Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  “A professional what?”

  Riedel thrust out his jaw. “You asking for trouble?”

  “No,” said Dillman, “but you and Mr. Morgan are. As long as you persist in keeping priceless items here, they’re in danger.”

  “So is the person who tries to steal them. He has to go past me.”

  “You can’t be on duty twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I’m like a Pinkerton agent,” taunted the other. “I never sleep.”

  “Please pass on my warning to Mr. Morgan.”

  “He doesn’t need warnings. He’s got me on his payroll.”

  “And do you get paid to obstruct people like me?” said Dillman.

  “No, I do that for pleasure.”

  “I’ll be back in the morning, Mr. Riedel.”

  “You’ll get the same answer. We don’t need you, Dillman.”

  “I’d like to hear that from Mr. Morgan’s own lips.”

  “Then you’re a bigger fool than you look,” said Riedel with a sneer. “You step on his toes and he’ll holler so loud that it’ll burst your eardrums. Why don’t you hang on to your job while you still have one?”

  Dillman bristled. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

  “It comes free. Tangle with Mr. Morgan and you’ll never work for the White Star Line again. Upset me,” warned Riedel, wagging a finger, “and I’ll tell him what a nuisance you’re being. Is that plain enough for you or would you like me to write it down in capital letters? Now go off and bother someone else.”

  And he slammed the door unceremoniously in Dillman’s face.

  FOUR

  Queenstown was the last port of call before the long voyage across the Atlantic. The principal purpose of the stop was to pick up Irish emigrants and mail. Many passengers already aboard took the opportunity to send letters and notes back to families and friends in England. Some of the crew did the same. It was mid-morning on the following day when the Oceanic steamed up St. George’s Channel and passed Daunt’s Rock Light Vessel. The ship anchored two miles off Roche’s Point so that a hundred or more new passengers could be brought out from Queenstown, along with some twelve hundred sacks of mail. None of the newcomers traveled first class. The overwhelming majority of them were sailing into the unknown in steerage.

  Lester Hembrow glanced through the porthole in his office as the last tender was being unloaded. He looked back at Genevieve Masefield.

  “The Irish invasion is almost complete,” he said with a smile. “At least, this lot will be able to speak English.”

  “Yes, the ones who joined us at Cherbourg were very cosmopolitan.”

  “At the last count, fourteen different languages were being spoken in steerage. We’re very happy to carry people of any nationality but we can’t possibly have interpreters for them all. There’s bound to be some confusion down there at first.”

  “Do they fall back on sign language?” asked Genevieve.

  “For the most part. We have posters in French, German, and Italian but passengers from the Arab countries have to fend for themselves. And with so many people to feed,” Hembrow went on, “it’s impossible to cater to everyone’s preferred diet.”

  “Cooking for a thousand passengers must be a nightmare.”

  “It’s not something that I’d care to do, Genevieve. However, let’s leave that problem to the kitchen staff. We have troubles of our own.”

  “Already?”

  “Two ladies have reported thefts during dinner last night.”

  “What sorts of thefts?”

  “Diamond earrings, in one case.”

  “And the other?”

  “A purse, belonging to a Mrs. Boyd.”

  “Are the two ladies certain that they were stolen?” said Genevieve. “Things can very easily go astray sometimes through sheer carelessness.”

  “There’s nothing careless about Mrs. Farrant,” he told her. “She may be in her seventies but she has all her faculties intact. Mrs. Farrant is convinced that a thief made off with her earrings.”

  “What about Mrs. Boyd?”

  “She’s still wondering if she inadvertently put her purse down somewhere and forgot to pick it up. She’s an American lady who admits that she’s absentminded at times. Mrs. Farrant is English.”

  “Then I’ll start with her.”

  “I’ve written down the numbers of their respective cabins.”

  “Thank you, Lester.”

  Genevieve took the slip of paper that was offered. Like Dillman, she found the purser agreeable and cooperative. He knew their reputation and had complete trust in them. She felt that it would be a pleasure to work with him, a crucial factor on a vessel that was certain to keep both her and Dillman extremely busy. Genevieve gazed down at his desk. Before they sailed, it had been completely clear. It was now covered with papers, letters, and documents arranged in neat piles.

  “These are requests,” he explained, touching one pile. “Those are complaints, and the rest are to do with administration. When I took this job on, I had no idea there’d be so much paperwork.”

  “There’s more to come,” she warned. “After I’ve spoken to the two ladies, I’ll send you a written report on each to keep you up-to-date. I’ll also have a word with George about the thefts.”

  “How are you and he settling in?”

  “Very well.”

  “You looked as if you were enjoying your dinner last night.”

  “I was,” she said. “It was delicious. One of the benefits of being a ship’s detective is that you get well fed. You just have to remember that you’re still working even though you’re in convivial company.”

  “Yes, it could be distracting.”

  “Not if you keep your wits about you. George taught me that.”

  “I had a brief word with him in the dining saloon. He went off to brave the wrath of J. P. Morgan.”

  “He never even managed to see him.”

  “Oh?”

