by Conrad Allen
Mike Roebuck had worked on passenger vessels too long to be surprised by anything. Stowaways were a predictable hazard. The purser sighed with resignation.
“How many of them were there, George?” he asked.
“Two. Wu Feng and his father.”
“Hiding on the orlop deck?”
“Yes,” said Dillman. “Heaven knows how they got down there! Steerage is uncomfortable enough but at least you get a bunk, even if you have to share a cabin with complete strangers. The Fengs were sleeping on the bare floor. They had virtually no luggage.”
“What about food and water?”
“Barely enough to survive on.”
“They must be desperate.”
“They were, Mike. They implored me not to report them.”
“Poor guys!” commented the purser. “What a way to travel! Most stowaways sneak aboard, then mingle with the steerage passengers during the day to cadge food from them. It sounds as if these two would have spent the entire voyage without any natural light. What was their story?”
“They hated America.”
“Then why go there in the first place?”
“The usual hopes of making good. They hadn’t counted on antagonism.”
“Hostility to immigrants is growing all the time.”
“They found that out, Mike. First week they arrived, the old man was beaten up in Seattle. He still has the scars to prove it. Wu Feng couldn’t earn enough to keep the two of them, so they decided to go home.”
“By means of a free trip on the Minnesota.”
“That was the idea,” said Dillman, “but it would never have worked. Sooner or later, one of us was bound to find them down there.”
“They’re lucky. Fifty years ago, skippers weren’t so considerate. They’d have thrown stowaways overboard like any other unwanted cargo. Wu Feng and his father would have had to swim to China.” Roebuck touched the peak of his cap as an elderly female passenger went past. “Where are they now?”
“With the master-at-arms.”
“He’ll sort them out. Thanks, George. You did well.”
“It’s all part of my job.”
“We want you hunting bigger game than a pair of fleeing Chinamen.”
They were standing at the rail on the upper deck. When Dillman tracked him down, the purser was listening to a catalog of complaints from a Mexican passenger whose grasp on English was very insecure. Mike Roebuck had been grateful to be rescued by the detective. Dillman told him about his thorough search of the ship.
“Have you spotted our prime suspect yet?” asked Roebuck.
“Yes, Mike. Your description was as accurate as a photograph.”
“Rance Gilpatrick’s photograph ought to be on a wanted poster.”
“In effect, it is.”
“Was he alone?”
“No, he had the new lady in his life on his arm.”
“What on earth do they see in that fat old fraud?”
“Wealth and power always attract some women.”
Roebuck grinned. “Is that why I lose out with them?”
“You’re too honest to make your fortune the way Gilpatrick did. Besides,” said Dillman, “he’s living on borrowed time. When we catch him, his wealth and power will disappear in a flash.”
“So will his supply of wives.”
“Yes, they’ll run for cover. The present Mrs. Gilpatrick didn’t have the look of a woman who’d stand by him if he went to prison.”
“Maxine might turn out to be his weak spot.”
“That’s what I suggested to Genevieve.”
“I know, George, and I’d reached the same conclusion. I asked your partner to snuggle up to Maxine Gilpatrick in the hope of finding something out.” He gave a wistful smile. “What a treat! If Genevieve Masefield snuggled up to me, I’d tell her everything.”
“Including the fact that you’re married?”
“Don’t spoil my dream!”
“How did you get on with Genevieve?”
“Extremely well. She’s a very special lady.”
“It takes nerve to do the kind of work that she does.”
“She looks as cool as a cucumber.”
“Genevieve will prove her worth on this voyage,” said Dillman fondly. “She always has in the past. Nobody ever suspects her of being a detective. Especially the men. They’re too busy being dazzled by her charm.”
“It worked on me, George. I freely admit it.”
Dillman gazed thoughtfully at the undulating expanse of the Pacific.
“Let’s hope that it works on Maxine Gilpatrick as well,” he said.
Genevieve Masefield was happy to see Fay Brinkley again. Separated during luncheon, they met again in the Ladies’ Boudoir and exchanged notes. Fay listened sympathetically to Genevieve’s tale of woe.
