by Conrad Allen
“I’m sorry to hear that he’s no longer with us,” said Genevieve, feeling sympathy for her. “But even he would not have been able to talk to the captain. These things are outside his remit, you see. Captain Langbourne is solely concerned with sailing the ship. It’s the purser who has responsibility for problems like this.”
“Yes,” she cried. “I know. But do I see the purser? No, he send me away. I have to tell my story to this other man.”
“Mr. Grandage is extremely efficient.”
“But he is only a deputy. I wanted to speak to the man in charge.”
“Right now, you have a woman in charge, Frau Zumpe. And I assure you that I’ll do everything in my power to solve this crime and return your money to you.”
Frau Zumpe was skeptical. “You have been a detective for long?”
“Long enough.”
“You have caught thieves before?”
“Several of them.”
“Where?”
“On Cunard ships,” Genevieve explained. “I crossed the Atlantic in both directions many times and there were always some crimes to solve. Including murder.”
“Murder?” echoed the other. “You have dealt with such a thing?”
“More than once, unfortunately.”
“But I think it safe to travel on a ship.”
“Ninety-nine percent of the time, it is. We just have the occasional setback.”
“It is more than setback, Miss Masefield,” said Frau Zumpe. “I lose—in your money—almost five hundred pounds. You see why I am angry?”
“I do, Frau Zumpe, but nothing will be gained by shouting at Mr. Grandage or me. We’re here to help.” Genevieve took the notebook and pencil from her pocket. “Let me go through the details with you. I understand the theft occurred last night.”
“Ja, that is so.”
“When did you discover it?”
“This morning. I go straight to the purser. He call in his deputy.”
“How can you be certain of the time of the theft?”
“Because the money was there when I leave for dinner,” said Frau Zumpe, “and when I go back to my cabin later on to get a shawl. I keep it locked away in a box in the wardrobe. When I open the wardrobe this morning, the box has gone.”
“But nothing else?”
“There was nothing else to take. Only my money.”
“No signs of forced entry. No clothing thrown about?”
“Nothing like that, Miss Masefield.”
“Can you remember the precise time when you got back here last night?”
The other woman shrugged. “It was nearly midnight, I think.”
“And where were you until then?”
“That is my business,” retorted the other. “I do not have to tell you.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Then why do you ask?”
“Because it may be relevant,” Genevieve said patiently. “In the past, when thefts have occurred, the victim has often made some unguarded remarks to a person he or she has met on board a ship. That person may be the thief himself, or his accomplice. When he finds out there’s something of value in a particular cabin, he simply has to work out the best time to break into it.”
“But he did not break in. There was no damage to the door.”
“That’s what worries me. It was the same with Mrs. Prendergast.”
“Who?”
“A lady in second class, who’s traveling to Egypt. She had money and jewelry stolen from her cabin on the very day we sailed.”
Frau Zumpe gasped. “What kind of ship is this?” she demanded.
“A good one.”
“When you have a thief preying on women passengers?”
“That’s an important clue,” said Genevieve. “So far, he’s struck twice and picked a lone female on both occasions. I’m fairly certain the same man is behind both crimes. He guessed that Mrs. Prendergast would have valuables in her cabin, and let himself in while she was on deck watching the ship leave the dock.”
“ ‘Let himself in?’ ” said the other woman. “He has a key?”
“It’s the only explanation.”
“Then it must be one of the stewards.”
“Not necessarily. I’ll look into that possibility, of course, but I think it will be in vain. A steward could never expect to get away with such a thing. He’d know that we’d check on the whereabouts of the staff at the time of the theft. No,” Genevieve continued, her pencil poised, “I’d prefer to follow a different line of inquiry by working my way through the contacts that you’ve made.”
“Contacts?”
“Friends, dinner companions, acquaintances. Anybody you’ve talked to for any length of time, Frau Zumpe. I know that you’d never be foolish enough to give away any details about your financial situation,” she said, seeing the glint in the other woman’s eye, “but a clever thief can make assumptions.”
