by Conrad Allen
“Masefield,” he said, capitulating. “Genevieve Masefield.”
______
Genevieve Masefield was interested to hear about the special dinner for the royal party.
“What are you going to give them, Monsieur Vivet?” she asked.
He raised a finger to his lips. “That is a secret.”
“How many people will be at the table?”
“Six. The Duke and Duchess, their children, and two guests.” He rubbed his hands together. “They do not know what a feast they will enjoy this evening.”
“I wish I could be there,” she said.
“So do I.” He took her hand and kissed it. “So do I, believe me.”
Genevieve had been talking to Vera Braddock in the lounge when the Frenchman came up to her. The old lady had been introduced to him but she was rather nonplussed when he planted a kiss on her hand. Excusing herself, she went off to report the thrilling encounter to her sister. Vivet was more boastful than ever. He was telling everyone he met that he was about to cook for the royal party.
“It is a pity they do not let me play some music, as well,” he said.
“That would be a case of gilding the lily,” said Genevieve with a smile, “or of covering the food with too rich a sauce.”
“My sauces, they are always just right.”
“I’m sure that they are, Monsieur Vivet.”
Though many passengers found him too ostentatious, Genevieve was rather amused by the Frenchman. He took himself far too seriously but she did not consider that to be a besetting vice. His effusive manner was a welcome change from the more restrained behavior of the majority of the passengers. Claude Vivet was a presence. Before she could question him further about the dinner party, they were interrupted by the arrival of Karl-Jurgen Lenz. Hands behind his back, he gave them a stiff bow.
“I have a present for you, Miss Masefield,” he announced.
“A present?”
“When you see it, I hope that you forgive me, please.”
Genevieve was wary. “What exactly is this present?”
“An example of my work,” he said, bringing two photographs from behind his back and giving one to her. “A picture of the most remarkable woman on board the ship.”
Genevieve was startled. It was the photograph he had taken of her when she was standing on deck with Myra Cathcart. Both women had been caught in an attitude of surprise that gave the photograph a peculiar life. Vivet looked over Genevieve’s shoulder.
“You are right, my friend,” he said. “Miss Masefield is the most remarkable lady on the Marmora. And the photograph, it is very good.”
“Thank you,” said Lenz. “But I did not take it because Miss Masefield was there. It is her friend, Mrs. Cathcart, who interests me. She is the lady I talk about. I apologize to both of them for taking the picture without warning them.” He smiled at Genevieve. “I come to ask a favor.”
“What sort of favor?”
“I have this other copy. Will you give it to Mrs. Cathcart for me?”
“Why don’t you do it yourself, Herr Lenz?”
“Because you can tell her what I just said about her. I cannot do that.”
“Very well,” she agreed, taking the second photograph from him. “I’m sure that Mrs. Cathcart will be delighted to receive it.”
“This lady,” he said to Vivet, “has such an interesting face. That is what I look for with my camera: a face that has interest or a person who has the fame.”
“Then you ought to take a photograph of Monsieur Vivet. He’s a famous chef,” Genevieve suggested.
“Mais non,” said Vivet, holding up both hands.
“But Herr Lenz might want to take a picture of you cooking this banquet for the Duke and Duchess. It would be a souvenir of a unique occasion.”
“Why, yes,” said Lenz, roused by the mention of the royal party. “You have the good face for a camera. I am happy to take this photograph.”
Vivet was firm. “No, mon ami. I do not like to see myself in a picture. And when I am cooking, I will not allow anyone else to be there. It is my rule. I can only work alone. Pardon.”
Clicking his heels together, he gave a little bow then walked away. Genevieve was baffled. Of all the passengers on board, she would have picked out Monsieur Claude Vivet as the one who would most readily stand in front of a camera. Yet he had refused to do so. She wondered why a man who deliberately courted attention would be so reluctant to have his photograph taken.
Morton Goss was in despair. He gazed down at the empty strongbox as if his life savings had been stolen. The padlocks had been levered open and tossed aside. The black leather case for the flute was also still lying where it had been found.
“Who on earth could have taken them, Mr. Dillman?” Goss wailed.
“A thief with some idea of their value.”
“Where would he sell them?”
“I’m sure that Cairo has its share of antiques dealers who don’t ask questions.”
“This is a calamity. We must get them back.”
“We’ll do our best,” said Dillman.
The loss of her flute had left Polly Goss inconsolable. Her mother was in Polly’s cabin with the girl, trying in vain to comfort her. It left Dillman free to examine the scene of the crime and to question Goss.
“But nobody knew that I had them in my cabin.”
“I did,” said Dillman. “I don’t think that anyone overheard us when you confided in me during a meal, but they may have. Did you tell anyone else about the relics?”
“Only one other person, and I trust him as much as you.”
“Who was he?”
“Sir Alistair Longton.”
“You explained that you had some of them in your cabin?”
“I actually showed him, Mr. Dillman,” said Goss. “He has a genuine interest in ancient Egypt. Sir Alistair said that it was a privilege to see them.”
“I’ll need to speak to him.”
“You surely don’t think he’s a suspect?”
“No, Mr. Goss,” said Dillman, “and I certainly won’t tell him they’ve been stolen. If I did that, he’d know I have an official position on board this ship, and I prefer to keep that secret. It enables me to work more effectively.”
Goss looked at him with admiration. “You fooled me, Mr. Dillman,” he admitted. “I’d never have believed that you were a detective. It came as a shock at first but I’m starting to see the advantages. You know us. You understand just how big a disaster this is for me.”
“Don’t forget your daughter. She’s another victim of the thief.”
“Polly was hysterical when she found out. I told you earlier how much she loved that flute. It was her pride and joy. She’s absolutely brokenhearted.”
“Then there’s not much point in my speaking to her,” said Dillman. “As long as you impress upon her—and upon Mrs. Goss—that I must remain under cover.”
“Leave it to me.” He looked down at the strongbox again and bit his lip. “How on earth could this have happened?”
“My fear is that Sir Alistair may have made an incautious remark.”
“But he gave me his word.”
“And I’m sure he intended to keep it,” said Dillman, “but he’s a gregarious man. I’ve seen him chatting to various people in the lounge. And he’s fond of a glass of brandy as well. Who knows? He may have inadvertently let something slip over a drink with a friend. That’s why I need to sound him out.”
“Look at this,” said Goss, bending down to pick up one of the broken padlocks. “Whoever got into this cabin knew what to expect. He brought something with him to break into the strongbox.”
“A professional thief is always well prepared.”
“How did he get in here, Mr. Dillman?”
“With a master key, I suspect,” said the other. “There’s no sign of forced entry.”
“Where did he get such a key?”
“I wish I knew.”
“I
f he can walk in here as easily as that, he can get into any cabin on the ship.”
“Most of them don’t have anything quite as valuable as those fragments of stone. This thief is very selective. He struck where he knew there’d be rich pickings.”
“Why did he have to steal the flute as well?”
“That was an opportunistic theft,” said Dillman. “When he got what he came for, he looked around to see what else was worth taking. In your daughter’s cabin, he found the flute and realized how expensive it must be.”
“Yet he didn’t take the case with him.”
“Here’s the explanation for that.” He retrieved the black leather case from the floor and pointed to the inscription. “Your daughter’s name and address are on it in prominent letters. That means it could be traced to its owner.”
“I see.”
“Is the instrument insured?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman,” said Goss, “but we can’t make a claim until we get back home to Boston. That’s over a month. Besides, it’s not the money that Polly wants. It’s that particular flute.”
“I understand. Well,” said Dillman, “I’ll make a start with my inquiries. I’m sorry this has happened. It reflects badly on us.”
“No, it doesn’t. It reflects badly on me. I was foolhardy. You did warn me.”
“The relics were all insured.”
“That’s not the point,” said Goss. “I was entrusted with their safekeeping and I let them get stolen. They’ll never forgive me at the museum. It’s a real tragedy. We’ll never be able to have anything on loan from them again.”
“Don’t rule out the possibility that we’ll recover them.”
“What are the chances of that?”
“Pretty good, I reckon,” said Dillman.
“We’d be so grateful to you.”
“I do have a personal interest here, Mr. Goss.”
“Personal interest?”
“Yes,” said Dillman. “Apart from the fact that we’re friends, that is. It’s not all that long ago that you and I were chatting together up on deck. My guess is that’s when the theft occurred. I unwittingly distracted you.”
“It was Mr. Pountney who did that,” said Goss. “Before you came along, we had a long talk together. In fact, it was he who suggested that we take a stroll on deck.”
* * *
Myra Cathcart was not sure whether to be delighted or disturbed by the gift. As she examined it in the lounge, she had to admit it was a good photograph, but she wished that it had been taken by someone other than Karl-Jurgen Lenz.
“Why didn’t he give it to me himself?” she asked.
“I think he was too shy,” said Genevieve, seated beside her.
“He wasn’t too shy to take it in the first place. The way he crept up on us was very unsettling. I’m still rather cross with him about that.”
“I fancy that the photograph is a kind of peace offering, Myra.”
“I don’t want to make peace with Herr Lenz. He unnerves me.”
“I can’t say that he’s endeared himself to me, either,” observed Genevieve, “but he knows his work. It’s a particularly good photo of you.”
“Yes, it is, but it still worries me somehow.”
“Show it to your daughter. See what she thinks about it.”
“I will, Genevieve. That’s good advice.”
“What’s this?” asked a cultured voice behind them. “Photographs?”
They turned to see Roland Pountney. After an exchange of niceties, he took a closer look at the photograph and agreed that it was good. He beamed at Genevieve.
“Splendid picture of you, Miss Masefield.” he commented.
“I look startled,” she said.
“That’s what appeals to me about it. You’re caught off-guard. It wasn’t exactly the most gentlemanly thing for the photographer to do, but the result is well worth it. Do you know, I wouldn’t mind a copy of that myself?”
“It’s not for public sale, Mr. Pountney.”
“Would you object to my having a photograph of you?”
“I think that I would,” said Genevieve.
“Then, of course, I won’t even consider the idea,” he said obligingly. “I’ll have to rely on my mental photograph of you, won’t I? Incidentally, did I see you talking to Nigel Wilmshurst yesterday? I didn’t realize that you were friends.”
“We’re not, Mr. Pountney.”
“His manner toward you seemed very familiar.” He turned to Myra. “This chap and I were at school together. Bit too arrogant for my liking. Not that I really knew him at Harrow. I was only there for a few years.”
“Mr. Wilmshurst told me that you left the school.”
Pountney laughed. “I didn’t leave, Miss Masefield; I was kicked out. I’m rather proud of that little episode. It takes a lot to get expelled from Harrow but I managed it.”
With a wave of farewell, he strode off across the lounge. Myra was bemused.
“Expelled?” she said in surprise. “I wouldn’t have thought that was anything to be proud of, Genevieve. Would you?”
“No, Myra.”
“I’d be too ashamed to admit such a thing.”
“It was a long time ago,” said Genevieve, “and Mr. Pountney has obviously put his youthful indiscretions behind him. All credit to him. Expulsion is a humiliation. Most pupils would be crushed by it. But not Mr. Pountney,” she added, watching him as he chatted to some friends. “He appears to have thrived on it.”
When Dillman had first seen the Marmora, he had thought that the ship was small, but it now seemed to have grown in size. There were too many places to hide. Identifying criminals was not easy when there were almost a thousand people to choose from. Most of them could be eliminated at once as suspects but there was still a daunting number left. Even with Genevieve’s help, he could not hope to put all of them under scrutiny. The murder of Walter Dugdale was the most serious crime, but the thefts were creating unfortunate repercussions. Morton Goss and his family were only the latest victims. Dillman feared there would soon be more. Details of the crimes could not be kept secret indefinitely. They had to be solved quickly, before word leaked out.
Sir Alistair Longton was in the first-class smoke room when Dillman tracked him down. He was talking to an elderly man who wore pince-nez and who was just about the leave. Lighting a cigarette, Dillman waited until Longton was on his own before moving over to him. Longton drew on his cigar then inhaled the smoke.
“That was reassuring,” he said with a chuckle. “Just met someone on this ship who’s actually older than me. Bucked me up no end, that did.”
“I fancy that you’re younger than a lot of people aboard,” said Dillman. “In spirit, that is. And that’s what counts, Sir Alistair.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Interests, that’s the secret.”
“ ‘Interests?’ ”
“Yes,” said Longton, tapping his forehead. “Got to keep the mind active. Hobbies, projects, travel, meeting new people. Anything that stimulates. If you don’t do that, the gray matter will ossify.”
“There’s no danger of that happening in your case.”
“Bless me! No, Mr. Dillman. My problem is that I have too many interests. I’m always fascinated by specialist knowledge, you see.” He chortled to himself. “When they try to nail me in my coffin, I’ll probably sit up and ask them about the finer points of their trade. Born with an insatiable curiosity. That’s me.”
“I could see that from the way you talked to Mr. Goss.”
“Professor Goss,” corrected the other. “Give him his due.”
“He’s too modest to use that title outside university circles.”
“He shouldn’t be. Fellow’s earned it. First-class brain.”
“I agree, Sir Alistair. I’ve learned so much from him. I’m sorry that I’m not going to Egypt on this trip. He’d be an ideal guide.”
“Given me a few pointers, I know that.”
“Did he show you any
thing?” asked Dillman, watching for a reaction.
Longton looked blank. “Don’t know what you mean, old chap.”
“You were so intrigued by his work that I wondered if he let you see any of his prize exhibits. I was touched when he invited me to see them. But that pleasure still awaits you, obviously.”
“Are we talking about the same thing, Mr. Dillman?” Longton said cautiously.
“I can’t give details, I’m afraid. I promised Mr. Goss.”
“Did you go to his cabin?”
“Yes, Sir Alistair.”
“Then we did have the same experience,” said Longton, relaxing visibly. “We’re part of a charmed circle, Mr. Dillman. We’d never get the opportunity to handle them if they’d been on display in a museum. They’d be under glass.”
“I was intrigued by the hieroglyphics. You can trace them with your finger.”
“Oh, I did that, don’t worry.”
“How much do you think they’re worth?”
“A small fortune, Mr. Dillman. That’s why our friend was anxious that nobody else should know where they were.” He exhaled more smoke and peered at Dillman through the fug. “I’m sure that you didn’t breathe a word about this to anyone.”
“No, Sir Alistair. Not a syllable.”
“Neither did I. Even though I was asked to do just that.”
“Oh?”
“Damn fellow pestered me like mad,” said Longton. “Apparently, he saw me going off with Professor Goss and guessed that we were friends. Wanted to know if the professor kept any relics of ancient Egypt with him.”
“Why?”
“Claimed that he’d liked to photograph them. Told me some cock-and-bull story about wanting to write a story for some German magazine and illustrating it with the pictures he took.” Longton flicked his cigar ash away. “Let him know I didn’t have a clue what he was on about. Sent him on his way.”
“Was it a man called Karl-Jurgen Lenz?”
“That’s the fellow,” said Longton, removing his monocle. “Unsavory character. Never know what a man like that is thinking. Wouldn’t trust him an inch, Mr. Dillman. He’s far too shifty.”
Genevieve Masefield needed some thinking time. She had gathered so much conflicting intelligence that she returned to her cabin so she could assimilate it in private. Pencil and paper were useful allies at such a time. Genevieve listed all the information she had gathered, beside the names of the people who had given it. Somewhere amid her scribbles, she believed, was a vital clue that needed to be teased out. She searched for it in vain. Dillman had taught her to look for a pattern at such times but that, too, eluded her. She was still seated at her table when there was a gentle tap on her door.
