Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  “Are there?” said the stewardess, eyes widening until she realized that it was a joke. She laughed. “Oh, Miss Masefield!”

  “I need to change now.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you for the flowers.”

  “I’ll water them every day.”

  “Oh, I think I’d enjoy doing that for myself.”

  Edith knew it was her cue to leave. “Good-bye,” she said.

  Then she tripped out of the cabin and closed the door behind her.

  George Dillman subjected his steward to much more of an interrogation but he did so in such a casual way that Manny Ellway did not even know that he was being pumped for information.

  “You’ve dealt with American passengers before, I take it?”

  “Lots of them, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Then you’ll know that we’re much more demanding than any other kind. We’re brash, bullying, and we always complain like mad.”

  “That’s not true at all.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve never had the slightest trouble from most of you.”

  “No bad language?” asked Dillman, feigning surprise. “No threats? No hot tempers? No shoes thrown at you?”

  Ellway smiled. “I think you’re pulling my leg, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “You’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t you, sir?”

  “I’m an American. We have no sense of humor whatsoever.”

  “That’s not my experience,” said the steward. “There was a gentleman from Virginia on my last eastbound voyage who told the best jokes I’ve ever heard. That’s what I like about Americans. Most of you seem ready for a good laugh.”

  Dillman grinned. “At least, we have one thing in our favor.”

  “Lots of them. You give bigger tips, for a start.”

  “Are you dropping a hint, Manny?”

  “No, sir. It’s strictly forbidden.”

  “Not in this cabin.”

  Manny Ellway relaxed. He had taken to Dillman at once. For his part, the detective had found his steward a mine of useful detail. Within minutes of meeting him in his cabin, Dillman had discovered the man’s name, place of birth, preferred hobbies, and attitude to the affairs of the day. He had also learned about the running of the ship, its many virtues and minor shortcomings, and who occupied the adjoining cabins. Dillman’s real purpose aboard was always concealed from most of those working on it so it was important for him to appear to be just another passenger. Manny Ellway, he felt confident, would have him marked down as a pleasant American who liked to tease.

  “How many cabins do you look after?” asked Dillman.

  “Enough to keep me out of mischief, sir.”

  “Anybody special?”

  “They’re all special to me, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Good answer. Now tell me the truth.”

  “That is the truth, sir,” said Ellway. He took a step closer. “Now, if you’re asking me whether some people stick out more than others, that’s a different matter, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “Well, we always have our fair share of characters.”

  “Odd people?”

  “Yes, sir. Like them three who joined us in Cherbourg. They’d stand out in any company. Funny lot, them artists.”

  “Artists?”

  “That’s what he is, sir. Abednego Thomas. He’s very well known in England — always in the newspapers.” He sounded a note of disapproval. “He paints them naked ladies.”

  “They’re called nudes.”

  “I know what I calls them and I’m not sure it’s decent. Mr. Thomas has been living in France but he’s going to have an exhibition of his naked ladies in New York. He’s taking two of them with him.”

  “Two nude women?”

  “No, sir. His wife and his model. They’re both very beautiful and years younger than him. You won’t miss Abednego Thomas. He’s the sort of man who makes sure that he gets noticed.”

  “Are you his cabin steward?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “I’m not paid to mind. I just do whatever I’m told.”

  “Even if it means looking after disreputable English artists?”

  “Mr. Thomas is Welsh,” said Ellway in a tone which suggested that that explained everything. “One of the newspapers has given him a rude nickname but I couldn’t bring myself to repeat it.”

  Dillman was glad that Manny Ellway was his steward. The man was efficient, courteous, and experienced. He was talkative without being indiscreet and friendly without making any attempt at ingratiating himself. He would be a valuable pair of eyes and ears for the detective.

  “Did you know that J. P. Morgan is aboard?” asked Dillman.

  “Yes, sir. We was told about him in Southampton.”

  “Why?”

  “So that we can all be on our best behavior. Mr. Morgan owns us.”

  “That’s not strictly true but it certainly wouldn’t be in your interest to upset him in any way. I’m told that he has a temper.”

  “Very true, sir. He’s sailed with us before.”

  “Did someone feel the full force of that temper?”

  “I’m not allowed to pass on gossip, sir.”

  “But it’s taught you to treat Mr. Morgan with great respect.”

  “We do that to all our passengers, Mr. Dillman. Company policy.”

  “J. P. Morgan is a rather special case, however.”

  “I wouldn’t disagree with that.”

  “Are you his steward?”

  “Bless you — no, sir! I’m not senior enough for that.”

  “Does that make you disappointed or relieved?”

  “Neither,” said Ellway, shrugging his shoulders. “Never really think about things like that. I’m happy to let Sid do the honors.”

  “Sid?”

  “Sidney Browne, sir. Been a steward a lot longer than me and what he doesn’t know about this job ain’t worth knowing. Sid always pretends that he hates the life but he loves it, really. One of our veterans, he is. That’s why he got to keep an eye on Mr. Morgan.”

  “A feather in his cap, then.”

  “That’s not the way he looks at it.”

  “Why not?”

  Ellway hesitated. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, sir.”

