by Conrad Allen
“We seem to be maintaining a high speed now.”
“Yes,” said the other, “and we'll continue to do so while we can. But the North Atlantic is the most dangerous ocean of them all. The weather can change for the worst so quickly. A heavy swell would slow us right down. And reports are already coming in about ice ahead. We could still break that record, Mr. Dillman, but I’d advise you not to bet your life savings on it.”
Dillman grinned. “I don’t have any life savings, Captain. But what I really came to ask you is this. How big a triumph would it be if the ship did capture the Blue Riband on its maiden voyage?”
“An enormous triumph. Our rivals would never forgive us.”
“You’d seize business from them at one fell swoop.”
“Of course, everyone wants to travel on the fastest liner.”
“She’s rather more than a liner, Captain Watt.”
“Not at the moment.”
“What about the future?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Dillman,” said the captain with a weary sigh. “But there’s no point in trying to bamboozle a man like you. I know you’ve got a nautical background. You understand the principles of marine architecture.” He took Dillman to the window and they looked down toward the bow of the ship. “What do you see down there?”
“A narrow prow, designed for speed.”
“And?”
“Reminiscent of a destroyer.”
“What else do you see, Mr. Dillman?”
“A foredeck that could easily be reinforced to take guns.”
“Go on.”
“A compass platform could be added on top of this bridge. A second could be placed in a number of locations. Decks, fore and aft, could be cleared. Passenger accommodation could be restricted to allow more room for cargo. Do you want me to go on, sir?” said Dillman. “This ship was designed for peace but is also ready for war.”
“It won’t be of our choosing, sir. But we’re bound to take note of the way that the Germans are building up their navy. They’re flexing their muscles. We need to be ready in case they start to swing punches.”
“In the meantime?”
“We win the battle of the Atlantic with the Lusitania.”
“Perhaps even on this voyage?”
“Nothing would gladden my heart more. I’ve spent a lifetime competing with German skippers who think they own this ocean. High time someone wiped that arrogant grin off their faces.” He looked around. “And we’ve finally got the ship that can do it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Dillman moved off. “You’ve been a great help.”
“You’re going?”
“I have to, Captain Watt.”
“But you haven’t told me about this so-called confession.”
“I have to find the man who wrote it first.”
Dillman ducked out of the bridge and descended the stairs. While the captain deserved to be kept informed of every development, there were some things the American felt obliged to keep from him. He still believed that his own camouflage was the best means of catching the man they were after. He made light of the personal danger involved. The visit to the bridge had provided vital confirmation. He was tingling.
“Hold on, Mr. Dillman!”
A loud voice cut through the crowd on deck and he turned to see Carlotta Hubermann waddling toward him. She had a mischievous glint in her eye, which was never there when her sister, Abigail, was with her. Dillman waited until she came panting up to him.
“You sure are a difficult man to find!” she said.
“I didn’t realize you were looking for me.”
“Genevieve said you’d come in this direction. Like a bullet from a gun, that’s how she put it. What’s the rush? This is the life of leisure, Mr. Dillman. Enjoy it while you can.”
“I intend to, Miss Hubermann.”
“Good! That means you’ll join Abigail and me for dinner this evening. We’ll meet you for drinks in the lounge beforehand.” She raised a hand to stop the protest that rose to his lips. “I won’t take no for an answer, Mr. Dillman. You’re needed for compassionate duty.”
“Compassionate duty?”
“I’m seating you next to Genevieve Masefield. Something’s upset her. She can’t hide it from me. I reckon it’s to do with that Lord Carradine. Abigail may have been right all along. Perhaps he is sinister. Anyway,” she said, squeezing his arm, “Genevieve needs brightening up and I think you’re just the man to do it. She really likes you.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Miss Hubermann.”
“See you later, then. Oh, by the way, don’t go near the music room. They’re holding a dog show down there and the noise is earsplitting. A dog show! What lunatic came up with an idea like that?”
Matthew Rymer had reverted to his more usual mood of suppressed anger. Pacing the lounge in their suite, he fired rhetorical questions at his wife, who sat meekly in a chair and toyed with her purse.
“Where the devil has she got to? How long does it take to have your hair done, for heaven’s sake? Violet should have been back by now, surely? What’s got into the girl? We practically had to drag her aboard last Saturday, yet now she goes prancing off whenever she can. Is there something I should know about, Sylvia?” He stopped to tower over her. “Well, is there?”
“No, Matthew.”
“So what is happening?”
“I’m as much in the dark as you.”
“Violet has been gone for hours.”
“Perhaps she met a friend at the salon.”
“What friend? She hardly speaks to anybody.”
“That’s not true,” said Sylvia Rymer. “She often talks to Mrs. Weekes. They get on well together. Then there’s that Mr. Dillman. Violet likes him. She’s been agitating for us to invite him here to dinner one evening.”
“Well, she’s wasting her time.”
“Why?”
“Something about the fellow,” he said, on the move again. “Can’t say what it is but it worries me. I’m certainly not going to encourage any friendship between my daughter and him.”