“What rotten luck!” she said. “I had the opposite experience. Everyone at my table was very nice but excessively dull.”
“Oh, Father Slattery wasn’t dull,” conceded Genevieve. “Just annoying.”
“Why did the Langmeads invite him?”
“They’re still trying to work that out, Fay.”
“Let’s make a point of dining together this evening.”
“Yes,” agreed Genevieve, “as far away from Father Slattery as possible.”
“It’s a deal!”
“I was so embarrassed on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Natsuki.”
“They probably dismissed him as another brash American. Anyway,” said Fay with a knowing smile, “let’s put him aside, shall we? I want to hear about the other man in your life.”
Genevieve was caught off-guard. “What other man?”
“Our lovestruck artist.”
“I’d forgotten him.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s forgotten you, Genevieve. Mr. Seymour-Jones has an obsessional look about him. Once he commits himself, he does so to the hilt.”
“Oh dear!”
“You should be flattered.”
“Well, I’m not, Fay.”
“Wouldn’t you like to enjoy a mild flirtation?”
“No,” said Genevieve. “Especially not with David Seymour-Jones.”
“Underneath that bohemian exterior, he’s personable enough. And you saw that portrait he drew of you,” noted Fay. “It was a declaration in itself.”
“It’s not one that I sought or wanted. Why choose me?” asked Genevieve with quiet exasperation. “I’ve done nothing whatsoever to encourage his advances.”
“Try looking in a mirror.”
“What?”
Fay nudged her playfully. “Oh, don’t pretend to be so naive. With a face and figure like yours, you attract men by the dozen. I suspect that you’ve coped with it pretty well until now. David Seymour-Jones is hardly a serious threat to your virtue.”
“I know, Fay, but I wouldn’t like to hurt his feelings.”
“We’re all bound to break a few hearts along the way.”
“Not deliberately.”
“So what will you do?”
“Keep out of his way.” She glanced around. “I may be in here rather a lot.”
“Why?”
“Ladies only. It’s the one place on the ship where I’ll be safe from Father Slattery and David Seymour-Jones. I can keep religion and romance firmly at bay.”
“One of them will still find a way to get to you,” teased Fay.
It was an ideal place for a meeting with a friend. The chairs were comfortable and arranged in a way that allowed complete privacy. Seated in an alcove, Genevieve and Fay had a good view of the rest of the room. There was a scattering of women in the boudoir, exchanging gossip, making plans for the evening, reading magazines, or simply enjoying the melodies that someone was playing on the piano. Genevieve basked in the restful atmosphere. It was a comfort to have a friend like Fay Brinkley in whom she could confide. The American had a worldliness that was noticeably lacking in all the other women Genevieve had so far encountered. Etta Langmead, Mo
ira Legge, and Hisako Natsuki were extensions of their respective husbands, women who had no independent life of their own. Blanche McDade was kept in an even darker shadow of a man. Fay would never settle for being a mere accessory on a man’s arm. It was one of the many things about her that appealed to Genevieve.
The room gradually emptied until only a handful of women remained. Fay excused herself. Genevieve stayed to finish her cup of tea and to reflect on the long conversation she had enjoyed. She realized with a start that the music had stopped. Genevieve was disappointed. Even though she had only heard them intermittently, the soothing melodies in the background had been a delight. She got up and made her way to the piano. Sitting on the stool, she played a few chords, then looked around to see if anyone objected. Nobody even turned a head in her direction. Genevieve played on, starting with the “Moonlight Sonata,” relieved to discover that her fingers still retained much of the skill they had developed during long years of piano lessons. Her confidence slowly grew and she plucked a waltz from her memory. After working through her repertoire, she glanced down at the music in front of her and read the name of Stephen Foster. Humming to herself, she played the first verse of the song. When she started the second verse, she discovered that she had company.
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,
Mermaids are chanting, the wild Lorelei.
