Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

  “Thank you, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “I appreciate this.”

  “That cell is rather cramped for two people at the same time.”

  “Inspector Redfern didn’t think so.”

  “I prefer to do things my way.”

  “But why has he sent you and not Sergeant Mulcaster? Does the inspector think that you’ll be able to wheedle things out of me?”

  “Not at all,” Dillman said easily. “For obvious reasons, I took a professional interest in the case and the inspector was kind enough to allow me to speak to you. I’m not here to interrogate you, Mr. Heritage. I’m like a doctor who’s been called in to offer a second opinion. And you’re under no compulsion to answer my questions,” he added. “If you’d rather go back to your cell, just say the word.”

  “No, no, I’ll stay here.”

  “It might be to your advantage.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well,” said Dillman, “I’m not as familiar with the details of the case as Inspector Redfern and Sergeant Mulcaster. On the basis of what they know, they have no doubts at all about your guilt.”

  “What about you?”

  “I prefer to keep an open mind.”

  Heritage was skeptical. “You’re still on their side, though, aren’t you?”

  “I’m on nobody’s side. If what you say convinces me that you’re guilty, then that’s what I’ll report. But if, on the other hand,” emphasized Dillman, “I come to believe in your innocence, I’ll tell the inspector why.”

  “Is that what you’re pretending to be—a defense barrister?”

  “I’m not pretending to be anything,” Dillman said earnestly. “I don’t blame you for being suspicious. I’d feel the same in your position. After all, I’m an American. I’m not too familiar with the British legal system. But I’m here to listen, Mr. Heritage. So,” he offered, spreading his arms, “take me or leave me.”

  Heritage studied him for a moment. Dillman seemed intelligent and personable. He had none of the faint menace that hung around Sergeant Mulcaster nor the tenacious formality of Inspector Redfern. Nothing could be lost by talking to him. While the prisoner was making up his mind, Dillman was able to appraise him in turn. Being in custody had made Heritage look older. His eyes were ringed with fatigue, his forehead more deeply etched, and his beard more salted with gray. There was little in his appearance to suggest why Carrie Peterson had been attracted to him.

  “Very well,” said Heritage at length. “Ask what you will.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But before you ask the obvious question—no, we did not kill my wife.”

  “That wasn’t what I was going to ask you,” said Dillman. “I’m more interested to know if you were surprised when the police followed you to Ireland.”

  “Extremely surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’d been careful to leave no trail.”

  “There’s always a trail of some kind, Mr. Heritage.”

  “We thought they’d have no reason to follow us.”

  “A dead body is fairly strong motivation,” argued Dillman, “even if you were not responsible for the murder. When a wife dies, it falls to the husband to identify the body. They were bound to come looking for you. Then, of course, there was the matter of the money that you stole from the pharmacy account.”

  Heritage was bitter. “I was owed that, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “It was small recompense for all the misery I’d had to put up with from my partner. I had no qualms at all about raiding the account. I was fairly certain that Stephen had been dipping into it himself without telling me.”

  “Did Miss Peterson know where the money came from?”

  “That’s a private matter.”

  “In other words, you didn’t tell her.”

  “I’ve given you my answer.”

  “Did you make all the travel arrangements?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why did you choose Ireland?”

  “Carrie has relatives there.”

  “That was a mistake, Mr. Heritage,” said Dillman. “Relatives constitute a trail. So do close friends. The police always start with them when they’re hunting missing persons. To come back to your wife,” he continued, watching the other man closely. “If you didn’t kill her, she must have been alive when you left the house.”

  “She was, Mr. Dillman.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I spoke to her. I told Winifred that I was going for a long walk.” He rubbed his beard. “What I didn’t say, of course, was that I wasn’t coming back. I’d packed my things a day earlier and left them at Carrie’s flat.”

  “How did you feel when you walked out of the house?”

  “Relieved.”

  “And vengeful?”

  “Oh, yes,” confessed the other. “I was getting my revenge.”

  “Your wife died in agony that same day, Mr. Heritage. Are you sure your revenge didn’t take a more deadly turn?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then why did you take home that poison from the pharmacy?”

  Heritage lowered his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he mumbled.

  “But it does,” insisted Dillman. “It’s a crucial factor. You had motive, means, and opportunity to kill your wife. What puzzles me is why you recorded the purchase of that poison in the record book at the pharmacy. Surely you could have taken it without anyone ever knowing.” There was a strained silence. “Well?”

  “I wanted her to know,” said Heritage.

  “Miss Peterson?”

  “No, my wife.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The poison was not for Winifred at all.”

  Dillman was shocked. “You intended to commit suicide?”

  “It seemed like the only way out at the time,” Heritage said gloomily. “In view of what’s happened since, I’m beginning to wish I’d had the courage to go through with it.”

  When she found the store where the flowers were kept, a steward in a blue apron was arranging displays in a series of small vases. He gave a polite smile.

  “Can I help you, madam?”

