by Conrad Allen
“Yes, if it serves your purpose. We’re being distracted, Lester. Someone is deliberately hampering Genevieve so that she can’t devote her time to the murder investigation. My belief is that all the crimes are connected,” said Dillman with conviction. “Murder, theft, or anything else, they’re the work of the same person or persons.”
“Pass that on to Genevieve.”
“I will. What was stolen this time?”
“A whole range of items,” said the purser, trying to recall them. “A sapphire necklace, matching earrings, various brooches, diamond rings and — oh yes — a gold bracelet that cost a pretty penny.”
Dillman’s ears pricked up. “A gold bracelet?”
The gold bracelet was inside the envelope with the note when Genevieve Masefield thrust it back into his hands. Jonathan Killick was dismayed.
“Didn’t you like it?” he asked.
“I liked it very much.”
“Then why don’t you keep it?”
“Because I don’t accept gifts from people I hardly know.”
“Come now, Miss Masefield,” he said suavely, “you know me very well. We attended a party together and we’ve twice dined at the same table. We’re practically bosom friends.”
“I don’t feel that.”
“Then what do you feel?”
“That your antics are beginning to irritate me.”
“Heavens, we can’t have that. I do apologize. I’m just sorry you can’t receive a gift in the spirit in which it was offered. It cost rather more than a bunch of flowers, I can tell you.”
“That’s what worried me.”
“The cost?”
“Expensive gifts involve obligations.”
“But you’re not obliged to me in any way, Miss Masefield. I meant what I said in my note. It was a token of my esteem.” He offered her the envelope. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to keep it for a day?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Try it on. Look at yourself in a mirror. Gloat.”
“No,” said Genevieve, pushing the envelope away. “I didn’t deserve the gift so I couldn’t possibly accept it. I’d be grateful if you refrain from sending me anything else or trying to arrange meetings with me by devious means.”
“You arranged this meeting,” he protested.
It was true. Genevieve had lurked outside the dining room until he came for his breakfast. Accosting him at the door, she was as firm and unequivocal as she could be. He snapped his fingers.
“Ah,” he declared, “I think I understand now. Blanche has been talking to you. She issued a warning about the Big Bad Wolf named Jonathan Killick. I sent her some gifts at one time, and she liked them enough to keep them. I wanted to show her how I felt.”
“I hope that I’ve done the same to you.”
“You have. I’ll need to try something else.”
“Don’t try anything at all,” she cautioned. “I don’t care if you leave a dozen gold bracelets for me, you’ll not worm your way into my affections. Let’s meet as little as possible from now on.”
“Would you at least agree to communicate by letter?”
“No!”
“But the ship’s stationery is so decorous.”
“Write to someone else.”
“How would you respond to a sonnet in your praise?”
“Coldly.”
“Just as well I never tried to write one for you, then.” He slipped the envelope into his pocket. “If you have a change of heart, the gold bracelet has your name on it.”
“I’m wondering whose name was on it beforehand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s a strange thing for a man to have in his possession,” she pointed out. “Did you bring it on board in the hope that you could use it to dazzle some gullible young lady?”
He grinned broadly. “A conjurer never reveals his secrets.”
“How did you come by it?”
“Let’s just say that it fell into my hands.”
“You must have paid a lot for it.”
“Money and fair words.”
“It was made in France. The maker’s name was on it.”
“So you did at least take the trouble to examine it. All may not be lost. Did you try it on, Miss Masefield? How did it feel against your skin?”
“I don’t know. It’s not mine so I had no right to try it on.”
“You had every right. I gave it to you to show my admiration, and I hoped to see you wearing it in public. What do you have against it?”
“The price.”
“I didn’t have to pay too much for it.”
“I’m talking about the price that I’d have to pay,” said Genevieve, looking him in the eye. “Please don’t do this again.”
“As you wish.”
“If you really want to endear yourself to me …”
“Oh, I do, I do.”
“Then please keep out of my way from now on.”
“Your wish is my command.” A wicked smile stole across his face. “Would it have made any difference if I’d sent you a pair of diamond earrings instead?”
Ethan and Rosalie Boyd were eating breakfast together when a third person sat down at their table without any invitation. Hilda Farrant was still aggrieved. Without even bothering to wish them good morning, she launched into her diatribe.
“It’s intolerable,” she said, rapping the table with her knuckles. “I’ll never sail with this shipping line again. They’ve had plenty of time to find my stolen property yet they still have no idea who the thief might be. It’s disgusting. As long as the man is at large, nobody in first class is safe. He’s free to plunder elsewhere.”
“I thought you told us that it was a female thief,” recalled Boyd. “A man would be unlikely to go into a ladies’ cloakroom.”
“Anything can happen on this ship.”
“What does Miss Masefield say?”
“All she did was to trot out the usual excuses,” said Mrs. Farrant. “As I was coming out of the purser’s office just now, Miss Masefield was about to go in. I gave her a piece of my mind.”
