to Egypt for the winter but they made light of their disabilities. Genevieve was struck by the kindness of Alfred Cheriton, the son, an unmarried man in his forties, who was escorting his elderly parents to a country that would be kinder on their weak lungs. Whenever one of his parents wheezed, he looked at them with mingled concern and affection.
They were interested to hear that Genevieve was going all the way to Australia, and accepted without query her plausi
ble explanation for the visit. The Cheritons could not believe that a young woman would choose to travel all that way on her own.
“It’s very courageous of you, Miss Masefield,” said the son.
“Why?”
“I don’t think that I’d be able to do it alone.”
“But I’m not doing it alone, Mr. Cheriton,” said Genevieve. “I have people like you and your parents to make the journey a painless one. On a cruise like this, nobody is allowed to be lonely. We become one big family.”
“There’s some truth in that,” he conceded. “Everyone is so friendly.”
Genevieve would have been happy to go on talking to the Cheritons but she had work to do. Excusing herself from the table, she went off in search of the deputy purser. Martin Grandage had asked her to keep him informed of any progress she made in the search for the thief who had robbed Mabel Prendergast and, though she had no suspect in mind as yet, she felt that it was time to give him a report. Grandage was busy when she got to his office and she had to wait a few minutes until he had placated an angry passenger who was complaining about the noise from the engines. When the man stalked off with a set of earplugs in his hand, Grandage invited her in and told her about the complaint.
“What did he expect?” he asked. “There’s no such thing as silent engines. As it is, his cabin is about as far away from them as it could be. If he wants the ship to sail, he’s going to have to put up with a modicum of noise.”
“You soon get used to it,” said Genevieve.
“That’s what I told him. The earplugs should help. I just wish I’d had the sense to wear a pair myself before he came charging in here.”
“I could hear his raised voice through the door.”
“He wasn’t the loudest today, Miss Masefield.”
“Then who was?”
“Your next customer. Frau Zumpe.”
“Does that mean we’ve had another theft, Mr. Grandage?”
“We’ve had the crime of the century,” he said with a smile. “Frau Zumpe insists that we solve it immediately or she’s threatening to sue the P and O. She’s not a dear old lady like Mrs. Prendergast, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose—Frau Zumpe would wring its neck with her bare hands if it so much as honked at her.”
“Who is she?” asked Genevieve.
“A fearsome lady in first class. She’s like something out of a Wagnerian opera. Frau Zumpe doesn’t actually wear body armor but you feel that she might. She’s a female warrior with a voice like a foghorn.”
“I think I’d prefer Mrs. Prendergast.”
“So would I, Miss Masefield, but we have no choice in the matter.” He waved her to a seat but remained on his feet. “Have you made any headway yet?”
“Not exactly,” said Genevieve. “I’m still eliminating possibilities.”
“ ‘Possibilities’?”
“People Mrs. Prendergast met on her journey to Tilbury. Or acquaintances she made on the ship itself. Whoever went into her cabin knew that she was safely out of the way on deck. I thought it might be someone who’d met her and noticed her expensive jewelry. That could still be the case,” she concluded. “Thieves often size up their victims by what they’re wearing.”
“That’s not what happened with Frau Zumpe.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she doesn’t wear jewelry of any kind. She’s such an incendiary lady that it would probably melt. What she had taken from her cabin was money,” he said. “A substantial amount of it. I didn’t dare point out that she should have given it to us to look after. Had I done that, I think she might have attacked me. Frau Zumpe was already in a foul temper.”
“Why?”
“Because she felt that she was being palmed off with the deputy purser.”
“How will she react to a female detective?”
“I dread to think, Miss Masefield.”
“You could always send George Dillman along instead of me.”
“No,” he decided. “I’m afraid it has to be you. My guess is that one man is responsible for both thefts. There are similarities between both cases. Since you’re looking after Mrs. Prendergast, you’ll have to take on Frau Zumpe as well.”
“As you wish, Mr. Grandage. I’ll do my best to pour oil on troubled waters.”
“There’s only one way to do that.”
“Is there?”
“Get her money back at once,” he said. “With interest.”
The royal party confined itself that morning to a small area of the promenade deck. When they emerged in the afternoon, however, the Duke and Duchess took their children for a walk so that they could investigate the other side of the vessel. Dillman followed at a discreet distance. Curiosity was still intense, though there were fewer people about than on the previous day. One of them caught Dillman’s eye at once because there was something faintly sinister about him. He was a tall man in a long coat and flat cap. Dillman remembered seeing him sitting at Genevieve’s table on the previous day. As the royal party stood at the rail and watched the dark water being turned to white foam by the thrust of the vessel, the man was setting up a camera on a tripod. Dillman strode across to him and tried to sound casual.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but do you have permission to take photographs?”