Over the stream …
It was not the voice of an amateur, singing the familiar words out of sentimental impulse. The woman was a soprano with perfect pitch, hitting each note with the ease and conviction of a true professional. As the voice soared on, Genevieve felt a hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to play the rest of the song. She was keen to oblige. Acting as accompanist to someone with such obvious talent brought out the best in her. Everyone in the room turned to listen with appreciative smiles. When the final chord was played, they broke into spontaneous applause.
“Thanks, honey!” said the woman. “That was great.”
“You have a wonderful voice,” said Genevieve, getting up to look at her.
“I trained as an opera singer but fell by the wayside.”
“It was a pleasure to play for you.”
“We must do it again some time.”
“I’d like that.”
“You from England?”
“How did you guess?” She offered a hand. “I’m Genevieve Masefield.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said the woman, ignoring the hand and kissing her on both cheeks instead. “My name is Maxine Gilpatrick.”
George Porter Dillman was on his way to the dining saloon that evening when he was intercepted by the purser. Roebuck took him aside to pass on some astonishing news.
“We have a Good Samaritan onboard,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember those stowaways you found?”
“How could I forget them?” asked Dillman.
“They’re stowaways no longer. Someone bailed them out by paying their fare.”
“Who was it?”
“A Catholic priest called Father Slattery.” Dillman was taken aback. “Yes,” Roebuck went on, “it surprised me at first. I mean, who cares about stowaways? Apparently, this Father Slattery has been scouring the ship for repentant sinners. He asked the master-at-arms if we had any bad boys in custody and heard about the Fengs. He took pity on them at once.”
Dillman was touched. “He paid both their fares?”
“Out of his own pocket. They’ve only got bunks in steerage, but that’s a big improvement on spending the voyage under lock and key. Father Slattery is on his way to join a Catholic mission in China.”
“I know, Mike. I’ve met him.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s a prickly character.”
“He must have a good heart as well,” said Roebuck.
“Oh, he does. I’ve seen him in action.”
“He’s given two penniless Chinese a first taste of Christianity.”
“What will happen to Wu Feng and his father?”
“Nothing, George. They’re off the hook.”
“No punishment for sneaking aboard the ship illegally?”
“The master-at-arms didn’t want to let them off scot-free, but Slattery talked him into it. He’s a persuasive guy. Besides,” he continued, “I fancy that being caught by you was punishment enough for the Fengs. They’ve had their scare.”
“So it seems. But I’ve got glad tidings for you as well, Mike.”
Roebuck smiled hopefully. “You’ve caught Gilpatrick red-handed?”
“Not exactly,” said Dillman, “but we’ve made a slight breakthrough. Genevieve has, anyway. I had a note from her to say that she’s made friends with Maxine Gilpatrick. Genevieve is dining at their table this evening.”
“How did she manage that?”
“By playing a piano.”
“Piano?”
“That’s all she said in her note. I’ll get the full details when we meet up later.”
“I can’t wait to hear them!”
Roebuck went off, leaving Dillman to continue on his way to the dining saloon. Dress was much more formal on the second evening afloat. The men wore white ties and tails, while the women took the opportunity to put on their most fashionable dresses. Silk and satin hems brushed the floor. Stoles were draped around shoulders. Jewelry was much more in evidence, and the ship’s hairdressers had clearly been kept busy. When he entered the saloon, Dillman was immediately aware of the pervading scent of perfume. A small orchestra provided music for the occasion. The novelty of the first day was behind the passengers. They could now luxuriate in the vessel’s facilities and concentrate on developing new friendships.
Dillman was at a table for six. Though dining once again with the Changs and with Rutherford Blaine, he acquired two additional companions. Angela Van Bergen was a garrulous woman from New York in her early forties. On her way to Kobe to join her husband, she talked ceaselessly about his business affairs, their fondness for Japan, their regular vacations in exotic corners of the globe, and their plans for retirement. Mrs. Van Bergen had a life that was so supremely organized that it was barren of real adventure. Willoughby Kincaid, by contrast, led a much more freewheeling existence. The sixth person at the table was a tall, well-built man of middle years with a black mustache as the focal point of a once handsome face. In appearance and manner, Kincaid was a perfect English gentleman, but Dillman detected a faintly dissolute air about him. At all events, he was a more entertaining companion than Mrs. Van Bergen. While she paraded her love of Japan in front of the others, Dillman struck up a conversation with the Englishman.
