Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  Hilda Farrant also had doubts about Genevieve Masefield but they were of a very different kind. When she saw Genevieve leaving the dining room, she got up and followed her out, anxious to corner her.

  “Excuse me,” said Mrs. Farrant. “I’d like a word with you.”

  Genevieve turned to her. “Yes, of course.”

  “Have you recovered those earrings of mine yet?”

  “No, Mrs. Farrant. Unfortunately, I haven’t.”

  “Then why aren’t you out looking for them?”

  “I’ve made inquiries throughout the day.”

  “What sorts of inquiries?”

  “I’ve spoken to all the people whose names you gave me, and I went back to the cloakroom where the earrings were stolen. I’m slowly building up a more complete picture. I’ll track down the thief, Mrs. Farrant.”

  “How can you do that if you spend your time carousing with your friends? I watched you in there this evening. You were enjoying a party.”

  “I have to eat,” said Genevieve reasonably.

  “Not when you have important work to do.”

  Hilda Farrant was a tall, pug-faced, full-bodied woman in her sixties with a fondness for having her own way. The widow of a wealthy entrepreneur, she had ruled the roost over a house that had eight servants, and she was used to instant obedience. In the eyes of the older woman, Genevieve was no more than a menial at her command and was treated accordingly.

  “Have you spoken to the girl?” she demanded.

  “What girl?”

  “That lazy stewardess. I still think she may be involved.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” said Genevieve firmly. “Edith Hurst is a dedicated young woman. She’s responsible for my cabin as well and I have nothing but praise for her.”

  “Then she is giving you a better level of service than I get.”

  “I beg leave to doubt that.”

  “She’s the obvious culprit,” argued Mrs. Farrant. “She has access to my cabin and knew that I possessed those earrings.”

  “Everyone who saw you wearing them knew that you possessed them. From what you tell me, they were very eye-catching.”

  “Pendant earrings, encrusted with diamonds, set in platinum.”

  “The thief would have taken note of that.”

  “They were a present from my late husband on our last anniversary together. Not that we knew it was the last one at the time, of course,” she said, bitterly. “That being the case, Miss Masefield, you can understand why they have enormous sentimental value for me.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then please find them.”

  “I’ll make every effort to do so, Mrs. Farrant.”

  “When you’re not wining, dining, and making merry.”

  Genevieve bit back a reply. There was no point in telling Hilda Farrant that she had deliberately left the table early so that she was not distracted any longer from her duties. Rosalie Boyd had been frustrating to deal with but — as a supposed victim of theft — she was far more amenable than the angry old woman who now confronted Genevieve. Nothing short of the immediate return of her property would appease Mrs. Farrant. Even then she would show no gratitude. She would simply complain that it had taken too long. Genevieve went on the attack.

  “You must accept some responsibility,” she said politely.

  Mrs. Farrant glared. “Surely, you’re not blaming me?”

  “You did leave the earrings unattended in the cloakroom.”

  “Only for a very short time.”

  “It was the work of a second for someone to take them from your purse,” Genevieve pointed out. “It was an opportunist crime committed by someone who followed you into the cloakroom. I’m afraid that we’re dealing with a professional thief here.”

  “One never expects a woman to do such a dreadful thing,” said Mrs. Farrant indignantly. “Especially in first class.”

  “That’s exactly the place where someone is likely to operate.”

  “Then why didn’t she steal my purse as well?”

  “Because you would have raised the alarm immediately,” said Genevieve, “and she wished to buy a few precious seconds to escape. As it was, she could count on you washing your hands and drying them before you went to put your earrings back on.”

  “There’s no need to discuss my movements in the cloakroom.”

  “The thief was relying on them, Mrs. Farrant. The other reason that she left the purse is that it would be difficult to smuggle out. The earrings could be hidden in a pocket or the palm of her hand. In fact —”

  “I don’t wish to know how it was done,” said the other, cutting Genevieve off. “I just want her arrested as soon as possible so that I can have my property back. Now — what assurances can you give me?”

  “I’m fairly certain that your earrings will be found.”

  “Only fairly certain?”

  “I’ve never failed to recover stolen jewelry yet, Mrs. Farrant.”

  “Well, this had better not be the first time that you do,” said the older woman, spitefully. “Or I shall take up the matter with the captain.”

  “There’s no need for him to be involved in this.”

  “Oh yes, there is, Miss Masefield. I abhor incompetence.”

  “I’ve followed all the usual procedures.”

  “Without any visible sign of progress. I suggest that you search harder,” warned Mrs Farrant. “If those earrings are not found soon, you will be looking for a new job.”

  She waddled off toward a companionway and left Genevieve smarting with exasperation. Part of her felt that the woman deserved to lose her earrings but she knew, in her heart, that that was an emotional reaction. Whatever was taken — and from whomever it was stolen — it was her job as a ship’s detective to solve the crime and recover the missing items. As she went off to her cabin, she reminded herself that Hilda Farrant was one of the passengers who, indirectly, helped to pay her wages. The older woman had to be treated with respect and swiftly reunited with her beloved earrings.

  It was a long walk to her cabin but she was so preoccupied that she seemed to reach it in a split-second. She was still reviewing the uncomfortable conversation with Hilda Farrant when she came round a corner and saw someone lounging against the wall outside her cabin. The sight brought her to an abrupt halt.

  “You didn’t think that you could escape me that easily, did you?”

  The Honorable Jonathan Killick flashed his brightest smile.

  George Porter Dillman was still engaged in a watching role, using his friendship with Abednego Thomas, his wife, and his model as a convenient camouflage. Having chosen a seat from which he could keep the whole room under casual observation, he took note of social groupings that had been formed, and of the comings and goings of various individuals. It was the second evening afloat and patterns were being established that would continue all the way to New York.

  The first person to leave his table was Dominique Cadine, pleading a headache and needing to take some tablets that were in her cabin. She promised to return soon. Veronica adjourned to the cloakroom, leaving her husband to the tender mercies of Vane and Florence Stiller, whose interest in the artist was inexhaustible. He basked in their admiration and flirted with both of them.

  “Have you any objection to appearing in the magazine?” asked Vane, hopefully. “I feel that we have enough material for a dozen articles about the artistic life.”

  “I would appear anywhere with you, dear lady,” he said.

  “Oh, Mr. Thomas!”

  “And the same goes for your sister.” He beamed at Florence. “You are both equally captivating.”

  “Thank you,” said Florence with a laugh of delight. “Would you consent to being photographed with us?”

  “I would insist on it.”

  “It will make such a difference to the article.”

  “Yes,” said Vane. “Our readers would love to see a picture of you.”

  “Clothed or in the nude
?”

  The sisters laughed in unison. Dillman suspected that they would dine out for many months on stories of how they met and interviewed one of the most notorious reprobates in the art world. It was time for the detective to excuse himself so that he could patrol the corridors. Dillman rose from his seat.

  “Are you leaving us already?” said Thomas.

  “Yes, I promised to meet someone, Abednego.”

  “Who is the lucky lady?”

  “That would be telling,” said Dillman, discreetly. He looked down at Vane and Florence Stiller. “It was a pleasure meeting you both.”

  They bade him farewell then switched their attention straight back to Thomas, hoping for more vicarious thrills as he talked about the artistic life of Paris. Dillman, meanwhile, slipped out of the room and began his rounds. Most of the passengers had gone to the lounge so the corridors were relatively deserted and it was some time before he actually saw anyone else. When he did, it was not a passenger at all. It was a steward and he was behaving strangely, peering through the keyhole of a cabin. The man straightened up quickly as Dillman approached and gave him a nervous smile.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said.

  “Hello, Manny. Forgotten your master key?”

  “Oh, I’m not responsible for these cabins, sir. They’re on Sid’s list.”

  “Would that be Sidney Browne, by any chance?”

  “Yes,” said Ellway in surprise. “How did you know his name?”

  “Because you mentioned it once before.”

  “What a memory!”

  “He’s looking after Mr. Morgan’s stateroom, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right, sir — at the other end of the corridor. Sid was in there earlier on, cleaning up after a drinks party.”

  “Alone?”

  “Oh no,” said Ellway, “there was this man who stood over him and told him to hurry up. I don’t think Sid’s allowed in there on his own with all that valuable stuff hanging about. Riedel,” he remembered, pursing his lips. “He was the man who kept an eye on Sid — a Mr. Riedel.”

  Dillman gave no indication that he had met the fellow himself. What interested him was why Ellway, who had always seemed so honest and straightforward, had been peering into a cabin. The steward seemed to read his mind. He gave a shrug.

  “It’s unoccupied, sir,” he explained. “I just wanted to see what it was like, that’s all.”

  “Sidney Browne must have a master key to it, surely.”

  “Yes, sir, but I wouldn’t dare to ask him for it. Sid’s a stickler for the rules. He’d never let his own mother into a cabin where she was not entitled to be. I respect that.”

  “Yet you couldn’t resist a peep.”

  “My first time on the Oceanic. I suppose I’m just curious.”

  “What did you see in there?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  “You won’t be moving in, then?”

  “Fat chance of that!”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said Dillman, manufacturing a yawn. “Sea air is so soporific. I think I’ll turn in.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Manny.”

  When Dillman continued on his way, he was both puzzled and disappointed. He could not understand why Ellway had deliberately lied to him. The steward went down in his estimation.

  It took Genevieve Masefield a long time to get rid of him. Jonathan Killick was like a limpet, clinging to her by means of conversational tricks and using all his charm in an attempt to win her round.

  “I took you to meet J. P. Morgan, didn’t I?” he said.

  “Yes,” she accepted, “and I was grateful. Though if you’d asked me beforehand to go with you, I’d most certainly have refused.”

  “Why? Do you think I have cloven feet and a forked tail?”

  “Good night.”

  “I’m sure that you’ll learn to like me in time.”

  “What I’d like at this moment is some privacy.”

  “Then why don’t you invite me into your cabin?”

  “I think you’d better go, Mr. Killick,” she said sharply.

  “I told you. I’m Johnny to my friends.”

  “Well, I’m not sure that I wish to be included among them.”