“No,” replied Karl-Jurgen Lenz. “Why should I need it?”
“Because the Duke and the Duchess guard their privacy.”
“What harm will it do if I take a few photographs of them?”
“It will be seen as an intrusion.”
Lenz stiffened. “Who are you?” he asked. “You have a position on this ship?”
“Only as a passenger,” replied Dillman, keen to maintain his cover. “I learned my lesson this morning. I was foolish enough to try to get some autographs from them and I was politely turned away. Members of the royal family do not give autographs to strangers. It’s beneath their dignity.”
“Photography is different,” argued Lenz. “I do them a favor.”
“Not unless you get clearance beforehand.”
“But I am well known for my work. In Germany, I am quite famous.”
“Perhaps you are,” said Dillman, “but we’re not in your country now.”
Lenz was offended. “I had an exhibition in London,” he said proudly. “Lots of people came to see it. They say very nice things about my work.”
“All that I’m giving you is a friendly warning.”
“Well, it is not needed, sir. Perhaps you leave me alone, no?” He continued to adjust his camera. “You are American. You do not understand these things.”
“I understand what privacy means.”
“My country has special ties with England. King Edward is the uncle of Kaiser Wilhelm. His mother, Queen Victoria, she have the sense to marry a German. That make us all members of one family.” He stood back from his camera. “Nobody will object.”
“Very well,” said Dillman, backing off. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“Good.”
Dillman moved away and took up a vantage point from which he could still watch the royal party. The Duke of Fife was using a finger to indicate another ship that was passing them in the middle distance. His daughters waved to it. Lenz was determined. Having set up his equipment, he asked the people who were standing between him and the royal quartet to get out of his way. As soon as that happened, he was spotted by Mr. Jellings, the thickset man who worked for the Duke and Duchess. Dillman watched with amusement as he hurried across to Lenz with his arms stretched wide. There was a brief altercation between the two of them before the German gathered up his camera and tripod and stormed angrily away.
“There seems to have been a rift in the ‘family,’ ” Dillman said to himself.
He heard someone come up behind him and he turned to see Brian Kilhendry.
“You’re not needed here, Mr. Dillman,” said the purser. “Everything is under control. I’m sure that you have work elsewhere.”
; “I do like to come up for fresh air occasionally, Mr. Kilhendry.”
“Is that what you did on Cunard?”
“I did my job,” said Dillman, “and so did Genevieve Masefield. She’s on the trail of a thief at the moment. One that must have eluded that celebrated nose of yours.”
Kilhendry scowled. “You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?”
“Not while you treat me like a trespasser on this ship.”
“But that’s exactly what you are, Mr. Dillman. Both you and that partner of yours. The pair of you are trespassing on my property and I don’t like it. If I had my wish,” he asserted, “I’d have the two of you put ashore at Marseilles. You’d not be missed.”
Genevieve Masefield delayed her visit to Frau Zumpe until after luncheon, hoping that it would have given the other woman time to simmer down. The opposite was true. The longer she was kept waiting, the more furious Frau Zumpe became. When Genevieve first stepped into her cabin, she had to endure two whole minutes of abuse. She held up both hands to quell the torrent.
“Thank you, Frau Zumpe,” she said firmly. “You’ve made your point and it’s now time for me to make mine. P and O cannot take responsibility for items of value left in cabins. Passengers are advised to place money and valuables in the purser’s safe. If you had done that, you would not be in this position now.”
The other woman glared. “You say that I am to blame?”
“I’m saying this might have been avoided, that’s all.”
“I am the victim here, not the thief. He stole my money.”
“Only because it was left in a place where he could get at it, Frau Zumpe.”
“You think that I want to be robbed?” yelled the other.
“No, no. Of course not.”
It took Genevieve a long time to calm her down. Frau Zumpe was a woman with a hot temper. Short, squat, and wearing a plain brown dress, she had a pudgy face framed by close-cropped fair hair. So many lines had been etched into her features that she looked much older than her thirty years; Genevieve found herself feeling sorry for her husband. Frau Zumpe seemed to read her mind.
“If my dear husband were still alive,” she announced, “he would insist on talking to the captain. Ernst looked after his wife. He speak up for me.”