  “George told me about it when we met to compare notes last night. It seems that Mr. Morgan has a bodyguard called Howard Riedel. He’s a former policeman who thinks he can do a much better job at protecting valuables than people like us.”

  “What did he tell George?”

  “To mind his own business.”

  “Was he as blunt as that?”

  “Even more so,” said Genevieve. “When George mentioned that he’d worked for the Pinkerton agency, Mr. Riedel showed open contempt. He regards its operatives as rank amateurs.”

  “There’s nothing amateur about George Dillman. I’ve seen his record as a ship’s detective — and yours, Genevieve. The pair of you are a match for anyone.” He scratched his head. “But I’m worried about the fact that nobody’s got past Mr. Morgan’s door yet. Someone needs to point out the folly of keeping all those items in his stateroom.”

  “I’ll volunteer for that task.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, Lester,” she said. “I haven’t broken the news to George yet but I may succeed where he failed.”

  “How?”

  “A card was slipped under my door. It’s an invitation to drinks in Mr. Morgan’s stateroom before dinner this evening. Obviously, I won’t reveal my true identity but I will take the opportunity to suggest that he locks anything of value away.”

  “You’ll also be able to see it at firsthand.”

  “I’m looking forward to that.”

  “George is going to be very jealous.”

  “No,” she assured him. “He’s the least envious person I know. He’ll be thrilled that I have a chance to see Mr. Morgan’s collection and get close to the great man. There’s only one thing that puzzles me.”

  “What’s that, Genevieve?”

  “Well, J. P. Morgan doesn’t have a clue who I am. Why on earth has he invited me to a drinks party this evening?”

  Hembrow grinned. “There’s an easy answer to that,” he said, cheerily. “Mr. Morgan is a collector of beautiful objects.”


  George Porter Dillman had watched with interest as the new passengers embarked and he was still standing at the rail on the promenade deck. The noise of pounding feet made him turn round. He was in time to see Howard Riedel running toward him. Wearing a woolen sweater and a pair of slacks, the man was moving at a steady pace, clearly enjoying the attention that he was attracting. When he stopped beside Dillman, his breathing was in no way labored.

  “Physical fitness,” he said proudly. “That’s the first requisite of a good cop. You have to keep your body in trim. Remember that, Dillman.”

  “I don’t need to, Mr. Riedel. I had my run before breakfast when there were not so many people about. It meant that I could go at a much faster speed than you seem to manage.”

  “I exercise every day.”

  “You look as if you need to,” said Dillman.

  Riedel’s eye blazed. “You making fun of me?”

  “I admire any man of your age who can still run.”

  “Run, fight, shoot, break up a barroom brawl — I can do anything.”

  “You can even act as watchdog at Mr. Morgan’s door.”

  “Mr. Morgan appreciates my range of skills.”

  “Does he ever get any exercise himself?” asked Dillman. “Apart from counting out his money, that is?”

  “He takes a constitutional every morning.”

  “Do you run in front of him with a red flag?”

  “I’m just there to keep undesirables like you away from him.”

  “What happens to all those things in his stateroom while you’re up on deck? Surely, you don’t leave them unprotected.”

  “We have our system.”

  “And what exactly is it?”

  “That’s nothing to do with you, Dillman,” said Riedel with a complacent smirk. “You stick to the easy stuff like helping old ladies to find their missing false teeth. Leave the real policework to me.”

  “I’m always ready to learn,” said Dillman.

  But he was talking to thin air. Riedel had already spun on his heel and jogged away. Another passenger soon took his place.

  “Good morning, George,” said Veronica Thomas.

  “Oh, good morning.”

  “Was that dreadful man a friend of yours?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “He was so ugly and so full of himself. I saw him earlier, trotting around the deck and leering at some of the young women. Who is he?”

  “Howard Riedel. He works for J. P. Morgan, I believe. Mr. Riedel and I bumped into each other last night.” Dillman chose his words carefully. “I think it’s fair to say that it was not a meeting of true minds.”

  Veronica laughed. “You two are like chalk and cheese.”

  “Which one am I?”

  “Cheese, of course. Nice enough to eat.”

  Her candid admiration, coupled as it was with a broad smile, might have unnerved some men but Dillman accepted the compliment without a flicker. Now that she was separated from the others, he could see how handsome Veronica Thomas really was. The high cheekbones gave her a regal look and there was a glow to her skin that lent it the sheen of marble. On a cold morning, she was wrapped up in a long coat with a fur collar. A purple cockade was attached to the side of her hat.

  “I was watching those Irish people coming aboard,” she said. “They’re so courageous, aren’t they?”

  “Courageous?”

  “Selling everything to start up again in a new country. It means they’ll spend the rest of their lives in exile.”

  “You live in exile,” he reminded her.

  “Hardly! France is my spiritual home.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Is that how long you’ve been married?”

  “Oh no,” she said. “Abednego had worked his way through two other wives before I came along — two wives of his own, that is, and a number of wives belonging to other men. He simply adores women. My husband is a Welsh mountain goat.”

  “Not a dragon?”

