He said nothing. He simply opened the door and let Alma in.
Her eyes raced over the room. Nothing horrid or disordered was in view. A few of Lydia's things. Hairbrush and comb, scent bottles and vanity bag on the dressing table. Pink slippers by the bed. A newspaper on the floor. Tissue paper from her packing neatly folded on the writing table. The cabin trunk against the wall beside the chest of drawers. It was closed.
The door clicked as Walter pushed it shut.
Alma turned and asked him, is it done? Did you..?'
He dipped his head the merest fraction.
At this moment she had planned to fling her arms about his neck and press her face to his. It was to be the turning point in their romance, the moment of liberation. He was free at last. It was like the final chapter of all the novels that had moved her most.
Yet something in her or in Walter held her back. She could not bring herself to touch him. She told herself that he had done this thing for her, that he was brave and cool and resolute, that it confirmed his love as certainly as any ordeal man had undergone in quest of woman. But it had marked him. He was a murderer. Those hands had been in touch with death. Was it possible to love a man and be repelled by him?
He seemed to sense her feeling. He made no move towards her. He asked, 'What did you do? Did you go to lunch? Did you tell people you were Lydia?'
'Of course!' She launched into a copious account of her afternoon. Talking was a release. She found herself imparting confidence by glossing over her attacks of nerves. She felt a duty to restore this shaken man to something like his former self. Anything to suppress the sense of shock that made her shrink from him.
He appeared to listen avidly. He said, 'My dear, I thank you. You have done wonderfully. What time is it now?'
'Almost four. We'll be in Cherbourg in an hour. Then across the ocean to America!'
'I don't think we should stay in here together.'
The panic held her in its grip again. 'I don't think I could be in here alone. Walter, I'm not as brave as you.' She eyed the trunk. 'I couldn't!'
'There's no need. I'll stay. There are things to do. I want to find her personal papers.'
'I suppose one of us has to be here.'
'We can't take risks.'
'You looked so dreadful when I came in. Was it more gruesome than you expected?'
He shook his head. 'Not the way you mean. It wasn't the physical part. You can do it a dozen times in your imagination, you can plan it to the last detail, but the reality is different. Give me time, and I'll get over it.' He extended his hand towards her.
If she could only have taken it! Her own hand went to her throat and fiddled with her necklace. 'Yes,' she said in a low voice, 'we have to come to terms with what we have done. I think I will need time, too.'
He said, 'Time is something we do have, my dear. Why don't you go up on deck and watch us coming in to Cherbourg? The more you're seen, the better. By six we should be under way again, and you'll be wanting to get dressed for dinner. She bought some beautiful new dresses. You'll want to make sure they fit.'
Her eyes went to the trunk again.
He slowly shook his head. 'She unpacked everything.'
'Yes. You are sure they are new?'
'She's never worn them.'
12
Normandy from the sea was a dazzling strip of green with white and grey cottages above blue-pebbled beaches. Cherbourg was a fishing port. It was not built for transatlantic liners. They moored inside the breakwater of the Grande Rade, an outer harbour. Two tenders brought the passengers and luggage. The evening sun flashed on the water. The new arrivals waved to the passengers already in occupation.
Paul Westerfield found the Livingstone Cordells at the rail watching the activity from the boat deck. Barbara saw him first.
'Paul! It's really nice to see you again. Are you going to join us?'
She smiled so warmly that it shamed him. i'd like to, but I have a problem.'
'What's that?'
Marjorie leaned towards her daughter and murmured, ' "Who's that?" is the proper question, honey.'
Barbara followed her mother's look to where Poppy was standing some yards away. 'I thought Poppy left the ship at Southampton!'
Paul nodded and tried to cover his embarrassment. 'She was supposed to. Her timing was a little wrong. She's going to be put down here, only I have this problem I mentioned. My billfold has gone.'
'What do you mean, gone?' said Marjorie. 'Stolen?'
