Murder on the Minnesota

by Conrad Allen

  “I know nothing about those things!” yelled McDade.

  “We have reason to believe that you do, sir.”

  “I export copperware and leatherwear. Those invoices were planted on me.”

  “Do you have business dealings with Mr. Gilpatrick?”

  “No, he’s just a friend.”

  “Then why did you give him catalogs from some gun manufacturers? I saw them with my own eyes when I searched his cabin,” said Dillman. “The game is up, Mr. McDade. Smuggling is a serious crime. Gun running is particularly obnoxious.”

  McDade caved in. The purser ordered one of the men to take him off to the master-at-arms to be locked up. Dillman was more concerned about Blanche McDade. Stunned by the revelation, she sat in a chair and stared in front of her. Dillman knelt down beside her.

  “I’m sorry about this, Mrs. McDade,” he said softly. “I’m sure that you had nothing whatsoever to do with it. I could see that from your reaction. Your husband will have to face charges, I’m afraid, but you can continue to occupy this cabin.” He put a comforting arm on her shoulder. “Would you like us to call a stewardess?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Is there anything else we can do for you?”

  “Look in his case.”

  “What?”

  “Look in his case,” she whispered. “My husband keeps a gun in there.”

  It was one more piece of damning evidence. When he had searched the case and taken possession of it, the purser thanked her for her help, then led the others out. When the door closed behind them, he turned to Dillman.

  “She needs help, George.”

  “I know.”

  “This has knocked her senseless. Do you think I should call the doctor?”

  “Let’s send a nurse of sorts instead,” suggested Dillman. “Genevieve knows Mrs. McDade well. She’ll be happy to talk to her. Besides, her cabin is just around the corner. Let’s see if she’s there, by any chance. She deserves to know what we found in the cargo hold. It was Genevieve who got that key for us.”

  They moved off swiftly. Reaching the cabin, Dillman knocked on the door.

  “It’s me, Genevieve,” he called. “Are you there?”

  Muffled sounds came from within, followed by a taut silence. Dillman knocked again but there was no reply. Sensing trouble, he took a master key from the purser and inserted it into the lock as quietly as he could. Mike Roebuck and two armed men stood ready. When Dillman flung open the door, they charged in after him. Genevieve was tied to the chair with Tommy Gault behind her, one hand over her mouth. Rance Gilpatrick glared at the newcomers. Seeing the hopelessness of their position, Gault made a dash for the door but Dillman intercepted him. He was seething with anger that rough hands had been laid on Genevieve. Bunching a fist, he swung a punch that caught Gault on the ear and sent him reeling. When the boxer recovered and came back at him, he had the barrel of a gun thrust at his chest. He backed away, cursing under his breath.

  “Get him out of here,” said Roebuck. “Lock him up with the others.”

  “What others?” asked Gilpatrick.

  “Mr. Hayashi and Mr. McDade. Your fellow gun runners.”

  While the two men dragged Gault out, Dillman undid the ropes that held Genevieve and embraced her. She was frightened but not hurt, explaining how the two men had been in her cabin when she returned there. Dillman turned on Gilpatrick.

  “You need some lessons in how to treat a lady with courtesy,” he said, squaring up to him. “No wonder your wife ran out on you.”

  “Shut up!” howled Gilpatrick.

  He hurled himself at Dillman, but he was no match for the detective. Pushing him away, Dillman delivered a relay of punches that sent him staggering back against the wall. Blood was streaming from Gilpatrick’s nose. He had had enough.

  “It’s my duty to place you under arrest, Mr. Gilpatrick,” said the purser.

  “On what charge?”

  “Smuggling. We have invoices that bear your name and catalogs found hidden beneath your mattress from gun manufacturers. They were given to you by Joseph McDade, who is already behind bars.”

  “This is nothing to do with me, Mr. Roebuck,” said Gilpatrick, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief and changing his tack completely. “Look, we’re all adults here. I’m sure that we can sort this out between ourselves.” He reached for his wallet. “I can see that I’ve put all three of you to considerable trouble and you deserve compensation. What would you say to five hundred dollars apiece?”

