by Conrad Allen
“Nothing, sir.”
“You can tell me.”
“I have to get on.”
“Come on,” coaxed Webb. “It’s not a state secret, is it? I can keep my mouth shut. I don’t even talk to those three jokers I share a cabin with. Why are you checking up on us, my friend? There has to be a reason.”
The steward hesitated. “Maybe there is.”
“Go on.”
“This is strictly between us, mind.”
“Of course.”
“Someone is missing off the ship. We’re conducting a search.”
“You think he’s in steerage?”
“Hardly,” said the steward, “but orders is orders. Only, we’ve been told to pretend that we’re just checking names so that we don’t spread any alarm. Some people would get upset if they thought a passenger had gone overboard.”
Webb stood up. “Is that what happened?”
“Possibly, sir. We haven’t found the man so far, I know that.”
He went out and left Webb to brood on what he had just heard. Sitting on the edge of his bed, the old man scratched his head and began to wonder about the dream that had been causing him so much nagging discomfort.
As she made her way to the restaurant for lunch, Genevieve Masefield caught sight of Pamela Clyne shuffling along with a white-haired lady who used a walking stick. Catching them up, Genevieve fell in beside them.
“Hello, Miss Clyne,” she said.
“Oh, hello, Miss Masefield,” the other replied shyly. “This is Mrs. Cooney.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Cooney? I’m Genevieve Masefield.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
Mrs. Cooney was an American lady in her seventies with a pale complexion and a pair of deep-blue eyes. There was an almost saintly air about her and Genevieve guessed that she had befriended the other woman out of kindness. The problem was that her proximity made Pamela Clyne seem much older than she really was. So alike were they in size and shape, they might have been taken for sisters, separated by little more than a decade. It worried Genevieve that the younger woman did not seem to mind.
“Are you enjoying the voyage, Miss Masefield?” asked Mrs. Cooney.
“Very much.”
“So am I. This is my fifth visit to England.”
“That’s very impressive, Mrs. Cooney.”
“I have a son who lives in London,” explained the old lady, “and I see him and my daughter-in-law every two years. I adore sailing. The nice thing about traveling on a Cunard ship is that you always make new friends.” She squeezed the arm of her companion. “Pamela and I seem to have known each other for years.”
“Yes,” said the other woman.
“Companionship is so important on a voyage,” said Genevieve.
Mrs. Cooney smiled. “I shouldn’t imagine that you’ll ever be short of it.”
She hobbled into the restaurant with Pamela Clyne at her side like an auxiliary walking stick. After bidding them farewell, Genevieve went off to take her own seat opposite the Singletons. There was the usual flurry of welcomes then Isadora, seated beside her, grabbed her arm.
“Where have you been all morning?” she asked.
“Here and there.”
“I looked for you all over the place.”
“Isadora, dear,” said her mother sweetly, “I’ve told you not to make a nuisance of yourself to Miss Masefield. I’m sure that she has other friends on the ship.”
“She’s not being a nuisance at all, Mrs. Singleton,” said Genevieve. “The truth is that I was rather busy this morning.” She gave Isadora an apologetic smile then turned back to the mother. “I hear you’re going to Royal Ascot.”
“Yes,” said Maria Singleton, clapping her hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful? Lord and Lady Eddington have invited us to share their box. Have you ever been to Royal Ascot?”
“Only once. It was a memorable occasion.”
“I’m sure that it was.”
“You’ll have a splendid time there.”
“That’s the value of staying in England for over six weeks. We get to take in so many of the major events. Don’t we, Waldo?”
“What’s that?” said her husband.
“I was talking about Royal Ascot.”
“Yes, yes. That will be a treat. We’re so grateful to Lord Eddington.”
“It was Mr. Openshaw who introduced you to him,” Isadora piped up, “and you didn’t have a good word to say for the man at first.”
“That’s not true,” scolded Singleton.
“Mother thought that he was uncouth.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Isadora.”
“That was the very word you used.”
“I wouldn’t say that of anybody,” said her mother, quelling her with a glance. “How dare you even suggest it! Mr. and Mrs. Openshaw were charming people and it was a delight to meet them.” She smiled at Genevieve. “Don’t listen to her, Miss Masefield. I’m afraid that our daughter has a colorful imagination at times.”
“That’s not such a terrible vice,” said Genevieve.
“It can lead to mistaken impressions.”
Isadora was completely cowed. Genevieve gave her a friendly nudge to show that she was on the girl’s side. Isadora rallied slightly. The menu was as tempting as ever and it took time for everyone to make a selection. Genevieve traded polite chat with the Singletons. It was twenty minutes or more before Isadora had the opportunity for a conversation with her friend that would not be overheard by her parents.
“I’ve got a message for you, Genevieve,” she whispered.
“Have you?”
“I wasn’t the only person who couldn’t find you.”
“Who else was there?”
“Guess.”
“The Openshaws?”
Isadora frowned. “They don’t even know you.”
“They seem to know everyone else in first class.”
“This was your secret admirer.”
“I’ve told you before,” said Genevieve, “Mr. Chase is not my admirer.”
