“You could. Your illustrious grandfather would turn in his grave, of course, at your insubordination.”
“He’s probably been doing back flips for years out in the family vault. Neither my sister nor I have measured up to his impeccably Victorian standards.”
“I’m not asking you to marry the woman. Just find an excuse to have a cozy little chat.”
“She’s not a fool. I can’t pretend I’m suddenly dazzled by her, now that the duchess is out of the way.”
“No, you can’t. But every person has something they’re good at, or something they’re interested in and like to talk about. Perhaps Miss Watson has been to Egypt.”
“I doubt it.” Baird was impressed that the inspector didn’t miss a thing. But instead of doing the obvious and expressing his admiration, which would have embarrassed them both, he said, “I’ll give it a try. Are you after anything specific or is this a general fishing expedition?”
“Find out if she was acquainted with the duchess before this trip or has any particular interest in the duchess. I’d also like to know if she was acquainted with Peter Carroll before the trip.” When Baird raised a surprised eyebrow, Travers explained, “I’m just fishing. It turns out that Mr. Carroll had plenty of opportunity to murder the duchess, but as far as I can see he had no motive.”
“And you hope Mabel Watson can help supply one?”
“Hope springs eternal. I’d also like to know how long Miss Watson has been working for Cora Hardwick, and if she knows any gossip about our lady of Philadelphia.”
Jeffrey Baird grinned. Mrs. Hardwick had made herself spectacularly unpopular in a remarkably short time.
“But remember, this is just routine,” Travers added. “I assume we’ll cross Mabel Watson off the list of suspects fairly soon—unless it turns out she is in with one of the other passengers. So try not to raise the suspicions of that employer of hers. I don’t want Miss Watson to lose her job, if she’s got nothing to do with any of this.”
Jeffrey Baird nodded and went in search of his quarry. As for Inspector Travers, he wished to follow through on an idea that had occurred to him while speaking with Penny and Nick Garnett. He therefore went to the bar, where he had a hunch he would find the person he was looking for. A quick glance about the nearly empty room told him he was right. Roberto was sitting at a corner table with Countess Scharwenka. Their glasses were still almost full, suggesting they had sought refuge in the bar more for companionship than a need to steady their nerves.
“Do you mind if I have a few words with Roberto?” Travers said to the countess, who didn’t seem sorry to leave the presence of either man. “We’ll join you in the dining room for lunch.”
Roberto, ever the continental gentleman, kissed the countess’s hand and bowed to her departing figure.
“A terrible thing,” said Roberto, after he had retaken his seat at the table. “I still cannot believe it. The duchess was so beautiful, so alive, so ….”
Roberto let his thoughts trail off into a silence that was more expressive than words—if one could believe his grief was real. The inspector was not entirely convinced. It was not entirely the dressmaker’s fault; Roberto had one of those faces that were too smooth and unmarred by either care or time to register much except satisfaction and pleasure.
Apparently Roberto wasn’t entirely convinced either, because he roused himself from his reverie and said, “She was to have worn a different one of my gowns each night. I spent hours making the alterations. Myself, you understand, with my own hands. With a certain class of women, a very small class of women, one must attend to each detail oneself. They expect that. But it is worth it when the newspapers gush, ‘The Duchess of Tarrington wears only Roberto. He designs all her gowns.’ That sort of publicity keeps a business afloat for years, even during a Depression. But now …”
This time the inspector had no doubt the dressmaker’s grief was real.
“I understand the duchess wanted to see you about a lavender dress, the afternoon before she died.”
“Marianne told you that, I suppose.”
“Is there a reason why she shouldn’t have?”
“I would not trust anything that little one says. She had the audacity to sew on a button using the wrong color thread. Fortunately, I discovered the mistake before the duchess could wear the gown in public. A real lady’s maid would not be so careless.”
“The duchess did not ask to see you about a lavender dress?” asked Travers, trying to steer the conversation back to the maid’s testimony.
“This time, Marianne has told the truth,” Roberto admitted. “The duchess telephoned to my cabin and asked me to come to her.”
“What time was that?”
Roberto thought for a moment. “It was before lunch. I had had my after-breakfast stroll and I was in my cabin enjoying a little rest when the telephone rang and the ship’s switchboard operator connected us.”
“What did the duchess say?”
“What does any woman say when she needs you? ‘Darling, Roberto, be a dear and come to my cabin at once.’ I grabbed my little bag—I assumed she needed a repair to one of her costumes—and went to her cabin.”
“She let you in?”
“Of course.”
“Was she alone?”
“I assume so. I saw no one in the cabin. But I did not look under the bed or in the shower, you understand.”
Travers nodded that he did understand. “How was she dressed?”
“She was still in her tennis costume.”
“Did she seem ill? Not her usual self?”
Roberto considered the question. “She seemed excited, keyed up. I was surprised at that, until she told me the reason why she had summoned me. Usually, when a woman tears a hem or a seam begins to unravel, she is irritated, you understand. She is not excited.”
“Try to tell me what she said to you, in her own words.”
