by Conrad Allen
When he came into the passageway, a warning bell sounded inside his head. Someone was there. The uneasy sensation he had felt in the dining saloon shot through him again. It was eerie. Though the passageway was empty, he was sure that he was being watched. Making an effort to appear relaxed, he strolled to the door of the cabin and let himself in. Why was someone keeping an eye on him? Did he have an unknown enemy? Had his cover been exposed? Dillman found it worrying. He listened at the door for a long while until he thought he heard footsteps outside. He moved quickly but there was nobody there when he opened the door. Yet he sensed that someone was nearby. Hurrying to the end of the passageway, he looked around the corner and was just in time to see a man disappearing up a companionway. Dillman gave chase, but the man had too much of a start on him. Emerging on the promenade deck once more, Dillman searched first in one direction, then in another. It was all in vain. His phantom shadow had melted away into the night.
“It’s good to see that someone takes our advice,” said Mike Roebuck, making a note of the items and issuing a receipt. “If everyone put their jewelry in the safe, we’d lower the risk of theft considerably.”
“I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone,” said Genevieve. “George told me that you wanted a word with me.”
“I do, Miss Masefield. I like to be able to put a face to a name.”
“Well, here I am, Mr. Roebuck.”
“So I see.”
“Have you employed a female detective before?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Then you’re way behind the times. According to George, women were used in the early days of the Pinkerton Agency. They proved their value again and again.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Roebuck, studying her with interest. “People like you can reach places that no man would dare to enter. You inspire more trust as well. Looking at you, nobody would think for a moment that you were a detective.”
“That’s my main weapon.”
“It’s going to be needed on this voyage.”
“I gathered that.”
“How did you come into this racket?” he wondered.
“I met George Dillman on the maiden voyage of the Lusitania.”
“What were you doing on that?”
“I thought I might have seen England for the last time,” she confessed. “I had this weird notion that I’d settle down in America and start a new life.”
“Was there something wrong with the old one?”
Genevieve was evasive. “I felt the need for a change, that’s all.”
“Then George came along and altered your plans for you.”
“He can be very persuasive, Mr. Roebuck.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” he said with a chuckle. “We’ve known each other since we were teenagers. I used to work in his father’s boatyard during vacations. Oh, yes. George Dillman has a silver tongue. He can charm birds out of a tree.”
“He’s also an excellent detective.”
“That’s why he’s here.”
“He taught me everything I know.”
“Judging by your record, you were a prize pupil. The Cunard line must miss you.”
“I hope so,” said Genevieve. “It might encourage them to raise our fee.”
Roebuck laughed. When he had been told that Dillman had a female partner, he did not quite know what to expect. Various images had flitted through his mind, not all of them flattering. Confronted with Genevieve herself, he was taken aback. She was far more poised and beautiful than he had anticipated. He sensed the inner toughness to which Dillman had referred. Genevieve was not the kind of woman to dissolve into a fit of vapors at the first sign of trouble. She was resilient.
“How much has George told you?” he asked.
“Everything, Mr. Roebuck.”
“Did he mention what happened to your predecessor?”
“He was beaten up when you reached Japan. Have no fear. I’m not going into this with my eyes shut. I know the risks, and I’m prepared to take them. We’ve been in tight corners before,” she said, stating a fact rather than boasting of an achievement, “but, as you see, we lived to tell the tale.”
“George is a lucky man.”
“We need luck in this business.”
“That’s not what I meant, Miss Masefield.”
“We’re here to do a job,” she said crisply. “That’s all that matters.”
He became solemn. “I agree. Now, this is my suggestion. Rance Gilpatrick is far too wily a character to take chances with, but his latest ‘wife’ is a different matter. Her name is Maxine Gilpatrick—at least, that’s the name she’s using. We haven’t seen her before. She’s new, less suspicious, easier to get at. I think that you should target her.”
“That was George’s feeling as well.”
“Don’t make it too obvious. If at all possible, find a way to get acquainted with her. Who knows? She might just let something slip.”
“I hope so.”
“You have a kind face. Women will confide in you.”
“Men confide in me as well,” she said wryly. “Unfortunately, they always seem to confide the same thing, so the conversations tend to be short.”
Roebuck grinned. “You have to pay a price for your beauty, Genevieve.”
“I found that out a long time ago.”
“I’m sure. Well,” he said, spreading his arms, “any way I can help you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What has George asked you to do?”
“Concentrate on the first-class passengers.”
“I’d go along with that. You’d look a bit out of place in steerage.”
“They must have their share of crime down there, Mr. Roebuck.”
“Oh, sure,” he agreed. “But it’s petty stuff. What can you steal from people who sometimes don’t have much more than the clothes they stand up in? Steerage belongs to the small fry, Miss Masefield. We’re hunting a killer shark named Rance Gilpatrick.”
