Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  “I’m afraid so,” said Genevieve. “We certainly have a thief aboard. I’ve just come from a passenger who reported the theft of a pair of diamond earrings. They were definitely stolen.”

  “By whom? One of the crew?”

  “It’s more likely to have been one of the passengers.”

  “That’s appalling. Will you be able to catch him?”

  “I hope so, Mrs. Boyd.”

  “And you think the same man could have taken my purse?”

  “The same man or the same woman.”

  Rosalie shuddered. “A female thief?”

  “There are such things, I promise you.”

  “And I thought we’d be perfectly safe on board the Oceanic. We had nothing like this when we sailed to Europe. It was a wonderful voyage. This is going to spoil the whole trip.”

  “Was there anything of real value in the purse?”

  “Not to anyone else,” answered Rosalie. “I had what any woman would carry. Oh, and a photograph of my stepson. That was very precious to me. Ethan was married once before, you see.” She bit her lip then suddenly brightened. “When the thief discovers there’s no money in there, he might just give the purse back.”

  “That’s not what usually happens, Mrs. Boyd. Thieves tend to take what they want from a purse or a billfold, then toss it into the sea.”

  “Gracious!”

  “They get rid of the evidence as soon as possible.”

  “Ethan will be so upset to hear all this.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Especially when he realizes the photograph of his son has gone.” She wrung her hands. “Is there no chance that my purse might be recovered?”

  “Only a very slim one.” Genevieve flipped over a page in her notebook. “Perhaps I could take you through it once again,” she said. “Go back to the moment when you first left this cabin. Whom did you meet in the course of the evening?”

  “I’ve given you all the names.”

  “Let me hear them again, please.”

  Rosalie Boyd ran her tongue over her upper lip then recounted her movements on the previous evening. She and her husband were just moving to the lounge after dinner when her tale was interrupted. There was a knock on the cabin door. She got up to open it.

  “Mrs. Boyd?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have some good news for you.”

  Recognizing the voice, Genevieve rose to her feet and went to the door. Lester Hembrow was handing over a purse to Rosalie.

  “I believe that this may belong to you, Mrs. Boyd.”

  “Oh, it does. I’m sure of it.”

  “Perhaps you could check the contents.”

  Rosalie gave a laugh of gratitude and opened the purse. Genevieve stepped forward so that Hembrow could see her. She was relieved that the purse had been recovered.

  “Everything is here,” said a delighted Rosalie. She showed a photograph to Genevieve. “This is Andrew, my stepson. He’s at Harvard.”

  “No wonder you’re so proud of him.” Genevieve turned to Hembrow. “Where was the purse found?”

  “In the library. It had fallen down behind an armchair.”

  “Library? You made no mention of the library, Mrs. Boyd.”

  “Didn’t I? Silly me!” Rosalie gave a wan smile. “I went in there to get some bedside reading before we came back to the cabin. It was a romance by Ouida. Would you like to see it?”

  “No, no,” said Genevieve, putting her notebook away in her reticule. “I don’t think we need to trouble you any further. I’m just glad that everything has ended so happily.”

  Rosalie Boyd thanked them profusely then Genevieve and Hembrow left together.

  “I hope that every case is solved as easily as that,” said Hembrow. “Who better than a purser to return a missing purse?”

  “The diamond earrings will be more elusive,” Genevieve cautioned. “I don’t think we’re likely to find those behind a chair in the library.”

  Dressing for dinner was something over which Dillman took great care. Before he had worked for the Pinkerton agency, he had had a short, if erratic, career as an actor. During his time in the profession, he had developed skills that were very useful to a detective. He knew how to look the part. In white tie and tails, he was the epitome of suave elegance. After making a few final adjustments to his appearance in the mirror, he stepped out of his cabin and walked the short distance to the one occupied by Abednego and Veronica Thomas. They gave him a cordial welcome. Abednego pumped his hand then his wife embraced their visitor warmly.