“How would he know the money was in my cabin?”
“He wouldn’t,” said Genevieve, “but he was tempted to take a look just in case there was something worth stealing. When he opened your wardrobe, he probably couldn’t believe his luck.”
“Luck! It was not lucky for me, Miss Masefield.”
“No, it must have been a terrible shock. But you understand what I’m saying? The thief knew you were otherwise engaged and that he could enter your cabin with impunity. He might even have had an accomplice who was deliberately keeping you away. It often happens like that, I fear.”
Frau Zumpe winced. “But he was such a nice man. He would never do such a thing.”
“Who?”
“The gentleman I was talking to in the lounge,” said Frau Zumpe, suddenly looking vulnerable. “There were six or seven of us at first, then some of them go off to bed. In the end, there were just the two of us. He keep me talking until midnight. He was a gentleman. I think he is being friendly with me, that is all.”
“What was his name?”
“Dugdale,” said the other. “Walter Dugdale.”
The body lay facedown in the middle of the cabin. It was completely lifeless. The blood that had gushed from the head wounds had now started to dry, but it had done its damage. A long red river, with many tributaries, had stained the back of the Norfolk jacket.
EIGHT
When the summons came, Dillman had just finished dressing for dinner. There was an urgency about the knock on his door that made him open it immediately. A steward was standing outside.
“Good evening, sir,” the man said politely. “The purser sends his compliments and asks if you can join him in his office.”
Dillman was surprised. “The purser? Are you sure it wasn’t his deputy?”
“No, sir. It was Mr. Kilhendry. He wishes to see you as soon as possible.”
“Of course.”
The steward walked away. After checking his appearance in the mirror, Dillman left his cabin and hurried along to the purser’s office, wondering why Brian Kilhendry had asked to see him when the purser spent most of his time keeping out of the detective’s way. He was soon given an answer. Kilhendry opened the door to admit him and looked at Dillman with an amalgam of resentment and relief.
Martin Grandage, also in the room, was obviously grateful for his arrival. The pleasant smile had, for once, deserted his face. “Thank heavens you’ve come!” he said. “We’ve had a disaster.”
“Of what kind?” asked Dillman.
“The worst—a murder.”
“I’ll handle this, Martin,” said Kilhendry, taking over. “A gentleman in first class has been battered to death in his cabin,” he told Dillman. “His name is Walter Dugdale.”
“Dugdale?” repeated Dillman. “But I had breakfast with him this morning.”
“You won’t be sharing a meal with him again. According to the doctor, he died from a massive brain hemorrhage. His skull had been cracked open by repeated blows from a blunt instrument of some sort.”
“Poor devil!” si
ghed Grandage.
“How was the body discovered?” asked Dillman.
“By a steward,” explained Kilhendry. “It seems that Mr. Dugdale was a methodical man. He had a drink brought to his cabin at a precise time every evening while he was dressing for dinner. When the steward got no response to his knock, he assumed that Mr. Dugdale was in his bathroom, so he let himself into the cabin. He got a very nasty shock.”
“What did he do?”
“He came running to me. I went straight along to the cabin with Dr. Quaid so that we could see for ourselves. It was pretty gruesome.”
“I’ll need to view the murder scene,” said Dillman. “Who else knows about this?”
“Nobody apart from us and the doctor.”
“What about the steward? He must to be sworn to secrecy.”
“He has been, Mr. Dillman,” Kilhendry said sharply. “We’re not that stupid. The fewer people who are aware of this, the better. The captain will have to be told, of course, and the chief steward. But that’s it.”
“Not quite. My partner will need to be informed. Genevieve will be very upset to hear about this—Walter Dugdale dined at her table. Right,” he went on, becoming decisive. “I’d like to see the body straight away and search the cabin.”
“I’ll come with you, Mr. Dillman.”
