Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

______

  Though the pangs of hunger were getting sharper, Carrie Peterson was not tempted by breakfast. The steward who had brought it took it away untouched. She sat alone in her cabin and wondered what was happening to her lover. When she heard a key in the lock, she was lifted to her feet by the distant hope they might be bringing John Heritage to her. Instead, it was the smirking face of Sergeant Mulcaster that came around the door.

  “Time to visit the bathroom,” he announced. “And don’t be long in there, Miss Peterson, will you? Or I’ll have to come in and find you. I’d enjoy that.”

  Gritting her teeth, she offered up a silent prayer then followed him out.

  FIVE

  In the space of only twenty-four hours, the atmosphere in the first-class restaurant had undergone a radical transformation. Lunch on the day of departure had been served to passengers who were, in the main, excited by the novelty of oceanic travel, yet were also very tentative in their surroundings. Not knowing quite what to expect, they were at first reserved and watchful. By the time they sat down for their second lunch aboard, however, everything had changed. They were relaxed and confident. Friendships had already developed, smiles of acknowledgment were distributed freely on all sides, and there was a pervading familiarity that showed itself most clearly in a greater volume of noise and a substantial increase in laughter. Genevieve Masefield had observed the process on previous voyages but it always amused her. When she came into the restaurant for lunch, she collected nods of welcome from people who would have been too shy even to look at her properly on the previous day.

  Liberated from the company of the Singleton family, she sat instead directly opposite Theodore Wright. The cyclist looked rather incongruous in a smart suit. His hair was still unkempt and his face glowed with health. Beside Genevieve was a tall, fleshy man in his thirties with a permanent smile on his face. Stanley Chase had a cultured voice and an engaging manner. She admired the way Chase tried to converse with Wes Odell, who sat opposite him, even though the coach was curt and offhand. When the first course was served, Chase noticed Wright’s meal was different from everyone else’s, and that his portions were much smaller.

  “Do you have a special diet?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Wright replied with a mock groan.

  “Who chooses what you eat?”

  “I do,” said Odell.

  “Why?”

  “I’m his coach.”

  “Does he have no say in the matter?”

  “None.”

  “But you’re not his mother,” said Chase with a chuckle. “Surely Theo is old enough to decide what he wants for lunch.”

  “I have to get him fit.”

  “Yes,” Wright said jocularly, “by starving me to death.”

  “Whatever food you’re getting,” said Genevieve, “you look very well on it.”

  “I agree,” said Chase. “You’re obviously in prime condition. And in your game, I suppose it’s important to keep your weight down.”

  Odell was blunt. “Very important.”

  “It’s like training a greyhound, isn’t it?”

  “No, Mr. Chase.”

  After delivering his firm rebuff, Odell started to eat his food. There were no special dietary requirements for him, and Genevieve noted the relish with which he consumed each mouthful. Coach and cyclist seemed an ill-matched pair at first sight. While the one was terse and unsociable, the other was effervescent and friendly. Theodore Wright was obviously glad to be sitting with Genevieve and kept up a stream of lighthearted comments. She found both him and Stanley Chase extremely pleasant company. It was Wes Odell who was the specter at the feast. At one point, when she paid Wright a compliment, his coach shot her a glance of stern disapproval. Genevieve could not understand what she had said to deserve it.

  When the main course was served, Wright turned his attention to Chase.

  “Have you spent much time in the States?” he asked.

  “I’ve made a number of visits,” said Chase, “but they’ve always been in pursuit of business. I never stay long enough to see the place properly.”

  “You’d need a lifetime to do that.”

  “Several lifetimes.”

  “What kind of business are you in, Mr. Chase?”

  “Antiques.”

  Wright grinned. “How much will you offer me for Wes?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid he wouldn’t qualify,” said Chase. “I specialize in antique furniture. Sheraton, Hepplewhite, Chippendale, and people of that ilk. Your coach would need to be at least a hundred years older before I took an interest in him. I ship my merchandise to New York, sell it there, then take special orders from certain clients. It’s a good living. I know you’ve been having severe financial difficulties in America recently but there are still people with plenty of dollars to spread around.”