“I’m not talking about him, though I still believe that you’re being chased by Stanley Chase as well.” She giggled. “No, this was the famous cyclist.”
“Theo Wright?”
“We met up in the lounge. I liked him enormously.”
“I’m sure that he took to you as well, Isadora. He’s very affable.”
“Oh, I don’t stand much of a chance beside you,” said the other. “Theo has only got eyes for one person. He admitted it in so many words.”
“Did he?” asked Genevieve, a trifle uneasy.
“He asked me to speak well of him to you.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was only said in fun.”
“It wasn’t, Genevieve. He was in earnest, I can tell.” She laughed gaily. “Isn’t it funny? I’m the one who is sailing to England in the hope of finding a beau yet you’ve managed to get one without even trying.”
“Theo Wright is not my beau,” Genevieve said firmly.
“He’d like to be, I know that. I could hear it in his voice, Genevieve. He’s not just an ardent admirer,” said Isadora. “I think that Theo wants to marry you.”
Genevieve felt a shiver run down her spine.
______
When Dillman returned to the purser’s office, Paul Taggart was more anxious than ever.
“Well?” he asked hopefully.
“We’ve drawn a blank so far.”
“Where can the fellow be?”
“Not on board the Caronia, I fear,” Dillman said resignedly. “But we’ll keep looking, Mr. Taggart. I promise you that.”
The purser looked at his watch. “You should be having your lunch.”
“That can wait. Everyone is in the restaurants. This is the perfect time to search some of the cabins more thoroughly. It’s not just Sergeant Mulcaster we’re after, remember. I’d like to find the stolen weapons as well.”
“So would I, Mr. Dillman. This is turning out
to be a nightmare crossing.”
“Why? Has Mrs. Anstruther been to see you again?”
“Twice.”
Dillman smiled. “She’s letting you off lightly today, then.”
“Why couldn’t someone shove her overboard?” He checked himself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It was a dreadful thing to say. Mrs. Anstruther’s problems are trivial compared to what we have to face.”
“Quite.”
“We’re on the trail of an armed man, two of them, possibly.” A thought struck him. “Don’t you think that you should be issued with a firearm as well, Mr. Dillman?”
“Not when I’m dressed like this,” said Dillman, indicating his tight-fitting suit. “A revolver would be rather difficult to conceal. Besides, I’m hoping that it won’t come to a shoot-out.”
“That’s all we need!”
“How is Inspector Redfern?”
“I finally managed to persuade him to rest.”
“He looked exhausted,” said Dillman. “And that was a nasty head wound.”
“The doctor’s been back to check up on him.”
“What about the prisoners?”
“Mr. Heritage has been moved to a cell. Miss Peterson remains where she is.”
“Have they been told what happened?”
“No, Mr. Dillman. The inspector wants to keep it from them.”
“Why?”
There was a gentle tap on the door. “Ask him yourself,” said Taggart. “That’s probably the inspector now. He did say he’d call on me as soon as he woke up.” He raised his voice. “Come in!”
Dillman turned round, expecting to see Inspector Redfern, but it was a complete stranger who stepped tentatively into the office. The man was old and wizened. His suit was stained and crumpled. He ran his tongue nervously over his lips.
“Yes?” said the purser. “Can I help you, sir?”
Daniel Webb looked from one man to the other before speaking.
“How much do you pay for important information?” he asked.
EIGHT
The purser blinked his eyes in astonishment before staring hard at his unexpected visitor.
“Would you care to repeat that, sir?’ he invited.
Daniel Webb looked at Dillman. “I’d rather do it in private.”
“You can speak freely in front of Mr. Dillman. He’s employed by Cunard.”
“Oh, is he?”
“What’s this about important information?”
“I may have seen something you ought to know about, sir.”
“When?”
“Last night,” said Webb. “On the main deck.”
Taggart exchanged a glance with Dillman. “Go on, sir.”
“Perhaps you’d like to sit down first,” said Dillman, indicating the chair. “And it might help if we knew your name.”
“Webb, sir. Daniel Webb.” He sat down. “Steerage.”
“And why have you come to me?” asked the purser.
“I may have something to sell.”
“What does it concern?”
Webb gave a cackle. “Ah, you don’t catch me like that. I’m not giving it away free. The truth is that I need the money. Crossing the Atlantic is thirsty business.”
Dillman had had time to appraise the old man. Webb did not look as if he could be of any use to them, but appearances could be deceptive. Dillman spoke quietly.
“Mr. Taggart is not authorized to buy information in the way that you suggest, Mr. Webb,” he said, “but we may be able to come to an accommodation. Perhaps we could start by offering you a glass of whisky.”
Webb’s eyes ignited.
“Would that be acceptable to you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Mr. Taggart?”
“An excellent idea,” said the purser, using a key to unlock a cabinet. “I do believe I could use a shot myself. What about you, Mr. Dillman?”
“No, thanks.”
“How do you take it, Mr. Webb? With soda or water?”
“Neither,” said Webb. “Give it to me as it comes.”