  Veronica was wearing another of her own creations, a high-waisted evening gown of red velvet with a broad black sash below the bust. A selection of jewelry was used to artful effect. Abednego was a sworn enemy of smartness. Though he wore formal attire, it was wrinkled, faded, and spectacularly ill-fitting, making him look like a failed conjurer who has just been booed from the stage. Dillman expected him to produce a dove from up his sleeve at any moment. Instead, the artist handed him a glass of champagne.

  “We’ve already started, George. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.”

  Abednego raised his glass. “To friendship!” he toasted.

  “Friendship!” said Dillman and Veronica in unison.

  After clinking glasses, they sipped their champagne. The cabin bore no resemblance to the one occupied by Dillman even though it was the same size and had identical furniture. The artists had transformed it. Brightly colored shawls had been thrown over the chairs, paintings of various sizes stood along the walls, and two easels were stored in a corner. There was a strong smell of oil paint.

  “Forgive the stink,” said Veronica.

  “It’s not a stink, my love,” said Abednego, tossing his hair. “It’s the aroma of true art. You are in the melting pot of greatness, George.”

  “I’m honored to be here.”

  “Who’s your favorite artist?”

  Dillman was tactful. “I don’t know that I have a favorite,” he said, not wishing to offend either of them by selecting someone whom they might despise. “My taste is very catholic. I love Rembrandt and Rubens, Caravaggio as well, and there are some Hieronymus Bosch paintings that I find very arresting.”

  “I went through a Bosch period in my youth,” said Thomas.

  “What about French artists?” asked Veronica.

  “I can’t think of any I dislike,” replied Dillman. “Renoir stands out but, then, so do Delacroix and Courbet. But if you want to know the ugly truth about me, I also have a sneaking fondness for the work of my countryman, Mr. James Whistler.”

  “A fine artist in his own way,” conceded Veronica.

  “But a bully of a man,” said Thomas. “He always seemed to be looking for a fight. Met him at a party when I was living in London. We got into an argument about Claude Monet. Whistler was so aggressive. He pushed me away. Because I punched him, he threatened to sue me. I’ve no time for Whistler, alive or dead. Everything he did of any value was stolen from Turner.”

  “Abednego!” scolded his wife.

  “I’m only being honest.”

  “Show some respect to a fellow artist.”

  “I’m here to show you my respect,” said Dillman, looking at the paintings along the wall. “What are you going to show me?”

  “Only a few examples of our work, George. Most of it is boxed up in the hold, ready for exhibition in New York. Whose paintings would you like to see — mine or Abednego’s?”

  “Yours, Veronica. Ladies first.”

  “Always the gentleman.”

  She removed the cloth from one of the paintings and held it up for Dillman to see. He studied it with a mingled surprise and admiration. The one thing he had not expected was a painting of a waterfall, gushing over a precipice with ferocious power. There was an intense drama in the scene, heightened by a threatening sky.

  “My parents had prints of Constable everywhere,” she explained. “All those placid evocations of th
e English countryside where time stands still. Very restful, of course, but they give no hint of nature at her most exciting. I’ve tried to counter that.”

  “And you’ve done so very effectively,” said Dillman. “That waterfall bursts out of the canvas, Veronica. It’s remarkable.”

  “Thank you.”

  “John Constable could certainly not have painted this.”

  “Let me show you something else.”

  She had two more paintings to offer him. One featured a violent storm in a mountainous region of France while the other depicted the ruinous effects of a flood on a small village. There was an immediacy about both of them that struck Dillman, but he also discerned anger in the paintings. Veronica seemed to be expressing her own rage, using her brush to express some kind of inner turmoil. What Dillman saw on the canvas was quite at variance with the poised and well-spoken woman standing beside him.

  “I suspect that you like Turner as well,” he said.

  “My mentor — until Abednego came along, that is. Turner’s painting of the House of Commons on fire is a masterpiece.”

