Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

the secrecy of your operations.”

  The inspector nods in appreciation. “I just wish that this meeting of the four of us didn’t have to be in the middle of a secret police operation. It would have been better to discuss the case at greater leisure and in greater comfort.”

  I see Chisholm’s smile in the dim light. “If by ‘greater comfort’ you mean places such as hotels in New York, or Canada, then personally I’m glad we’re here. Someone may have tried another murder attempt at the Rosedene Hotel in Scarborough, Ontario this morning: du Pavey was, we suspect, poisoned – just before he piloted his airplane. It appears to be yet another attempt to kill him, Agnes and myself. So compared to other places we’ve been, I feel pretty safe here, thank you.”

  “It sounds like you have done well to survive, all of you. Someone is both very ruthless and very powerful, if they can organize a poisoning faraway in Canada.”

  Chisholm nods. “Inspector – we are all keen to know the plan for tonight – but, first of all, I want all four of us to be on the same page. We all need to have exactly the same level of knowledge of the case before this operation kicks off. So – when I spoke to you on the telephone, you said you had some new evidence?”

  “I do indeed, Sir Chisholm. But it’s easier for me to show you, than to tell you.”

  The inspector reaches into the inside pocket of his overcoat. After a moment he pulls out a piece of satiny, sepia-colored paper. A photograph. Or rather, half a photograph: one half is missing, torn away. It’s so strange: I recall what Inspector Trench said on the Olympic, and now as if by magic here it is: a photograph torn in two. But at the same time, I notice that the professor is glancing anxiously out of the single, square window of the room. Then he looks back at us. “How long do we have, Inspector?”

  “Just under one hour. Us four, we are the advance party. Others are arriving shortly. I asked you to come here at 2 o’clock in order to give us a few minutes before the rest of the team arrive. In order that the four of us have time to talk.” He puts the picture down on a small table, and we all gather around it. He holds the flashlight directly above it, a pool of light over the figure in the photograph.

  The photograph, I see with a shock, is Gwyneth Gilmour. She’s sitting in a room which I recognize: it’s Billie Considine’s bar at the Hotel Metropole. Two cocktails are in front of her on a low table, and she’s looking sideways, smiling at someone who would have appeared on the other half of the photo – if it hadn’t been ripped off.

  I look again, and, with a sharp intake of breath, I notice something. At the torn edge of the photo, part of a man’s hand is visible. The shock is: Gwyneth is holding the man’s hand – and on one finger of that hand is an ugly, bulky signet ring.

  I’m speechless. We all are.

  After one minute, Inspector Trench speaks. “From the account you’ve given me, Chisholm, this is the signet ring that Jimmy Nolan wears. I have concluded that there is some connection, unknown to us, between Gwyneth Gilmour and Jimmy Nolan. I think that all of you must agree with that?”

  “Must we?” The words are out of my mouth before I meant to say them.

  The inspector doesn’t answer my question. Fair enough, I think: I blurted out because I don’t want to think ill of Gwyneth. Because I like her.

  Inspector Trench carries on speaking. “So – we can see that Calvin Gilmour’s trust in his wife may be very much misplaced.”

  “Clearly.” says Chisholm. “But more than that – this photograph casts a different light on very many things.”

  “Tell me your thoughts, Chisholm. Let’s see if our speculations agree.” Inspector Trench looks across at Chisholm through the downward beam of the flashlight.

  “My thoughts are these, Inspector. Suppose that Gwyneth Gilmour has an affair with Jimmy Nolan. It seems strange – but then, she is much younger than her husband, she likes to live her own life… Now, let us imagine that Gwyneth and Nolan quarrel.”

  Professor Axelson looks at Chisholm. “You mean, that love turns to hate?”

  Chisholm nods. “Indeed. And if that happened… Jimmy Nolan is not a man to forgive and forget. Now, let’s consider recent events. Five days ago, Agnes and I were escaping from New York. A man with a gun came onto the El train, trailed us to 155th Street station. Which is where we met Gwyneth Gilmour. That man then stole a car, and the following evening he and another man, both armed, caught up with Gwyneth’s car, and shot Agnes. As we know, by sheerest fortune, she survived. But maybe, in the confusion and darkness, they intended to shoot the other woman in the group? Now, those men would have killed me, too, except I got in there first and tackled them. I gather, Inspector, that the New York state police are still trying to identify the bodies; but undoubtedly, our attackers were members of the Gophers gang.