“What brings you to this part of the world, Mr. Kincaid?” he asked.
“Restlessness, sir.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Nature equipped me with itchy feet, Mr. Dillman,” said the other. “I like to keep on the move. When I first left my native shores over twenty years ago, I did so in a jingoistic spirit. I wanted to explore every inch of the British Empire.”
“What happened?”
“I fell in love with the whole idea of travel. Why restrict myself to our imperial domains when there are so many other wonderful places to see? I’m never happier than when I’m in transit. I’m a rolling stone who was educated at Eton.”
“You obviously have no wife and family to hold you back.”
“No, Mr. Dillman. I prefer to travel light. What about you?”
“Oh, I’m not married either.”
“Another lucky bachelor, eh? Able to take his pleasures where he finds them.” He gave a throaty chuckle. “I had a feeling that we were two of a kind.” He leaned in close to Dillman. “What did you think of Seattle?”
“I had very little time to see anything of it, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Pity. It’s a lively town. You’d have liked it.”
“Would I?”
“Rather!” said Kincaid with enthusiasm. “It’s grown a lot in recent years
, but there’s still a rough-and-ready feel to it. Seattle knows how to give a man a good time.”
“That wasn’t always the case,” noted Dillman. “Seattle prospered because it was the gateway to Alaska. When they struck gold in the Klondike, the town was booming. In those days, it was known more for its brawling than its hospitality. Money was flooding in, but there was one item in short supply.”
“Women?”
“Exactly, Mr. Kincaid—though not the kind that you may have in mind.”
Kincaid beamed. “Women are all one to me. Infinitely desirable creatures.” His eye fell on Mrs. Van Bergen. “With one or two exceptions, that is. But do go on, sir.”
“There was a man called Asa Mercer, who was president of the university. He must have been a venturesome individual,” said Dillman, “because he traveled all the way to the East Coast to round up a collection of virginal young ladies, eleven in all, who were ready to marry some of the good citizens of Seattle, sight unseen.”
“Now that’s the kind of assignment that would have appealed to me,” said Kincaid, eyes gleaming. “Driving a wagon full of virgins across the continent.”
“They made excellent wives for the pioneers. On his second trip back east, Mercer found almost fifty women, some of them Civil War widows. To show how highly he rated the ladies, he married one of them himself.”
“Fatal mistake. He was throwing away his freedom.”
“He was helping to build Seattle.”
“Then he deserves full credit for that.”
Willoughby Kincaid was an observant man. Though the ship had only been at sea a couple of days, he had already made several friends and could identify others by name. As he pointed out various people to Dillman, the detective was impressed by his range of acquaintances and by his tenacious memory. Kincaid seemed to forget nothing.
“I’m an explorer, Mr. Dillman,” he explained. “I explore the hearts and minds of people who engage my interest.”
“Is it a rewarding hobby?”
“Very rewarding. One is always learning something new.”
The arrival of the main course marked a natural break in the conversation. Mrs. Van Bergen seized the opportunity to deliver another one of her monologues.
“Of course,” she said with a condescending smile, “my husband and I make an annual visit to England. We probably know London as well as you, Mr. Kincaid, even better in some respects. It’s our second home. We go to the theater and the opera and we’re invited to so many bridge parties. Bridge is a game at which I really excel,” she boasted, revealing a row of large, uneven teeth. “That’s why I’m always in demand as a partner, especially when we play for money. Yes, when we’re in England, it’s one long and delightful social event. My husband has so many friends in high places, you see. We dine out virtually every night. They know us by name in all the best restaurants. We’ve met several aristocrats and, at a ball we attended last year, we even caught a glimpse of King Edward. Such a handsome man, I think, and so unmistakably royal. We’ve heard the rumors, naturally, but I don’t believe a word of them. People who link his name with scandal are just being mischievous. Don’t you think so, Mr. Kincaid? It’s too bad of them. They should have more respect for their monarch.”