The purser produced two glasses and a full bottle of whisky. Webb grinned as the drink was poured out. As soon as his glass was passed over, he raised it in thanks then took a sip. He emitted a long sigh of appreciation.
“Good stuff.”
“I keep it for special occasions,” said Taggart, adding water to his glass from a little jug before taking a first drink. “Boy! I needed that.”
Dillman took charge. “Now, Mr. Webb,” he said, “may I ask what you were doing on the main deck last night?”
“I felt sick,” replied Webb. “Wanted some fresh air.”
“What time would this be?”
“Late.”
“How late?”
“Who knows?”
“It was a cold night. There couldn’t have been many other people out on deck.”
“I only saw those two.”
“What two?”
Webb closed one eye. “Ah, you’re trying to do it again, aren’t you?” he said cagily. “You want to trick the information out of me for nothing.”
“How do we know that it has any value?”
“Because of what that steward told me in steerage.”
“And what was that?”
“Someone is missing.”
“Did he give you any details?”
“No. But he was taking part in a search.”
Webb exposed his few remaining teeth in a smile. There was a long pause.
“Listen,” said the purser, losing patience, “we don’t have time to play games with you, Mr. Webb. A serious assault was made on one of our passengers last night. The man who shared the cabin with him vanished completely. We suspect foul play. If you’re holding back something that might actually help, then you’re hampering the investigation and that’s a crime in itself.”
“I done nothing wrong,” Webb said defensively.
“I’m sure that you haven’t,” Dillman agreed, “and we’re grateful that you took the trouble of coming here. Mr. Taggart is not in a position to offer you any reward, but I am. Do you find that whisky to your taste?”
Webb drained his glass. “Very much.”
“Tell us what you know and I’ll buy you a whole bottle.”
“Crikey!”
“But only if the information is genuine,” warned Dillman.
“It is!” insisted Webb. He became uncertain. “At least, I think it is.”
“How much had you drunk before you went on deck last night?” asked Taggart.
“Not enough.”
“But you had been drinking?”
“What else can a man do on this damn ship?”
The purser was dubious. “I don’t think that he can help us at all, Mr. Dillman.”
“I can, I can,” said Webb.
“Not if you were too drunk to remember what you saw.”
“I can hold my beer, sir. Always could.”
“Yet you claim that you felt sick.”
“Well, yes. Maybe.” Webb was confused. He eyed the bottle. “I don’t suppose you could spare another glass of that, could you?”
“Not until you’ve told us what you know,” said Dillman.
“Hurry up,” urged Taggart. “We don’t have time to waste.”
“All right, all right,” said Webb peevishly. “Don’t rush me.” He cleared his throat noisily. “At first, you see, I thought it was all a bad dream. Then the steward came into my cabin and I could see that something was up. I made him tell me. He reckoned that one of the passengers was missing.”
“That’s correct.”
“So I got to thinking. Maybe my bad dream wasn’t a bad dream, after all.”
“Tell us about it,” Dillman encouraged him.
“Well, sir, it’s like this. When I got out on deck, I sat down to rest for a few minutes when I saw these two men. They were only a few yards away,” he said, “so I had a good view of them both. One man was about my height, onl
y broader. And a fair bit younger, I’d say, from the way he moved. The one who was pushing him was taller. He was holding something to the other man’s head.”
“Holding something?”
“That’s right.”
“A gun, perhaps?”
“I couldn’t be sure,” said Webb, running a hand across his unshaven chin. “But he was standing behind the first man and forcing him toward the rail.”
“What happened then?” asked Dillman.
“The taller man hit him with whatever he had in his hand. I mean, he hit his head time and again. Knocked him to the deck then kept battering him until he stopped groaning. Next thing,” he recalled, miming what he saw, “he struggles to pick the body up and pushes it over the side.”
Taggart leaned forward. “Are you certain that’s what happened?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you report it at once?”
“I must have fallen asleep. And had this bad dream.”
“Or thought you did,” corrected Dillman. “You’re right, Mr. Webb. What you saw did happen. You’re a valuable witness. Can you remember the place where it happened?”
“On the main deck.”
“But at what particular spot? Clues may have been left there.”
“Yes,” said Taggart. “If he clubbed the man that hard, there would have been blood. Some of it may still be there.”
Dillman was pessimistic. “Not in this rain, I’m afraid. But it’s worth a look. Come on, Mr. Webb,” he said, helping the old man up. “Let’s see if we can find the spot where this occurred.”
“Have I told you what you wanted to know?” asked Webb.
“Up to a point.”
The old man grinned. “Does that mean I get the bottle of whisky?”
“All in good time,” said Dillman. “Off we go.”
John Heritage was not impressed with his new accommodations. The cell into which he had been moved had none of the comforts of a cabin in second class. It was small, bare, and featureless. Apart from the bunk, the only piece of furniture was a chair that was bolted to the ground. The iron walls were painted a dull cream and the door had bars in its tiny window. There was a stink of disinfectant. Like the other cells aboard, it was designed to hold unruly passengers or members of the crew who committed an offense. Heritage felt humiliated. He protested vehemently when Inspector Redfern visited him.
