Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  “It was soon put out,” said Manny Ellway, “and it didn’t stop her from sailing almost immediately for New York.”

  “It was a sign,” insisted Sidney Browne.

  “You and your blinking signs!”

  “There was another one in June 1907. Someone set fire to cargo in ’er ’old while she was docked at Pier 48, New York. All the beddin’ and fittin’s in some of the women’s quarters was ruined. Took ’em two ’ours to bring the blaze under control. Thousands of pounds’ worth of damage was done. The Oceanic’s departure was ’eld up for days.”

  “Bad luck, that’s all, Sid.”

  “This ship’s ’ad nothin’ but bad luck.”

  Browne had really hit his stride, detailing the various problems that the ship had encountered in her decade afloat. The two men were alone in their cabin, smartening themselves up before going back on duty. Peering into the mirror above the washbasin, Ellway was using a pair of brushes on his hair.

  “It goes on and on, Manny,” resumed Browne gloomily. “As recent as last September, the Oceanic ’ad another fire in ’er ’old. If that’s not clear proof that she’s doomed, I don’t know what is.”

  “It was a small fire and they soon put it out.”

  “What about the one in New York?”

  “That was arson,” said Ellway. “They reckon the man who lit it was in league with some of them dockworkers who was on strike. Pure accident that he chose this ship. Could’ve been any vessel.”

  “Oh no. It just ’ad to be the Oceanic. She attracts trouble.”

  “Then why does Mr. Morgan decide to sail on her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he’s rich enough to travel on any ship yet he picked this one. That shows he has no qualms about her. He knows that she’s one of the safest liners in the world. That’s why J. P. Morgan is here.”

  “Yes,” said Browne, rolling his eyes, “and it’s the reason I get so jumpy. I ’ave this thing about him, Manny. What do you call it?”

  “A premonition?”

  “That’s the word — premonition.”

  Ellway was scornful. “Signs, premonitions, bad omens — they’re all a load of nonsense. Why can’t you see something good for once?”

  “I got a sixth sense for disaster.”

  “Well, that’s the difference between you and me, Sid. I always hopes for the best and you always fears the worst.”

  “So would you if you was ’is steward.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Morgan. Ole J. P. Moneybags. Fair gives me the creeps, ’e does.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s them eyes of ’is. They bores right through you.”

  “Then look the other way.”

  “I did, Manny, and what did I see? Them paintin’s and such like he keeps in there. Worth a king’s ransom, they are. Yet ’e just ’as ’em lyin’ about like so many newspapers. It’s askin’ for trouble.”

  “I’m sure that he has some kind of security.”

  “The door to his stateroom, that’s all. A professional thief could pick that lock in a few seconds. That’s where my premonition came in.”

  Ellway sighed. “Here we go again!”

  “I got this ’orrible feelin’ that someone is about to pounce.”

  “He’s called the chief steward and he’ll be pouncing on the pair of us if we don’t get out there.” He put his brushes in the locker. “Come on, Sid. Try to forget J. P. Morgan.”

  “ ’Ow can I when ’e’s about to bring catastrophe down on us?”

  “Play your cards right and you may get the biggest tip of your life.”

  “If ’e’s still alive to give it to me.”

  Ellway cackled. “What do you think’s going to happen to him?” he asked. “Do you fancy that someone’s going to do him in?”

  “I got this feelin’ in the pit of my stomach.”

  “So have I — hunger.”

  “I’m serious, Manny.”

  “Anybody else would be delighted if he got to look after someone like J. P. Morgan but all you can do is moan. What about your other passengers? There must be one you actually like.”

  “I like most of ’em.”

  “Then enjoy their company instead of waiting for disaster to strike. That’s what I do.” He opened the door and they stepped out of the cabin. “I’ve got some really interesting people on my list this time. Abednego Thomas, for instance.”

  “Who’s ’e when ’e’s at ’ome?”

