by Conrad Allen
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said.
“Good afternoon,” they chorused.
“Ah, fellow Americans!”
“There seem to be a lot of us aboard, sir,” said Carlotta, eyeing him with approval and noting his immaculate suit. “My sister and I are thinking of forming an American Society aboard the Lusitania.”
“It was only a fanciful notion,” said Abigail dismissively.
“An interesting one nevertheless,” observed Dillman. “I’m sorry to interrupt your stroll but I have the feeling that I saw you both in the lounge last night, talking with a British journalist.”
“Yes!” said Carlotta ruefully. “He kept us up until all hours.”
“Both you and the young lady with you.”
“He was far more interested in her than in us.”
“What did you make of Mr. Henry Barcroft?”
“Why do you ask?” said Abigail suspiciously.
“Because he set on me earlier in the voyage. I must say, I found him uncomfortably persistent. His manner was far too intrusive for my liking. I shook him off as soon as I could.”
“I wish that we had done the same,” said Carlotta.
“Yet your companion seemed to find his conversation interesting.”
“It was for her sake that we tolerated him.”
“Is the young lady traveling with you?”
“Oh no. We met her on the train to Liverpool.”
“She looks oddly familiar.”
“Does she?” said Abigail, eyelids narrowing.
“Her name would not happen to be Violet Weekes, would it?”
“No,” said Carlotta. “It is—”
“It is not,” said Abigail, interrupting firmly. “But, then, you already know that, sir. Had she really been the person whom you mention, you would have come across and spoken to her in the lounge last night. Let us be honest here,” she said, fixing Dillman with a withering gaze. “You caught sight of a beautiful young lady and wondered what her name was. That is why you accosted us just now, in the hope that you could trick the information out of us.” She took a tighter grip on her sister’s arm. “You have not succeeded.”
“Allow me to explain,” he said.
“No, sir. Allow me to explain. You are the fourth man today who has tried to wrest her name from us under false pretenses and you will not be the last. It is very ignoble of you. Stand aside, please.” Dillman moved out of their way. “Come along, Carlotta.”
They swept past him and he touched his hat once more. His plan had gone awry but he was not abashed. His brief encounter with the Hubermann sisters had been stimulating. They were a formidable pair and seemed to be the self-appointed guardians of the young woman in question. If they kept him at arm’s length, they would also protect their friend from the attentions of Henry Barcroft. It was some consolation.
Barcroft was ubiquitous. Having talked to a wide variety of first-class passengers, he spoke to several officers and crew members, even taking the trouble to chat to deckhands, window cleaners, stewards, linen keepers, hairdressers, and musicians. But the man he was most anxious to interview was the chief engineer. Fergus Rourke seemed to have been designed in proportion with the vessel. He was a huge man with a barrel chest and shoulders so wide they they looked as if they were about to break free from his uniform. A red beard fringed his chin. Proud of his appointment as chief engineer, he was keen to fulfill his duties and found the visit by the journalist increasingly irritating.
The clamor of the engine room obliged them to raise their voices.
“It’s very warm down here, Mr. Rourke!” shouted Barcroft.
“You get used to it, sir.”
“Those pistons are earsplitting.”
“They go with the job, Mr. Barcroft.”
“It’s not one that I would care to have. But I take my hat off to you and your men. It takes the most enormous effort to keep the ship sailing at this speed. What sort of power is generated exactly?”
“We have four direct-drive steam turbines, sir. In all, the machinery develops some sixty-eight thousand IHP and revolves at a hundred eighty RPM.” Rourke towered over him. “Do you need me to explain exactly what that means?”
“No, sir. I did my homework before I came aboard. I think I’ve mastered most of the technical terms. Including PSI.”
“Steam is provided at one hundred ninety-five PSI by twenty-three double-ended and two single-ended cylindrical boilers, situated in four separate boiler rooms. That’s how the Lusitania can travel at such a lick.”
“Could I take a closer look at the boilers?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“But my editor is a stickler for detail.”
“No passenger is allowed beyond this point.”
“I’m a journalist, Mr. Rourke. A man with an inquiring mind.”
“Then I suggest you take it back up on deck, sir. I was happy to answer your questions but you are now interfering with my work.”
Barcroft would not be shaken off. “Keeping the British press well informed is part of your work, surely?” he said. “Don’t you want us to celebrate this engineering marvel? We can hardly do it if we are not given the complete freedom of the ship.”
“Take the matter up with Captain Watt, sir.”
“This is the domain of Chief Engineer Rourke. I was told that you rule the roost down here. Only you can give me permission.”
“No chance of that, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I must ask you to go back up on deck.”
“May I come again, Mr. Rourke?”
“I’ve told you all that I may.”
“One final question. What happens during the night?”
“The night?”
“Do these stokers still work at the same manic pace?”
“Of course, sir,” said Rourke. “These furnaces are tended twenty-four hours a day. My men work in shifts throughout the night. While you and the other passengers are tucked up in your cabins, the engine room will be as busy as ever.”
Henry Barcroft looked at the dust-covered trimmers and the gleaming sweat on the arms and faces of the stokers. Each time a furnace door was opened, he felt the heat surge up at him like a punch.
