by Conrad Allen
Vane was wistful. “I’m still not sure if we made the right choice.”
“It’s too late now,” Florence pointed out.
“Not necessarily,” said Boyd with a touch of gallantry.
“Thank you, kind sir.”
“A proposal may be even closer than you think.”
“Really?”
“If this artist is so fond of getting married, the chances are that he’ll be looking for a fourth wife.” The sisters both simpered. “His problem is that he’ll have a terrible job trying to decide between you.”
“Don’t be such a tease, Ethan,” said Rosalie.
“I’m not teasing. They’re very eligible ladies.”
“Well, yes. They are.”
“It’s never too late, Rosalie. Look at your aunt.”
“Yes, she never married until she was quite old. We thought she’d die an old maid but she spent her sixtieth birthday on her honeymoon in Florida. What’s more, her husband was years younger than she was.”
“That story would make a good article in our magazine,” said Vane.
“Do you think that your aunt would speak to us?” asked Florence.
“Oh, I’m sure she would,” said Rosalie.
“Could we have her address?”
“It wouldn’t be much use, I’m afraid. Unfortunately, Aunt Hetty died some years ago, but she did say that getting married was the best thing she’d ever done in her life.”
“Abednego Thomas said exactly the same thing,” noted Boyd, wryly. “On three separate occasions.”
The two sisters went off into peals of well-bred laughter.
J. P. Morgan had no reason to stay in his stateroom. Deprived of his art treasures, and lacking a bodyguard, he could have neither pleasure nor company there. He still had many friends and business associates aboard so he decided to enjoy dinner with them. Apart from anything else, he would be giving the impression that nothing untoward had happened. Those who sat at his table would be totally unaware that a major theft had occurred in his stateroom and that the corpse of Howard Riedel was hidden away somewhere on the ship. Morgan intended to keep them ignorant of the harsh truth.
When he had dressed for dinner, he let himself out of his room and ambled along the corridor. Hearing sounds of rapid footsteps behind him, he turned round. A wild-eyed Abednego Thomas and a sleek Dominique Cadine were hurrying toward him.
“I’m glad we’ve bumped into each other, Mr. Morgan,” said Thomas.
“Do I know you, sir?”
“Well enough to cast aspersions on my paintings.”
“Ah, of course,” said Morgan. “You’re that renegade Welshman who thinks the canvas is a fit place for pornography. And you, mademoiselle,” he added, switching his gaze to Dominique, “like to force your way into parties to which you are not invited. Artist and model — two of a kind.”
“Watch that evil tongue of yours,” warned Thomas.
“Then go your way.”
“Not until I’ve spoken my mind.”
“You do have one, then?”
“Sneer all you will, you bloodsucker!”
“Abednego is a wonderful artist,” said Dominique stoutly. “He has a huge reputation in France.”
“A reputation for what?” asked Morgan. “Profligacy?”
“Magnificent paintings.”
“I find them squalid and uninspiring.”
“You wouldn’t recognize artistic talent in a hundred years,” said Thomas, bitterly. “You’ve no idea of the pain and suffering that goes into the making of a genius — because that’s what it takes, Mr. Morgan. Mine isn’t a profession where you can feed off other people like a vulture. You have to go through rites of passage on your own — rejection, poverty, hardship, the contempt of philistines like you.”
“That’s enough,” cautioned Dominique.
“Oh no, it isn’t.”
“He’s not even listening, Abednego.”
“Yes, I am,” said Morgan calmly. “Let him rant on.”
“I speak on behalf of all artists,” continued Thomas, pointing an accusatory finger. “You’re a monster, sir, a devil in human guise.”
“Simply because I find your work so offensive?”
“It’s not offensive,” said Dominique. “It’s beautiful.”
“Let me answer him, darling,” said Thomas. “This is my fight. And no, Mr. Morgan,” he went on, rounding on the other man. “This is nothing to do with me. I don’t care two hoots what you think of my work. Quite frankly, I’d be offended if you liked it. My argument is with the way that you plunder works of art in ever-increasing numbers without any real understanding of their true worth.”
“I always pay the going rate.”
“Worth and price are two different things.”
“Not to me, Mr. Thomas.”
“You just buy indiscriminately.”
“I can at least disabuse you of that,” said Morgan sternly, “and I call upon Mademoiselle Cadine to bear me out here. She saw my most recent purchases. They were on display at the party. Tell Mr. Thomas the truth,” he invited her. “I never choose at random. When it comes to art — as with everything else — I employ the greatest care. I can afford the best and so I buy it. Correct, mademoiselle?”
“They were excellent paintings,” she conceded.
“That’s not the point,” argued Thomas.
“Yes, it is,” said Morgan. “I discriminate. I know how to separate the wheat from the chaff, how, for example, to select a Renoir and spurn an Abednego Thomas.”
“You don’t even understand what I’m saying, do you?”
“Artists need patrons. That’s what I am.”
“No, Mr. Morgan. You’re a symbol of destruction.”