“Would you like me to go instead?” Grandage volunteered.
“No, Martin,” said the purser. “You carry on as usual. Keep a smile on your face and give the impression that everything is perfectly normal.”
“It won’t be easy, Brian.”
“It’s something that we all have to do,” said Dillman. “We must keep this quiet at all costs. If word gets out, it will have a dreadful effect on the atmosphere aboard.”
“That’s not going to happen on my ship,” Kilhendry affirmed.
He opened the door and led Dillman along the passageway to the nearest steps. The moment he was back in the public gaze, the purser’s manner changed completely. He beamed at everyone they passed and exchanged a few words with a passenger he recognized. Dillman was impressed with his calm demeanor. Nobody would have guessed that Kilhendry was on his way to view the body of a murder victim. When the two men reached Walter Dugdale’s cabin, the purser tapped the door three times. It was inched open and an anxious eye was applied to the slit. Seeing who it was, Dr. Quaid let the two visitors into the room then shut the door behind them.
Dillman was introduced to the doctor but paid him scant attention. His gaze was fixed on the body that still lay, as it had been found, in the middle of the floor. Cause of death was obvious. Dugdale’s skull had been smashed open from behind. Until the heart stopped pumping, bleeding had been copious.
“Mr. Kilhendry told me to leave everything as it was until you got here,” said Quaid. “Poor chap didn’t know what hit him. It would have been over very quickly.”
“That’s small consolation,” Kilhendry said with irritation. “A murder is a murder. The simple fact is that Mr. Dugdale has ended up dead and we have a huge problem on our hands. This has never happened to me before. You’re the expert, Mr. Dillman,” he added bitterly. “What do we do now?”
“We might begin by showing a little sympathy for the murder victim,” Dillman said pointedly. “I don’t believe that Mr. Dugdale got himself killed simply in order to annoy you. He’s the important person here, Mr. Kilhendry.” He turned to Quaid. “Can you give us an idea of the likely time of death?”
“That’s easy,” replied the doctor. “Within the last couple of hours.”
Quaid was a stout man of middle height with a fringe of black curly hair around a gleaming head. He wore glasses and kept pushing them nervously up the bridge of his nose. There was the hint of a Scots accent in his voice.
“I’ve had fatalities on board before,” he said, “but only by natural means. You don’t expect to see this kind of thing on a P and O cruise. When you’ve seen all you need to, Mr. Dillman, I’d like to clean him up so that I can examine the wounds properly.”
“He’ll need to be moved, as well,” said Dillman. “We can’t leave him here.”
“Where can we put him?”
“Somewhere very private where the body can be left on ice. Is there an empty storeroom or something, Mr. Kilhendry?”
“I’ll find a place to hide him,” said the purser.
“A good time to move him would be during dinner. Everybody will be out of the way then. I’d be only too happy to help.”
“No, Mr. Dillman. Martin Grandage and I will take care of that. You direct all your energies to finding out who did this.”
“And why.” Dillman said thoughtfully. “What was the motive? Mr. Dugdale was a delightful man. Intelligent, sophisticated, and very popular with the ladies. It’s difficult to imagine why anyone would want to kill him, especially in so brutal a fashion.” He glanced around the cabin. “It’s possible he disturbed a thief, of course, but the man would have had no reason to bludgeon him to death when he simply could have knocked him out. And thieves usually leave a place in disarray after they’ve rummaged through everything. As you see, this cabin is neat and tidy. Also,” he added, slipping a hand gently under the corpse to extract a billfold from the inside pocket of the Norfolk jacket, “any self-respecting thief would have taken this.”
“I’ll leave you to get on with your job,” said the purser, wagging a finger, “but I want to be kept informed at every stage. Is that understood, Mr. Dillman?”
“Yes, Mr. Kilhendry.”
“We’ll be back to move the body when dinner is in full swing.”
Dillman was glad when the purser let himself out. At such a sensitive time, he did not want Kilhendry looking over his shoulder. It would inhibit him. Dillman first checked the bathroom to see that everything was in order. He then gave the doctor permission to use the faucet so that the latter could begin to wash the blood from the head wounds on the corpse. Dillman, meanwhile, took a swift inventory of the cabin, opening drawers, looking in the wardrobe, and checking every item that lay on the table. Walter Dugdale, it transpired, had been reading Nostromo by Joseph Conrad. A bookmark showed that he was halfway through the novel. Dillman thought it rather heavy reading for a man with such a lighthearted approach to life.
The most interesting item on the table was a leather-bound address book, filled with names of people in a whole variety of countries. Dillman had the feeling it would repay study. Apart from a wad of money, there was little else in the billfold except a sepia photograph of an attractive young woman. Dillman suspected he might be looking at Walter Dugdale’s daughter. It was a reminder that the dead man would be sorely missed on board as well as by family members.
“We’re going to need to explain his absence, Dr. Quaid,” he said. “A lot of people will want to know what’s happened to Mr. Dugdale.”
“Do you have any suggestions?” asked the doctor, still down on one knee.
“The easiest thing is to say that he’s indisposed. We need a medical condition that would incapacitate him and, at the same time, keep visitors away from his bedside. He had such an eye for the ladies that one or two of them are sure to want to see him.”
Quaid scratched his head. “Was he a well-traveled man, Mr. Dillman?”
“Exceptionally so. He’d been all over the world.”
“Then we ought to give him a tropical disease.”
“He told me how much he enjoyed visiting South America,” said Dillman, “and he was reading a novel that was set there. Could he have contracted malaria?”
“Easily,” replied the doctor, “and it’s a disease with a nasty habit of recurring. No malarial victim wants visitors around when he’s got the shakes and the sweats. Let’s settle for that, Mr. Dillman. We’ll pretend he’s still alive but suffering from malaria. Mind you, I’m not sure how long that excuse will last.”
“It only needs to get us to Marseilles. We stop there to take coal on board. It should be possible to get the body ashore there. P
and O will have an agent in the city. He can take care of the formalities.”
“Shouldn’t the crime be reported to the French police?”
“Not unless you want scores of gendarmes all over the ship. That would really give the game away. No,” said Dillman, “this is something that we have to handle entirely on our own. My partner and I are the police force on the Marmora.”
Myra Cathcart was just about to leave her cabin when her daughter announced that she was not going to have dinner that evening. Folding her arms in defiance, Lilian turned away. Her mother was baffled.
“You must eat, Lilian,” she reasoned. “Why spend so much time getting dressed for dinner if you don’t actually want it?”
“I can’t face another evening of watching you and Mr. Dugdale together.”
“Why have you taken against him so violently?”
Lilian spun around to face her. “You know quite well.”
“Mr. Dugdale is an acquaintance and nothing more.”
“Then why are you leading him on?”
“I’m doing nothing of the kind,” Myra said with indignation. “I’m just being friendly toward him. We can’t sail on a ship for eleven days without actually speaking to anyone, Lilian. That would be absurd.”
“You do more than speak to Mr. Dugdale.”
“Lilian!”
“You do, Mother. The worst of it is that you don’t realize that you’re doing it. But I can see the look in his eyes,” she said. “And the same goes for Herr Lenz. You ought to keep your distance a little more.”
“I don’t think I need any lectures from you on that subject.”
“You’re ready enough to lecture me.”
“Only for your own good.”
“I don’t make friends as easily as you,” Lilian complained, “and it’s no use pretending that I do. What I resent is the feeling that I’m being ignored. Whenever Herr Lenz or Mr. Dugdale is around, I might as well not be with you.”
“That’s because you choose to sit there and say nothing.”
“Why spend time with two men like that when we’ve made friends with someone as nice as Genevieve Masefield? She doesn’t feel the need to flirt with strangers.”