“Mr. Dillman is so courteous.”
“Sylvia, he’s an American!” He sneered. “Besides, I’ve invited Nairn Mackintosh and his wife to join us for dinner here tonight. Violet can forget all about Mr. Dillman. I want her on her best behavior. Mackintosh is coming round to my suggestion.”
“That’s good to hear, Matthew.”
“It’s one of the rewards of this voyage.”
“Not the only one, I hope,”
“Oh, no,” he said, stifling a smile. His tone hardened. “I think that we should watch Violet more carefully. Too much freedom could be dangerous. Who knows what she might get up to?”
“I can’t keep an eye on her all the time.”
“We can share the load. All three of us.”
“Three of us?”
“You, Mildred and I. No point in bringing a maid unless we make full use of her,” he said airily. “Next time Violet wants to go to the salon or wander off on her own, we’ll send Mildred with her.”
“If you say so, Matthew.”
“I do say so. I insist.”
The cabin door suddenly opened and he swung round. Violet Rymer came into the room and saw the grim expression on her father’s face. She tried to control the turmoil inside her head and force a smile.
“Where on earth have you been?” demanded her father.
* * *
Dillman caught the chief engineer as he was about to leave his cabin. Fergus Rourke grinned at his visitor’s immaculate appearance.
“No need to wear white tie and tails to call on me,” he joked. “I don’t stand on ceremony here, Mr. Dillman.”
“Could you spare me a minute, please?”
“As long as you’re not going to tell me any more lies.”
“I’ve come to ask your advice, Mr. Rourke.”
“Well, that’s different.”
They went into the cabin and Rourke
switched on the light again.
“I wondered if I could possibly glance at those diagrams of yours again,” said Dillman, pointing to the folder on the desk. “The ones that were stolen.”
“You mean, the ones that you found by sheer chance under a pile of sheets in a linen cupboard? I hope you didn’t prick your fingers on the drawing pins.” He opened the folder and stood back. “Help yourself. Then you can tell me what all this is in aid of.”
Dillman looked first at the cross section of the boiler room but reserved his real concentration for the wiring diagram. Miles of cable had been used, snaking its way around the entire vessel to feed electricity to its control panels, appliances, and countless thousands of bulbs. He checked to see where the generators were, then matched their position against another diagram. The chief engineer peered over his shoulder.
“You’re on to something, Mr. Dillman.”
“Possibly.”
“What is it?”
“Let’s just say that I may have seen the light.”
“Share it with me.”
“When I have more proof, Mr. Rourke.”
“Proof of what?”
“Call it maritime envy.”
“Could you put that into English for me?”
“Wrong language, sir.”
“Eh?”
“It would be more appropriate in German.”
Leaving him openmouthed in bafflement, Dillman went out.
Itzak Weiss shuttled between anger and sadness with no intervening stage. When the purser tried to console him, he was met either with a stream of vituperation or with a series of tearful pleas. Ruth Weiss was perched on the arm of her husband’s chair, alternately calming him when he shouted and patting him when he sobbed. Charles Halliday did his best to bring a modicum of cheer to the cabin.
“Your violin is safe, Mr. Weiss. At last, we know that.”
“Do we?”
“Yes, sir. Why else send the note to you?”
“It could just be a cruel joke.”
“The thief wants to exchange it for money.”
“Well, I’m not paying it out of my own pocket,” insisted Weiss. “Why should I? This is the responsibility of the Cunard Line. My property was stolen aboard one of their ships. That makes them culpable.”
“Not necessarily, sir.”
“It must,” said Ruth Weiss. “Passengers are insured against loss or damage to luggage. We saw the rates in your brochure.”
“This is a slightly different matter, Mrs. Weiss. Luggage stored away is indeed covered by the insurance premium. But we did not envisage a loss on the scale of a Stradivarius.”
“You will pay the ransom money!” howled the violinist, pointing an accustory finger. “And if the instrument is not returned to me in perfect condition, I will demand full compensation. I still have the receipt for that violin. Do you know how much it cost me?”
“I’d rather not,” said Halliday, “and I do beg of you not to fear the worst. We’ve already picked up a number of vital clues and may well be able to reclaim the instrument before Friday.”
“You saw the ransom note. You must suspend the hunt.”
“We have done, Mr. Weiss. In one sense. That’s why you do not see anyone in uniform charging around the ship to search cabins. That would be the quickest way to ensure that your violin is tossed through the nearest porthole or smashed to pieces.”
“O mein Gott!” said Weiss, clutching at his chest.
“Do not say such things, Mr. Halliday,” chastised Ruth Weiss. “My husband has suffered enough as it is. We have not had the strength to leave this cabin since the tragedy. Look at him—he is in pain!”
The purser apologized and did his best to soothe both of them. His words eventually began to have an effect. When he ignited a faint hope in Itzak Weiss, the violinist reached out to grab him by the hand.
“Find it, Mr. Halliday!” he implored. “Find my Stradivarius, please. If you can bring it safely back to me, I will not sue your company or release a word of this to the press. I will be so grateful that I will give a free concert to your passengers in the music room!”