“It’s hell down here,” he concluded. “Thank you, Mr. Rourke. You’ve been extremely helpful. But I’m ready to go back up to the other place now. Yes,” he said brightening, “that could be the opening line of my article. ‘The difference between the boiler room and the first-class areas is the difference between hell and heaven.’ Now, what does that make you, Mr. Rourke?”
The chief engineer gritted his teeth, held back a stream of ripe expletives, and hid his exasperation behind a gruff civility.
“You tell me, Mr. Barcroft,” he said. “You’re the journalist.”
As soon as he received the message from him, Dillman went straight to the purser’s cabin. Charles Halliday was a thin, almost ascetic-looking man with hollowed cheeks and piercing eyes but he was an efficient and resourceful purser. There was a touch of self-importance about him, but Dillman ignored that. Purser Halliday was a crucial figure aboard the ship and the American had to work in harness with him and with the other purser. When his guest arrived, Halliday poured him a drink of whiskey, then sipped from his own glass.
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr. Dillman.”
“Problems, Mr. Halliday?”
“One or two. I had a chat with the chief steward earlier. He’s spotted one of our regulars.”
“Regulars?”
“Chap by the name of Collins. Edward Collins. At least, that is the name he always travels under. Passes himself off as an art dealer but the only art he practices is at a card table.”
“A professional gambler?”
“Yes, and a highly successful one at that.”
“What do you want me to do, Mr. Halliday?”
“Keep an eye on the rogue,” said the other. “There’s no law against playing car
ds but we have to make sure he doesn’t fleece the other passengers and we don’t want them signing IOUs which they can’t honor. Not everyone in first class is a millionaire.”
Dillman grinned. “I can vouch for that.”
“Collins will repay watching. If he goes too far, you may need to step in with a quiet warning. Can’t have him upsetting people. It will give the Lusitania a bad name.”
“Leave it to me, Mr. Halliday.” He tasted his own drink. “This is an excellent malt whiskey, by the way. Thank you.”
“I needed something to revive me,” said Halliday. “A purser is always in the line of fire and the bullets have been coming thick and fast today.” He drained his glass. “The other problem concerns a British journalist who’s been making a bit of a nuisance of himself.”
“I think I can guess whom you mean.”
“We had to have the press aboard on a maiden voyage. Necessary evil, I’m afraid. Most of them hunt in packs and are easy to control but this fellow is something of a loner. Wanders off where he’s not wanted. Pries into parts of the ship which are out of bounds.”
“Would his name happen to be Henry Barcroft?”
“You know him?”
“I had a rather abrasive meeting with him yesterday. Mr. Barcroft is indeed a nuisance. He pops up in the most unwelcome places.”
“Put him on your list for surveillance.”
“I will, Mr. Halliday. Anyone else?”
“Not as yet. But there will be, I fear.”
“Yes.” Dillman sighed. “The pickings are too easy. People tend to be off guard on a transatlantic voyage. Far too trusting. An ideal situation for gamblers and confidence tricksters.”
“That’s why the passengers need our protection, Mr. Dillman.”
“I know.” He finished his drink. “That was very welcome, sir.”
“No time for another, alas. Have to see to the needs of the ladies.”
“Ladies?”
“Yes,” said Halliday wearily. “Dress was very informal on our first night at sea but it will be different this evening. The men will be in their best bib and tucker and the ladies will want to wear their jewelry. That means I’ll have to take it out of the safe and get them to sign for it. I tell you, Mr. Dillman, we have a veritable treasure chest under lock and key. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and goodness knows what else. Much of it will be on display in the dining saloon this evening.” He wagged a finger. “Let’s make sure that none of it goes astray.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
“Nothing must go wrong on this voyage.”
“No, Mr. Halliday.”
“Nothing at all.”
Genevieve Masefield took extra pains that evening. Always careful with her appearance, she knew that she had to make a real impact over dinner and she had chosen her most striking dress for that purpose. It was made of rippling silk and its turquoise hue matched her eyes perfectly. Much as she liked the Hubermanns, she was beginning to regret that she had let them get so close to her. They might keep away unwelcome suitors but they would also deter gentlemen in whom she might actually take an interest. Carlotta Hubermann was not the stumbling block. If a romantic entanglement did present itself to Genevieve, she felt sure that Carlotta would both encourage her into it and support her throughout it, but Abigail Hubermann was a totally different matter. She was more likely to scupper it before it even got started. Genevieve needed to be tactful.
When she finished her makeup and brushed her hair, she stood up to examine the results in the full-length mirror. Highly satisfied, she twirled around to inspect the rear view and made the silk dress swish. Genevieve reached for her purse, checked its contents, then snapped it shut. With the purse under her arm, she let herself out of the cabin and walked down the corridor. At that precise moment, a man came around a corner ahead of her and tossed her a casual glance. Henry Barcroft stopped when he recognized her and gave her a broad grin.
“Good evening, Miss Masefield!”
“Good evening.”
“I didn’t realize that your cabin was along here.”