“By creating one of the finest private collections in existence?”
“By using the American dollar like a sledgehammer to smash your way through the art world,” said Thomas vehemently. “By treating masterpieces as no more than expensive wallpaper for your mansion.”
“Much of what I buy goes into public galleries.”
“Only so that you can peddle the myth of your benevolence. Every donation you make to a public institution is nothing more than a smokescreen for your financial tyranny. You fool nobody, Mr. Morgan.”
“Leave him be, Abednego,” said Dominique.
“Somebody had to tell him.”
“It is — what is the phrase — like water off a duck’s back.”
“Very well put,” said Morgan with a glacial smile. “People have been hurling insults at me for half a century and they’ve done it with far more venom and eloquence than Mr. Thomas can manage. But the odd thing is that I’m still here and still doing what I believe I was put on this earth to do. Save your energy for those atrocious paintings of yours, Thomas. I bid you both good evening.”
J. P. Morgan walked off and left the artist fuming. Thomas was all for charging after him to continue the argument but he was restrained by Dominique Cadine. He glared at the American financier.
“I’ll kill that bastard one day!” he said. “I swear it!”
It was a paradox. Having married Genevieve Masefield in order to be close to her, George Dillman continued in a profession that kept them apart of necessity. During their three days on board the Oceanic, he had seen very little of his wife, and their conversations had been restricted very largely to the crimes that had occurred on board. When she came to his cabin before dinner that evening, he was reminded why he had fallen in love with her and reached out to hold her for a full minute.
“What have I done to deserve that?” she asked, breaking away.
“Do you object?”
“Quite the opposite.”
“I just wanted you to see how wonderful I think you are.” He stood back to admire her. “That pink dress looks absolutely gorgeous on you, Genevieve. It’s your color.”
“Don’t tell that to Oskar Halberg.”
“Why not?”
“He th
inks I should wear a specific shade of blue. It would bring out my full essence — at least, that’s what he said. When it comes to an evening gown, he’d prefer me in red.”
“You look marvelous in anything.”
“Thank you, George.”
“And out of it.”
“Now, now,” she said with a laugh. “You know our agreement. Work comes first. How are you getting on?”
“Slowly.”
“Any leads at all?”
“I feel that I’m moving in the right direction. I’ve been working my way through the list of first- and second-class passengers who joined us at Cherbourg. I’ve whittled the number of suspects down to twenty-two.”
“Supposing that the killer is not among them?”
“Then the instincts I hoped I’d been sharpening over the years have let me down. Howard Riedel was kept under surveillance — on board this ship and off it. Somebody was able to kill two birds with one stone.”
“Murder a hated enemy and steal a collection of art treasures.”
“Yes, Genevieve,” he said. “And there was another bonus.”
“Was there?”
“It was a way of infuriating J. P. Morgan.”
“Which upset him most, do you think — the death of his bodyguard or the loss of his property?”
“The latter. Howard Riedel can be replaced. The other items can’t. Each and every one of them is unique.”
“Especially that Book of Hours. It was ravishing.”
“Just like you.”
He brushed her lips with a kiss. They had agreed to meet in order to bring each other up to date with the progress of their investigations. Dillman was his usual elegant self while Genevieve was wearing a full-length pink evening gown of chiffon-velours with graceful folds, a pointed Court bodice, and lace revers falling tastefully over the décolletage. Her hair was up, throwing her gold earrings into prominence. There was a pink choker around her neck, supporting a single large ruby.
“How far have you got, Genevieve?” he asked.
“I’m still in the early stages.”
“Two more cases dropped into your lap, I hear.”
“Yes — Florence Stiller and Oskar Halberg. You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Miss Stiller, I believe. Spare yourself the trouble of an encounter with Mr. Halberg.”
“Why? Will he tell me I’d look fetching in a red evening gown?”
“He’s such a tetchy gentleman.”
Genevieve gave him an account of her dealings with the two victims and told him how she was looking closely at the various people whom they had each befriended on board. He was amused to hear that his own name had been at the top of one list. No definite suspect had so far emerged and Genevieve was keeping an open mind.
“My big problem is Mrs. Farrant,” she said.
“Is she still ranting and raving?”
“She’s gone beyond that stage, George. It appears that she’s written a letter of complaint to the managing director of the White Star Line and she’s cited my alleged incompetence as a major cause of her resentment.”
“What a dreadful woman!” he said. “Have you seen this letter?”
“No, I only got to hear of it through the kindness of Rosalie Boyd.”
“Was she the lady whose purse went astray?”
“That’s the one. She and her husband have been apologizing about that incident ever since. When they met Mrs. Farrant, she insisted on showing them her malicious letter. I’m worried, George.”
“She’ll change her tune when you find her diamond earrings.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” she said anxiously. “What disturbs me is that Hilda Farrant is sounding off in public. I warned her to say nothing about the theft and so did Lester Hembrow, but has that stopped her? Oh no. If we’re not careful, she’ll tell everyone in first class that I work as a ship’s detective.”