  “All my pictures are masterpieces,” declared Thomas.

  “Show one to George.”

  “I will.” He picked up a painting that was facing the wall and turned it round for Dillman to see. “This is from my series of Roman goddesses — Diana the Huntress.”

  It was a startling piece of work. Wearing nothing but a pair of sandals, Diana was pursuing a deer through the woodland with a pack of female hunters at her heels, all of them stark naked and carrying bows and arrows. The use of color was astounding but it was the sense of movement and unadorned feminine beauty that made the painting so striking. Dillman was amazed by the delicacy of the skin tones.

  “Did they really hunt in the nude?” he asked.

  Thomas gave a wicked cackle. “She was the goddess of fertility.”

  “Do you recognize her?” asked Veronica.

  Dillman looked more closely at Diana’s face. It had been cleverly disguised but he could see who the model must have been.

  “It’s Dominique,” he said. “By the way, where is she?”

  “She went to have drinks with J. P. Morgan.”

  “Really?” Dillman had been told about the party by Genevieve and was surprised that Dominique was going to it as well. “Did she have an invitation?”

  “No,” said Thomas breezily, “but that wouldn’t stop Dominique. When she heard there was a party in Mr. Morgan’s stateroom, she invited herself. That’s the sort of girl she is — enterprising.” He indicated Diana the Huntress. “Well, let’s be frank, what man in his right mind would dare to turn away someone like this?”

  Since dinner was a formal affair that evening, Genevieve Masefield chose her dress with particular care. She opted for an evening gown of blue velvet trimmed with rosettes. Its low décolletage exposed her shoulders to good advantage and allowed her to wear the opal necklace that her husband had bought her when they were in Australia. Matching earrings enhanced the effect of the necklace. Her hair was swept up so that it curled forward, held in place by some invisible pins. Genevieve’s use of cosmetics was frugal but she put a dab of scent in a few strategic places. A stole and a purse completed the outfit.

  She paraded around the cabin and looked at herself in the mirror from various angles until she was satisfied. Genevieve was still mystified by her invitation to the party. On what basis had she been selected and how had J. P. Morgan known which cabin she was in? She knew that he was renowned for his love of female company but, since joining the ship at Cherbourg, he had not ventured outside his stateroom. Genevieve could not understand how he even knew of her existence.

  Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was time to leave. No sooner had she let herself out of the cabin, however, than she was confronted by the last person she wanted to see. The Honorable Jonathan Killick was standing a few feet away. He looked completely at ease in formal wear and it seemed to reinforce his raffish air. Before she could stop him, he reached out to kiss her hand.

  “May I say how charming you look, Miss Masefield?”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, blinking.

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Who else?”

  “How did you know the number of my cabin?”

  “I always find out things of real importance to me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “and you most assuredly fall into that category. Five minutes after I first saw you, I knew your name. Blanche Charlbury has filled in some of the other details.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Has she told you what a dissolute creature I am?”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” said Genevieve, trying to move past him, “but I have an engagement elsewhere.”

  He blocked her way. “I know. I came to escort you there.”

  “I’m going to Mr. Morgan’s stateroom for drinks.”

  “So am I, Miss Masefield. He happens to be an acquaintance of mine. When he sent me an invitation, I asked if I could bring someone with me — and who better than you?”

  Genevieve gasped. “This is all your doing?”

  “Of course.” He offered his arm. “Shall we go?”

  FIVE

  Edith Hurst had not taken long to pick out her least favorite passenger. Her name was Hilda Farrant and she treated the stewardess with a mixture of disdain and suspicion. Forthright and sharp-tongued at the best of times, Mrs. Farrant had been even more scathing since her diamond earrings had been stolen, criticizing the way that Edith did her work and more or less accusing her of being the thief. The charge had brought a blush to the cheeks of the young stewardess. It was still there later. She felt the need to defend herself to a colleague.

  “I’d never steal anything, Mr. Browne,” she said.

  “I know, Edith.”