  “I hope so,” said Genevieve. “Earlier on, I received a bouquet of flowers. They could only have come from here. I’d like to know who sent them.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” said the man.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I gave my word to the customer.”

  “Was it a lady called Mrs. Robart, by any chance?”

  “The customer didn’t give me a name.”

  “Just tell me if it was a man or a woman,” said Genevieve. “That’s all I ask.”

  The steward wavered. “Well…”

  “Please—this is important to me.”

  “It was a gentleman,” he admitted, “but that’s all I’m prepared to say.”

  Genevieve thanked him and left him to get on with his work. She was relieved to be able to eliminate Cecilia Robart from consideration but would clearly have to wait before the true identity of the sender was revealed. As she walked away, she chided herself for taking time off to do some private detection. A murder had been committed and there was a strong suspicion that drugs were being smuggled across the Atlantic on the Caronia. With such serious crimes to address, she felt slightly ashamed of herself. Her main task was to help in the search for the man who killed Sergeant Mulcaster and dumped his body into the sea.

  Before she was able to do that, however, she was accosted on the staircase by Wes Odell. He was not in the mood for pleasantries.

  “I need to speak to you, Miss Masefield,” he announced.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No, it can’t.”

  “I’m frightfully busy at the moment.”

  “Been looking for you all afternoon. I’m not going to let go of you now.”

  “If you insist,” she said with a shrug. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “You are, Miss Ma
sefield.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “You’re distracting Theo.”

  “Not intentionally, I can promise you.”

  “That makes no difference,” said Odell. “Since he met you, his mind is not as completely on his cycling as it should be. Theo claims that it is, but I know him too well. So let’s get one thing straight, shall we?” he affirmed. “His career comes first.”

  “I wouldn’t try to contradict that.”

  “Then play along with me.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Odell?”

  “Keep out of Theo’s way. Give the kid the cold shoulder.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Genevieve, offended by the notion. “I’m free to speak to anyone I choose and I certainly won’t have you exerting any control over my private life.”

  His eyes flashed. “Don’t cross me, Miss Masefield.”

  “It appears I’ve already done that without even realizing it.”

  “There’s too much at stake here.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to make demands of me.”

  “Do you know how long it takes to train a champion?”

  “Mr. Odell—”

  “Do you know how much I’ve invested in Theo Wright?” he asked, jabbing a finger at her. “Years of time and tons of money. That kid was a raw novice when I took him on. He didn’t even have enough dough to look after himself properly. But he had terrific promise. I backed that promise.”

  “I’m pleased for both of you.”

  “Then don’t stand in our way.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing, Mr. Odell.”

  “I want a return on my investment,” he asserted. “I’ve been building him up steadily for this race in France. It’s the most important test of his career. Theo has got the talent to win—but only if he commits himself heart and soul to the race.”

  “I can’t imagine him doing anything else. He’s very single-minded.”

  “He was until you came on the scene, Miss Masefield.”

  “I’m just one passenger among over two thousand.”

  “You’re the only one that matters to him.”

  “I can’t believe that,” said Genevieve, anxious to detach herself. “However, I refuse to discuss this any further. Theo and I are friends, but that’s as far as it goes and as far as it ever could go. Does that satisfy you?”

  “No,” he said stubbornly.

  “Well, it’s all that you’re going to get, Mr. Odell.”

  “I want more than that.”

  “Excuse me,” she said, trying to walk past him.

  He blocked her path. “You’re going nowhere till we’ve got this sorted out.”

  “It is sorted out.”

  “I want your word that you’ll lie low for a while.”

  “Lie low?” echoed Genevieve, insulted by the suggestion. “Who on earth do you think you are, Mr. Odell? You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “You’re a threat to Theo.”

  “That’s a matter between you and him.”

  “No, it’s between the two of us, Miss Masefield. I’ve spoken to Theo. He won’t even talk about the subject. That shows how bad it is.”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” he said resentfully. “You gave the guy plenty of encouragement over a meal yesterday.”

  Genevieve was roused. “I did nothing of the kind, I assure you. If you interpret polite conversation as encouragement, Mr. Odell, then you need to have some lessons in social behavior. Now, please get out of my way.”

  “One last warning.”

  “No,” she replied with dignity. “I won’t hear another word.”

  She glared at him. He moved reluctantly out of her way and she swept past him.

  “Just wait,” he called after her. “You’ll be sorry you didn’t play ball.”

  The talk with John Heritage had been enlightening. Dillman learned that the case was far more complex than he had imagined when he studied the dossier loaned to him by Inspector Redfern. Circumstantial evidence was still heavily weighted against the suspect, and Dillman was by no means persuaded of his innocence, yet he felt he had seen a side of Heritage that had been invisible to the detectives who had arrested him. After admitting that he had contemplated suicide, the man had broken down and cried. It was a touching scene. Sitting in silence, Dillman gave him plenty of time to recover. What he could not decide was whether the tears were genuine or a display of emotion calculated to win his sympathy. Heritage dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “Do forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “I’ve been under such terrible pressure these last few days.”