  “I don’t think that you can tell me anything about Mr. Morgan that I don’t already know or suspect,” said Dillman, feeling that he might glean some valuable information. “My family has had dealings with the gentleman, I fear. We build oceangoing yachts and sailing is one of Mr. Morgan’s favorite leisure pursuits. My father was invited to show him the design for a new yacht and that’s when the trouble started.”

  “Didn’t he like it, sir?”

  “Let’s just say that he and my father did not part on the best of terms. Words were exchanged. Whatever you do, don’t mention this to your friend. If he drops the name of Dillman in Mr. Morgan’s presence, he’s likely to get a flea in his ear.”

  “I wouldn’t tell anyone a story like that, sir.”

  “I knew that I could trust you.”

  “There’s things you pass on and things you don’t.”

  “As long as we both understand that.”

  “We do, sir.”

  Having won his confidence, Dillman felt able to return to his earlier inquiry. He spoke over his shoulder as he was opening a drawer to take out some cuff links.

  “So why isn’t this Sidney Browne proud of the fact that he’s been selected to serve the most important passenger aboard?”

  “Because he’s worried.”

  “About what?”

  “Them things Mr. Morgan has in his stateroom.”

  “Items that he bought in Paris?” asked Dillman, turning to face him. “I know that he collects art treasures from all over Europe. That was the whole purpose of his trip. Mr. Morgan donates paintings and objets d’art to various galleries a
nd museums.” He saw the blank look on Ellway’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry. Objets d’art are simply artistic objects.”

  “Ah, I’m with you now, sir. Old clocks and fancy statues.”

  “Antiques of all kind, Manny — including porcelain. I can’t see anything there that’s going to disturb your friend.”

  “Sid feels responsible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mr. Morgan insists on keeping some of the stuff with him even though passengers are always advised to store anything valuable in our safe. When Sid tried to tell that to Mr. Morgan, he just got this black look so he got out of there quick.”

  “What sorts of items are actually in there?”

  “Books, china, tapestries, paintings …”

  “Why does Mr. Morgan have them with him?”

  “So that he can enjoy them. He bought them so he wants the pleasure of looking at them while we sail across the ocean.”

  “They should be kept under proper lock and key.”

  “That’s why Sid is so scared — in case anything happens to the stuff. He thinks he’ll be blamed. According to Sid,” he went on, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, “those things are worth a fortune. It’s like Aladdin’s cave in there, sir. What if the wrong sort of person got to hear that there’s a treasure trove just the other side of that door?”

  Dillman had already asked and answered that very same question.

  THREE

  The first-class dining room of the Oceanic had all the luxury and elegance that had come to be associated with the White Star Line. It was spacious, sumptuous, and designed with a firm commitment to extravagance. Unlimited amounts of money had been lavished upon it. With its polished woodwork, magnificent drapes, glittering chandeliers, marble columns, potted plants, and dazzling array of damask tablecloths and gleaming silver cutlery, it looked more like part of an exclusive hotel than the dining room on a transatlantic liner. As the guests began to arrive that evening, the orchestra played a medley of light classical music.

  Genevieve Masefield delayed her entry until the place was half full, not wishing to stand out and thereby attract too much attention. She was wearing a black evening dress with, apart from silver earrings, only one item of jewelry — a silver scorpion — pinned to her bodice. She carried a silver purse. Genevieve did not have to look for a familiar face. Blanche Charlbury descended on her at once, towing her fiancé behind her.

  “There you are, Genevieve,” she said effusively. “Do join us at our table. I promised Mark that you would. This is Genevieve, Mark.”

  “I gathered that,” said Mark Bossingham, offering his hand to Genevieve. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Masefield.”

  Genevieve shook his hand. “And to meet you, Mr. Bossingham.”

  “For goodness’ sake,” complained Blanche, clicking her tongue, “we can’t have too much decorum at a time like this. Rules are surely relaxed on board a ship. Call each other Mark and Genevieve. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

  Genevieve was happy to accede to the request but she could see that Bossingham had severe reservations. Now in his late twenties, he was relatively short, compact, and immaculately groomed. His face was expressionless, his eyes cold, his hair receding. Genevieve sensed a keen intelligence but her first impression was of a highly conventional Englishman who would, in time, stifle all of his wife’s joie de vivre and bring her to heel. Mark Bossingham would never have allowed the use of Christian names on so short an acquaintance. In the normal course of events, he and Genevieve would never have crossed each other’s path and he did not look as if he was overjoyed with their meeting now.

  They moved to the table that they shared with five other people. After a battery of introductions with their dinner companions, they sat down. Genevieve was able to take a closer look at Bossingham, who was directly opposite her. Blanche was at her side, patently anxious that friend and fiancé would get along well.

  “Blanche has told me so much about you,” began Genevieve.

  “Really?” said Bossingham.

  “I hear that you’re in the diplomatic service.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Following in your father’s footsteps.”

  “I believe in maintaining tradition.”

  “And you were at Oxford with Blanche’s brother.”

  “That seems like an eternity ago now, Miss Masefield.”

  “Genevieve,” prompted Blanche.

  “Genevieve,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “I even know about your taste in music,” continued Genevieve.

  “Do you?”

  “And what you like to read. Trollope is your favorite author.”

  “Well, there’s nothing left for you to find out about me, is there? I have no secrets now so you’ll find me very dull.” His eyes flicked to his fiancée. “I’ll have to school Blanche to be more reticent about me.”

  “I refuse,” she said with a proprietary smile. “I want to tell the whole world what a wonderful husband I’m going to have.”

  She laughed but Bossingham looked uncomfortable. To hide his unease, he reached for the menu and studied the various items on it. Blanche nudged Genevieve and spoke in a whisper.

  “Isn’t he just marvelous?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Tell the truth.”

  “That is the truth, Blanche.”

  “I know. And he’s all mine.”

  Genevieve noticed that Bossingham, though pretending not to hear, winced slightly. He kept his head down. Genevieve felt that she was being quietly disapproved of and she wondered why. Before the conversation could continue, a tall man in a beautifully tailored three-piece suit swooped down on them. Jonathan Killick had the buoyant confidence of a true socialite.

  “Blanche,” he said, taking her gloved hand to kiss it.

  “Hello, Johnny,” she said.

  “Is Mark going to make an honest woman of you at last?” He gave her a sly wink. “Not before time, I say.”

  “Take care,” said Bossingham. “That remark is in bad taste.”

  “I’m the emperor of bad taste.”

  “That’s not something to be proud of, Killick.”

  “I think it is — I revel in it.”

  “You don’t have to tell us that,” reproached Blanche.

  “I mentioned it in passing for Miss Masefield’s benefit,” said Killick, turning his attention to Genevieve with a bold gaze. “May I say how divine you look this evening, Miss Masefield? One can only judge a woman properly in an evening dress and you are quite exceptional.”

  “I don’t believe that we’ve been introduced,” said Genevieve calmly.

  “Jonathan Killick at your service.”

  She ignored his outstretched hand. “Good evening, Mr. Killick.”

  “Traveling alone, I see.”

  “No,” said Blanche, “with friends.”

  “You and Mark will not want a third person around all the time. I daresay that Miss Masefield will look for companionship elsewhere.”

  “Not in your direction, Johnny.”

  “Have you been putting down the poison about me?”

  “You do that for yourself,” said Bossingham.

  Killick laughed. “Perhaps you’re right, old chap.”

  “We’d be grateful if you’d allow us to enjoy our meal.”

  “How can you bear such pomposity, Blanche?” asked Killick with a hand on her shoulder. “He’s such a cold fish. Marry me instead.”

  “Go away, Johnny,” she said.

  “My offer holds.”

  She moved his hand away. “I’m engaged to Mark now.”

  “You have my condolences.”

  “Good-bye, Killick,” said Bossingham pointedly.

  “Cheerio — that includes you, Miss Masefield.”

  “Good-bye,” said Genevieve.

  “I won’t be far away.”

  Killick broadened his smile and looked deep into her eyes before leaving
. He chose a vacant chair at a nearby table so that he could keep Genevieve in view. Killick’s arrival brought Bossingham to life.

  “Insufferable fellow!” he snapped.

  “Johnny is Johnny,” said Blanche tolerantly. “Ignore him.”

  “I object to the way he talks to you.”

  “Don’t take him so seriously, Mark.”

  “He’s altogether too familiar.”

  “He’s familiar with everyone.”

  “It’s got to stop.”

  “What is he doing on this voyage?” asked Genevieve.

  “Going to a party in New York, I expect,” said Blanche.

  Genevieve was taken aback. “He’d go all that way for a party?”

  “Knowing him, it will be a very special one — the kind that goes on for days and days. He has a lot of friends in America. They like the idea of rubbing shoulders with an aristocrat.”

  “A minor aristocrat,” corrected Bossingham.

  “He belongs to the upper class. That’s all that matters to them.”

  “I think that we should ostracize him.”

  “That would be too harsh on Johnny.”

  “Killick is a complete menace.”

  “Humor him, Mark. It’s the only way.”

  “I still find it difficult to believe that he’d go three thousand miles for a social event,” said Genevieve. “That means he’ll spend the best part of two weeks alone on the ship.”

  “Except that he won’t be alone,” Blanche pointed out.

  “No?”

  “No,” added Bossingham, “he’ll soon find some poor, unsuspecting young woman to batten on to. The fellow is quite unprincipled. Killick is a born predator.”

  “It’s true,” said Blanche. “Johnny is always on the lookout.”

  Genevieve glanced in the direction of the man about whom they were talking and saw that Killick was staring intently at her. She was disturbed. It was less a gaze of admiration than the cool, objective appraisal of a potential target. Genevieve had the unsettling sensation that he had just marked her out as his next prey.

  “Four days out of New York, in ’eavy gales, ’igh seas and snow, she loses a piece of ’er bulwarks and two port’oles was smashed.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I do, Manny. I told you the Oceanic was cursed. She took on lots of water in that incident. Next year — August 1905 — fire damaged woodwork in a third-class compartment as she lay at Liverpool.”