by Conrad Allen
Genevieve Masefield was very annoyed with herself. Having removed the silk evening gown, she laid it on a towel in the bathroom and sponged the wine stain with cold water, hoping that it would save the dress. A loud bang on her cabin door made her look up. When it was followed by a second, even louder, bang, she put a dressing gown on over her underwear and answered the door.
“Mr. Dillman!” she cried. “What’s happened to you?”
“Fell down the stairs.”
“Your head is bleeding!”
“Banged it as I came tumbling down. Any chance I could come in?”
Genevieve helped him inside at once. Her visitor was clearly dazed and barely able to stand. His tie had come undone, a button was missing off his tailcoat, and he looked thoroughly disheveled. Sitting him on an upright chair, she closed the cabin door and rushed back into the bathroom. Dillman’s wounds took priority over the stain on her dress.
“How did it happen?” she asked, bathing the gash on his temple.
“I tripped.”
“But why were you coming down the stairs in the first place?”
“It was Carlotta Hubermann’s idea,” he explained. “When you rushed out, she dispatched me after you to lend assistance. I tried to cut you off by coming down a companionway used by the staff but I made a faster descent than I intended.” His head was clearing. “Now I know how Jack must have felt.”
“Jack?”
“In the nursery rhyme. Remember Jack and Jill? Isn’t there something to the effect that Jack fell down and broke his crown?”
“And Jill came tumbling after! I should forget that, if I were you. Unless you wanted to have your head mended with vinegar and brown paper.” Having bathed the wound, she stemmed the bleeding with a handkerchief, using a scarf to bind it into position. “If you go to the surgery, they’ll bandage that properly.”
“I’d prefer you as my nurse any day.”
“How are you feeling now?”
“Much better, thanks.”
“You were really groggy when you first came in.”
“A glass of water and I’ll be as good as new.”
She fetched the water and watched him drink it. He was rallying.
“Now, suppose you tell me the truth, Mr. Dillman.”
“About what?”
“That little tumble you took. You look like one of the fittest and most surefooted men on this boat. And you’ve spent many years going up and down narrow companionways on your father’s yachts. It’s second nature to you, isn’t it? You didn’t fall, did you?”
“I’m not sure. It all happened so quickly.”
“Please, Mr. Dillman. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“All right,” he admitted, “maybe somebody did help me on my way.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? Jealousy, perhaps. Someone saw me rushing off to your cabin and tried to stop me. That’s all I know.”
Genevieve set his glass aside, then took him by the shoulders.
“Why don’t we stop fencing?” she said. “I told you that we had an affinity. Both of us have something to hide. I know what my secret is, but what’s yours? Haven’t I earned the right to share it by now?”
Dillman searched her face to see if he could trust her. From the moment he had first seen her on Euston Station, she had exercised a fascination for him, but that did not mean he could safely reveal his true purpose on board the ship. Genevieve saw his hesitation.
“What have you got to lose?” she encouraged. “I’m as close as the grave. Whatever you tell me, it will go no further. Besides, I may be able to help you, Mr. Dillman. We can play Jack and Jill for real, if you like. Now that I’ve mended your broken crown, we can go back up that hill to fetch a pail of water. And this time, neither of us will come tumbling down.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said with a grin. “Let me give you the shortened version. What I said about leaving the family firm and going on the stage was all true. The thing I didn’t tell you was what happened afterwards. I may have failed in the theater but I put my acting abilities to great use elsewhere. Have you ever heard of the Pinkerton Detective Agency?” She nodded eagerly. “I became one of their operatives, working under cover to expose all sorts of crimes. You really have to act in those situations, Miss Masefield, or it can get dangerous.”
“So I see.”
“Then you’ll also have worked out that I’m now employed by the Cunard Line. How that came about is another story. Suffice it to say that I earned my spurs on an earlier voyage. So I had my passage booked on the Lusitania. I was hoping for a quiet trip,” he said, “but it hasn’t worked out that way.”
“I heard there have been some minor thefts aboard.”
“We’ve had rather more serious crimes than that, I fear. And one of them was used to flush me out. I realize that now.”
