Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

“Very well — kiss me.”

  He blenched. “Here?”

  “There’s hardly anyone about.”

  “But this is so public.”

  “It’s the deck of an ocean liner and that’s one of the most romantic places in the world. I want to feel that we’re sailing off on our honeymoon, Mark. If I can ask for anything — kiss me.”

  “Very well,” he said, steeling himself to give her a peck on the cheek. He stood back from her. “There you are, Blanche.”

  “Yes,” she said sadly. “Here I am.”

  “Where on earth have you been hiding, George?” said Veronica, enfolding him in her arms. “We were about to send out a search party for you.”

  “I missed luncheon. I wasn’t feeling hungry.”

  “I was hungry for your companionship.”

  “I’m flattered to hear that, Veronica.”

  “Didn’t you want to see me?”

  “I’m always happy to do that,” said Dillman gallantly.

  He had come looking for them in the lounge but Veronica Thomas was there without either her husband or Dominique Cadine. Leaping up from her seat, she gave him the sort of unrestrained welcome that made tongues click in every part of the room. They sat down together. Ready to enjoy her company, he also wanted to use Veronica as a source of information.

  “You joined the ship at Cherbourg, didn’t you?” he said.

  “That’s right. We stayed overnight there.”

  “Did you get to meet any of the other passengers?”

  “Lots of them,” replied Veronica. “I made a point of speaking to some of the steerage passengers. They must be really desperate to endure the conditions down there in the hope of finding a better life in America. You hear the most heartrending stories about the horrors they faced in their native countries. We’re so lucky, George.”

  “I know.”

  “Abednego identified with them even more than me. He may be successful now but he had almost twenty years of living in abject poverty before his paintings finally began to sell.”

  “Did he ever contemplate emigration to America?”

  “No — he thinks it’s full of philistines.”

  “Then why has he agreed to have an exhibition there?”

  “Abednego wants to educate them. Also,” she added with a laugh, “he likes American women.”

  “And they certainly like him,” said Dillman, “if Florence and Vane Stiller are anything to go by. They idolized him.”

  “When we went to the lounge after dinner, they were hanging on every word he said as if it were Holy Writ. It was midnight before the two ladies let us get away.” She stroked his hand. “I was hoping that you’d come to the lounge with us, George, so that we could talk some more. I’d have enjoyed that.”

  “I decided to have an early night.”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone.”

  “What a pity!”

  Their eyes locked for a moment and Dillman could read more than a passing interest in her gaze. The admiration between them was mutual but he could not understand why a married woman, traveling with her husband, was so blatant about her feelings for him. He probed for more detail that might help his investigation.

  “Did you see anything of J. P. Morgan in Cherbourg?” he said.

  “We deliberately kept out of his way.”

  “Why was that?”

  “My husband doesn’t like Mr. Morgan.”

  “I’ve got no time for people like that,” said Abednego Thomas, arriving in time to hear the remark. “Can’t stand the man, George.”

  “But he’s one of the world’s great art lovers,” said Dillman.

  “Art buyers, maybe, and that’s not the same thing.”

  “I’m told that he’s a very cultured man.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” said Thomas, sitting opposite him. “When I look at a painting, I see its intrinsic skill and beauty. When someone like Morgan looks at one, he sees a financial investment.”

  “Be fair. There’s more to it than that. J. P. Morgan has presented masterpieces to galleries and museums around the globe. He’s made it possible for ordinary people to view the very best of art.”

  “Only because he’s too mean to pay the import duty on any paintings he takes back to America. He’s no philanthropist. And he knows nothing about the way that artists actually work.”

  “J. P. Morgan is my husband’s bête noire,” explained Veronica. “He came into a gallery in Paris where some of Abednego’s paintings were on display. He made some very cutting remarks about them.”

  “He said that my paintings were obscene when all I’m doing is following an honorable tradition of depicting female nudes. Obscene!” said Thomas with passion. “Morgan is the obscenity. What’s more obscene than ruining his competitors by any means he can? Did you know that the man you call an art lover managed to evade the draft during the American Civil War then made a profit by selling defective rifles to the Union army? That was immoral.”

  “A lot of people might level that charge against you,” said Dillman.

  “Sexual morality doesn’t count.”

  “It does to them, Abednego.”

  “I’m talking about the way we treat our fellow human beings. I show them some respect. All that Morgan does is trample on them. He uses his money to crush any opposition,” he went on, waving a fist, “and leaves thousands of ruined families in his wake. Worst of all to me, as a painter, is that he tries to pass himself off as a patron of the arts.”

  “I can see why you didn’t get invited to his drinks party.”

  “We wouldn’t have gone if we had been, George.”

  “Dominique went.”

  “That was different,” said Veronica easily. “She likes parties and she was curious to meet Mr. Morgan face to face.”

  “Even though she knows that Abednego detests him?”

  “Even then.”

  “I’ve no power to stop her,” said Thomas, “and I wouldn’t be unwise enough to try. Dominique does exactly what she wants.”

  “But you employ her,” said Dillman. “You pay her wages.”

  “We have an arrangement.”

