by Conrad Allen
“So do I,” said Myra. “I don’t regret a penny we spent on this voyage.”
“Nor do I, Mother,” Lilian agreed, showing some real pleasure for the first time. “It’s been an education in every way. And,” she added, looking at Pountney, “we’ve met such nice people aboard.”
He smiled in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Miss Cathcart. It’s good to see that you’re starting to enjoy the cruise at last. You’ve really blossomed today.”
“That’s what I told her,” Myra said fondly. “Lilian has finally realized that we’re on holiday. She’s actually looking forward to setting her foot on Egyptian soil.”
“Egyptian sand,” corrected Lilian.
“Wearing a pair of Cathcart shoes, I trust,” said Pountney.
“We’d never wear anything else.”
They all laughed. Lilian’s manner had changed radically. She was alert, happy, and interested. She was also growing steadily fonder of Roland Pountney. After the stern Midland businessmen she had met through her father, he was a refreshing change. What pleased her was that he had actually sought their company. Pountney liked her.
“Do you like living in Leicester, Miss Cathcart?” he asked.
“It gets rather dull sometimes,” she confessed.
“You must come down to London and let me show you the sights.”
It was a casual remark but it thrilled Lilian. The thought that her friendship with Pountney might develop further, brought a radiant smile to her face. Myra noticed it. Still upset by the disappearance of Walter Dugdale, she was consoled by the way Lilian was making such a conscious effort to support her. Myra no longer felt that she had an overgrown child on her hands.
“Where are you staying in Cairo?” said Pountney.
“At the Hotel Fez,” replied Myra.
“Wait until the New Imperial is built. That will bring a touch of real grandeur to the city. It will be the only place to stay,” he prophesied, “and I’ll have a stake in it. If you’d like me to show you the site, I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Oh, yes, please!” said Lilian.
“Who knows? When you see the potential, you’ll want to buy shares in the scheme yourself. It’s unwise to leave all your capital in Cathcart’s Shoes, reliable and hard-wearing as they are.”
He was about to discuss his project at greater length when Genevieve Masefield glided into the room. Pountney was on his feet at once to beckon her over. Lilian was a little crestfallen, feeling that she was now overshadowed.
“Have you heard the news about Mr. Dugdale?” said Myra. “Apparently, he was so ill that they took him ashore in Marseilles and transferred him to hospital. I spoke to Dr. Quaid about him. He said it was a distressing case.”
“It must have been,” said Genevieve. “Let’s wish him a speedy recovery.”
“Hear, hear!” said Pountney, sitting down again. “Damnable luck!”
Myra pursed her lips. “If only I could get in touch with him somehow.” She brightened. “Walter knows our address in Cairo. Perhaps he’ll make contact with us.”
“It’s possible,” Genevieve lied, concealing the ugly truth from her. “You were very gallant yesterday evening, Mr. Pountney,” she went on, smiling at him. “I saw you help that old lady up from her chair.”
“That was Elizabeth Braddock,” he explained. “A dear lady. So is her sister, mind you, but she’s much steadier on her pins than poor Elizabeth. But she’s a game old thing. Crippled with arthritis and heaven knows what else, but she still has the courage to sail all the way to Egypt.”
He gave them a brief account of his evening with the Braddock sisters, speaking with affection of both. Watching him carefully, Genevieve could not accept that he was in any way involved in the theft from their cabin, yet he had monopolized them throughout dinner. She was still searching for a way to find out if he had an alibi for the time the crime must have taken place, and, as if reading her mind, he provided one.
“Yes,” Pountney said. “Elizabeth Braddock was indomitable. I offered to help her back to her cabin but she wouldn’t hear of it so I went off to the lounge instead. Had another long talk with Professor Goss. Anyone here met him?”
They had arranged to meet in his cabin and Dillman did not have to wait long. He was scrutinizing Dugdale’s address book again when Genevieve arrived from her chat in the lounge. She told him about the latest theft and how she had just eliminated Pountney from the list of possible suspects.