  “Abednego Thomas. The artist. You must have heard of him. He told me to be sure to knock on the door before I go into his cabin because he may well be painting.”

  “Nothing unusual in that, is there? We have lots of artists on our ships. You can see ’em up on deck any day.”

  “Mr. Thomas would get arrested if he worked in public.”

  “Arrested?”

  “He paints naked ladies, Sid. What’s more, he’s brought his model with him. A French lady. She’s gorgeous.”

  Browne was intrigued. “And ’e’s goin’ to paint ’er when she’s got nothing at all on? Is that why you ’ave to knock first?”

  “Yes.”

  “In your place, I’d peep through the key’ole.”

  “People are entitled to their privacy.”

  “Lord knows what you might see.”

  “You just worry about your own passengers.”

  “I’d much rather look after Abednego Thomas than J. P. Morgan.”

  “Well, don’t ask me to swap,” said Ellway, “because there’s no earthly chance of that. I get on with all my passengers, especially that Mr. Dillman. He’s a real gentleman and he’s fond of a laugh as well. Mr. Dillman is one of those Americans who’s so nice and well mannered that you think he must have been born in England.” He nudged Browne, who had gone off into a reverie. “You’re not listening, are you?”

  “I’m still thinkin’ about that painter and ’is French model.”

  Her name was Dominique Cadine and Dillman had the good fortune to be sharing a table with her and her traveling companions. She was slim, shapely, and gifted with long, silken black hair that was curled up like a snake on top of her head and held in place with a gold slide. Her dark complexion accentuated the brightness of her large, pale blue, inquiring eyes. She spoke good English but it was heavily accented. Dillman put her in her late twenties. The fair-haired Veronica Thomas was ten years older and, in spite of a much bigger frame, had an equally voluptuous quality about her, one that women in the first-class dining room found rather shocking but which the men secretly admired. Dominique wore a crimson dress that advertised her contours and was complemented by the red rose in her hair. Veronica was in a striking blue and green evening dress.

  Accompanying the two women was Abednego Thomas, a gaunt man in his late fifties with a long, unkempt beard and gray hair that fell to his shoulders. His eyes glinted in a craggy face. He wore a crumpled brown suit with a large spotted handkerchief exploding out of its top pocket. Thomas gloried in the fact that his life had been marked by a series of scandals.

  “Why did you choose to live in France?” asked Dillman.

  “They have a more adult society there,” replied Thomas with a quiet smile. “More adult and more understanding.”

  “What my husband is trying to tell you,” put in Veronica, “is that he’s less likely to end up in court in France. It has true artistic tradition. It does not expect a creative genius to be a saint.”

  “Just as well, my love,” said Thomas with a chuckle, slipping an arm around her. “I was never inclined to sainthood. My impulses took me in the opposite direction.”

  Dillman was curious. “Could you not live and work in Wales?”

  “I’d be stoned to death. The Welsh are very puritanical.”

  “Nobody could say that of you,” remarked Dominique, displaying a row of perfect teeth. “I think that you must have French blood in your veins, Abednego.”

  “French wine, maybe.
I’ve drunk gallons of it.”

  Husband, wife, and model shook with laughter. There was a unity about them that Dillman found fascinating. They were three disparate people held together by an invisible bond. While the Welshman spoke with a musical lilt, his wife had a voice that suggested an acquaintance with the higher echelons of British society. A painter in her own right, Veronica Thomas also designed clothes and jewelry. Examples of the latter encircled her neck and wrists. Both hands were bedecked with rings. Golden earrings dangled from her lobes. Dominique, however, wore almost no jewelry. In a room where most women had reached for diamonds or pearls, she was given an added prominence.

  Dillman liked all three of them at once and the trio clearly enjoyed his company, all the more so since he accepted them for what they were instead of resenting their Bohemian lifestyle. The same could not be said of the other four people at the table, two elderly English couples who showed a tight-lipped politeness toward them. Grateful that Dillman was ready to talk to the artist — an ordeal they were spared — they conversed among themselves and resolved never to be caught again at the same table as the outrageous Abednego Thomas and his two women.