  “Don’t you think that she should have been more loyal to you?”

  “Oh, Dominique is very loyal to me. I have no worries on that score. And if she wants to go and meet someone whom I dislike,” said Thomas, “I don’t see it as a betrayal. Dominique Cadine is a free spirit. She’s also a very special young lady.”

  “Yes,” said Veronica, smiling. “Very special indeed.”

  EIGHT

  Since she was not due to meet Oskar Halberg until three o’clock that afternoon, Genevieve Masefield decided to interview one of the other victims of theft beforehand. Immediately after luncheon, therefore, she went to the cabin occupied by Florence and Vane Stiller. When she knocked on their door, however, the person who opened it was Edith Hurst. The stewardess was surprised to see her.

  “Oh — Miss Masefield!”

  “Hello, Edith.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I wanted to speak to Miss Stiller.”

  “Which one?” asked Edith. “There are two of them.”

  “Miss Florence Stiller. Have you any idea where she might be?”

  “Both ladies are in the library.”

  “Thank you.” Genevieve remembered something. “How are you getting on with Mrs. Farrant?”

  “She’s worse than ever.”

  “I hope that she’s still not accusing you of the crime.”

  “No, but I feel guilty nonetheless,” said Edith. “Whenever I go anywhere near that cabin, I get this prickly sensation all over.”

  “It will pass. What are you doing here?”

  “Making the beds.”

  “This late?”

  “I usually do it when they’ve gone to breakfast but they didn’t stir out of their cabin until well after noon. This is the first chance I’ve had to get in here. It’s
upset my routine.”

  “Then I won’t detain you any longer.”

  “Good-bye, Miss Masefield.”

  “Good-bye — and good luck with Mrs. Farrant!”

  Genevieve went back down the corridor and up the main staircase. She reached the library in minutes. It was a well-stocked room of medium size with leather sofas and matching armchairs. At one end was a long table with a number of chairs around it. Hundreds of books lined the walls. Florence and Vane Stiller were the only people there. Seated at the table, Florence was writing a letter. Her sister was reading a book. Genevieve introduced herself and saw at once that she would have a more comfortable time than Hilda Farrant had given her. Unlike Mrs. Farrant, the two sisters were pleased that a female detective was handling the case. Indeed, she aroused their curiosity.

  “How long have you been doing this sort of work?” asked Florence.

  “Some years now,” replied Genevieve.

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “When I achieve a measure of success.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous, Miss Masefield?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “How did you get drawn into this profession in the first place?” said Vane. “I can scent a story here. I don’t suppose that you’d let us feature you in an article, would you?”

  “No, Miss Stiller,” said Genevieve firmly. “Ships’ detectives work most effectively if they’re invisible. If you put my photograph in your magazine, it would be difficult for me to find employment.”

  “Oh dear! We can’t have that.”

  “In any case, Vane,” said her sister, “Miss Masefield has come to ask the questions, not to answer them. We must cooperate.”

  “I’ll do anything to get your jewelry box back, Florence.”

  “Perhaps we could start with a description of its contents,” said Genevieve, taking her notebook from her bag. “Some idea of cost would also be useful.”

  “I’ve already prepared a list.” Florence handed it over to her. “There’s nothing terribly valuable there but I’ve had some of those items for over thirty years. They’re part of me.”

  “You’ll never see Florence without jewelry of some kind,” said Vane, indicating the silver earrings and the cameo brooch that her sister wore. “With a name like mine, I suppose that I should be vain but I have no fondness for ornaments.”

  “It’s not a question of vanity. I just like to make the most of myself. Besides,” said Florence, “some of the things stolen were gifts from gentleman admirers. They have a value well beyond their price.”

  “When did you last see the jewelry box?” asked Genevieve.

  “Just before we left our cabin — about seven o’clock.”

  “And you’re certain that you locked the door?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “How long were you away?”

  “Let me see,” said Florence, doing some swift mental arithmetic. “It must have been five hours at least. We got back here around midnight.”

  “Yes,” confirmed Vane. “We had the good fortune to share a table with Abednego Thomas, the artist. What an extraordinary man! Are you familiar with his paintings, Miss Masefield.”

  “No — only with his reputation.” The sisters laughed gaily. “In view of that, you were both extremely daring. Most ladies would be frightened off by Mr. Thomas’s rather lurid past.”

  “He’s a man who enjoys life. There’s nothing wrong in that.”

  “And he’s such a wonderful raconteur,” said Florence. “Though some of his stories are a little too colorful for our readers. Artists are a different species, I always think. While the rest of us obey all those silly, restrictive, social rules, they strike out on their own.”

  “What jewelry were you wearing last night?” said Genevieve.

  “Everything I’m wearing now.” Florence touched her brooch and earrings then held out both hands. They were covered in rings and there was a gold bracelet around one wrist. “Oh, and there was a ruby necklace that I’ve kept in my bag all day. I daren’t leave anything else in the cabin now.”

  “Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same spot,” said Vane.

  “We can’t be too careful, even if it is a case of closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.”

  “In other words,” said Genevieve, “you would have been seen as a woman with good taste in jewelry. The thief would have hoped you had more of it in your cabin.”

  Florence was upset. “You mean that I was watched?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “What a hideous thought! It’s alarming enough to know that someone went through our personal belongings. Vane and I felt invaded. It never occurred to me that I’d been singled out.”

  “It’s the way that thieves work on a ship. They identify targets.”

  “How dreadful!” exclaimed Florence, hand to her throat.

  “Did you notice anyone paying particular attention to your jewelry in the course of the evening?”

  “No, Miss Masefield.”

  “To be honest,” said Vane, “we were far too preoccupied with Abednego Thomas, and he could hardly be the thief. We never let him out of our sight. After dinner, we sat in the lounge for hours with him, his wife, and a Mademoiselle Cadine.”

  “There was someone else at our table, Vane.”

  “Really, Florence!” scolded her sister. “You surely can’t suspect Mr. Dillman. He was the soul of decency. In answer to your question, Miss Masefield, there was nobody who showed undue interest in the jewelry that Florence was wearing.”

  “Where was the jewelry box kept?” said Genevieve.

  “On top of the wardrobe.”

  “It was completely out of sight,” put in Florence. “I chose it because it was the safest spot in the cabin.”

  “And, therefore,” Genevieve told her, “one of the first places any thief would look. They know every inch of these cabins. It’s a matter of seconds for them to check the usual hiding places.”

  “You make me feel very naïve.”

  “You were unfortunate, Miss Stiller, that’s all. Ordinarily, your possessions would have been untouched even if you’d left them in full view. Thefts are the exception rather than the rule.”

  “Have there been any others on board?”

  “Two, as it happens.”

  “Jewelry in both cases?”

  “No,” said Genevieve. “A pickpocket relieved one gentleman of his billfold last night. Whether or not he or she is also the thief who visited your cabin, only time will tell.”

  “But you will catch him, won’t you?” asked Vane.

  “I think so.”

  “What makes you so confident, Miss Masefield?”

  “I believe that the thief made a big mistake in moving so early in the voyage. We still have ample time to hunt him down. If he’d stayed his hand until the final night afloat, he’d have made it much more awkward for us. What I suggest,” Genevieve went on, “is that you tell nobody else about what happened. It will only spread disquiet.”

  “We’ve not breathed a word — even to Mr. Thomas.”

  “No,” said Florence. “What would he think of me if he realized how careless I’d been? Vane and I would not confide in anyone.”

  Genevieve was pleased. “That’s very sensible. There is something else you could do to help.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I wonder if you’d rack your brains for me and give me a list of all the people you’ve met since you’ve been on the Oceanic.”

  “But there are dozens, Miss Masefield.”

  “The thief may be among them,” said Genevieve. “He or she is someone who has probably met you and taken the trouble to watch your movements. Put down every name that you can think of, however casual the acquaintance might be.”

  “I’ll do that,” offered Vane. “My memory is better.”

  “Start with Mr. Thomas, then,” said her sister.

  “He’d have no reason to steal from u
s. He’s a friend. The same goes for his wife and his model. There’s no point in confusing Miss Masefield by giving more names than we need.” Vane Stiller was businesslike. “We must put down everyone else instead.”

  “Does that include George Dillman?” asked Florence.

  “Yes,” said Genevieve with equanimity. “Put his name at the very top of the list. I’ll make a point of sounding him out.”

  A biting wind was scouring the deck that afternoon and only the most intrepid passengers in first and second class dared to stay outside for long. It was another matter in steerage. Nothing but the most inclement weather would keep the emigrants indoors. Wearing the warmest clothes they could muster, they huddled on deck and shivered in the cold. Even that was preferable to spending more time than was necessary in their cheerless cabins or in the bare and incommodious public rooms.

  Blanche Charlbury did not even think of going out onto the promenade deck. Like most people in first class, she opted for the lounge. She was just lowering herself into a chair when Jonathan Killick appeared out of nowhere to accost her.

  “Ah, I’ve caught you alone at last,” he said, sitting beside her. “Where’s the blighted Bossingham?”

  “He’s gone to get a book for me from his cabin.”

  “If you were engaged to me, you’d have no time for reading.”

  “Stop it, Johnny! I won’t listen to that kind of talk.”

  “Would you prefer me to be high-minded and quote Shakespeare? I know a couple of speeches out of Julius Caesar.”

  “Don’t be silly. I need to speak to you.”

  “Speak. Caesar is turned to hear.”

  “Whatever did you say to Mark? He was really vexed earlier on.”

  “That was the object of the exercise.”

  “You gave him completely the wrong impression,” she said, reaching out to jab him in the ribs. “That was so naughty of you.”

  “Naughtiness becomes me.”

  “You taunted Mark without mercy.”

  “I told him the truth, that’s all.”

  “What truth?”

  “That I fell in love with you and that you encouraged me.”

  “That’s not what happened,” she protested, “and you know it.”

  “All I know is that a heavenly creature called Blanche Charlbury once let me send her cards and flowers and boxes of chocolates for months on end.”