  “He can breathe fire when he wants to.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “In Paris. I knew him by reputation, of course, but I never thought he’d take the slightest interest in me. Until I came along, he favored exotic French or Italian women — girls like Dominique who simply bubble with life.” She spread her arms expressively. “When he had the pick of those ladies, how could such a man even bother to look at a posh Englishwoman named Veronica Hartley-Smythe?”

  “Hartley-Smythe? Was that your maiden name?”

  “I expected that the hyphen alone would drive him away.”

  “Abednego had the wisdom to look beyond your hyphen.”

  “That’s one way of putting it, George. We met in a bar one night and a week later — even though he was still married to someone else at the time — he was proposing to me.”

  “How did your parents take the news?”

  “They were horrified,” she said with a grimace. “It was bad enough for their daughter to declare her insanity by trying to make a living as an artist. To wed someone as notorious as Abednego Thomas was, in their eyes, an assault on everything they held most dear.”

  “You were rejecting all their values.”

  “Not deliberately. I’d fallen in love, that’s all.”

  “Did your parents come to accept him as a son-in-law?”

  “That was too much to ask of a Hartley-Smythe. They looked on Abednego as a species of satyr — and an aging one at that. They took the only way out and simply disowned me.”

  “So you’re an orphan,” said Dillman.

  “No, I’m part of an artistic community. They’re my family now.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “When I moved in with Abednego, I lost more than my hyphen. But the gains have completely outweighed the losses.”

  “No regrets, then?”

  “None whatsoever, George. I discovered the value of true freedom.”

  “Most women from your background would be terrified to do that. They need the whole apparatus of class and social etiquette to hold them upright. It was a bold step to break out of all that, Veronica. I take my hat off to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When can I come and look at your work?”

  “Why not this evening before dinner?” she suggested. “We’ll have cleaned up by then. Come any earlier and you’ll find the pair of us spattered with paint. We’re in number twenty-seven.”

  “Close to my own cabin,” he said. “We share the same steward.”

  “Manny?”

  “Yes, I don’t think he’s met anyone like you and your husband before. Not to mention Dominique.”

  “He doesn’t quite know how to take us.”

  “Very few people do.”

  “You’re an exception to the rule, George.”

  “It’s been a joy to meet the three of you.”

  “You might change your mind when you see our paintings.”

  Dillman smiled. “I very much doubt that, Veronica.”

  She held his gaze for a long time then she stepped forward for him to give her a farewell kiss her on the cheek. Veronica squeezed his arm.

  “I must get back to work,” she said. “We’ll see you later.”

  “One last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I understand that Abednego has a nickname.”

  “Dozens of them.”

  “This one is rather scurrilous,” said Dillman, recalling his talk with Manny Ellway. “My steward was too embarrassed to tell me what it was.”

  She laughed aloud. “Well, I’m not,” she announced. “Nothing embarrasses me now. His nickname is Abed-We-Go Thomas. I always think it delightfully appropriate.”

  “When did you first notice that your purse was missing, Mrs. Boyd?”

  “When we got back here last night. I think.”

  “You only think?”

  “No, Miss Masefield. I’m fairly certai
n. But, then, so is Ethan.”

  “Is that your husband?”

  “Yes, he believes that I wondered where my purse was when we were up on deck.”

  “On deck?” Genevieve consulted her notes. “You never mentioned going on deck, Mrs. Boyd. According to you, when dinner was over, you went to the lounge for an hour then came back here.”

  “After we’d taken a walk on deck.”

  “I see.”

  Genevieve added the new detail to her notebook. The interview with Rosalie Boyd was fraught with difficulties. Anxious to get her purse back, she kept changing her story as her memories slowly fell into place. She was a short, slight, dark-haired woman in her late thirties with an exaggerated prettiness that gave her an almost doll-like appearance. Sitting in her cabin, she held her hands in her lap like a well-behaved schoolgirl.

  “I never used to be so scatter-brained,” she said, apologetically. “Ask my husband. When Ethan first met me, I never did things like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mislaying my purse.”

  “We don’t know that it was mislaid, Mrs. Boyd.”

  “What else could have happened to it?”

  “Someone stole it.”

  Rosalie was hurt. “Stole it?” she repeated. “On a ship like this?”

  “Thieves are working on liners all the time, I’m afraid. There are easy pickings for someone with nimble fingers. If your purse had just gone astray, it would have been found and returned by now.”

  “Dear me!”

  “Because it hasn’t been,” said Genevieve, “we must assume the worst. Let’s go back to what you’ve told me.” She checked her notes. “You say that you had the purse with you when you left the dining saloon.”

  “I think so.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Oh, I definitely had him with me.” She gave a brittle laugh. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Masefield. I see what you mean now. Yes, Ethan will confirm that I had it with me.”

  “I may need to speak to him myself.”

  “He’d like that. He’s always admired English ladies. I think that’s why he married me. I come from Boston, you see, and that’s about as close to being an Englishwoman as you can get.”

  “Is your husband a Bostonian as well?”

  “No, he’s a New Yorker. There’s no comparison.” Rosalie’s face clouded. “I’m worried now. Do you really think that it may have been stolen, Miss Masefield?”