“Flush you out?”
“The man we’re after knew there’d be a private detective aboard. I see now why he staged one of the thefts. It brought me out of cover. I’d bet my last cent that he saw me going into the victim’s cabin.” He put a hand tenderly to his temple. “This is the result.”
“He attacked you?”
“He’s an opportunist. Been lurking in readiness.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s the problem. I’m not entirely sure. Which means he holds a crucial advantage because he knows exactly who I am.” He got to his feet. “On the other hand, he doesn’t realize that I survived the fall without any broken bones. Plenty of bruised ones, maybe,” he said ruefully, stretching himself, “and one heck of a stiff neck, but I’m still in one piece. The advantage may swing back my way. He thinks he’s taken me out of the game and that the field is clear.”
“For what?”
“That’s one thing I can’t tell you. But, if you want to help me, say that I met with an accident. When you go back up to the lounge, put it about that I had a nasty fall and have been carried off with concussion.”
“If you wish.”
“I do wish. It might lull him into a sense of security.”
“Who? Who is this man?”
“Your turn to provide a few answers, Miss Masefield. I’ve taken you into my confidence,” he reminded her, “why don’t you do the same? I don’t think you’re simply going on vacation, are you?” She shook her head. “You’re on the run, I think. What from?”
“A terrible mess I left behind me,” she admitted, moving to sit on the sofa. “Not entirely of my own making, I may say, but I have to bear much of the responsibility. The name of Lord Wilmshurst will mean nothing whatsoever to you, will it?”
“Does he wear a monocle as well?”
“No,” she said, “he spends most of his time in a bath chair, nursing his gout. And he doesn’t look in the least like an English aristocrat. I was engaged to his son, Nigel. It was quite an achievement, believe me, because I don’t exactly come from a titled family. Let me be honest with you. To some extent, I went hunting for him. I was very fond of Nigel, but I won’t pretend that I was madly in love with him. What really attracted me was his family and his position. I suppose I was infatuated with the idea of sharing them. To understand why, you’d have to come from my background.” She gave a hopeless shrug. “It all went hideously wrong. I began to have guilt feelings about the whole thing then my fiancé did something which I found unforgivable. It involved another man. We had a fierce row. I snatched off my engagement ring and threw it in the river. At that point, of course, I forfeited control of the situation.”
“Control?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Technically, I’d broken off the engagement but it was Nigel’s account which was believed. He portrayed me as a callous gold digger, who was only after his title and money. He claimed that he’d found me out and discarded me. There was an element of truth in that, I admit, but it was by no means the whole story and I really had been having second thoughts. Even without the row, I don’t think that I could have gone a
head with the marriage. But Nigel was in control. His version became the official one. I had proof of that on this very ship. I was branded as a social outcast, Mr. Dillman. It seemed to me that the only sensible thing was to leave England and start afresh elsewhere.”
“It was a dramatic move to break off the engagement.”
“As an actor, you would have appreciated it.”
“Why?”
“Because I wasn’t reckless enough to throw a valuable diamond ring into the river Thames. What I took off my finger was a paste ring I inherited from my mother. For sentimental reasons, I was sorry to lose it, but it had no commercial value.”
“What happened to the engagement ring?”
“This,” she said, indicating the cabin. “I sold it to pay for my passage and to stock my wardrobe. I felt that I’d earned that ring. It was the least Nigel could give me in return for the loss of my good name. So I booked a passage on the Lusitania,” she continued. “At the back of my mind was a silly idea that, during the voyage, I might even find another gentleman to dance attendance on me.”
“With or without a monocle.”
“I want to forget Lord Carradine.”
“Do you?”
“He was my fall down the stairs.”
“Then we have more in common than I thought.”
“At least my life isn’t in danger,” she said with concern. “Yours is. You could have broken your neck when you fell. Don’t you have any idea at all who could have pushed you?”
“I think so,” he said, “though I can’t be certain yet. When I first regained consciousness, I had this ridiculous idea that it might have been her. Acting out of jealousy when she saw me rushing to your aid. I almost believe that she’s capable of it.”