  Dillman bristled. “I’d say we should add a charge of attempted bribery.”

  “McDade and Hayashi are the real criminals here.”

  “Save your lies for the courtroom, Mr. Gilpatrick,” warned the purser. “The jury won’t believe them any more than you do. The evidence against you is overwhelming.”

  “Take him out, Mike,” said Dillman.

  Roebuck moved to the door. “Come on, Mr. Gilpatrick.”

  Gilpatrick stared first at Dillman, then switched his gaze to Genevieve.

  “I knew that there was something fishy about you,” he said, his voice dark with rancor. “All the time you were making friends with my wife, you were really after me. You were too good to be true, Miss Masefield. Now I can see why.”

  “Out!” snapped the purser.

  Grabbing the prisoner by the neck, he dragged him off. Dillman shut the door after them, then went to wrap Genevieve in his arms once more. She was able to show her emotions now, clinging tightly as her eyes began to moisten.

  “Thank heaven you came when you did, George. He was terrifying.”

  “Did he touch you at all?”

  “No, but it was only a matter of time.”

  “How did they get on to you?”

  “Gilpatrick realized how we’d tricked the key out of Gault.”

  “It must have been a nasty moment,” said Dillman, “finding them both in here.”

  “It was dreadful. I thought that they were going to kill me.”

  He hugged her even harder. “You’re safe now, Genevieve. They can’t hurt you. Mike and I broke open some boxes in the cargo hold and found them full of weapons. Paperwork inside the boxes ties Gilpatrick with Hayashi and McDade.”

  “That’s something I found out,” she said. “McDade has a gun.”

  “His wife told us about it. Mike Roebuck has confiscated it.”

  Genevieve was surprised. “Blanche McDade told you?”

  “She was in the cabin when we arrested her husband. It all came as a terrible blow to her. In fact, she was so shocked, I thought she needed a friend in there to offer solace. That’s why we came looking for you,” he explained. “But it turned out that you were the one in need of assistance.”

  “I’m much better now,” she said, giving him a kiss of gratitude. “It was a kind thought, George. If she’s in her cabin, I’ll see if I can comfort her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “She’s a nice woman. I want to help.”

  “Mrs. McDade will appreciate that. But don’t stay in there indefinitely.”

  “Why not?”

  “You have a date with me this evening, Genevieve,” he said proudly. “We’re dining at the captain’s table, and the invitation couldn’t come at a more appropriate time. I think we have a lot to celebrate.”

  When he tied his tie that evening, Rutherford Blaine noticed that his hands were trembling. The suspense was telling on him. While he had every confidence in the ship’s detectives, the fact had to be faced that they seemed no nearer to apprehending the man who was trying to kill him. The task was daunting. On a ship carrying almost eighteen hundred people, it was extremely difficult to pick out the would-be assassin. Time was on his side. There was over a week before they reached Japan and, no matter how vigilant his guards, opportunities for an attack were bound to arise. Blaine was frightened. He was on a secret government mission, yet his thoughts were not about affairs of state. All that he could think of was his wife,
Marie, sitting innocently at home as she awaited his return from diplomatic duties. He could imagine how her world would crumble if she received news that her husband had been murdered.

  A tap on the door caught him unawares and made him jump.

  “Who is it?” he asked through the door.

  “George Dillman,” came the reply.

  “I’ll be with you in one moment, Mr. Dillman.”

  “There’s no hurry, sir.”

  Blaine put on his tailcoat, then checked his appearance in the mirror. After brushing a stray hair back into place with his hand, he decided that he was ready. He opened the door and saw Dillman waiting for him. He noticed the bruising on his temple.

  “What happened to your head?” he asked, shutting the door behind him.

  “I had to subdue someone in the course of an arrest.”

  Blaine’s face ignited with hope. “The assassin?”

  “Unfortunately not, sir,” said Dillman, falling in beside him as they walked toward the stairs. “It was a parallel investigation that ended very successfully. A gang of smugglers is now under lock and key.”