“Didn’t you?” she said, wondering if his appearance was the result of accident or clever timing. “I hope you will not try to interrogate me any further, Mr. Barcroft. I have no more to add to what I said last night.”
“Rest assured there will be no more questions,” he said warmly. “And I do apologize for keeping you up the way that I did. You and your friends must have been dropping with fatigue.”
“We survived.”
“Yes, they were tough old birds, those two.”
“The Hubermanns are delightful ladies.”
“Oh, I meant no criticism,” he said, appraising her dress and the diamond necklace above it. “It was a privilege to meet them—and to meet you, of course. May I say how ravishing you look this evening?”
“Thank you, Mr. Barcroft.”
He waited for an answering compliment from her but it did not come. Wearing white tie and tails, the journalist preened himself for a moment. He gave her an admiring smile.
“Will you be dining with the Hubermanns this evening?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Barcroft.”
“Well, I hope they will release you at some stage, Miss Masefield.”
“Why?” she said coldly.
“I remembered your saying that you would be interested to meet Lord Carradine, the tobacco baron. As it happens, I interviewed him this afternoon. A most approachable man. I’d be very happy to introduce you to him if the notion appeals to you.”
Her manner softened at once. “Thank you, Mr. Barcroft.”
“We might even catch him before dinner.”
“Lead the way.”
Barcroft offered his arm but Genevieve ignored it, preferring to walk beside him. Other couples were also converging on the dining saloon and there was a small queue when they reached the entrance. Barcroft saw the tall, elegant man in evening dress who was talking nearby to one of the stewards. He waved a hand.
“The mystery man returns!”
“Good evening,” said Dillman, peeved to see whom the journalist was accompanying. He extended a hand to Genevieve. “I don’t believe that we’ve met.”
“No,” she said, looking past him. “We haven’t, sir. Excuse us.”
“Enjoy your meal,” added Barcroft.
Then the two of them brushed past him and went to join a group of people who were standing in the middle of the room. Dillman was taken aback. He watched the journalist introduce his companion to a balding man in his thirties with a monocle in his right eye. Dillman could see that she made an immediate impression on him. He sidled across to the head waiter and spoke in an undertone.
“Who is that man?” he asked.
“Which man, sir?”
“The one with the monocle. In the center of the room.”
“That is Lord Carradine, sir.”
Dillman ransacked his memory. “Carradine? That name rings a bell. Isn’t he something to do with tobacco?”
“I believe that he is everything to do with it, sir.”
The headwaiter moved off to welcome some newcomers and Dillman was left to study the group from the sidelines. Lord Carradine was evidently charmed by his new acquaintance and was introducing her to his friends. Henry Barcroft floated discreetly away. Dillman was still watching the scene when the Hubermanns came up behind him.
Abigail summed up the situation at a glance.
“Are you still lurking, young man?” she said accusingly.
“Oh, good evening!” said Dillman, turning to see them. “No, I was just looking around for some friends.”
“We know whom you had in your sights, don’t we, Carlotta?”
“Yes, Abigail,” agreed her sister.
“How many times do you need to be told, sir?”
There was an asperity in her tone that made Dillman step back. They moved past, shooting him separate looks of disdain, then went to collect their young friend
from the attentions of Lord Carradine. It had been an unpromising start to the evening for Dillman and there was worse to come. Cyril and Ada Weekes suddenly appeared at his elbow. When greetings had been exchanged, Weekes gave his arm a squeeze.
“Ada and I are so glad that you’re joining us for dinner. We took the liberty of inviting someone you already know to sit beside you.”
“Who is that, Mr. Weekes?”
“Mr. Erskine. The two of you seemed to get on so well.”
Dillman’s heart sank, but he contrived a grateful smile.
“Yes,” he lied bravely. “I look forward to meeting him again.”
Philip Garrow spent most of the day finding his way around the ship and learning something about its rules and regulations. Anxious to make contact with Violet Rymer, he knew that he would have to bide his time. She would still be under the close supervision of her parents. Since the three of them were traveling first class, he opted for a second-class ticket so there would be no accidental meeting. Matthew and Sylvia Rymer had to be avoided at all costs or there would be severe repercussions. The problem lay in eluding them and reaching their daughter. It would not be easy. Clear demarcation lines existed between the different classes of passengers. Warning notices kept interlopers out of forbidden areas.
Garrow obviously needed an accomplice. He chose one of the older stewards, a man seasoned in the ways of the world and accustomed to hearing odd requests from the passengers.
“What’s your name?” asked Garrow.
“Albert, sir.”
“Do you like being a steward, Albert?”
“’ave to like it, sir. It’s my calling.”
“Does it bring in a decent wage?”
“Not so as you’d notice, sir.”
“But there must be extras. Tips and so on.”
“Now and again,” admitted the other, curiosity aroused. “Why do you ask, sir? You don’t look as if you want to be a steward aboard a liner. Where’s all this leading?”
“That’s up to you, Albert.”
They were standing outside Garrow’s cabin and he fell silent while a quartet of people went past on their way to the second-class dining saloon. Sensing a chance to make money, the steward waited patiently. He was a short, stout man with graying hair. A florid complexion hinted at a fondness for alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot.