'No, no, I can't say that. I lost it somewhere. I've been all over looking for it. Barbara, you were with us in the Verandah Cafe. I thought I kept my jacket on. Poppy thinks I could have taken it off after we stopped dancing. The billfold could have dropped out.'
Barbara shook her head. 'I don't have any recollection that you took it off. But I left before you two. Have you asked the stewards in the Cafe?'
'Yes, and my cabin steward and the deck stewards. No joy at all.'
'That's too bad!' said Marjorie sympathetically. 'I guess there must be a whole lot of money in there.'
'That wouldn't bother me, only Poppy has to get back to England. It's my fault that she stayed on board.'
'You need money?' said Marjorie without the slightest pause. 'How much do you want? Livy, get out your billfold and give Mr Westerfield whatever he needs.'
Livy knew better than to question his wife. He said, 'Sure,' and started peeling off ten dollar bills.
'Give him ten tens and two hundreds,' ordered Marjorie. 'That should take care of it.'
'I'm really grateful,' said Paul. 'I don't know who else I could have asked.'
'The purser, son,' said Livy. 'He's the guy you see if you need money.'
Marjorie flashed a furious look at Livy and said, 'Only it's a whole lot nicer to go to your friends when you're in a spot of trouble, isn't it, Paul?'
'Absolutely. Thanks, Mr Cordell. I'll make sure you get it back real soon.'
'Forget it,' said Marjorie bounteously. 'Now you had better go and make sure that sweet little English girl knows how to get home.' As Paul left, she added in an aside to Barbara, 'Because we sure as hell don't want to see her again.'
Livy still had his wallet open in his hand. He said, 'Marje, are you going to let me in on what's happening?'
'For heaven's sake, Livy! That boy is Barbara's best hope on the ship.'
'Mother!' said Barbara.
'What I mean is that he's a nice boy, sweetheart. I can tell. Okay, let's admit that Poppy tried to take him over. She was superficially attractive and flirtatious and I can tell you from experience, Barbara, that no man breathing can resist a proposition from a girl like that. They pretty soon find out they made fools of themselves, don't they, Livy? She was nothing. Jetsam — that's the word for her. Just a piece of trash that gets put over the side. Forget her. Paul will, I promise you.'
'So long as he doesn't forget my three hundred bucks,' said Livy.
'I won't chase after him,' said Barbara.
'Of course you won't,' Marjorie agreed. 'He'll be back. After all, he's obligated to us now.'
'I get it,' said Livy.
'Great,' said Marjorie. 'What an agile brain you have, my darling.'
Silence descended on the family for a while. They continued to watch the transfer of passengers from the tender into the ship's side far below them. Further along, the luggage was being lifted from the second tender. It was getting cooler on the boat deck. Not so many people stayed to watch.
'Well, I guess that's it,' said Livy.
'We're not moving from this rail until we see who leaves the ship,' said Marjorie. 'That girl isn't going to make a fool of us a second time.'
Livy shrugged and went back to watching seagulls.
Shortly after, a group of five crossed the gangway to the tender. Four were in trie Cunard blue. The fifth was in gold crepe de chine. Poppy turned and waved. The gangway was pulled in. The ropes were loosened fore and aft. The whistle sounded shrilly. The Mauretan
ia boomed its answer. The tender chugged away and swung towards the inner harbour. Poppy still waved energetically.
'I'm glad I'm not in her shoes now,' said Barbara.
'Don't go feeling sorry for her,' said Marjorie. 'She's the only woman on that tugboat and if I'm any judge at all, that suits her fine. And it wouldn't surprise me if she has Paul's billfold with her.'
13
The ship had been under way again for nearly an hour when Paul Westerfield got his chance to see the purser. The Cherbourg passengers had all been checked. The coconut matting in the embarkation lobby was being taken up. Stacks of luggage waited to be moved. Paul joined the queue of passengers with queries. When his turn came and he started to explain about his billfold, he had the feeling that the purser recognized him, and it was confirmed.
'You're Mr Westerfield, aren't you, sir?'
'Why, yes. How did you..?'