“I have no problem doing that!” Roberto, whose favorite leisure activity was listening to and spreading gossip, was an excellent mimic. Not only did he pride himself on getting the intonations right, but he also added hand gestures and facial expressions with the skill of a true artist. “She said, ‘Roberto, something dreadful has happened. Someone has stolen my pearls!’ I tried to calm her down, naturally.”
Travers inwardly groaned. If Roberto knew the pearls were missing there was no longer a reason to try to keep that fact a secret. He had probably told half the ship about the theft by now. On the other hand, Travers now knew the pearls had gone missing hours before the duchess was murdered. That either complicated things or simplified them, and he dearly wished he knew which it was.
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her she must be mistaken. I told her she must have placed the pearls in the wrong pouch the night before, or stuffed them in her dressing gown, or they were reposing under the bed.”
“You seem to be an expert on missing pearls, Roberto.”
“Not I. That is the countess’s department. I am an expert in hysterical women.”
Inspector Travers had to smile at the dress designer’s matter-of-fact way of assessing the situation. “Was the duchess calmed by your words?”
“No. She told me she had already looked everywhere. I told her we would look everywhere again. We did, too. But the pearls truly were gone.”
“So you did look under the bed?”
Roberto looked surprised. “And distress my trousers? I told the duchess to bend down on her knees and look. After all, they were her pearls. And that tennis outfit by Bernini was not worth troubling about a snag or two in the fabric. But I did pick up the mattress and looked there. I did not want the duchess to ruin her manicure.”
“That was a very cavalier thing to do.”
Roberto shrugged. “I had an appointment with the manicurist for the afternoon.”
“Was it your impression the duchess really was worried?”
“How could she not be worried? Those pearls a
re worth a fortune.”
“The duchess had been in show business. Perhaps she was only pretending to be worried.”
“You mean that she played the farce? For me? Why?”
“Perhaps she wished to pretend the pearls had been stolen, so she could collect the insurance money.”
“And perhaps she gave me the pearls, for safekeeping?” Roberto shook his head. “I do not involve myself in such things, Inspector. The jail cell has no appeal for me. I like my comforts too much.”
“Can you explain why the duchess didn’t tell anyone else that the pearls were missing?”
Roberto shrugged. “Why does any woman do half the things she does?”
“Let’s forget about the other women. Did the duchess say anything to you?”
“She said to me, ‘Roberto, you must not say a word to anyone. Not yet. No one must know.’ I protest. I tell her to notify the good inspector from Scotland Yard at once. I tell her that everyone will know when she appears at dinner without the pearls that something has happened.”
“Was that true? She had other jewels with her. Why couldn’t she have worn another necklace?”
“Yes, but it is a tradition with that family that whenever the Duchess of Tarrington appears in a formal gown in public, she wears the pearls. The lesser jewels are for dinners at home, the theatre and that sort of thing. That is why I told her the little idea she had would not work. The Lambton-Keenes would suspect something was wrong, even if no one else did.”
“What idea was that?”
“The duchess wanted me to redesign the lavender dress so she could wear a different necklace. You understand, I had designed each gown for this sea voyage taking into account the pearls, how to show them off to the best advantage. It would not be a simple thing to redesign the bodice of any of the gowns so that no one would notice the duchess wasn’t wearing the pearls, and I said as much to her. But she insisted I do something, and so I took the dress.”
“How thoroughly did you search the cabin, Roberto?”
“Thoroughly enough to discover Marianne had sewed on a button using the wrong thread! I would also say the duchess was thoroughly desolate. By the time I left, she did not look well.”
“Desolate enough to take her life?”
“A steak knife to the heart, like Juliet?” Roberto laughed. “I cannot imagine the duchess ever doing something like. She loved life too much.”
“What time did you leave her cabin?”
“A little before the bell sounded for lunch. I hurried to my cabin with the dress, brushed my hair, arranged my clothes, and departed for the dining room.”
“Did you see anyone in the corridor?”
“I saw Lady Lambton-Keene at the door of the duchess’s cabin. I do not know if she saw me. She was speaking to the duchess.”
Travers nodded. So far, the dress designer’s story agreed with the one told by Lady Lambton-Keene, at least in its general outline. The duchess was still alive while lunch was being served, but not well. It wasn’t that he doubted Dr. Wallace’s opinion concerning when the duchess was murdered; he just wanted a clear and accurate picture of who had visited the duchess’s cabin the day she was murdered and why.
“You do not ask about my solution for the dress,” commented Roberto.
“You came up with one?”
“My idea was for the duchess to wear her short fur jacket over the dress throughout dinner and say she had caught a chill. But she did not answer the telephone, when I tried to call her, after tea. When I tried several times and still there was no answer, I went to the cabin of Marianne, with the dress. I had been invited to have cocktails before dinner with Cecil Arden, and so I wished to give back the dress before I left my cabin.”
“You didn’t think it odd that the duchess didn’t answer her telephone?”
Roberto shrugged. “I didn’t think about it at all. Perhaps the duchess had gone to get the massage or to the hairdresser. Or perhaps she was resting. How was I to know she would experience another tragedy later that evening?”