“It’s unfair to blame her, Mrs. Farrant,” said Rosalie. “With respect, it was your fault, not Miss Masefield’s, that the earrings were stolen.”
“How could it possibly be my fault?”
“According to you, the purse was left unguarded.”
“Yes, Mrs. Boyd — but in a very private place.”
“Other ladies had access to it.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Miss Masefield.”
“Our sympathies are entirely with you, Mrs. Farrant,” said Boyd, trying to rescue his wife from an argument. “All that Rosalie was doing was pointing out that, even on a ship like this, vigilance is necessary. We know that to our cost because my wife’s purse went astray.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Farrant enviously, “but she was more fortunate than I. Nothing had been taken from it.”
Rosalie smiled. “It proves that the thief was not a reading man.”
“Or woman,” corrected Boyd.
“Also, it showed how honest the stewards are. As soon as it was found, it was taken straight to the purser. I was impressed.”
“That’s more than I’ve been, Mrs. Boyd,” said the older woman. “I’ve been saddled with a stewardess who might well have been involved in the theft in some way. It’s the reason I leave nothing of value in my cabin.”
“What’s her name?”
“Hurst. Edith Hurst.”
“Have you mentioned her to Miss Masefield?”
“Of course — and to the purser. But they deny that the girl could be in any way implicated. They point to her excellent record but I have an instinct about people, and there’s something shifty about Miss Hurst.” She flicked her gaze to Boyd. “You’re a banker,” she remembered. “In a place where security is of the essence, you must have developed instincts as well.”
“Oh yes,” said Boyd.
“Did you
ever have any employees you suspected of wrongdoing?”
“I did, actually — on two occasions. The first was a clerk who was overeager to help and was always pushing himself forward. We kept a careful watch on him and discovered that he was stealing money in small amounts from clients’ accounts.”
“The other case was much more serious,” said Rosalie. “A robbery at Ethan’s bank in New York. Luckily, it went wrong.”
“I’d had my suspicions about one of my associates for some time,” explained Boyd. “When the bank was robbed, it was clear to me that inside help was involved. The robber was caught because he injured himself when he jumped from a first-floor window. He refused to admit the name of his accomplice in the bank but I knew who it was.”
“Was the man convicted?”
“No, alas. When he realized that we were wise to him, he took to his heels and has never been heard of since.”
“What about the robber?”
“He was caught red-handed with seventy-eight thousand dollars.”
“I hope that he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.”
He sighed. “The case never came to court, Mrs. Farrant. The man tried to escape and was killed in police custody. I was enraged with him at the time,” confessed Boyd, “but he did us a big favor, really.”
“Favor?”
“Yes, he showed us a glaring fault in our security arrangements. We were able to put that right.”
“Nobody was ever able to rob that bank again,” said Rosalie. “In that sense, your own loss may have prevented any others.”
“I don’t see how,” said Mrs. Farrant.
“You haven’t been back to that cloakroom, obviously.”
“I’ll never make use of it again, Mrs. Boyd.”
“There’s a notice in there now,” said Rosalie. “It warns people against leaving anything unguarded as they make use of the facilities.”
“What help is that to me?” complained Mrs. Farrant. “The notice should have been on display from the start. I’ll make that point in my letter to the managing director. The White Star Line has responsibilities. I demand full recompense.”
Before she could continue, three people came into the room and looked around for a table. Her attention was diverted. Abednego Thomas was hand in hand with his wife while Dominique Cadine walked behind them. They sat down beside Florence and Vane Stiller.
“Look at them!” said Mrs. Farrant, given a fresh cause for outrage. “They shouldn’t be allowed in first class. That artist dresses like a hobo and those women are no better than they ought to be. The younger one exposes her naked body to that disgusting old libertine.”
“Dominique is his model,” said Boyd, waving in acknowledgment to the trio. “She’s an interesting young lady.”
“You know her?”
“We dined with them last night, Mrs. Farrant.”
“Nothing would make me share a table with such creatures.”
“I wasn’t sure that we’d get on with them either,” said Boyd, “but we had a very pleasant time. Once Mr. Thomas had forgiven me for being in such a hateful profession, that is.”
“Yes,” said Rosalie, laughing, “he wasn’t very happy about having a meal with a banker. He regards them as his mortal enemies.”
“It was just as well that J. P. Morgan wasn’t sitting with us. That would have been disastrous.”
Mrs. Farrant sniffed. “Mr. Morgan would never lower himself.”
“Abednego Thomas is pursuing a vendetta against him. He calls him a monster. So I doubt very much if Mr. Morgan will be buying any of his paintings for a while.” Boyd smiled to himself. “Even if they do feature Dominique Cadine.”
George Dillman had an early indication of the vile mood that J. P. Morgan was in. As he approached the man’s cabin, he saw a steward dart out through the door and shut it behind him with relief. Sidney Browne’s face was pitted with anguish. Grabbing his trolley, he pushed it along to the next cabin.
“I take it that Mr. Morgan is in there,” said Dillman.
“Yes, sir,” replied Browne. “He had breakfast in his cabin.”