  “At least, call me Johnny.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “J. P. Morgan has no objection to my friendship.”

  “Then why don’t you go and pester him instead?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, changing his tack and gesturing an apology. “I had no idea that my affection was so misplaced. Do please forgive me.” He backed away. “We’ll have to start afresh in the morning. Good night.”

  As soon as he had gone, Genevieve let herself into her cabin and locked the door, relieved that she had finally escaped him. Jonathan Killick had conceded defeat on this occasion but his withdrawal was only tactical. She knew that he would stalk her again. Putting her purse and stole aside, she sat in front of the mirror and began to remove the pins from her hair. When she heard a quiet tap on the cabin door, she tensed involuntarily, fearing that Killick was back. Then she recognized the signal that Dillman always gave when he came to see her.

  Genevieve rushed to let him in then flung herself into his arms.

  Dillman kissed her. “That’s the kind of welcome I like,” he said.

  “I’m so pleased to see you, George.”

  “I thought you’d cast me aside for an English aristocrat.”

  “That man is incorrigible.”

  “Yet you let him take you to a party in Mr. Morgan’s stateroom.”

  “I was tricked.”

  They sat down and Genevieve explained how she had been invited and what had transpired when she got there. She had enjoyed Morgan’s company and been given a privileged look at the various items that had been bought during the visit to Paris. Dillman was interested to hear her good opinion of Morgan and how cultured the man was. He was not at all surprised to learn that she had found Howard Riedel both offensive and overbearing. It was something on which they could both agree.

  “What was the most valuable item?” asked Dillman.

  “The Book of Hours. That’s Mr. Morgan’s pride and joy.”

  “It also appealed to his commercial sense, Genevieve.”

  “In what way?”

  “The Revenue Act of 1897 imposed a twenty percent tariff on imported works of art,” he told her. “It’s the reason that Mr. Morgan leaves most of his paintings with galleries and museums in England so that he can escape paying import duty.”

  “And the Book of Hours?”

  “No charge on that — books are exempt.”

  “He paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for it.”

  “Then you can appreciate why he employs Howard Riedel to look after it. I found the man obnoxious but he’s an effective guard dog. Nobody would venture anywhere near that book while Riedel is about.”

  ———

  The first item to be placed in the bag was the Book of Hours. The man worked swiftly, choosing the other items he wanted and wrapping them with care before stowing them away in his bag. When he had finished, he switched off the light, stepped over the dead body of Howard Riedel, and let himself out. It was all done in a matter of minutes.

  SIX

  When was the body discovered?” asked George Dillman.

  “Shortly after midnight.”

  “By whom?”

  “Mr. Morgan.”

  “Was he on his own?”

  “Yes,” said Lester Hembrow.

  “Where is he now?”

  “I’ve put him in Mr. Riedel’s cabin for the time being.”

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “Someone cut his throat.”

  “Have you called the doctor?”

  “He’s examining the body now.”

  “Let’s get over there.”

  Dillman was on the point of undressing when the summons came. The urgency of the knock on
his door told him that something serious had happened and the look on the face of the normally unperturbed Lester Hembrow confirmed it. The purser was ashen, his eyes staring, his forehead lined with concern. As they set off down the corridor, there was a tremble in his voice.

  “Of all the people for this to happen to,” he said with a sigh.

  “Riedel is an unlikely victim, I grant you.”

  “I didn’t mean that, George. The one person on this ship we’ve gone out of our way to treat like royalty is J. P. Morgan and his right-hand man gets murdered under our noses. It couldn’t be any worse.”

  “Yes, it could.”

  “How?”

  “Mr. Morgan might have been the victim.”

  “You’re right,” said Hembrow after a moment’s consideration. “That would have been a copper-bottomed calamity. The repercussions would have been unthinkable. We’d be on the front pages of every newspaper in the world.”

  “How has Mr. Morgan taken it?”

  “He’s icily calm.”

  “Where had he been until midnight?”

  “In the lounge with friends.”

  When they got to the scene of the crime, Hembrow used a master key to open the door and they stepped into the stateroom. It was divided into three sections — a bedroom, a bathroom, and a large area where passengers could relax in comfort or dine in private. Howard Riedel was lying on his back beside the table, an ugly gash across his throat, his wing collar, white tie, and dress shirt soaked with blood. Dr. Francis Garfield was kneeling beside him. He looked up at the newcomers. The purser introduced Dillman, who exchanged a nod with the doctor.

  “Throat slit from ear to ear,” noted Dillman, crouching down.

  “That’s right,” replied Garfield.

  “Then his killer must have been a strong man.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Mr. Riedel kept himself fit. I saw evidence of that myself.” He glanced around. “He would have put up a fight against any assailant yet there are no signs of a tussle.”

  “I know.”

  “Then how was he overpowered?”

  “I think he was drugged, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Drugged?”

  “He might even have been asleep when he was murdered.”

  The doctor got to his feet. He was a slim, wiry man in his forties with horn-rimmed eyeglasses. He spoke with a strong West Country accent. While Dillman carried out his own inspection of the corpse, Hembrow watched him. Garfield ran a worried hand over his bald pate.