  Finally, Gwyneth Gilmour is scheduled to fly with Rufus du Pavey over Lake Ontario, yesterday morning. Du Pavey is given a sleeping drug of some kind, with the clear aim that he crashes, and that he and his passengers are killed.”

  The inspector looks at Chisholm, then around the table at all of us. “You are indeed thinking exactly the same thoughts as me, Sir Chisholm. The real target of all those actions…”

  “Yes.” I see Chisholm’s finger stretched out over the photograph, pointing at the face of Gwyneth. Inspector Trench continues speaking.

  “Of course, Chisholm, if we consider jealousy as a motive, it might not necessarily be Nolan who wants to kill Gwyneth. It could conceivably be Calvin Gilmour behind this. On the Titanic, he could have murdered Spence, out of jealousy, because of an affair between Spence and Gwyneth. Then, when he found out about her second affair, with Nolan, Gilmour decided to go straight for the jugular and just kill her. He could easily pay some of New York’s underworld plenty of money to carry out the operation. But none of that really rings true, does it?”

  “No.” Chisholm is still peering at the photograph: I am too. I keep searching with my eyes, as if I might spot some clue of Gwyneth’s innocence in the gray, torn image. But of course, I don’t. The inspector continues.

  “What does ring true is this: Nolan and Gwyneth have a passionate affair, then they fall out. That in fact it is Nolan who is the jealous one. He’s trying to kill her, and he may have organized Spence’s murder too. It would be no surprise if the Gophers’ powers of bribery extended to the wine waiters aboard the Titanic. This could be the explanation of everything.”

  “You are both wrong.”

  The professor speaks quietly, but with immense assurance. “Gentlemen, I will ask the opinion of someone I deeply respect.” Like a formal gesture, he turns to me. “Miss Agnes, what is your view? Do you think that Jimmy Nolan is trying to kill Mrs Gilmour?”

  “Somehow, I don’t think so. I agree that it would be a neat explanation of a lot of things that have happened since we disembarked in New York, but…”

  “As you say, neat.” The professor looks at Trench and Chisholm. “Too neat to be true, perhaps?” There’s a brief silence, and I can tell that Chisholm is about to say something. But at that very moment, my heart leaps into my mouth.

  Without warning, someone is opening the door.

  “Inspector Trench – and colleagues. Good to meet you. I’m Lieutenant Bouchard: City of New York Police Department. NYPD, for short.” We’re looking at a well-built man, just below middle age. Blond hair, edging to gray, cropped close. He wears no hat, and no uniform under his overcoat, merely a dark suit. His bold eyes shine like blue lamps, and his voice is like a sudden, harsh light in this tiny chamber: I want to blink at the sound.

  In turn, we introduce ourselves to him, but he pays little attention to our names or our faces. I can see his mind working: he’s deciding exactly what to tell us.

  “Thanks for the intelligence about the Gophers that you’ve provided. But of course, your information is only one of our many sources. Policing this city would be darn night impossible without our network of informers.”

  “And how are your inform
ers relevant for what we are doing tonight?” Professor Axelson looks curiously at the newcomer.

  “Simple. NYPD know that illicit goods are smuggled on the ocean liners all the time. When we take action against the criminals, we use informers that know all about the Chelsea Piers staff. Because we know that some of those staff take Gopher bribes.”

  “So have the Gophers bribed staff in this case?”

  “Indeed they have. Our informers told us that money was handed over by the Gophers yesterday – and in return, the gate for Pier 59 will be open tonight. The ship to be loaded is the Olympic.” His finger indicates the tiny window, a gray square in the black. None of us say anything, so he carries on talking.

  “We’re next to Pier 59, and there’s our ship. Look out of the window.”

  I peer out into the gloom. My eyes are adjusted to the darkness now, and I see an extraordinary skyline. Twenty funnels, the smokestacks of five ocean liners, rise into the looming sky like the pillars of a Greek temple. Beneath them, I can dimly see the Piers, line after line, stretching away into the blackness. The huge black wedge cutting into the sky above us must be the Olympic: the gigantic prow looms overhead, and I can make out the silhouette of the bridge and the funnels, and in the distance the curve of the stern. In the daytime, this is one of the busiest spots in the whole world: