Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  At a time when Genevieve Masefield needed to be on her own, she was assailed by company from all sides. Dillman had visited her cabin at the crack of dawn to tell her about the crimes that had been committed and to gather any relevant information that she could offer. Shaken by news of the death of Howard Riedel and shocked by the theft of precious items that she had actually been shown, Genevieve wanted to have breakfast alone so that she could devote all her attention to the startling developments. Instead, she was intercepted in a corridor by Edith Hurst, stopped by Hilda Farrant, who fired another broadside at her, and detained by a woman who had admired her evening gown and who asked where she had bought it.

  When she finally reached the dining room, Genevieve was waylaid again. This time it was by a man in his early forties with long black hair that curled around his ears and was liberally salted with gray.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “May I speak to you a moment?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It’s Miss Masefield, isn’t it? My wife pointed you out to me. My name is Ethan Boyd. You spoke with Rosalie yesterday.”

  “Ah, yes — the stolen purse.”

  “The missing purse,” he corrected. “I just wanted to apologize on my wife’s behalf. She does tend to leave things in the oddest places and then forget where they are. Rosalie is so sorry for taking up your time.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Boyd. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “From my point of view, a false alarm is the best kind. No crime was committed and the purse was returned to your wife.”

  “I’ll chain it to her wrist from now on.”

  Ethan Boyd had a pleasant face and an engaging manner. He was smartly dressed in a dark brown suit. Genevieve had been to New York enough times to recognize a Brooklyn accent, though, in his case, it was much softer on the ear.

  “On the trip to Europe,” he explained, “Rosalie mislaid a pearl necklace and swore that she must have forgotten to bring it with us. When we packed our trunk to leave the ship, we found the necklace caught in the lining.”

  “I’m glad that that little scare was also unfounded.”

  “There won’t be a third, I promise you.”

  Boyd thanked her again then stepped aside so that she could enter the dining room. It was early and only a few tables were taken. It allowed Genevieve to choose one that was partly concealed by a potted palm. The waiter took her order then she was able to address her mind to the problems with which she and Dillman had been confronted. She could not believe that a man with whom she had dined less than twelve hours ago was now lying dead, or that J. P. Morgan’s magnificent collection had been deprived of so many items. It was a crippling double blow.

  “Good morning, Genevieve,” said Blanche Charlbury.

  “What?”

  “May I join you?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Genevieve. “Please do.”

  “Thank you,” said Blanche, sitting beside her. She peered at her friend. “I say, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You were miles away when I came in. Something on your mind?”

  “Nothing important,” said Genevieve, deciding to make the most of the situation. She contrived a smile. “It’s nice to see you again, Blanche. I’m sorry that I deserted you last night but that friend of yours got me invited to Mr. Morgan’s table.”

  “He told me that he would. Johnny knows everybody.” Her eyes widened and she leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “Did he make any improper suggestions?”

  “I prefer to draw a veil over that.”

  “That means he did — trust Johnny!”

  “I didn’t realize how resourceful he could be.”

  “Resourceful?”

  “Cunning would be more accurate.”

  “It’s one of the reasons Mark hates him so much. There are lots of others.” She looked around to make sure that they were not overheard. “Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I may not be able to see as much of you as I’d like.”

  “You want to be with your fiancé. That’s perfectly understandable.”

  “It’s not only that.”

  “You don’t have to explain,” said Genevieve, grateful to be released from too close a friendship with Blanche. “I’ve met lots of other people and I’ve got plenty of things to keep me amused.”

  “You have such a gift for being at home wherever you are.”

  “I do like the communal life of an ocean liner, I must admit.”

  Blanche studied her carefully, trying to align her fiancé’s harsher comments about Genevieve with her own perceptions. She could detect none of the qualities that Bossingham had divined in the woman and preferred to rely on her own judgment. Genevieve was aware of her scrutiny.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

  “No reason.”

  “Have I got a spot on my nose or something?”

  “No,” said Blanche with a giggle. “But, talking of noses, how ever did Mr. Morgan come to have that purple onion in the middle of his face?”

  “It’s a condition he suffers from.”

  “Is there no cure?”

  “I wasn’t foolish enough to ask him, Blanche, and I’d suggest that you don’t do so either. Mr. Morgan doesn’t like personal questions.”

  “What does he like?”

  “Business deals and collecting art treasures.”

  Blanche’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “According to Mark, he sometimes comes to Paris for another reason altogether. At least, that’s the rumor.”

  “Go on.”

  “Mark loathes scandal. He refuses to talk about such things as a rule — especially with me — but I managed to get it out of him in the end.”

  “Get what out?”

  “It seems that Mr. Morgan stays at the Hotel Bristol.”

  “It’s one of the best hotels in Paris.”

  “Very close to the Vendôme.”

  “So?”

  “Well,” continued Blanche, gabbling like a breathless schoolgirl, “while Mr. Morgan stays at one hotel, his mistress stays only a few doors away at the Vendôme. He has a wife back in America but he takes someone else to Paris.”

  “She obviously wasn’t with him on this occasion.”

  “How could she bear him, Genevieve? He’s so repulsive.”