Dillman got his first look at Rance Gilpatrick that morning. After an early breakfast, Dillman went up to the bridge to introduce himself to Captain Piercey and to listen to his comments about security onboard ship. The two men got on well. Aware of Dillman’s interest in marine architecture, the captain showed him around the bridge, then pointed out the salient features of the vessel. It was when the detective made his way down to the boat deck that he encountered Gilpatrick. The latter was unmistakable. He was a big, bulky man in his fifties who had paid an expensive tailor to disguise his spreading girth beneath a well-cut waistcoat and jacket. His face was large and flabby, with a neat mustache beneath the prominent nose and side whiskers that had been dyed black to banish the traces of gray. It was the eyes that Dillman noticed first. Though his face bore a contented smile, Gilpatrick’s eyes were cold and watchful. They missed nothing.
Rance Gilpatrick was promenading around the boat deck with his putative wife on his arm. A woman of medium height, Maxine Gilpatrick was in her early thirties, but her Junoesque proportions made her look older than she really was. She had the kind of glamour that hinted at a career as a showgirl. Her flamboyant clothing turned most heads, and she clearly enjoyed creating an impression. As they walked past him, Dillman had little time to make an accurate assessment of her, but he sensed a proprietary air about Maxine. It was almost as if Gilpatrick were on her arm and not the other way around. Dillman wondered if they were, after all, legally married.
Not wishing to draw attention to himself, he made no attempt to trail them. Instead, he made his way down through the ship toward the orlop deck, intending to take a closer look at the freight now that he had permission from the captain and a set of keys. Dillman got no farther than the main deck. It was a bright morning and the sun was reflected on the curling waves. Most passengers had been tempted out to take a walk or to lie in deck chairs. One of them had a more serious purpose. When Dillman reached the main deck, he saw the man less than ten
yards away. Father Slattery was in his element. Crouching down, he was talking to a group of Chinese who were seated on a bench. The priest was not haranguing them at all. His voice was low and persuasive. Dillman could see the effect he was having on his little congregation. They were entranced by what he was saying. This was a new side to Father Slattery. In place of the urgent Christian with the bellicose manner was a gentle shepherd in search of a flock. Dillman had to accept that Slattery might well turn out to be a gifted missionary in China.
Hauling himself upright, the priest shook hands with everyone on the bench, then turned around. Before he could escape, Dillman was spotted. Slattery descended on him.
“Good morning!” he said, grasping Dillman’s hand between both of his own. “I didn’t expect to see you down here among the steerage passengers.”
“I was having a gentle tour of the whole vessel, Father Slattery.”
“Would you care for some company?”
Dillman was firm. “No, thank you.”
“Too early in the day to discuss your beliefs?”
“Far too early, Father Slattery.”
“Then let me give you some advice,” warned the other in a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t get too close to Mr. Blaine. They’re charming but untrustworthy.”
“Who are?”
“Baptists.”
“But Mr. Blaine and I were not talking about religion.”
“When you break bread with a Baptist, you’re always talking about religion even if you didn’t realize it. They’re as subtle as snakes. They try to influence you.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing as well, Father Slattery?” asked Dillman.
The priest beamed. “I have an excuse. It’s my job.” He looked around the crowded deck. “The Chinese are a simple people. It will be a challenge to work among them, but it will be a rewarding one.” He indicated the bench nearby. “My friends over there were delighted when I pointed out that there were no class distinctions in heaven. God expects nobody to travel in the cramped conditions of steerage. His love embraces all of us. Everyone shares the luxuries of first class in heaven.”
“That’s a comforting thought,” said Dillman, about to leave.
“You haven’t told me what church you attend yet.”
“My parents were devout Episcopalians.”
“Good!” said Slattery, rubbing his palms together gleefully. “That’s promising.”
“Is it?”
“Of course, Mr. Dillman. Baptists are beyond recall, but Episcopalians are more accessible to rational discussion. It means that we can have some wonderful arguments.”
Fay Brinkley thought she saw something twinkling on the distant horizon. She sat up.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Where?” Genevieve looked in the direction in which her companion was pointing. “I’m not sure,” she said when she picked out the glinting object. “It must be another ship.”
“That’s reassuring. We seem to be so completely alone out here.”
“The Pacific is a vast ocean.”
“Yes, Genevieve. It’s a little frightening at times.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that anything frightened you, Fay.”
“Oh, lots of things frighten me,” admitted the other.
“Such as?”
“The idea of dining with Mr. McDade again.”
Genevieve laughed. “That’s not frightening—it’s terrifying!”
The two women were reclining in deck chairs in a sheltered corner of the promenade deck. Their friendship was slowly blossoming, and they were now on first-name terms. Fay Brinkley was turning out to be a woman of accomplishments. She had published three volumes of poetry, edited a political journal, and been involved in the campaign for women’s suffrage. Genevieve was certain that other facets of her talent would emerge in time. Fay now began to probe on her own account.
“What made you decide to leave England in the first place, Genevieve?”
“Oh, the usual thing.”
“A disastrous romance?”
“I’m afraid so,” admitted Genevieve. “A broken engagement. To be honest, there was nothing to keep me in England. My parents had recently died and, since I was an only child, there was no close family. So, instead of moping over what had happened, I elected to see something of the world instead.”