  “Where do you get your antiques?” asked Genevieve.

  “From all over the country—house sales and auctions, for the most part.”

  “It must be fascinating.”

  “It is, Miss Masefield,” Chase said affably. “I get to meet the most extraordinary characters along the way.”

  Wright sat up. “But not as extraordinary as me, surely?”

  “No, Theo. You are well and truly unique.”

  “Who else would cycle all the way across the Atlantic?” noted Genevieve.

  By the time they reached dessert, Odell was more forthcoming. He actually initiated a discussion. The coach had only one subject of conversation but there was no denying his expertise.

  “Since I took charge of Theo,” he asserted, “he hasn’t lost a race.”

  “I wouldn’t dare to, Wes,” said Wright. “Not with you breathing down my neck.”

  “Is that how you coach, Mr. Odell?” asked Chase. “With naked fear?”

  “No, Mr. Chase. I prepare him thoroughly in body and in mind.”

  “ ‘Mind’?”

  “Having the right attitude is as vital as being in peak condition. It’s not enough to simply to have a desire to win,” emphasized Odell. “You must have the conviction that you can’t lose. That’s what will drive you on through the really grueling phases of a race.”

  “What about this one in France?”

  “It’s the blue riband of cycling, Mr. Chase.”

  “Is that why you’re going all this way to take part?”

  “Yes. We have to prove that Theo can beat Vannier.”

  “Vannier?”

  “Gaston Vannier,” explained Wright. “He’s the French champion and he’s won the Bordeaux-to-Paris race for the last two years. My job is to stop him making it a hat trick. And to get my revenge.”

  “Vannier has been making some disgusting remarks about Theo in the French press,” Odell said bitterly. “He’s been scornful about the times we’ve recorded in certain races and doesn’t think that Theo will even reach the finishing line in Paris. The cuttings were mailed to us and I had them translated. Vannier has been very cruel about Theo.”

  Wright set his jaw. “Wait till you see what I do to him!”

  “He’s only trying to put you off, surely?” said Chase.

  “Well, it hasn’t worked. Vannier can watch out. I’ll rub his nose in the dust.”

  “Deep down,” said Odell, “this French guy is scared of Theo. He knows the reputation we’ve built up. His nasty comments are meant to spook us.”

  Genevieve was interested. “How long is the race, Theo?”

  “Five hundred sixty kilometers, as the crow flies.”

  “How much is that in miles?” she said.

  “Around three hundred fifty, we reckon,” said Wright, “though it will be farther than that because of the way the road loops so much. Then there are the hills to climb and there are plenty of those, apparently. They’ll make it seem even longer.”

  “Three hundred and fifty miles?” Chase echoed in wonder. “I’d be exhausted if I drove a car that distance. No wonder you keep yourself in trim, Theo.”


  “He’s won six day-races before now,” Odell said proudly.

  “How long will the Bordeaux-to-Paris run take?”

  “The best part of twenty-four hours.”

  Genevieve gaped. “You stay continuously in the saddle for that long, Theo?”

  “Yes,” he replied cheerily. “Give or take a few stops to answer to the calls of nature. They’re something even Wes can’t control.”

  “What about food and drink?”

  “I grab what I can along the way. No time to sit down for a three-course meal in a pavement café, I’m afraid. I guzzle what I can when I have a short break.”

  “Water’s the main thing he needs,” added Odell. “It can get very warm at this time of year. Theo must have regular fluid, so I carry plenty of it with me.”

  “What about Gaston Vannier?” asked Chase. “Does he prefer wine?”

  Wright was determined. “Whatever he drinks, he won’t catch me.”

  “I think it’s amazing,” said Genevieve. “To cycle for twenty-four hours nonstop. What will you be like at the end of it?”