  “I’d feel more secure if the killer had been caught.”

  “He will be, Mr. Blaine.”

  “When?”

  “Very soon.”

  “Do you have any more clues as to his identity?”

  Dillman took a deep breath. “We’re working on the case.”

  “In other words, you’ve made no progress.”

  “Be patient, sir. These things can’t be rushed.”

  “I’m just wondering how long I have to put up with being escorted everywhere.”

  “Until we’ve got the person or persons responsible for the murder of Father Slattery,” said Dillman. “It’s only a matter of waiting. The vital clue will fall into our laps when we least expect it.”

  ______

  Since she was dining at the captain’s table, Genevieve made a special effort. She put on her favorite dress, an evening gown in ivory-colored taffeta, simply trimmed with ruches and a round-shaped silver band. The skirt was rather full on the hips, the attractive frou-frou at the feet secured by broad flounces that were trimmed with pleated ruches, arranged in festoons. A pearl necklace and pearl earrings completed the outfit. After twirling in front of the mirror, she was satisfied. Genevieve was ready to cut a dash in the dining saloon. Knowing that Dillman was on escort duty elsewhere, she set off alone. Waiting for her at the top of the staircase was David Seymour-Jones. He saw her hesitate.

  “I only came to apologize, Miss Masefield,” he said quickly, surging forward. “I hadn’t realized that I was being such a nuisance.”

  “You’re nothing of the kind, Mr. Seymour-Jones,” she lied without conviction.

  “Yes, I am. When I first met you, we were two of the few English people on a ship full of foreigners. Actually,” he confessed, “I think of Americans as even more foreign than the Japanese and Chinese. Don’t ask me why. But I have distressed you without meaning to in the least. Mrs. Langmead scolded me for it.”

  “Mrs. Langmead?”

  “That wasn’t the reason she came looking for me,” he went on. “I upset her husband earlier today, and she wanted to know why. He’s such a placid man, she said, though I didn’t find him very placid on the main deck.”

  “What was he doing down there?”

  “That’s what I asked him, and he got very angry with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I still don’t know, Miss Masefield,” he said. “After all, it was Mr. Langmead who suggested that I ought to start charging for portraits. When I saw him on the main deck, I was sketching an interesting group of passengers and the two of them were on the very edge of it.”

  “The two of them?”

  “He was talking to one of the stewards. A Chinaman with a hideous bruise on his face. I was just drawing them in outline when Mr. Langmead saw me.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He went wild,” said Seymour-Jones. “He accused me of spying on him and tore the sketch up. The steward disappeared in a flash. Mr. Langmead warned me that if I ever tried to draw him again, he’d report me to the purser. Then he charged off.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Horace Langmead.”

  “When he tore up that sketch, he destroyed an hour’s patient work.”

  “This steward you mention,” she asked. “Was he from steerage?”

  “Oh, yes. You could tell from his uniform. Perhaps that’s why Mr. Langmead went down there. The man wouldn’t have been allowed in first-class areas of the ship. Anyway,” he continued, “that isn’t why I came to speak to you, Miss Masefield. I simply wanted to apologize and to say how disappointed I am that you won’t be playing the piano at the concert. Mr. Gilpatrick told me that when he sacked me.”

  “Sacked you?”

  “Yes, I won’t be designing any posters now. Not that it matters,” he said with an admiring smile. “If you’re not involved, I wouldn’t do the posters anyway.”

  Genevieve was touched. The artist’s attentions had troubled her in the past, but he seemed so innocuous now. She felt sorry for him. Before she could say anything else, however, her other suitor suddenly materialized beside her. Willoughby Kincaid frowned.

  “My goodness!” he exclaimed. “You already have an escort, Miss Masefield.”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Kincaid,” she said. “Do you know Mr. Seymour-Jones?”

  “We’ve seen each other around.”

