Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

  Dillman held out a hand. “Give me the gun, please,” he said. “Stand back!” ordered the other. “There’s no way you can escape.”

  “At least I can take you with me, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Just give me the weapon before it goes off.”

  “Not a chance.” Chase backed away from him. “Move an inch and I’ll shoot.”

  Dillman remained calm. He glanced over Chase’s shoulder and saw someone walking purposefully toward them. It gave him his chance.

  “Watch your back,” he said.

  “You won’t catch me like that, I’m afraid.”

  “I think that Theo may want a word with you as well.”

  “Turn around, Mr. Dillman. Walk toward the rail.”

  “You’re the one who should turn around, sir. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Wright was twenty yards away now. He recognized the man he wanted.

  “Mr. Chase!” he called. “I need a word with you.”

  Taken by surprise, Chase glanced over his shoulder. Dillman moved swiftly. Diving forward, he grabbed the wrist that held the gun and twisted it back so the weapon was pointing in the air. The two men grappled and moved crazily across the deck as they struggled to get the upper hand. Wright looked on in amazement. Forcing his man toward the bulwark, Dillman smashed Chase’s wrist against the rail so that the gun was dislodged. It dropped to the deck with a clatter. Dillman kicked it away before trying to overpower his adversary. Deprived of his weapon, Chase felt a surge of anger and he fought back hard, punching and gouging for all he was worth, but Dillman was much stronger and fitter. He hurled Chase against the rail to take the wind out of him then hit him with a relay of punches to the body and the head. With blood streaming from his nose, Chase eventually fell to one knee. Dillman reclaimed the gun to hold it on him.

  “It’s my turn next, Mr. Chase,” said Wright, bunching up a fist. “There was cocaine in that ointment. I made Wes tell me where he got it from.” He dragged Chase to his feet. “You tried to turn me into a cheat.”

  “Don’t worry, Theo,” said Dillman, panting from his fight. “He won’t be selling drugs to anyone for a very long time.”

  Paul Taggart was thrilled by the turn of events. He felt the Caronia had been cleansed of its ugly stains. Two drug smugglers were in custody and they were also charged with the murder of Sergeant Mulcaster. The purser was delighted with the way Dillman and Genevieve had solved the crimes. When they visited him in his office, he showered them with congratulations.

  “The captain insists you join him at his table this evening,” he said.

  “We’ll be happy to accept his invitation,” said Dillman.

  “Inspector Redfern will be there as well, He’s looking forward to eating a meal in the dining room instead of in his cabin. He has nothing but praise for you two. You helped him to get a confession from Miss Peterson.”

  “Not really,” said Genevieve. “We just created the conditions in which it could happen. She’d been under immense strain, locked away on her own. Yet she denied her guilt time and again. When we put her in the same room as Mr. Heritage, however, she couldn’t control her emotions quite so well. She gave herself away.”

  “Whatever happened,” said Taggart, “the inspector is deeply grateful.”

  “We were happy to lend him some assistance.”

  “Yes,” added Dillman. “Even though I went astray at one point when I thought that Ramsey Leach was our man. He and his wife are still pretending they’re not married, I notice. Presumably, they only meet at night.”

  Taggart grinned. “I tried to smooth the path of true love,” he added. “I had Mrs. Anstruther moved from the next cabin. It’s been left empty now so they can make as much noise as they like without disturbing anyone. But the real triumph of the day was the arrest of Stanley Chase and Cecilia Robart. They were another couple who seemed to be traveling independently yet spent the nights together. Thanks to you two,” he went on, “they’re both behind bars. It’s a time for celebration.”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Taggart,” said Dillman.

  “Why not?”

  “We still haven’t found the drugs. We’ve searched every last inch of their cabins and there’s no sniff of cocaine or heroin. Yet I’m certain it’s aboard somewhere.”

  “They must have hidden it somewhere else, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Unless they have another accomplice,” suggested Genevieve.

  Dillman shook his head. “No, the two of them work as a team and they’ve obviously been doing so for some time. That means they have a system. Well, you heard what Chase said as we locked him away,” he reminded them. “He taunted us. He said that we’d never find the drugs in a month of Sundays.”