“What about the other people sitting near the old ladies over dinner?” he said. “They could easily have picked up what was being said.”
“Only if they had excellent hearing, George,” she said. “Vera Braddock has a very soft voice. Besides, I’ve already checked on two of the men on the same table. One is even older than they are and the other was the ship’s chaplain. I think that I was barking up the wrong tree.”
“Somebody knew there was booty in their cabin.”
“Clearly. But why pick on two harmless old dears like that? It’s sickening.”
“I know, Genevieve.”
Dillman explained what he had been doing since they’d last met; he was irked by his lack of progress. Kilhendry’s attitude was another irritant to him. When he talked about his latest confrontation with the purser, Genevieve was puzzled.
“You’d have thought he’d be grateful to have us on board,” she remarked.
“I don’t think we should look in his direction for gratitude.”
“Why is he so antagonistic?”
“Martin Grandage says that Kilhendry resents the fact that we worked for Cunard. Also, of course, the purser dislikes Americans so he was not going to give me a twenty-one–gun salute. But I’ll say this for Kilhendry,” he conceded. “He’s calm and effective in a crisis.”
“Why can’t he be pleasant as well? His deputy manages it without difficulty.”
Dillman grinned. “More to the point, he likes Americans.”
“So do I,” said Genevieve, kissing him lightly on the cheek. She remembered something. “You mentioned an address book that you found in Mr. Dugdale’s cabin.”
“It’s right here.” He picked it up from the table. “It’s a biography of Walter Dugdale. Unfortunately, some of it is in private code so I can’t make out what it means.” He passed it to her. “See for yourself.”
She flicked through the pages, wondering why Dugdale had used so many abbreviations and what the tiny symbols represented. When Dillman drew her attention to a particular name, Genevieve was surprised.
“I didn’t know that Myra Cathcart had given him her address,” she said. “That’s a bold thing to do on such a short acquaintance. And what does this exclamation mark stand for, George?”
“You tell me. You were the one who sat at the same table with them.”
“Could it mean that he was smitten with her? And even considered a proposal?”
“I doubt it, Genevieve,” he said. “I found six other names in there with an exclamation mark beside them. All were women. Only a Mormon would consider taking on that many wives. In any case,” decided Dillman, “I have the feeling that he loved the freedom of the bachelor life too much. He’d survived two marriages. It would have taken a great deal to lure him into a third.”
“Myra Cathcart is a very desirable woman.”
“Then the exclamation mark might stand for something a little less flattering than a marriage proposal. Is that what he had in mind?”
“There was a definite twinkle in his eye.”
“Judging by the contents of that book, his eye never stopped twinkling.” He turned to the back page. “What do you make of those initials?”
“Could they stand for organizations of some sort?” she guessed.
“That’s what I thought at first, Genevieve, then I noticed the circle around ‘W.A.P.’ If you look through the book, you’ll find that some of the ladies have their names circled as well. Do you see what I’m driving at?”
“I think so. The
exclamation mark could indicate a target.”
“And the circle is a confirmation of success. ‘W.A.P.’ is one of his conquests.”
“Or victims,” she said. “Perhaps Monsieur Vivet was right about him and Walter Dugdale was not the benevolent character he appeared to be. He was a predator.” Genevieve was reminded of someone. “I met another member of the breed.”
“Who was that?”
“Nigel Wilmshurst.”
“I thought he was pretending that you don’t exist.”
“Only when he’s with his wife. He confronted me outside my cabin, so he obviously took the trouble to find out where it was. It was not a happy encounter.”
“You called him a predator.”
“That’s what Nigel always was,” she said. “He used people. He’d take them up with great enthusiasm then cast them aside when he tired of them. It was callous, George. It always embarrassed me.”
“What did you ever see in the man?”