“Did it disagree with him?”
“I wasn’t allowed in there long enough to ask him, sir.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
Dillman knocked hard and waited. J. P. Morgan eventually opened the door. He glowered at the detective as if he had never seen him before.
“George Dillman,” said the visitor. “You wanted to see me.”
“I didn’t want to, Mr. Dillman. You are not a person with whom I would willingly choose to spend any time. But necessity gives us strange bedfellows. Although I don’t want to do so, I need to see you.” He stood back. “Come inside.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dillman stepped into a room that was very different from how it had been on his first visit. The collection of art treasures that Morgan had accumulated in Paris had all gone. So had the corpse of Howard Riedel. The place felt cold, empty and functional. Morgan resumed his seat at the table. In front of him was a set of documents he had been studying. He indicated that Dillman should sit down.
“Hembrow tells me that you have a list of suspects,” said Morgan.
“That’s right, sir. It’s in single figures now.”
“And these are all people who boarded the ship at Cherbourg?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In other words, you have no suspicions of anyone who embarked at Southampton.”
“With one exception, Mr. Morgan.”
“And who’s that?”
“I think it’s better if I keep the name to myself until we’ve had time to make some inquiries about the man. The burden of proof is with us. He’s innocent until proven guilty.”
“Will you disclose the names on your list?”
“No,” said Dillman. “I see no reason for you to know at this stage. It will only create unnecessary suspicion in your mind of people who’ll turn out to be wholly unconnected with the crimes.”
“At least, tell me if you have Abednego Thomas on your list.”
“His name is not included.”
“Then it should be.”
“Why do you say that, Mr. Morgan?”
“Damnation!” roared Morgan. “Do I have to do your job for you? Thomas is an obvious suspect. For reasons of his own, he’s conceived a violent dislike of me and he’d stop at nothing to cause me pain or discomfort. Why, only yesterday, he caught up with me on the way to dinner and harangued me for buying all those paintings and antiques.”
“I would have thought that was a clear indication of innocence. If he was involved in the crimes, Mr. Thomas would have the sense not to attract attention to himself.”
“He was goading me. Taunting me with my loss.”
“I’ve got to know him reasonably well, sir, and he doesn’t strike me as a thief, still less as a man capable of murder. I accept that he leads a somewhat irregular life,” continued Dillman, recalling the nighttime visit of Veronica Thomas, “but I can’t arrest a man for sexual license.”
“He will flaunt his debauchery.”
“Whatever his faults, he’s an entertaining dinner companion.”
“Really, Dillman, I deplore your taste.”
“You’re at liberty to do so,” replied the detective. “The one thing on which we can agree is that Abednego Thomas has a wide knowledge of art and of its commercial value.”
“So?”
“Why would he steal three minor French paintings from this room when he could have taken others that were worth vastly more? Given his contacts with private collectors, he’d know how to sell them. Thieves look for maximum benefit, Mr. Morgan.”
“I still think that you should search his cabin.”
“Not without good reason.”
“I’ve given it to you. The man loathes me and what I stand for.”
“He pours scorn on anyone who leads a conventional life,” said Dillman, “but that doesn’t mean he’s im
pelled to steal from us, still less commit murder. What does he stand to gain?”
“My humiliation.”
“I think you’ll find that Mr. Thomas has other things on his mind, sir, and they keep him more than occupied. As for searching his cabin, I’ve already been there. It’s like any artist’s studio, in a state of mild chaos. I’ve been invited to go back for the unveiling of his latest work,” recalled Dillman. “If Abednego Thomas was hiding anything in there, he’d never dare to let any visitors in.”
“You’re forgetting that model of his,” said Morgan.
“No man would forget a young lady like Dominique.”
“She tricked her way in here that night.”
“It was a challenge.”
“I’m wondering if she was sent.”
“By whom?”
“Thomas, of course. For the purpose of reconnaissance.”
“We’ve touched on this before, Mr. Morgan, and I say the same again. I don’t believe that Dominique Cadine is either a thief or a killer. Our chief priority is to find the stolen property. Once we locate that, we’ll also have the man who murdered Howard Riedel.”
“How close are you to an arrest?”
“His name is somewhere on this list in my pocket.”
“Then find him soon, Dillman.”
“We will, sir,” said the detective. “It won’t be long before you are reunited with your art treasures. Even on a ship this large, they can’t remain hidden for long.”
When the notion was first put to him, Lester Hembrow was not in favor of it. After considering the matter for a few seconds, he shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Genevieve,” he said. “I’m not at all happy.”
“You will be if I find what I’m looking for.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then I admit that I was wrong and there’s no harm done.”
“But there will have been. You’ll have searched a passenger’s cabin without his permission. That’s trespass.”
“Justified trespass,” said Genevieve. “We have strong grounds for believing that Jonathan Killick is a thief. He offered me a gold bracelet as a gift. When I interviewed Mrs. Penn just now, she gave me a description of a similar item that was stolen from her cabin yesterday.”