  “Mr. Morgan is a very cultured man. He speaks French, German, and has the most amazing knowledge of art and antiques.”

  “Who wants to talk about art and antiques in the bedroom?” Blanche gave a sudden laugh then blushed at her own boldness. She became contrite. “Oh, do forgive me. I didn’t mean to be indelicate.”

  “I take your point nevertheless.”

  “He’s old, Genevieve. I don’t care how rich he is.”

  “You’re far better off with Mark.”

  “Yes,” said Blanche, dreamily. “I wouldn’t change him for the world. I know that he’s reserved and conventional and wrapped up in his work, but he has so many good qualities. This is the first time we’ve been properly alone and I find it so exciting. I just wish that he did as well.”

  “I’m sure that he’s enjoying every moment, Blanche.”

  “He just isn’t very good at showing it.”

  “Englishmen of that breed never are.”

  “Things will be different when we’re married,” said Blanche with more hope than confidence. “Mark will be able to relax with me, then, and let me get really close to him.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I love him so much.”

  “Has he always been so undemonstrative?”

  “Yes. I blame his time in the diplomatic service.”

  “Why?”

  “He has to wear a mask all the time and conceal his thoughts. It’s become second nature to him. The worrying thing is,” she confided, “that I’m not entirely sure what’s behind that mask.”

  Lester Hembrow had recovered his hab
itual smile and good humor. Nobody would have guessed from his appearance that he was coping with a dire emergency. When Dillman called at his office that morning, the purser looked calm and in control.

  “So far, so good,” he told the detective. “The body is out of sight and Mr. Morgan finally handed over what’s left of his art treasures. They’re locked up where no thief will be able to get at them.”

  “Good. Did you follow my advice with regard to the steward?”

  “Yes, we told him that Mr. Riedel had been taken ill and was not to be disturbed. He seemed relieved to hear it. I don’t think that Riedel was on the friendliest of terms with the fellow.”

  “Browne. Sidney Browne.”

  “Is that the steward’s name?”

  “Yes,” said Dillman. “I feel sorry for any man who had to look after Mr. Morgan and his henchman. They could both be very demanding.”

  “One of them still is, George.”

  “I’m on my way to see him now. I wanted to speak to you first.”

  “You’ve told Genevieve, presumably.”

  “The news dazed her. She was at the same table as the two men. She was also at the drinks party beforehand and was able to make some valuable comments about the other guests.”

  “You still think one of them may be implicated?”

  “It’s something I have to consider. However,” Dillman went on, “that’s a matter for speculation. Let’s stick to the facts, few and far between as they are. What do we know for certain?”

  “That Mr. Riedel was killed somewhere between ten o’clock and midnight. Dr. Garfield thought it was earlier rather than later.”

  “So do I. The killer would have been afraid that Mr. Morgan might return unexpectedly. He’d want to get everything over as quickly as possible. First of all, he drugged Howard Riedel.”

  “That would mean he gained access to the man’s cabin.”

  “There are various ways he could have done that.”

  “How could he be sure that Mr. Riedel would drink that whiskey?”

  “Because he knew him.”

  “Knew him?”

  “Yes, Lester.”

  “You mean that they were acquaintances?”

  “My guess is that they’d certainly met before,” said Dillman. “We have to find a motive for the murder, you see. Why should anyone cut Riedel’s throat when he could steal whatever he wanted from that collection and get away with it? There’s only one answer.”

  “Is there?”

  “He knew the man. Knew him, studied him, and despised him enough to plot his death. Theft was only secondary. The main reason someone went there last night was to kill a hated enemy.” Dillman inhaled deeply. “That’s our motive, Lester — revenge.”

  It was a clear, bright morning and, though the sea was choppy, the Oceanic seemed to glide through them without causing any discomfort to its passengers. Hundreds of people took the opportunity for a stroll in the sunshine or playing some of the many deck games that were available. Swathed in thick coats and wearing hats and scarves, some passengers preferred to sit and read. Almost everyone in steerage had come out into the fresh air, glad to escape the cramped conditions in which they were traveling. Their cabins were small, functional, and always shared. In a space the size of J. P. Morgan’s stateroom, at least twenty steerage passengers would be sleeping.

  Mark Bossingham had also ventured out on deck. Blanche Charlbury had an appointment with the hairdresser after breakfast so he was free to explore the ship alone for a couple of hours. He had not been pleased to find his fiancée at the same table as Genevieve Masefield earlier that morning, and he had gently chided her about it. It annoyed him that Blanche had seemed unrepentant, though she had promised to spend less time with Genevieve in future. Bossingham resolved to keep the two women apart as much as he could because he feared that Genevieve was a bad influence.

  It worried him that his future wife still had such youthful impulses and he viewed the trip to New York as a time when he could mold her character into what he considered to be a more appropriate shape. If she were to move in diplomatic circles, Blanche would have to be discreet and circumspect. She had declared herself ready to learn and it was partly on that basis that he had asked for her hand in marriage. Bossingham loved her for her quiet beauty and for what he saw as her many sterling qualities. It was merely a question of easing her more fully into adulthood and he would have the perfect wife.

  He was standing at the rail when a companion joined him.

  “Good morning,” said Jonathan Killick affably.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “What sort of a greeting is that?”

  “It’s the only one you’ll get.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be a diplomat.”

  “Diplomacy would be wasted on you, Killick.”

  “That’s true,” said the other with a laugh. “Where’s Blanche?”

  “In the hairdressing salon.”

  “Let you off the leash, has she?”

  “I was never on the leash,” said Bossingham with distaste. “Not in the way that you imply.”

  “No, you’re too busy trying to keep Blanche tied down.”

  “I refuse to discuss our relationship with you.”

  “But I’m all in favor of it,” said Killick enthusiastically. “I think that you’re exactly the kind of man that Blanche should marry — safe, respectable, and unthreatening. I just wish that she’d spent a bit more time enjoying herself first.”

  “With people like you, I suppose.”

  “There are no people like me, Bossingham — I’m unique.”

  “Uniquely deplorable.”

  Killick beamed. “One has a reputation to maintain.”

  “I think that you’re a disgrace.”

  “Blanche takes a much more generous view of me.”

  “She knows you for the libertine that you are.”

  “Then why did she agree to come to that ball in Chelsea with me?”

  “That was a mistake,” said Bossingham curtly, “and she realizes that now. You misled her completely. You told her that she’d be going there with a party of eight other people, only to discover, at the last moment, that you were her sole escort.”

  “The other eight people dropped out.”

  “If they ever existed!”

  “Do you question my word?” asked Killick with mock indignation.

  “Yes.”

  “I resent that.”

  “You’re a cad.”

  Killick was amused. “Do you know, I haven’t been called that since I was caught in a compromising situation with Squiffy Wilson’s wife. He said that I was a cad, a bounder, and an utter scoundrel.”

  “I’d agree wholeheartedly with that opinion of you.”

  “He also threatened to horsewhip me. Would you care to do that?”

  It was a direct challenge. Bossingham found him nauseating but he hesitated to offer any physical violence to someone who was bigger, stronger, and — in spite of his dissipated appearance — in better condition than the diplomat. Killick was a talented all-round sportsman who shone at tennis, golf, and polo. Before he was sent down from Oxford, he had also represented the university in the boxing ring.

  “I thought not,” said Killick triumphantly. “You’re too scared to back your sneers up with blows. Squiffy Wilson was the same. He called me every name under the sun but he never actually laid a finger on me. You’d have been the same in his position — cowardly.”

  “I’d never be in his position,” asserted Bossingham.

  “Don’t you be so sure.”

  “No wife of mine would ever behave in that way.”

  “That depends how well you treat her, old chap.”

  “Some people respect the vows of marriage.”

  “I’m quite sure that I would,” said Killick easily, “if I was ever foolish enough to walk down the aisle. But why tie yourself to one woman when there are so many of them to love?”

&nb
sp; “I don’t believe that you’re capable of love.”

  “Then you should ask your fiancée.”

  Bossingham tensed. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Talk to Blanche.”

  “I’ve already done so.”

  “She obviously hasn’t told you everything about us,” said Killick. “It’s true that I only took her out for that magical evening in Chelsea but there was ample evidence of my devotion to her before that. I sent cards, flowers, and all manner of other blandishments.” Bossingham’s eyes flared. “I wonder why Blanche never mentioned any of this to you.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “There’s an easy way to prove that — ask your fiancée.”

  “This conversation has gone far enough,” said Bossingham, keen to terminate the exchange. “Good day to you, Killick.”

  “Why be so unfriendly? We’re fellow travelers on a ship with the most wonderful amenities. Make the most of them. This is my third trip on the Oceanic and I always have a whale of a time.”

  “One wonders how you can afford it.”

  “Strictly speaking, I can’t.”

  “No,” said Bossingham nastily. “Everyone knows that you went through your inheritance years ago. You’re on the verge of bankruptcy.”

  “A gentleman is bound to have a few creditors.”

  “You have dozens of them baying at your heels.”

  “I always manage to keep just ahead of them.”

  “How?” said Bossingham. “Your family have refused to bail you out again so you have no apparent means of income. It’s not as if you’ve ever had a profession and actually worked for a living.”

  “Heaven forbid!”

  “You’re just a parasite.”

  “And proud to be one,” said Killick happily. “I leave all the toiling to lesser mortals like you. But you’re wrong to say that I have no profession at all because I do. A very lucrative one, it is.”

  “Cadging money off gullible people?”

  “Acquiring it by means of which you would disapprove strongly. Last evening,” he went on, smugly, “I earned enough to pay for this voyage a thousand times over.”

  SEVEN

  When he returned to the scene of the crime, Dillman found that J. P. Morgan had been playing solitaire while smoking a large Rosa de Santiago Celestiale. The financier’s chair was only yards from where his bodyguard had been murdered but that did not seem to trouble him in the least. Forced to cough by the thick, aromatic fug, Dillman was invited to sit opposite him. He looked down at the cards. Solitaire was Morgan’s favorite game and it seemed to define the man. He was disciplined, self-sufficient, and lonely. For all his wealth and success, and in spite of the vast numbers of people employed by corporations he had set up, he seemed to carry an emptiness around with him.