  “I know, Mr. Heritage.”

  “Have you ever had the police chasing you?”

  “No,” said Dillman. “I’ve usually done the chasing. It’s very stressful for the suspect. I’ve seen more than one collapse with a heart attack when cornered.”

  “I’m surprised I didn’t do the same,” Heritage said ruefully. “We thought we were safe when we got to Ireland. When we managed to get a passage to America, we were absolutely certain that we were. You can guess how we felt when we they arrested us on board ship.”

  “Was Sergeant Mulcaster carrying a shotgun at the time?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dillman. I still have the bruise on my chest where he prodded me with it. But it was the way he grabbed Carrie that really upset me. There was no need for it at all. It was gratuitous violence.”

  “Go back to what you were telling me.”

  “About the poison?”

  “Does Inspector Redfern know why you bought it?”

  Redfern shook his head. “No. I kept that from him.”

  “Why?”

  “For two reasons,” said the other man. “First, I don’t think he’d have believed me. Second—and more to the point—I was too ashamed to talk about it. Except to Carrie. It was before we had decided to run away together. My wife had refused to give me a divorce and the situation seemed utterly hopeless.”

  “Killing yourself would have solved nothing.”

  “I realize that now.”

  “You’d have had two women grieving over you.”

  “One,” Heritage said bluntly. “Carrie Peterson. It was because of her that I drew back.” Hatred came into his voice. “Winifred never would have mourned me. She’d have been glad, Mr. Dillman. It would have meant that she’d won.”

  “Won what?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I think it does.”

  But Heritage was not prepared to say anything more about his marriage. After a few more questions, Dillman elected to bring the interview to an end. He needed to assimilate what he had already gathered.

  “Perhaps we can talk again sometime,” he suggested.

  Heritage was guarded. “If you wish—but don’t expect a confession.”

  “I’ve already had one. Of a kind.”

  He got up from his chair and the prisoner followed suit. As they moved to the door, Heritage remembered something. He looked Dillman in the eye.

  “What happened to Inspector Redfern’s head?” he asked.

  “He had an accident.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “As far as I know, Mr. Heritage.”

  “What about Sergeant Mulcaster? Why hasn’t he come today?”

  “Would you rather be questioned by him?”

  “Not at all,” said Heritage. “I won’t pretend that I enjoyed this chat with you but it was far more pleasurable than a grilling by Sergeant Mulcaster. He’s a vicious bully. I was lucky that he didn’t beat me to a pulp. He was more than capable of it. The sergeant used to boast about what he’d done to other people he caught.”

  “Indeed?”

  “He was trying to scare me, Mr. Dillman. Thank heaven that Inspector Redfern kept him under control or I might have finish
ed up like Nicholls.”

  “Who?”

  “Sidney Nicholls,” explained Heritage. “The sergeant claims he resisted arrest and that gave him the license to tear the man apart. He boasted to me that he put Nicholls in hospital for a fortnight.”

  “What was the man’s crime?”

  “Drug trafficking.”

  TEN

  Frank Openshaw liked to collect people around him so that he could hold court. There was more to it than the simple desire to impress them with the story of his life. Though many of the guests would be invited purely on a social basis, there would always be a smattering of those whom he hoped to involve in one of his many business ventures. Hospitable by nature, he also expected a return on his money. When he and his wife returned to their cabin that afternoon, they went through the guest list for their next gathering. Those who had come on the previous evening were discounted. Twenty new people had been invited to join them for drinks before dinner. The list was not entirely made up of his choices. Kitty Openshaw had contributed a couple of names herself.

  “These are mine,” she said, handing him a slip of paper.

  He glanced at the names. “Who is Iris Cooney?”

  “A lovely American lady, who visits her son in London every two years. She uses a walking stick but she refuses to let arthritis hold her back. Mrs. Cooney sat next to me in the hairdressing salon.”

  “Is she traveling alone?”

  “Her husband passed away ten years ago.”

  “Does she have any brass?”

  “Frank!” scolded his wife.

  “Some of these American widows have more money than they know what to do with,” he said airily. “Look at that woman we met on the Mauretania when we sailed to New York. She was worth millions.”

  “Well, I didn’t ask Mrs. Cooney about her money. It’s not the polite thing to do.”

  “But you must have got some idea, Kitty. That’s the wonderful thing about brass. You can smell it on people. You can see it in the way they dress and the manner in which they talk to other people. That’s why I invited Stanley Chase.”

  “Oh, I liked him.”

  “So did I.”

  “Such nice manners.”

  “And such a thick wallet,” he said with a chuckle. “I sensed that as soon as he sat down opposite us. There’s big money in antiques. Look at his card,” he went on, taking it from his waistcoat pocket. “He has a business in the King’s Road, Chelsea, and a house in Knightsbridge. Property is not cheap in either of those places, I can tell you. He also has a cottage in the south of France. Chase must be making a small fortune.”