'It's my job to know the passengers, sir. You're travelling with a young lady from England.'
'No. She left the ship at Cherbourg. She was seeing me off' 'I understand. And your wallet has gone. Can I enquire how much it contained?'
'Just over a thousand dollars and my chequebook. Also some photographs, club membership cards and my visiting cards. It's a black leather thing. It has my initials on the front. P.W.'
'Would you wait a moment, sir?' The purser took a key from his pocket and went to a small wall-safe. He could not have been more than thirty-five. He had mastered the art generally practised by elderly English butlers of conveying infinite varieties of meaning through a limited stock of innocuous phrases. It was unwise to press such people. He took Paul's billfold from the safe, it was handed in about an hour ago, sir. I had one of my assistants put it away, for safe keeping.'
'I'm deeply obliged to you.'
'I should check the contents if I were you, sir.'
'Sure.' He opened it and counted the money. 'How about that? It's all there. Every last bill. And the chequebook. Say, who was it handed this in? I'd like to thank the guy personally.'
'A Mr Gordon, sir. An English gentleman. His stateroom is situated on A Deck, above us. Number 26.'
'I'll go there right away. I'd like to buy him a couple of drinks. It's good to know there are still honest people about.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Why, yes.' Paul opened the billfold again. 'Thank you, purser.'
'Thank you, sir.'
In stateroom 26, Jack Hamilton, alias Jack Gordon, toyed with a deck of playing cards. He cut them into two packs. He put them face down on the bedside table and brought them together, riffling them in the usual way, raising the corners so that the cards intermingled. He brought the packs smoothly together, or almost so. He kept them at a slight angle to each other, and slipped the left pack through the right. He completed the move by putting the left bunch on top of the right. The order of the cards was undisturbed. It was a very neat pull-through.
Jack was the man who had recruited Poppy. He was a boatman. A boatman was a professional gambler who worked the ocean liners. The Atlantic crossing was ideal for a game of cards, or, better still, a series. Scores of boatmen made a living on the liners. Jack had learned the game by observation. He had been on ships before the war. He had seen the boatmen working. In those days they would sit around the smoking room and wait to see which pigeons came for plucking.
Now it was more professional. Nothing was left to chance. They examined the passenger list days before sailing. They selected their mark. They checked his business holdings. They took stock of his real estate. They decided how much to take him for. They used accomplices like Poppy to bait the trap.
There was more to it than that. They studied the crew lists as well. They checked the names of the pursers and the masters-at-arms. They worked all the Atlantic lines, White Star, Cunard, Hamburg-Amerika, North German Lloyd, Transat, Holland America, Canadian Pacific and Pierpont Morgan's half-dozen American lines. If they used the same ship again, it was always after eighteen months or more. Even then, they reckoned never to make the strike at sea. They spent the crossing setting up the victim. They cleaned up in Manhattan, in the mark's hotel. In England they would sometimes play the last game in a compartment of the boat train.
Jack travelled without much luggage. He needed two lounge suits, an evening suit, some reassuring neckties and a range of shirts and underclothes. He carried cigarettes, seed money and his pack of cards. He used the cards only to practise with. All games on board were played with packs bought from the smoking room stewards.
There came the knock he was expecting. He put the cards away in a drawer. He went to the door.
It was the mark. 'Mr Gordon, we haven't met. My name is Westerfield. Paul Westerfield II. I apologise for intruding on you. I just wanted to express my gratitude to you for handing in my billfold.'
'Ah, it was yours then. I hope nothing is missing.'
'Not a cent. Look, Mr Gordon, would you give me the chance to convey my thanks by buying you a couple of drinks?'
'Forget it, Mr Westerfield. There's no need. I appreciate the offer, but I'd rather not.'
'Please. I insist.'
'I'm not really a drinking man. Bar stools give me backache, to be honest.'
'A coffee after dinner, then, with a glass of brandy. We can take it in the lounge.'
'You've tempted me.'
'Good. I'll look out for you. Did I say my name is Paul?'