“A wise decision. You don’t strike me as the type who mopes.”
“I’m not, Fay. Besides, when I’d called the whole thing off, I was more relieved than upset. I felt that I’d had a lucky escape.”
“So it was you who terminated the engagement?”
“Comprehensively.”
“Why was that?”
“My fiancé did something that I found quite unforgivable.”
“I wish that more young women had your resolve,” said Fay, “but they don’t, alas. One of the failings of our sex is that we have too great a capacity for forgiveness. We put up with things that ought to be rejected wholesale. Look at Blanche McDade,” she went on. “I suspect that her entire marriage has been an act of willful toleration. What woman of spirit would let an oaf of a husband dominate her in that way?”
“She must have loved him once, Fay.”
“And now she’s financially dependent on him. The familiar story.”
“Is that why you never married?”
“But I did, Genevieve. When I was too young to know any better.”
“How long did it last?”
“Little over a year. Disenchantment set in during the honeymoon.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to be,” said Fay cheerily. “Everyone benefited in the long run. My ex-husband is now happily married to a doting second wife. She’s borne him four children and doesn’t seem to mind the fact that he spends most of his free time playing golf or smoking cigars at his club. Somehow that way of life didn’t appeal to me.”
“I can see that.”
“My parents were horrified at first. They did everything they could to prevent me from leaving. Divorce was anathema to them. It carried a stigma that, quite frankly, I’ve never felt.”
“Fear of divorce is a powerful thing,” said Genevieve. “Especially in England. It keeps unhappy marriages together. Rather than face the social embarrassment, some men and women endure the most awful misery in the name of holy matrimony.”
“Were your parents happy?”
“Not exactly, Fay. They never argued in front of me, mark you. On the other hand, I can’t remember them sharing any real joy together. My mother seemed to accept that as the way it had to be.”
“Fatalism.”
Genevieve was rueful. “She schooled me to look nice, speak politely, and be agreeable. It never occurred to her that women were put on this earth for other reasons than simply making themselves attractive to men.”
“What would she do if she saw you now?”
“Disapprove strongly.”
“Not necessarily,” said Fay. “In her heart, your mother might envy you.”
“I think she might at that. She never had the chances that I did.”
“It’s not the chances, Genevieve. It’s the courage to take them when they come along. You know the value of seizing opportunity.”
“I haven’t done it as successfully as you, Fay.”
“Oh, there’s been a lot of failure mixed in with my success,” confessed Fay. “One thing I can say, however. I’d much rather be where I am now than raising four children and listening to my husband snoring all night.” She turned to appraise Genevieve. “What do you picture yourself doing in a year’s time?”
“I really don’t know, Fay.”
“Does that worry you?”
“No,” said Genevieve. “It doesn’t. Actually, it rather excites me.”
Fay Brinkley nodded in approval and gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. The conversation continued. They were enjoying each other’s company so much that they did not realize
that they were under observation. Standing some distance away, David Seymour-Jones had a clear view of the couple as he used a pencil on his sketch pad. He looked shabbier than ever and wore a battered straw hat. Though he was watching two women, only one of them appeared on the white paper. When he had finished the portrait, he tore it out of the pad, examined it critically, then took a deep breath.
Genevieve was listening intently to Fay when he came up to accost her. After a mumbled apology, he thrust the piece of paper into her hand, lifted his hat in farewell, then shuffled quickly away. Genevieve stared down at the flattering portrait of her.
Fay Brinkley was amused. “I did warn you, didn’t I?”
FIVE
Something was wrong. George Porter Dillman’s years as a detective on land and sea had sharpened his instincts considerably. As he checked the freight in one of the holds, he sensed that it was not quite what it purported to be. At face value, it all tallied with the manifest. Boxes, barrels, sacks, cases, and other containers had been neatly docketed after examination by the customs officials. Every item bore a label that carried details of its contents, its weight, its country of origin, its sender, and its intended recipient. In stacking the cargo, the crew had made maximum use of space. Fragile items had been handled with great care and stored in protected areas. Dillman took a last look around the hold. Flour was the principal export, but there were other foodstuffs there as well. He wondered why he felt so uneasy about the consignment. Though it appeared to be perfectly in order, he was nagged by the thought that something was amiss. The name of Rance Gilpatrick inevitably popped into his mind.
When he had locked the door after him, he made his way along a narrow passageway on the orlop deck. It was a far cry from the luxury of the first-class areas. Concessions to comfort simply did not exist here. There were no thick carpets and paneled walls. Expensive lampshades had been replaced by bulbs that gave minimal light. No framed paintings added color and interest. It was a part of the vessel that was purely functional. It smelled faintly of oil. His footsteps echoed on the metallic floor and his shoulders brushed the bare walls. The roar of the engines was amplified. He could feel their vibrations. Deep inside the hull, Dillman was just as intrigued as he would have been on the bridge deck. Maritime design fascinated him. As he made his way toward the lower orlop deck, he studied the construction of the vessel, noting features that would have been invisible to the untrained eye.