CHAPTER 11
“HOW WAS YOUR shuffleboard game, Mrs. Hardwick?” Jeffrey Baird gave the older woman his most ingratiating smile, the one he reserved for the white-haired wives of retired colonial colonels who continued to live in faraway places because they couldn’t afford to live in England on their pensions. “It wasn’t too chilly on deck, I hope.”
“No chillier than a Philadelphia autumn, Mr. Baird,” replied Cora Hardwick, placing her ever-present lorgnette to her eye. They were seated in the dining room, where a consommé was being served as the first course for lunch. “And I would wager I play my game better than you play yours.”
“What game is that?”
“You’re helping that Scotland Yard inspector, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“Well, young man, I can tell you that if this were Philadelphia the murderer of that dreadful woman would have already been found and thrown into jail.”
“Surely, you’re being unfair,” said Cecil Arden, pushing aside his cup. He despised consommé. In his opinion, it was a useless concoction fit only for people who were constantly slimming or professional hypochondriacs. “Inspector Travers hasn’t yet had time to interview everyone. I know I have yet to divulge all that I know.” He gave Cora Hardwick a knowing glance.
“You’ve met the Broadway dancer before and discovered she has a gold-digging past?” asked Baird, well aware of the identity of Mrs. Hardwick’s favorite suspect—and glad that the earlier tension between Arden and himself had lifted, at least for the time being.
“Oh, my suspicions don’t point in that direction,” he replied. Arden then turned his benign gaze upon Cora Hardwick’s lorgnette. “I once saw a lorgnette case similar to yours.”
“How terribly uninteresting,” said Mrs. Hardwick, shifting the lorgnette case to the hand that was farthest away from Cecil Arden.
“On the contrary,” Arden persisted. “I was out in the East.” He nodded in the direction of Jeffrey Baird. “Your territory. They know how to make concealed weapons in that part of the world. They’re as good as the Spaniards and Italians.” He reached out his hand toward Cora Hardwick. “May I?”
“May you what?” came her indignant reply.
“See that case of yours.”
“I do not have to stand for your impertinence, sir. And, frankly, I am surprised the BBC has employed someone as ill-mannered as you.”
“To be a journalist, one must be curious. To be curious means to be ill-mannered from time to time. But if you refuse to show it, I will tell it. The handle is unusually long for a reason.” He turned to Baird. “You can probably guess why.”
“There is a dagger inside?”
“A rather sharp one.”
“I don’t see what use it would be, practically speaking,” said Baird, glancing at Mrs. Hardwick’s case, which had an unusually long handle for a lorgnette case, but was still quite a bit shorter than a typical knife or dagger. Baird and Arden were ignoring Mabel Watson during their conversation for the simple reason that she had not come to the table. She was feeling under the weather, according to her employer.
“You couldn’t stab someone through the heart with such a short blade,” Baird continued. “The best you might do is open a vein.”
“True,” Arden agreed. “I was told it’s mainly sold as a curio, to Western visitors. But you could use it with poison. You apply some poison to the tip and puncture the skin with the blade. If it’s done right, the mark is so small that most doctors will miss it. Your victim will be dead, and the doctor will mark heart failure on the death certificate.”
“Is that the theory you were telling me about earlier?”
Arden nodded. “Of course, I’m not privy to all that you and the inspector know, but one of the mad rumors flying about this ship is that there was no sign of struggle before the duchess was stabbed. That could only mean she had drugged herself beforehand, or someone did it for her. My guess is
that someone did it for her.”
“Why are you willing to tell me your theory now?”
Arden took a second roll from the bread basket and began to butter it. “Because I’ve read a mystery or two in my time, and it occurred to me that it’s always the person who is withholding vital information who gets bumped off next.” He took a bite of the roll and chewed with evident pleasure. “At one point in my rather boring life, I wouldn’t have minded. Now, I do want to live.”
Arden then turned to Mrs. Hardwick and said, “You may reveal your concealed weapon to the inspector without fear of being suspected of murdering the duchess, I should think. Sir William said you were playing bridge at his table until well after midnight. Unless you have discovered the secret of being in two places at once, your alibi is first class.”
“What about your alibi?” Baird asked.
“I haven’t got one. I’m not overly fond of musicals, so I skipped the performance by our two Broadway stars and slipped into the cinema instead—after the auditorium’s lights had been dimmed. I left while the credits were rolling. So once again no one would have seen me.”
“A steward on duty in the lobby might have noticed you.”
Arden shrugged and finished off his roll. “That’s for you and the inspector to find out.”
There was a pause while the two other people seated at the table considered the possibility of whether Cecil Arden was the murderer. When the silence started to become uncomfortable, Cora Hardwick rapped Arden on the wrist with the handle of her lorgnette. “You are impossible,” she said, “talking about stabbings and poisonings and alibis at table.”
“Not done in Philadelphia?” asked Arden, answering her playful mood. “The talking about murder, I mean. I assume Philadelphia is not immune to the occasional crime of passion.”
“I have no idea,” replied Mrs. Hardwick. “But I can assure you there is no mystery about this lorgnette case. My deceased husband, Horace Hardwick, was with the United States State Department. He often brought back souvenirs from the places he visited.”
Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1) Page 10