“The obvious things. Nigel is clever, good-looking, and rather dashing in his own way. Then there was the fact that he’ll be the next Lord Wilmshurst,” she admitted, “and I’m not immune to the glamour of a title. What I didn’t know at the time, of course, was how unscrupulous he could be. When he blocked the way to my cabin, I was scared.”
“Did he threaten you in any way?” Dillman asked protectively.
“Not exactly, George. I just sensed trouble ahead.”
“Of what kind?”
“That’s the problem,” she said. “I don’t know. He’s on his honeymoon with a beautiful young wife and he shouldn’t even have time to notice me. But he did and it brought out that predatory streak in him. It was the way that he looked at me. I don’t think I’ve seen the last of Nigel Wilmshurst.”
The invitation to join the captain’s table for dinner had excited Araminta Wilmshurst but her husband was more phlegmatic. It was something he expected as a right. Instead of feeling honored to sit at the captain’s elbow, he thought that the man should be grateful to have him and his wife at the same table. When they joined the other privileged guests in the first-class dining room, Wilmshurt was allotted a seat that commanded a view of the whole assembly. He could see Genevieve clearly and he was amused at the way she winced when their gaze first met. Genevieve averted her eyes but he kept watching her, playing with old memories of their time together. Throughout the meal, he kept glancing up to check on her but she never looked in his direction again.
Seated opposite him, Araminta was aware that his attention kept wandering but she could not challenge him in front of their dinner companions. She waited until the meal was over before she stole a glance over her shoulder. When they got up from the table, she fell in beside her husband and gave him a sharp nudge.
“Who on earth were you looking at, Nigel?” she demanded.
“Nobody,” he said with a smile. “Nobody at all.”
* * *
Martin Grandage was gratified by the speed with which Dillman responded. Sitting in his office with a bottle of whisky and two glasses in front of him, the deputy purser looked tired. He gave his visitor a weary smile.
“Sorry to drag you away from your meal, Mr. Dillman,” he said.
“Your note arrived as I finished my dessert. Perfect timing.” Dillman took the chair opposite the desk. “My dinner companions were intrigued. A mysterious note arrives and I bow out. They must have thought I had an assignation.”
“If you’d arrived earlier, that’s exactly what you would have had.”
“With whom?”
“Frau Zumpe.”
He indicated the whisky but Dillman shook his head. Grandage poured himself a generous amount then took a first sip. It revived him at once. Dillman was curious.
“What was the lady doing in here?” he asked.
“Wielding a verbal cat-o’-nine-tails,” said Grandage. “I thought at first that she was going to flay me alive. She demanded to know why we hadn’t found her money yet.”
“We do have a higher priority than that.”
“Not in her book, Mr. Dillman. Frau Zumpe feels that we should have called in the gendarmerie and let them scour the ship for her missing cash. She’ll ask us to put up WANTED posters next.”
“Didn’t you explain to her that we can achieve more by discreet inquiries?”
“I tried to—when she finally let me get a word in.”
“Genevieve found her a real handful.”
“So did I, until we got onto the subject of Walter Dugdale.”
“Oh?”
“That was her main reason for coming here,” said Grandage. “She’d only just discovered that he went ashore in Marseilles. Frau Zumpe was livid: Why wasn’t she told that he was being taken to hospital? Why wasn’t she allowed to see him before he left?”
“It’s just as well that she doesn’t know the truth.”
“I think she’d have nailed me to the mast if I’d told her.”
“Why was she so upset?” said Dillman. “She wasn’t a close friend of his.”
“She carried on as if she was. I think that she was using Mr. Dugdale as another stick with which to beat me. I was glad to get rid of her. However,” he said, “that’s not why I sent for you. There’s been another odd coincidence.”
“More money deposited in the safe?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman. You’ve heard about the latest theft, I take it.”
“Two old ladies with a cabin on the main deck. Jewelry was stolen.”