  “It was wrong of her to look at me like that. Mrs. Farrant made me feel as if I’d committed a terrible crime.”

  “You’re as ’onest as the day is long.”

  “Mrs. Farrant doesn’t think so.”

  Edith was doing her rounds to turn down the beds that evening while passengers were away. She met Sidney Browne in a corridor and confided her woes to her senior. Browne listened carefully. He was very sympathetic.

  “There’s always one,” he told her, knowledgeably. “No matter ’ow many nice people you ’ave to deal with, there’s always one who can be vicious and ungrateful. If somethin’ goes missin’, we’re always the first to get the blame.”

  “Nobody’s ever turned on me like that before.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “Keep out of the old so-and-so’s way.”

  “Mrs. Farrant threatened to complain to the chief steward.”

  “Let ’er. We all knows ’ow good you are at your job.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Browne.”

  “Serves ’er right if someone took ’er diamond earrin’s. Tell you what, if I knew who the thief was, I’d shake ’is ’and and tell him to steal ’er jewelry box next time.”

  She was shocked. “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  “I was only jokin’,” he said with a grim chuckle. “Cheer up, Edith. Don’t let that ole battle-ax get you down. You must ’ave some nice passengers on your list as well.”

  “They’re all nice apart from Mrs. Farrant — especially that Genevieve Masefield. You must have seen her. She’s so beautiful and gracious. It’s a pleasure to look after someone like that. If they were all like Miss Masefield, this voyage would be a delight from start to finish.”

  “Well, I can’t agree with you there.”

  “Why not?”

  “I sense trouble in the air. I ’ave this premonition.”

  “What about?”

  “That rich American who owns the White Star Line.”

  “Mr. Morgan?”

  “Yes,” said Browne, solemnly. “If you think this Mrs. Farrant can put the wind u
p you, try dealin’ with J. P. Morgan. A monster in ’uman form, ’e is. Scared the pants off me with a warning look. It was left to Mr. Riedel to put the warning into words.”

  “What sort of warning?”

  “All I did was to say that anythin’ of value was best kept in a safe.”

  “And?”

  “Mr. Riedel told me to shut up and clear off — only ’e used words I couldn’t repeat in front of a young lady. Mr. Riedel works for Mr. Morgan and does ’is dirty work for ’im. The worst of it is, they’re ’avin’ a party in there at the moment,” he moaned. “Imagine ’ow much clearin’ up I’ll ’ave to do afterward. They never thinks of that.”

  “No,” she agreed, “but, when I hear about your problems, I can see that I got off lightly with Mrs. Farrant. She may be strict but she keeps the cabin so tidy. There’s very little for me to do.”

  “Wish I could say the same but there’s no chance. They’ll make a real mess in that cabin. Still,” he added, philosophically, “I suppose I shouldn’t begrudge Mr. Morgan a bit a fun. It won’t last.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because ’e’s got a nasty surprise comin’ soon, that’s why — a real disaster. Don’t say I didn’t tell you, Edith. I ’ad this premonition, see? So let ’im drink his fill while ’e still can. Time is runnin’ out fast.”

  “Do you know what a Book of Hours is, Miss Masefield?” Morgan asked.

  “I have a vague idea.”

  “Feast your eyes on this one.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

  “It’s the most valuable thing in the room.”

  Genevieve was intrigued. Disconcerted to learn that she was only there at the request of Jonathan Killick, she was nevertheless grateful that she had accepted the invitation. It gave her an opportunity to mix with some of the most eminent people on board and to meet J. P. Morgan himself. When she had viewed him from a distance as he embarked, the American financier had looked imposing. Close to, he was almost intimidating, a formidable man in his seventies with white, thinning hair, a walrus mustache, and bushy eyebrows above dark, fearsome eyes. But the most prominent feature of his face was a nose so large, purple, and bulbous that it was a gift to cartoonists. Genevieve had to force herself not to stare at it.