“Shall I take it as I received the information?” asked Baird.
“Whatever you prefer.”
“First, Mabel Watson wasn’t ill. There was some other reason why she didn’t come to lunch. I know I should have found out, but—“
“We’ll find out later,” said Travers. “You were finding out other things.” The inspector made some notes on a clean page of his notebook, while he spoke: “Where was Mabel Watson from noon until one o’clock or so? And did Mrs. Hardwick know her companion was perfectly well? If so, did she send Watson on her errand?” Travers looked up. “We’ll also want to know about Miss Watson’s movements last night. I’ll ask for her whereabouts when I interview her. Go on.”
“Then there is the question of the photograph—and that story she told me about it being her brother.”
“If it’s a publicity still of the late Tommy Peters, we should be able to have a copy wired to the ship.” Travers made another notation in his notebook. “We can also ask for a prison check on Mabel Watson, although it’s odd nothing turned up the first time around.” He turned to a clean page. “What about the jewels Miss Garnett found? Any ideas about that?”
“First, we need to find out if Mrs. Hardwick is in the habit of carrying around her jewels. It seems unlikely to me.”
“People often do unlikely things—and they often have a perfectly logical reason for doing them.”
“It could be that Mrs. Hardwick was deliberately trying to pin something on the countess,” said Baird. “Perhaps she was one of the countess’s victims.”
“It’s possible. Although leaving the pouch outside the countess’s door, if it was intentional, seems amateurish.”
“It would make sense, though, wouldn’t it, if we were dealing with an ordinary person with a grudge, rather than a hardened criminal?”
Travers motioned for Baird to continue to expound his theory.
“Let’s say Mrs. Hardwick does want to get back at the countess. She tells Watson to skip lunch and stay in Mrs. Hardwick’s cabin for an hour. Then, after lunch and before everyone returns to their cabins, Watson drops the emeralds outside the countess’s door, for someone—hopefully someone honest—to discover. Miss Garnett is the first one to spot the pouch. She duly returns the pouch to Watson, who returns the jewels to Mrs. Hardwick. The only harm done is that suspicion falls on the countess. But …”
“Exactly. The countess can’t be arrested for stealing the jewels, just because they were found outside her cabin door. It therefore seems like much ado about nothing.”
“Perhaps we’re meant to search the countess’s cabin, where we’ll find … the duchess’s pearls, for example.”
“Mrs. Hardwick was leaving breadcrumbs for me to follow, in the form of the emerald bracelet and earrings, rather than accuse the countess directly? That doesn’t seem like Mrs. Hardwick. Remember, she had no trouble openly accusing Miss Garnett.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Well, if we can get Watson to tell us what she was up to during lunch, perhaps the fog will lift a little.” Travers then added, “What do you suppose Arden was up to?”
“Do you think he was up to anything, other than irritating Mrs. Hardwick?”
“Perhaps not. But now we know she carries with her a potentially lethal weapon.”
“Though not the weapon that killed the duchess.”
“Unless the duchess was given poison before she was stabbed, as Arden has suggested.”
Baird stared at the Scotland Yard inspector. “Do you really think that might have happened? It sounded rather convoluted to me. Besides, Mrs. Hardwick has a watertight alibi. She was playing bridge.”
“So it wasn’t done by her and her lorgnette. It was done by someone else with some other sharp implement. I think that’s what Arden was hinting at. Mrs. Hardwick’s lorgnette gave him the idea, but he suspects someone else.”
Baird recalled Arden’s reference to the East and Arden’s nod in his direction. Did he really think Baird had murdered the duchess? And if he did, why would he reveal his hand? A bit dangerous, that, unless his next move was blackmail.
“What are you thinking?” asked Travers.
“Nothing worth repeating.”
“Well, I have something worth repeating. Whoever stabbed the duchess did it without any resistance from the lady. We can’t neglect that point. That suggests either she was sound asleep by natural means or she had been drugged—perhaps lethally—beforehand.”
“Why?”
“The stabbing with the steak knife might have been done to throw us off the scent. Poison is often a woman’s crime. Stabbing suggests a man’s hand.”
“We still don’t know why. If the pearls were stolen earlier, the duchess wasn’t murdered for them.”
Travers leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He recalled the first night on the ship: the duchess making her entrance, the tango, the reactions of the people in the room. At the time, it had seemed like a stage set for a Hollywood movie, a bit too artificially bright to be real. Ship sailings were always like that, he reminded himself, with people usually pretending to be a little richer or happier than they actually were. A few of those people were actually desperate—at the end of what had always been a very precarious rope, with nothing to save them from the fall into dire poverty and disgrace. Had one of them seen the pearls and made a desperate and unsuccessful attempt to steal them—and killed the duchess in a fit of rage and frustration when they discovered the pearls were already gone? Or had it been an artificial setup from the first—one where it was meant to look like a jewel heist gone wrong, but where the real motive for the murder was something else entirely? Either way, what had happened to the pearls? And who had murdered the duchess?
“I don’t think anything at this point,” said Travers, wearily opening his eyes both to his literal surroundings and the fact that he was still very much in the dark. “Tell Miss Watson I’d like to speak to her now.”
CHAPTER 13
PENNY WAS FEELING RESTLESS. Nick had gone to hear a lecture about the kings and queens of England, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sit still for an entire hour. She was too busy thinking about the emeralds she had found in the corridor, outside the door of the countess’s cabin.
She supposed she shouldn’t question the explanation given by Mabel Watson, which meant the emeralds had nothing to do with the missing pearls—Roberto had mentioned the pearls earlier, while she and some others were waiting for an elevator to take them down to the main lobby—or the murder. Yet was it really only coincidence that the emeralds had landed outside the door of the beautiful and mysterious foreigner? Or was this a case of some other-worldly spiritual force pointing its deathly finger at the perpetrator of the more serious crime?
Penny shivered.
Of course, the villain was never the exotic foreigner anymore, Penny reasoned, as she fixed her lipstick. That was too White Slave Trade, a panic that had terrified young women (and their mothers) in the 1920s. But if she wanted to help Bert, it couldn’t hurt to find out more about the countess. Penny therefore summoned up her courage and marched to the countess’s cabin. She had another moment of doubt when she reached the door. After all, if Countess Scharwenka had murdered the duchess, what was to stop the woman from trying to murder Penny too?
It’s never the exotic foreigner anymore, Penny reminded herself. All she wanted was to find out if the countess had seen or heard anything that might shed some light on the investigation. It was only natural for the passengers of Corridor B to band together and try to help Inspector Travers, when there was a murderer running around …
Penny glanced nervously up and down the corridor. To her relief, it was empty. She quickly raised her arm, and before it went down just as quickly, she rapped lightly on the cabin door.
“Entrez!” The countess looked up from the magazine she had been reading when Penny entered the room.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“If you’re resting …” Penny gestured in the direction of the costume the countess was wearing—pale peach silk loungewear in the Chinese style, with wide trousers and a jacket embroidered with wispy flowers. It perfectly matched the Chinese-style décor of the cabin. Penny’s first thought, which made her stomach churn, was White Slave Trade! And the countess must be working in league with the Chinese! Then she silently repeated her mantra until she had calmed down: It’s never the exotic foreigner anymore.
“I find afternoons on a ship to be rather a bore,” the countess was saying. “Please, do sit down.”
Penny took a seat near the sofa where the countess was lounging. “I do, too. Not that I’ve been on many voyages. In fact, this is my first time. It must be wonderful to be a countess and do whatever you like.”
The countess smiled. “I suppose it would, if it were true.”
“You mean you’re not really a countess?” When the countess raised an eyebrow, Penny quickly added, “I don’t mean to be rude. I was wondering, because, you see, I work in show business, and in show business there are sometimes people who pretend to be something they’re not.”
“Only sometimes? I should think it would be all the time.”
“On stage we pretend. But I’m really a dancer. That’s my profession.”
“And I am really a countess. Would you like some mineral water?”
Penny looked over at the tray with its large bottle of mineral water and two glasses with disappointment. “I would have thought you’d be drinking champagne.”
“At this hour? And alone?”
“Is the count waiting for you in England?”
“No. My husband passed away several years ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“He was much older than me.”
Penny sighed. “Doesn’t any girl ever marry a rich count or duke who is around her own age?”
“The Duchess of Tarrington did,” the countess reminded her. “I believe the duke was only fifteen or twenty years older than she was. And they still didn’t have a happy ending.”
That sounded like a lot of years to Penny.
The countess poured out a glass of water and handed it to her visitor. “I’m sorry to disappoint you about the champagne, but this is much better for preserving the complexion.”
Penny took the glass. “I prefer root beer, anyway. Champagne is a little rich for my taste. Although I suppose I could get used to it, if I married someone with a title and a lot of money.”
“Is that your dream, Miss Garnett?”
“I sound like a gold-digger, don’t I? I’m not, really. I just don’t want to end up old and poor.”
“Most people don’t,” the countess agreed. She took a sip from her glass and then set it down on the end table. “Is there a reason for your visit, Miss Garnett, something I can help you with?”
“Actually, I’d like to help you.”
“Me?”
“The inspector from Scotland Yard might want to ask you some questions.”
“Really? What about?”
Penny explained about finding the emeralds, watching closely the countess’s face as she did so. To her disappointment, the countess was singularly uninterested in Penny’s news.
“If Mrs. Hardwick does carry about her jewels, she is a foolish woman,” she said with a weary shrug.
“She strikes me as being pretty sharp,” said Penny.
“Having a sharp tongue is not the same as having a sharp mind.”
“I only know if I owned beautiful jewels, I wouldn’t be so careless.”
The countess laughed. “That’s what you think.”
“That’s what I know.”
“That’s what you think you know, because you don’t have them. But let us say you meet your prince—“
“I’d settle for a duke or an earl.”
“And you get your jewels. At first, you will check every night that your jewel box is safely locked. When you wear your jewels to a ball, you will check your throat and your wrist every few minutes to make sure the diamonds are still there. But ten years later, fifteen years later, when you are accustomed to being the lady of the great house, you will become careless. You will be so used to wearing beautiful jewels that you will hardly pay them any notice. And then one night, when you return to your bedchamber, you will discover, with horror, that they are gone.”
“Did that happen to you?” asked Penny, who had been listening with rapt interest.
“To me?” The countess laughed. “Oh, my dear, do you really not know who I am?”
Penny shook her head.
“I’m not the lady with the jewels. I’m the jewel thief.”
“Oh!” Penny gasped. “Then Nick was right. You’re not a countess!”
“I assure you I am. But not every count is rich. And, like you, I have no wish to end up old and poor.”
“Was it you who stole the Tarrington pearls?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I am a professional. I would never have done such a clumsy job.”
“They still haven’t found the pearls, so it wasn’t that clumsy.”
“Has Inspector Travers sent you here to search my cabin?”
“Of course not! But I was wondering …” Penny glanced about the cabin.
“If I had taken the pearls, where would I hide them?”
“Yes.”
“I can tell you where I would not hide them, Miss Garnett—in my room! Nor would I steal Mrs. Hardwick’s emeralds the next day and drop them in the corridor outside my door.”
“What did she say after that?” asked Nick. Nick’s lecture had ended and he and Penny were taking a stroll on the deck. Dark clouds in the sky had turned the sea a muddy gray. Only a few hardy souls remained outside and braved the chilly gusts of air blowing in from the sea. Penny held on to her felt hat as they walked, so it wouldn’t blow overboard.
“Nothing. She just laughed. Imagine her coming right out and saying she is a jewel thief.” Penny spied a familiar figure at the end of the deck. “There’s the inspector. Do you think we should tell him about the countess?”
“I suppose we should.”
Once again Penny was disappointed by the effect her news had on her listener. The inspector listened to her story politely and then said, “Yes, the countess is an old acquaintance of mine. And she is right. This was not her type of crime. Professional jewel thieves practically never get mixed up in a murder.”
“Then she isn’t one of the suspects?” asked Nick.
“Everyone is a suspect until the murder is solved,” replied Inspector Travers. “We’ll just say the countess is not at the top of the list.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Jeffrey Baird, who was looking very serious.
“Can I have a word with you, Inspector?”
Travers excused himself and walked off with Baird.
“Something has happened,” said Nick, watching them go. “All that’s lacking is for the mysterious string music to start up.” He gave his imitation of a motion picture soundtrack, at the moment when the tension mounts.
“This isn’t funny,” said Penny. Her eyes were upon the Scotland Yard inspector and Jeffrey Baird. “Nick, do you think …?”
Travers quickly left the deck, with Baird following him.
“Follow that detective!” said Nick. When Penny hesitated, he grabbed her arm and pulled her with him. “We don’t want to be late for the second act.”
CHAPTER 14
INSPECTOR GUY TRAVERS stared down at the body sprawled across the bed. His face, never filled with mirth, was looking particularly grim. “Well?” he said, keeping his eyes upon the blank expression of the now-dead Mabel Watson.
“I went to summons Miss Watson for her interview with you, as you asked me to,” said Jeffrey Baird. “When she didn’t answer my knock, I became suspicious.”
“Why?”
The younger man considered. “Sixth
sense, I suppose. Have you never felt it?”
Travers nodded his head, grudgingly. “Sometimes.”
“I went to the steward and asked if he had seen Miss Watson leave her cabin. He said he hadn’t noticed her one way or the other.”
“Busy brewing a cup of tea, I suppose.” Travers allowed himself a rare display of frustration with the servant class, which he knew was usually overworked. Even if the steward had been brewing a cup of tea at the moment the murderer entered Mabel Watson’s cabin, the man probably deserved his brief respite from his duties. Yet it was maddening to think that yet another murder had been committed right under his nose.
“I don’t know about that,” Baird was saying. “But I did tell him to come with me and unlock Miss Watson’s cabin. This is how we found her. I had the steward relock the cabin, while I went to find you.”
Several minutes later the small cabin was a hub of activity, while Dr. Wallace made his preliminary examination of the body and the fingerprint man went about his job. Rogers, the ship’s detective, as usual hovered in the background, perfectly willing to let Travers take charge—and responsibility. As for Travers, he stood off to the side, his mind focused on just one question: Why?
His working thesis up until an hour ago, if one could call such a flimsy tissue of ideas a “thesis,” was that Mabel Watson had some sort of guilty secret—who didn’t?—but it was what dramatists and novelists called a subplot. It was something to be cleared up, so it could be set aside, while he forged ahead with the main problem. Her death changed everything, if it was murder. He must remember there was nothing conclusive, yet.
Dr. Wallace, having done his work, straightened up and let his gaze follow the methodical movements of the fingerprint expert for a few moments. “That may be premature, Inspector,” he said. “From what I can tell, this young lady took her own life.” He pointed to an almost empty glass near the bed. “She probably took an overdose of a sleeping draught.”
Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1) Page 12