  “Holding the winner’s check, Genevieve.”

  “But what sort of state will you be in?”

  “Better than you think, Miss Masefield,” said Odell. “Wes is fully prepared for it. When he does take a break during the race, I massage his legs to keep them supple.”

  “You’ve thought of everything, Mr. Odell,” observed Chase. “You’re a lucky man, Theo. A good trainer makes all the difference. I saw a boxing match in New York once and one of the fighters was out on his feet at the end of the fifth round. But his trainer really worked on him in the corner. He sponged his face, gave him a drink from a bottle, and talked nonstop into his ear. I don’t know what he said but his man came out like a demon for the next round and knocked his opponent all round the ring.” He laughed at the memory. “It was only afterwards I discovered that the trainer had given him a drink of brandy from that bottle. That was the secret ingredient.”

  Genevieve was puzzled. “Brandy? Is that legal?”

  “Anything is legal in boxing—if you can get away with it.”

  “Would you like a swig of brandy during a race, Theo?”

  “Not me, Genevieve. I’d never be able to cycle in a straight line.” Wright held up his glass of water. “I’ll stick to this—until we celebrate afterwards, that is. It will be the best champagne then.” His eyes twinkled. “A pity you won’t be there to share it with me.”

  Genevieve smiled at him and earned another glare from Wes Odell. When the meal was over, she made a polite excuse then rose to leave. Wright gazed after her with candid admiration. Stanley Chase leaned across to him.

  “If Miss Masefield were waiting for me behind the finishing line,” he whispered, “I think that I’d be prepared to take part in the Bordeaux-to-Paris race as well.”

  “No chance,” said Wright, with feeling. “I saw her first.”

  George Porter Dillman hoped to catch the purser alone in the lull immediately after lunch but he had to wait until Paul Taggart had finished calming down an irate passenger. When the door finally opened, a large, stone-faced, middle-aged American woman in a tweed suit and a feathered hat came bursting out and waddled off down the corridor. Dillman went into the cabin.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Anstruther,” sighed Taggart. “She’s only been on board the Caronia for a day and she’s already notched up five complaints. If she keeps up that rate, I’ll need the patience of Job to survive this voyage.”

  “Were the complaints serious?”

  “They were to her, Mr. Dillman, and that’s all she’s concerned about. First of all, she wanted to be moved to another cabin because she didn’t like the color of her carpet. Then she took against her stewardess. Last night, she had a toothache and blamed it on the chef. This morning,” he continued in a tone of disbelief, “she ordered me to speak to the captain because the ship was rolling too much. What does she expect when we’re in the Atlantic?” he wailed. “It has waves. But the latest complaint was the best yet.”

  “Did she want you to turn the vessel around and take her back to New York?”

  “If only I could! No, she’d just come steaming out of the restaurant because, she claims, the man sitting opposite was looking at her.”

  “He didn’t have much choice,” said Dillman.

  “According to her, he was staring in a meaningful way. As if he had designs on her. Can you believe it?” said Taggart. “Look at the woman. She’s a positive Gorgon.”

  “Is there a Mr. Anstruther?”

  “There was, it seems. ‘If my dear Wilbur were still here …’ she kept saying, as if he’d have waved a magic wand and solved all her problems. My guess is that Wilbur took to his heels and ran away years ago.”

  “What action did you promise to take over this latest complaint?”

  “I said that I’d look into it,” Taggart said wearily. “Which means, I fear, that I’ll have to ask you to have a discreet word with a Mostyn Morris. His cabin number will be on that list I gave you. Mrs. Anstruther described him as having all the attributes of a Welsh mountain goat.”

  “You won’t see many of those traveling first-class on the Caronia.’ ”

  “We won’t see any, Mr. Dillman. She’s simply having fantasies.”

  “I’ll advise the gentleman to sit elsewhere next time.”