  “Why did you go to England, Mr. Dillman?” asked Veronica.

  “I was on a scouting expedition,” he replied.

  “Were you looking for a wife?”

  “Heavens, no!”

  “You would find one very easily,” said Dominique with a dazzling smile. “American men are more handsome than English ones. They have a sense of mystery about them.”

  “I don’t feel very mysterious, mademoiselle.”

  “Please — my name is Dominique.”

  “Then you must feel free to call me George.”

  “And what were you scouting for, George?” said Thomas, lifting his glass as the waiter came to refill it with Chablis. “Painting? Antiques? Are you another J. P. Morgan?”

  “Far from it,” said Dillman. “I don’t have the money or the time to indulge myself in that way. No, I was looking for commissions. Back in Boston, I work in the family business. We make oceangoing yachts for people with large bank balances and a love of sailing.”

  “Do you sail yourself?”

  “Of course. I grew up beside the sea.”

  “So did I,” said Veronica, “but I can neither swim, sail, nor bear to look at the waves rolling ceaselessly on. My people were the same. We’re all confirmed landlubbers even though we could see Brighton promenade from our front bedrooms.”

  “What about the Pavilion?” asked Dominique.

  “That was only a few minutes away.”

  “I would love to live there.”

  “It would grow stale for you within a week, darling,” said Thomas, stroking her hand affectionately. “It’s an absolute monument to bad taste but, then, so is a lot of English architecture.” He kissed his wife on the cheek. “You are the exception to the rule, my love.”

  “I’m not a piece of architecture.”

  “A sculpture, then. Worthy of Michelangelo.”

  “I would have thought Michelangelo a little too conventional for your taste,” observed Dillman. “From what you’ve been saying, you prefer to push out the frontiers of your art instead of being bound by tradition.”

  “I admire the best of any era. Michelangelo was the best of his.”

  “What about me?” said his wife, fishing for a compliment.

  “The very best of your time.”

  Dominique smiled. “Et moi?”

  “Incroyable, ma chère.”

  As he ran a finger under her chin, there was a gasp of disbelief from the two elderly Englishwomen at the table, affronted less by the artist’s frank admiration for his model than by his wife’s calm acceptance of it. The dazed onlookers reached for their glasses and took a long drink of wine to restore their composure.

  “What are you working on at the moment?” inquired Dillman.

  “Dominique,” replied Thomas.

  “I am a Roman goddess this time,” said the model.

  “Then you must be Venus,” said Dillman, gallantly.

  “Bien entendu.”

  “Do you intend to paint while on board, Abednego?”

  “Nothing would stop me,” asserted Thomas with a grand gesture. “I work out of compulsion, my friend. I’m not one of those lazy artists who sit around waiting for inspiration to strike. I exercise my talent on a daily basis. Work is dignity.”

  “I feel the same,” said Veronica. “Since we’ve been given such a precious gift, it’s our duty to exercise it. I, too, will paint every day.”

  “Though in a different style, I suspect,” said Dillman.

  “My work is nonfigurative, George.”

  “I’d be interested to see some of it.”

  “Then you shall,” she said. “Do you hear that, Abednego? We must invite George to our cabin for a drink. He can look at our paintings.”

  “Everything but Venus,” stipulated Thomas.

  “He won’t even let me see that,” said Dominique, “and I’m his model. I never get to see any of the paintings until they are finished.”

  “And you know why, Dominique. I’m a perfectionist.”

  “Especially when it comes to your choice of women,” said Veronica.

  Thomas guffawed. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  It was an excellent meal and Dillman was delighted to share it with the eccentric trio. He exchanged a few niceties with the others at the table but they preferred to dine in a state of semi-detachment. The more he talked to Abednego Thomas, the more impressed he became by his open disdain for etiquette. Everyone else adhered to strict social rules but the artist might have been having a picnic on the banks of the river Seine. He, his wife, and Dominique were refreshing dinner companions.

  Much as he would have liked to, Dillman could not linger over the meal. He was still on duty and dinner was an ideal time for him to take the measure of the first-class passengers. Even while he was talking to his new friends, he was keeping one eye on other tables. Genevieve, he could see, was engrossed with friends of her own. Lester Hembrow, in his best uniform, was standing near the door with the headwaiter. Dillman recognized a number of people he had seen boarding the ship but there was no sign of J. P. Morgan. He wanted to find out why.

  When the meal was over, he excused himself from the table. Dominique was sorry to lose him but it was Veronica who got to her feet and planted a warm kiss on each of his cheeks. Dillman crossed to the door and took the purser aside.

  “Mr. Morgan is dining in his cabin, I presume.”

  “Yes, George.”

  “Did you know that he’s keeping valuable items in his stateroom?”

  “No,” said Hembrow, shaking his head, “but it doesn’t surprise me one bit. J. P. Morgan is a law unto himself.”

  “Someone should remind him of the need for security. As long as those items are in his possession, they’re at risk.”

  “Try telling him that. I’m not sure that I’d dare do it.”

  “Then it will have to be me,” said Dillman purposefully. “I’ll just have to hope he’s forgotten the way that he and my father fell out all those years ago.”

  “Mr. Morgan is the sort of man who remembers everything.”

  Other diners were now starting to disperse and the purser was soon in demand. Dillman strolled away, rehearsing what he was going to say to their most distinguished passenger. When he reached Morgan’s stateroom, he took a deep breath before rapping on the door. It was opened at once by a sturdy individual of middle height. He looked Dillman up and down before speaking. His tone was brusque.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Morgan, please,” said Dillman.

  “That’s not possible.”

  “It’s on a matter of some importance.”

  “It will have to wait all the same.”

  “Any delay might be fatal.”

  “Why?”

  “My name is Ge
orge Dillman and I’m employed as a detective by the White Star Line. I need to discuss security procedures with Mr. Morgan.”

  “They are already in hand, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Are they?”

  “Yes,” said the other. “I take responsibility for such matters. My name is Howard Riedel and I’m experienced in every aspect of security. Far more so than you, I suspect.”

  Howard Riedel shot him a confrontational glare. He was a bull-necked man in his fifties with close-cropped hair surmounting a low forehead. His face was that of a retired boxer with a good record behind him. He was Morgan’s bodyguard and security adviser.

  “How long have you been ship’s detective?”

  “Over four years,” said Dillman.

  “What qualifications do you have?”

  “I worked for the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

  “No time in a real police department?”

  “No, Mr. Riedel.”

  “Well, I spent most of my life in uniform,” boasted Riedel. “I’ve seen it all — rape, theft, arson, kidnap, murder. Seen it and solved it. That’s why Mr. Morgan picked me. He asked for the best cop in the department and he got me. Not some half-trained Pinkerton operative.”

  “We were extremely well trained,” retorted Dillman, “and most of our work consisted in sweeping up the mess left by real policeman like you. We’re both on the same level now, Mr. Riedel. We’re private detectives — so don’t try to pull rank on me.”

  “Good night, Dillman.”

  “At least, tell Mr. Morgan that I’m here.”

  “Nobody gets to see him unless I say so.”

  “Do you taste his food for him as well?” said Dillman levelly.

  “You’re not wanted here. Make yourself scarce.”

  “If you’ve been a policeman, you know that prevention is better than solving crime. And the best way to prevent theft is to put anything of real value into the purser’s safe. That’s what I’d advise most strongly.”

  “What I’d advise most strongly,” said Riedel, squaring up to him, “is that you keep well away from here. All the necessary steps have been taken. You’re out of your depth. Leave it to a professional.”