'Mine is Jack. I'll look forward to it, Paul.'
When the door closed, Jack took out the cards again.
14
In the wardrobe were seven evening gowns, all new. Alma accepted Walter's word that they were new. They had the fresh smell of fabrics that had not been close to flesh. They were made in fine silk and satin and georgette. They were superbly finished. She would have adored them in a dress shop. In Lydia's stateroom she had to brace herself to touch them. At last she picked out one in black georgette with embroidered water lilies.
'This one will do,' she said to Walter. 'May I go into the bathroom to try it on?'
'Of course you may. This is your stateroom now.'
'Yes.' She tried to sound convincing, but she had not convinced herself. While Lydia's body was contained inside the trunk, the stateroom was a tomb. Everything they did in there defiled it. She was not even sure how she would feel after Walter had pushed the body through the porthole. It had to be done after dark. Then Alma faced the prospect of sleeping there alone. In all their planning she had tried to dismiss that from her mind.
Inside the bathroom she quietly slipped the bolt across the door. She still felt shy of Walter. It was not rational. They were going to live as man and wife. There would be no wedding. If their life together had a starting point it was the moment he had put the pad of chloroform to Lydia's face. Yet she was unwilling to change her clothes in front of him.
It was a loose-fitting dress that seemed to suit her figure. It was sleeveless and cut low at the back. She would not have chosen such a style, but now that she saw herself in the mirror she could not deny that it had elegance and flair. She looked rather pale against the black georgette. She had brought Lydia's vanity bag into the bathroom. She gave her face some rouge. She put on some scent that smelt of violets. She began to feel less morbid. She decided to colour her lips.
'What do you think?'
Walter was in the armchair with the paper. He said, 'Why have you painted your lips that colour?'
'I'm supposed to be Lydia. An actress,' and she added for a touch of the theatre, 'darling.'
'I see.' He looked incapable of smiling.
'I wish you were dining with me.'
'I have a job to do.'
'Will you need help?' she asked, dreading that he would say yes.
'The only help you can give me is to stay away as long as possible. Watch the dancing, visit the library and choose a book, order a late coffee in the lounge. What I have to do cannot be done until everything is quiet.'
'I'll wait until after m
idnight.'
'That should be late enough. People retire early on the first night. Here's the key. I shall be gone when you let yourself in. And of course so will…' He glanced towards the trunk.
'Darling, would you do one thing to relieve my mind? Would you leave the lid open so that I know it is empty?'
'I promise you I will.'
'Shall I see you in the morning?'
He shook his head, i think it would be safer not to meet again before New York. They don't like second class passengers straying off limits. The stewards are very quick to notice anything like that. You have been very brave today, and the worst of it is over.'
'I hope so. I feel a lot more sympathy for Dr Crippen and Ethel Le Neve.'
'Yes, indeed. But we haven't made the mistakes that they did. I think we ought to forget about Crippen. I'm supposed to be Walter Dew. I feel a lot more comfortable in his shoes.'
The bugle sounded for dinner. Walter got up and took a black stole from one of the drawers. 'It might be cold later tonight.' He placed it gently round Alma's shoulders without touching her skin. He seemed to know that she still could not bear to be touched.
She thanked him and said, 'I shall be thinking of you.'
As he opened the door, he whispered, 'Thank you.'
He was still in a state of shock. She wished she had the strength of mind to have kissed him.
She joined the general movement to the dining saloon. The ship's orchestra was playing there among the potted palms. Everyone had dressed for dinner, the men in white ties and stiff collars, the women in a blaze of jewels. At many of the tables people were standing to greet acquaintances or fellow-travellers from previous crossings.
'Excuse me.'
Alma looked up, expecting to see the steward. A man she had never seen before was standing by the table. He was tall and thin, with a face that was so marked by weather or whisky or something that she could not have failed to place him. The creases and wrinkles somehow combined to achieve a very disarming smile. His eyes smiled too. He was probably under fifty. He said, 'You are the actress, Lydia Baranov?'
The False Inspector Dew Page 11