  Paul Taggart had more work for him. A passenger in second class had had his wallet taken in the lounge and a woman had reported hearing strange noises from inside a locked storeroom. The purser also told him about the case he had assigned to Genevieve Masefield at the start of the day.

  “Why didn’t the lady put all her jewelry in your safe?” asked Dillman.

  “That’s exactly what I said to her. Mrs. Robart struck me as being a trifle scatterbrained. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she put those earrings down somewhere and simply can’t find them.”

  “It seems unlikely that anyone got into her cabin to steal them. No thief would make off with a pair of gold earrings when there must have been other valuables he could take as well.”

  “That thought crossed my mind,” admitted Taggart.

  There was a sharp knock on the door and Inspector Redfern let himself in. When he saw Dillman, he backed out again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were busy.”

  “Come in, Inspector,” urged Dillman. “I was just leaving.”

  Redfern paused in the doorway. “In that case …”

  “Any progress?”

  “I think so, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “I can’t claim they’ve owned up to the crime in so many words, but their manner has convinced me beyond any doubt that they are guilty of the crime.”

  “ ‘Their manner’?” repeated Dillman.

  “Yes. When we arrested them, they protested their innocence then refused to say a word. It was almost as if they had a pact of silence. But that’s gone now,” said Redfern. “Heritage came very close to taunting me this morning. And yesterday, Miss Peterson actually challenged me to prove their guilt. She’d lost that simpering look completely. Her eyes were blazing.”

  “That could have been anger at wrongful arrest.”

  “No, Mr. Dillman. What I saw was a woman, brazenly confident that she and her accomplice had got away with it. Until then, she’d been meek and mild. In a flash her real character suddenly revealed itself.”

  “Are you sure that they’re safe where they are, Inspector?” said Taggart.

  “Quite safe.”

  “A strong man could break out of that cabin.”

  “Where would he go? Heritage can’t escape from this ship. Besides,” he said, “the only place he wants to be is with Miss Peterson. Sergeant Mulcaster and I would hear the noise if he tried to break down any doors. We keep a close eye on both of them.”

  “I wonder if I might make a suggestion,” Dillman said gently.

  “Go a
head.”

  “Well, I know that Sergeant Mulcaster doesn’t have too high an opinion of the Pinkerton Agency but it has had considerable success. One of the things it taught me was the value of using female operatives, especially when it came to questioning female suspects.” He saw Redfern purse his lips in irritation. “We don’t want to tread on your toes, Inspector. This is your case and we respect that. I just feel that Genevieve Masefield might be able to talk to Miss Peterson as a woman and draw things out of her that neither you nor Sergeant Mulcaster ever could do.”

  “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Dillman, but I’ll have to decline it.”

  “Don’t you want any help?”

  “We don’t need it.”

  “Very well. I won’t press it.”

  “You’d be wasting your time, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Then let me leave you with this thought, Inspector. You told us, I believe, that both the suspects have repeatedly denied their guilt.”

  “Most villains do.”

  “But they’re not typical villains, are they?” said Dillman. “Until recently, they were well-behaved British citizens who went about their lawful business without causing a moment’s concern. They then commit a heinous crime—allegedly.”

  “Who else could have murdered Mrs. Heritage?”

  “That’s beside the point. What I’m asking you to consider is this. The husband may indeed have poisoned his wife—all the signs indicate that—but supposing that Miss Peterson was not directly implicated…. Suppose that, until you arrested her, she didn’t even know that Mrs. Heritage had been killed?”

  “She did seem overwhelmed by the news,” Redfern conceded.

  “Could that be the reason she was so angry yesterday?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Innocent of the crime herself,” argued Dillman, “she refuses to believe that her lover could have committed it. That’s why her denials are so vehement, Inspector. You can’t prove that she has blood on her hands if they’re completely clean, can you?”

  “That’s marvelous!” exclaimed Cecilia Robart. “Where did you find them?”

  “I didn’t,” said Genevieve. “The bath steward did.”

  “Bath steward?”