“That would be fatal. Shall I have a word with her?”
“No, it’s my problem. We don’t want to expose your cover as well.”
“What about the others?”
“They’ve been much more discreet. I stressed the importance of keeping details of the crime secret for the time being. That’s why Mrs. Boyd warned me.”
“Good for her!”
“As it is,” Genevieve continued, “rather too many people are aware that I’m not the innocuous passenger that I pretend to be. I’m going to have to dodge one of them this very evening.”
“Who’s that?”
“J. P. Morgan. I met him under false pretenses.”
“You didn’t go to that party in order to spy on him, Genevieve. If you hadn’t been tricked by that smooth-talking Englishman, you’d never have been there in the first place.”
“Mr. Morgan may not see it that way.”
“Ignore him,” he instructed.
“What if he confronts me?”
“He won’t do that,” said Dillman. “He knows that you’re helping me to solve the two crimes that took place in his stateroom and he’ll admire you for that — especially if we secure an early arrest. We’re working together on this as a team.”
“When I’m not diverted by other things.”
“Yes, I could really do with your full-time assistance, Genevieve.”
“Then you know what you have to do,” she told him. “Pray that I have a clear run from now on. I certainly don’t want to have any other cases to distract me.”
The thief walked the length of the corridor to make sure that it was safe to make a move, then doubled back to the cabin that had been chosen. A key went into the lock, the door opened, and someone else’s possessions were soon at the mercy of the intruder. It was a profitable visit.
NINE
May I say how positively divine you look this evening, Miss Masefield?”
“Thank you,” said Genevieve guardedly.
“Your wardrobe is an endless source of wonder.”
“There’s no need to exaggerate.”
“But then,” said Killick, “it’s not really the clothing that makes the difference, I always think. It’s the woman inside it.”
Genevieve Masefield had delayed her arrival so that the first-class dining room would be fairly full and most of the tables would be taken. In the few days afloat, new acquaintances had developed into friends and firm groups had been formed. Unwilling to sit with Blanche Charlbury again, she looked around for a vacant chair at another table. Before she could see one, however, Jonathan Killick strode across the room to kiss her hand and shower her with compliments.
“I feel very honored,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m the only man aboard who’s had the good fortune to act as your escort twice. I regard that as a blessing.”
“Forgive me if I choose another word for it.”
“A curse?” He gave a disarming smile. “Am I really that bad?”
“I don’t like to be hoodwinked,” she told him.
“You were pleased to be invited to Mr. Morgan’s party, weren’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then you ought to be grateful to the person who contrived it.”
“Had I known in advance, I might have been.”
“Then again,” he said, “you might have refused to accompany someone like me and I couldn’t take that risk. I had to work in a more mysterious way.”
“A more underhanded way.”
“It amounts to the same thing.”
“Not in my dictionary,” said Genevieve, looking around. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me while I find myself a seat.”
“But one is already waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry but I like to choose my own dinner companions.”
He spread his arms. “Nobody is forcing you, Miss Masefield.”
“Then perhaps you’d be good enough to leave me alone.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll just have to disappoint Mr. Morgan and tell him that you refus
e to join his table again.”
Genevieve was checked. “Mr. Morgan?”
“That’s why I’m here — as his emissary.”
“Is this another of your ruses?” she challenged.
“If you don’t believe me, look at his table. It’s over in the corner once again. You see? He’s beckoning you over.”
Genevieve was startled. Seated at the head of the table, Morgan was smiling in her direction and gesturing her across. The rest of the seats were occupied but the chairs either side of him had been kept empty. He patted one of them to indicate that Genevieve should take it.
“And no,” said Killick in her ear, “this is not my doing. Mr. Morgan specifically asked for you to join his party. His taste for female company of the highest order is quite faultless. Shall we go?”
With grave misgivings, Genevieve walked toward the table and tried to conjure up a smile that would conceal her unease. Morgan got up to pull back a chair for her and she sat down, wondering what his motive was for inviting her there. When the Honorable Jonathan Killick sat opposite her, Morgan looked first at him and then at Genevieve.
“How well do you two know each other?” he asked.
“Not well at all,” said Genevieve, making it clear that Killick had no idea that she was a ship’s detective. “In fact, we’re complete strangers.”
“I see.”
“But that could all change,” said Killick with supreme confidence. “Who knows what we could have become by the end of this voyage?”
Florence and Vane Stiller were indefatigable. Having interviewed their favorite living artist on the previous evening, they had turned their attention to a concert pianist from Belgium who was on his way to play with some of the major American orchestras. Freed from their hero-worship, Abednego Thomas chose a table for six and, since George Dillman was with them once more, there were two free seats. Ethan and Rosalie Boyd asked if they might take them. The newcomers pretended not to know who Thomas was but it was clear from Rosalie’s respectful scrutiny of his ravaged countenance that she had heard something about him. Still bruised from his verbal skirmish with J. P. Morgan, the artist was unusually subdued. Then he discovered that Boyd was a banker.