  “Then they’ll never get off the vessel,” said Taggart.

  “Yes, they will.”

  “How, George?” asked Genevieve.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I have a theory.”

  As the Caronia sailed on across the Atlantic, the vast majority of those aboard had no knowledge of the drama that had been played out inside it. Passengers and crew alike thought it was a routine voyage. When they were on the last leg of the journey, telegraph messages were sent to Liverpool to alert the police and the press. By the time the vessel eased slowly up against its landing stage, a police escort was waiting to take charge of the prisoners, and a battery of reporters wanted to interview Inspector Redfern. He appeared before the cameras alone. George Porter Dillman and Genevieve Masefield needed to preserve their anonymity, especially as they would be sailing back to New York on the Caronia. While the inspector coped with the press, they slipped quietly ashore.

  It was over two weeks before the vessel was due to sail again. Before any of the passengers embarked, Dillman was on board, dressed as a steward in the first-class area. Convinced the cache of drugs was still on the ship, he was alert and watchful. His vigilance was eventually rewarded. When the passengers were allowed to board, some brought friends and well-wishers with them. An attractive young woman in a long coat came aboard with a huge bunch of flowers that she wished to leave in a cabin her friends would occupy. She met Dillman in a passageway.

  “What number are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Twenty-six,” she said.

  “It’s just along here, madam.”

  “Thank you. I wanted to surprise some dear friends with the flowers.”

  “Of course.”

  Dillman led her to the cabin, knowing it was the one occupied earlier by Stanley Chase. He had searched it carefully himself but found no trace of drugs. Of all the cabins in first class, the young lady had nominated that one. There had to be a reason, and he doubted it was connected with any “dear friends.” Dillman showed her into the cabin, fetched a vase, then pretended to leave her alone to arrange the flowers. She watched him disappear around a corner before going to work. After taking off her coat, she filled the vase with water from the faucet and hastily put the flowers into it. Kneeling beside the paneling below one of the bunks, she took out a suction pad, licked it, and pressed it hard against the wood. A sudden push produced a click then she drew the pad toward her. A small door swung back on its hinges and allowed her to put her hand inside. She drew out a series of bags that she then concealed in the large pockets sewn into the bottom of her coat, intending to carry it out casually over her arm when she left the ship.

  But the system that had worked before had broken down at last. While she was reaching in for the last bag of cocaine, the door opened and Dillman came in.

  “So that’s how it was done, is it?” he said with admiration. “Mr. Chase told us what an expert he was at repairing antiques. He obviously used his skills in here as well.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I’m the person who arrested him,” said Dillman. “And it’s my pleasure to arrest you as well. I’ll take that coat, if you don’t mind. But leave the flowers,” he added with a smile. “I’m sure the passengers who o
ccupy this cabin will be most grateful.”

  * * *

  When Genevieve Masefield came aboard shortly afterwards, Dillman called on her in her cabin. She was thrilled to hear that the cache of cocaine and heroin had been uncovered and a further arrest had been made. The Caronia would not be used for drug trafficking again. She had news of her own.

  “Have you seen this, George?” she asked, waving a newspaper at him.

  “I haven’t had time to read any papers today, Genevieve.”

  “I don’t usually look at the sports pages but I’m glad that I did today.” She held out the newspaper to show him a photograph. “Theo Wright won the Bordeaux-to-Paris race in record time.”

  “Without the aid of any drugs, I daresay.”

  “He had some help. Look at the crowd behind him. Who do you see?”

  Dillman examined the photograph more carefully. It was taken as Wright came through the finishing line at the end of the race. Excited spectators were cheering him on. One of them, standing in the front row and beaming happily, was Isadora Singleton.

  “Look how much he earned for winning that race,” said Dillman, reading the caption. “You missed your chance, Genevieve. If you’d married him, you might have ended up the wife of a very rich man. Don’t you regret that?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m already spoken for,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “Aren’t I?”

  About the Author

  Conrad Allen is better known as Edward Marston, the Edgar-nominated author of the Nicholas Bracewell series and of several other historical mysteries. He lives in England.

  Find out more about him at www.edwardmarston.com