“That’s a most generous offer, sir!”
Charles Halliday smiled, but his stomach was churning restlessly. Too many unanswered questions still remained. He feared that the man they were after would always be a few steps ahead of them. The only real hope lay with George Porter Dillman, and the purser was beginning to wonder if his confidence in the American was misplaced. When he left the cabin, his smile froze and his apprehension soared.
After drinks in the lounge bar that evening with Genevieve Masefield and the Hubermann sisters, Dillman made his way to the dining saloon. Helped by his daughter, Caleb Tolley was lowering himself gingerly onto a chair at a table near the door. When she saw the newcomers, Ellen Tolley intercepted Dillman with a mock frown.
“Seems as if I lost out, after all,” she complained. “And there was Miss Masefield, telling me that I had a clear run at you.”
“Another time, perhaps,” he appeased her.
“Another man, I think.”
“I’m just being sociable, Ellen.”
“I know,” she said with a grin. “And who can blame you? Just remember that I’m still around, will you? Before this voyage is over, I’m determined that someone is going to take me out on deck for a look at the stars. Don’t let me down, George.”
“It’s a promise.”
The promise was easily given but not so easily kept. Dillman had no wish to be caught in a private tug-of-war between Ellen Tolley and Genevieve Masefield. What might be extremely pleasurable under other circumstances was a major distraction at the present time. All his energies needed to be focused on the task in hand. Dinner with Genevieve and the Hubermanns would be enjoyable but he would use it to scan the dining saloon and to keep watch. As soon as he sat down, he saw something that alerted him. The Anstruthers, the retired couple whose property had now been restored, were coming through the doors with Jeremiah Erskine. Were they walking beside the thief who had broken into their cabin?
Dillman was seated between Genevieve Masefield and Carlotta Hubermann. He suspected that the latter had been in charge of the seating plan. Abigail Hubermann still treated him with mild disdain but her younger sister was much more amenable.
“You have to hand it to the royal family,” said Carlotta. “They do add a bit of tone. Like any true American, I’m a diehard republican, but there’s something so grand about having a king and queen.”
“Only if you have the jack as well,” observed Dillman, gently teasing her. “From the same suit, of course. Do you play poker?”
“No, you naughty man!” she reproached him with a laugh. “That wasn’t what I was talking about, as you know only too well. I think that King Edward is just wonderful. I’m not sure that I’d like him as a house guest, mark you, especially with Abigail around, but I think he looks magnificent in an open carriage. Such style, such dignity. We’ve got nothing to touch it.”
“I disagree, Miss Hubermann. I daresay that President Roosevelt cuts a fine figure when he stands on the steps at the White House.” He turned to Genevieve. “Will you be going Washington at any stage?”
“I’d like to, Mr. Dillman,” she said. “If I can fit it in.”
“We’ll make sure you do, honey,” Carlotta assured her, waving the menu at her. “Have you seen what they’re giving us this evening?”
“A meal fit for a king,” said Dillman graciously, “and for the two queens I have the good fortune to be sitting between.”
Carlotta Hubermann grinned but Genevieve’s response was more muted. Glasses were filled and the meal was served. A couple of hours seemed to float past. Dillman kept up polite conversation while his mind wrestled constantly with more urgent questions concerning a ransom note and a wiring diagram. His gaze constantly roved the room. Genevieve wanted to know why he had given her the spontaneous kiss earlier on.
“Was it so objectionable?�
�� he asked worriedly.
“No, not at all. Just rather unexpected. I suppose that’s all part of being a man of mystery,” she said with a mocking smile. “You do the unexpected. But what did I do to deserve that kiss?”
“A big favor.”
“In that case, I must do you another sometime.”
It was dinner table banter rather than anything more serious, but Dillman was still ignited by the remark. As the meal came to an end, the guests began to disperse. Dillman made an excuse to slip across to the nearby table where Jeremiah Erskine was seated, hoping to engage him in casual chat about his knowledge of German. Before the conversation could get under way, however, he heard a scream of surprise behind him and turned to see Genevieve Masefield staring in distress at her silk evening gown. While gesturing in the course of conversation, she inadvertently knocked over her wine glass and spilled its contents down the front of her gown. She dabbed at it with a napkin then hurried toward the door. Dillman noted her consternation. Carlotta Hubermann came swiftly across to prompt him.
“The lady needs help,” she said with a nudge.
“Yes, of course.”
“Well? Go after her, man.”
Dillman nodded and picked his way through the crowd. Genevieve had a head start on him but he knew that her cabin was on the deck below. While she would descend by means of the grand staircase, he headed for the narrow companionway that would afford him a shortcut. It was at the end of a long corridor and he hurried toward it. In his haste, he did not realize that he was being followed.
Reaching the top of the steps, he was about to descend them at speed when someone gave him assistance. Two strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him with vicious force. Dillman went headfirst down the companionway, turning somersaults and buffeting himself hard on the walls. His head struck the floor at the bottom of the stairs and he lost consciousness.