  The artist shook the proffered hand. “How do you do, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “I’m a little crestfallen, to tell you the truth,” said Kincaid. “I’d hoped that Miss Masefield—resplendent as she is this evening—would finally recognize me for the splendid fellow that I am and choose me as her beau. But you got here first, sir.”

  “I simply wanted to speak to Miss Masefield,” explained Seymour-Jones.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Genevieve happily. “As it happens, I’m dining at the captain’s table this evening with a certain gentleman. But there’s no reason why the two of you shouldn’t escort me to the dining saloon.” She offered both arms. “Well?”

  All three of them were soon descending the stairs together.

  George Porter Dillman was never off duty. While he savored the pleasure of being at the captain’s table, his eyes scanned the room constantly. Rutherford Blaine was still under threat of death and the chances were that someone in the dining saloon was involved in the plot to kill him. No matter how often he looked around, however, Dillman could discern nobody who was taking a particular interest in Blaine. Seated between Fay Brinkley and Moira Legge, the diplomat was comfortable and relaxed. He never even glanced in Dillman’s direction. Fay Brinkley did, however, on more than one occasion. There was mingled surprise and resignation in her eyes when she saw Dillman beside Genevieve Masefield, but there was no hint of chagrin.

  When her gaze shifted to Genevieve, it was compounded of affection and disappointment, an older woman’s acceptance of a friend’s superior beauty and charm. Genevieve caught her eye and collected a smile from Fay. She was relieved. Being seen by Kincaid and by Seymour-Jones was an advantage to her. They identified her and Dillman as a couple and saw that their own hopes were doomed. Fay was a different matter. Her interest was in Dillman, and she flattered herself that she was slowly engaging his emotions. Genevieve admired the bravery and lack of bitterness with which she seemed to acknowledge defeat. It meant that their friendship would survive.

  In a dining saloon that was almost full to the brim, some people were conspicuous by their absence. Rance Gilpatrick, Tommy Gault, Joseph McDade, and Mr. Hayashi were all being held in custody. In the circumstances, neither Blanche McDade nor Mrs. Hayashi felt able to be seen in public and they were dining in their rooms. Maxine Gilpatrick, by contrast, was unabashed. The news that her husband had been arrested neither shocked nor upset her. It was something that she knew would happen one day, and she responded to the situation with
fortitude. Instead of skulking in her cabin, therefore, she put on her most spectacular evening gown and sailed into the room as if making an entrance onstage. Sharing a table with the Langmeads, she was eating heartily and joining in the animated conversation. When she realized that Genevieve was watching her, she looked up, flicked a glance at Dillman, then grinned in approval at her friend.

  But it was Horace Langmead who attracted her attention most of all. Sleek and jovial, he sat among friends and chortled merrily. He was the same man Genevieve had met on her first day aboard. But the one who intrigued her was the person who had been so incensed by a harmless artist that he had torn up his drawing. Some of Langmead’s comments echoed in Genevieve’s ears. One of the first things he had said to her was that Japan was too good for the Japanese. Had it really been the joke that it had sounded? His wife had confided that Langmead thought the Japanese deceitful and preferred the Chinese. He had certainly championed Chinese fashion over Parisian. But it was something else that triggered suspicion in her mind. When the name of Lord Rosebury had been mentioned at the table, Horace Langmead had known instantly who he was. Many English people would not be aware of who the former foreign secretary was. An American who identified him at once must have known of his visits to the Far East.

  “George,” she said after long contemplation, “I’ve got some news.”

  “What’s that?” he said, enjoying the excuse to lean in close to her.

  “I think I might know who the killer is.”

  When the meal was over, Dillman waited until the captain had left before he escorted Genevieve toward the exit. On their way, they paused beside Fay Brinkley’s table. She was disturbed by the sight of the bruising on Dillman’s temple. It was something she had not noticed in the subdued lighting on the previous night. Fay thought that it gave him a more rugged look. She squeezed Genevieve’s arm and spoke in a whisper.

  “I saw him first,” she complained with a smile.

  “Not quite.”

  “I said that you were a dark horse.”

  “I’ll explain everything tomorrow, Fay.”