“Along with the best part of a hundred pounds,” said Grandage. “They’re kicking themselves for leaving that amount of cash lying about. Anyway, that was last night. Earlier this evening, I was asked to put a slightly larger sum of money into the safe.”
“In the same currency?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I assume that the man who gave it to you was Roland Pountney.”
“Not this time, Mr. Dillman.”
“Then who was it?”
“The German photographer—Herr Lenz.”
TWELVE
The Princess Royal and her family had settled into the rhythm of shipboard life but she still guarded her privacy. While she joined her husband and children in their daily walks on deck, she preferred to take most of her meals away from the public gaze. Over a midmorning cup of tea in her cabin, she studied a photograph of Gibraltar. Fife was looking at a second one, taken much closer to the Rock and from a different angle.
“This is even better,” he said, passing it to her.
“Yes,” she agreed, holding the two photographs side by side. “They’re very good. I’m surprised that he got such excellent results in that rain.”
“Herr Lenz is a professional, Louise.”
“He certainly has the right name for a photographer. I should imagine that Herr Lenz spends most of his time staring through a lens.”
“Except that the words are not the same in his language,” he pointed out. “In German, it would be Linse, not ‘lens.’ Now, if he’d be called Herr Kamera, it would be very different.” He chuckled. “I’ve just remembered that appalling pun that your father made on my name.”
“You mean, when he called you Alexander the Great?”
“No, my dear. I got used to that particular gibe at school. It was when he created me Duke of Fife. He told that me that henceforth I’d have my own fifedom. I did my best to force a laugh. Even a king must be humored sometimes.” He took the photographs from her. “Well, what do you think?”
“They’re remarkable. So are the others,” she said, indicating the pile beside her. “Whether he’s photographing a person or a landscape, Herr Lenz is clearly an expert.”
“You agree to the request, then?”
“I didn’t say that, Alex.”
“What harm can it do?”
“You know how shy I am of the camera.”
“You’ve no need to be,” he said with an affectionate smile. “The camera loves you. And the girls would appreciate
a souvenir like that.”
“I still feel that it’s something of an imposition.”
“I thought you liked the Wilmshursts.”
“I did,” she admitted. “They were a charming couple and so very much in love. That’s why I agreed to dine with them, Alex, but I’m not sure that I want a photographer there as well.”
“Only for a short time. He’d do his work before the meal, then disappear. It’s not much to ask, Louise. After all, the Wilmshursts are on their honeymoon. They want to capture a special memory.”
“It still feels a little intrusive. And it sets a precedent.”
“Precedent?”
“If we agree to be photographed with two passengers, dozens of others will want to follow suit. We’ll be besieged by requests. I couldn’t endure that.”
“You won’t have to,” he promised. “There’s no reason why anyone else should even know about this arrangement. I’ll make that clear to Lenz. This will be his only chance to point a camera at us.” He tapped a photograph in front of him. “He’s not asking us to stand on the Rock of Gibraltar in the pouring rain. All we have to do is to smile at him for a few seconds in here and that’s it.”
“Let me think it over, Alex.”
“Why the delay?”
“Because I need time to get used to the notion,” she said. “Herr Lenz may be a splendid photographer—as these examples of his work prove—but he’s also the man who tried to take some pictures of us on deck. Mr. Jellings had to stop him.”
“Herr Lenz has apologized for that. He was too impulsive. I don’t think he realized that he needed permission. In any case,” he said, “he’s not the person who’s making the request. It’s Lord Wilmshurst’s son.”
“I know.”
“You were happy enough to have photographs taken on our honeymoon.”
“That was different, Alex.”
“Not really,” he argued. “You wanted to immortalize some precious moments on film. That’s all that they want to do, Louise.” He nudged her gently. “Have you forgotten what it was like to be a beautiful young bride?” She smiled and shook her head. “Think of Araminta Wilmshurst and put yourself in her shoes,” he suggested. “Have you got the heart to disappoint her and her husband?”