“Who?”
“Ellen Tolley. She seems to have developed a strong interest in me.”
“It’s much more than that, Mr. Dillman.”
“Is it?”
“She’s been breathtakingly frank on the subject. Miss Tolley even cornered me in the ladies’ room for cross-examination. She thought I might be a potential rival for your affections.”
“Was she that blunt about it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“That’s very disturbing,” he said, pursing his lips. “I think I shall have to start dodging her in future. Both of them.”
“Both?”
“Ellen and her father.”
“But Caleb Tolley is not her father.”
Dillman gaped. “What do you mean?”
“I shared a table with them. It took me a while to work it out, but I got there in the end. Ellen may have fooled you, but I’m a woman. What you would probably call a designing woman. The advantage is that I can recognize one of my own kind.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The Tolleys are not father and daughter.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said confidently. “Because if they are, you’ve got a nasty case of incest aboard.”
Dillman needed only a second to assimilate the information. He reached out impulsively for her. This time the kiss was on the mouth.
As the message came in through his earphones, the operator scribbled it down on his pad with pencil. When the Morse code stopped clicking in his ear, he turned to his colleague.
“Message from the Haverford,” he said with a cynical laugh. “She’s sailing east and wanted to wish us Godspeed. I bet she does! Since when does a steamer from another line want to see a Cunard ship get the Blue Riband back?”
“Why not send a witty reply?” suggested his companion.
“I’ve sent enough messages for one day,” said the other, vacating his chair so that the other wireless operator could relieve him. “My favorite was an old lady who wanted an urgent message sent back to her daughter in Liverpool. It was to remind her to feed the canary. I ask you!”
Dillman burst in while they were still laughing. He had smartened himself up and removed the makeshift bandaging from his head but his face still made them both stare. The ugly red gash on his temple was glistening and there was a dark bruise flowering on his chin. His hair was unkempt.
“I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he said by way of explanation. “Look, this is important. When I came in here before, you showed me some messages sent by a Mr. Barcroft.” He pointed to the man who had just come off duty. “Remember? You told me you kept every wireless sent from this room. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need to go through them all.”
“But there are hundreds!”
“No other way,” said Dillman, “unless you happen to recall a Mr. Caleb Tolley. You couldn’t miss him. Uses a stick.”
“Passengers don’t come directly here, sir. Their messages are brought in. Most of them, anyway. We do get the odd passenger who tries to jump the queue by sneaking in here in person. That Mr. Barcroft was a case in point, but I don’t remember any Mr. Tolley. Victor?”
“Nor I,” said the other man.
“Then let me see those messages.”
It was a long search. Aided by the two men, every message that had been dispatched was checked, then set aside. Since they worked backward chronologically, they took time to find the one short message sent by Caleb Tolley. One of the operators read it aloud.
“Here it is, sir. ‘Wonderful trip. Everything is fine.’ Man of few words, isn’t he?” He handed the piece of paper to Dillman. “Take it.”
“Did you see where this was sent?” asked Dillman, studying it. “Not to Liverpool or New York. But to the Deutschland.”
“That’s right, sir,” said the man. “She passed us in the dark last Sunday. Case of ships in the night, eh? She’s part of the Norddeutscher Lloyd Line. Mr. Tolley must have a friend aboard.”
Dillman saw the time at which the message had been sent. His mind went back to the nocturnal meeting with Ellen Tolley on Sunday night. She told him that her father had gone back to his cabin with a headache. Their encounter took on a new meaning. It was not the coinicidence he had assumed. The friendly young American girl with whom he had collided was not lost at all. She was deliberately preventing him from continuing his pursuit of Barcroft. Dillman believed he knew why.
He thanked the operators and charged off. Caution advised him to seek help from the purser, but he was in no mood for a sensible option. His blood was too hot for that. Dillman wanted revenge. A deliberate attempt had been made to disable him. Someone wanted him out of the way while they made a decisive move. That thought was enough to send him racing off to the chief steward. Startled by his appearance, the man willingly gave the detective the information he wanted, and Dillman went off to the cabins allotted to Ellen and Caleb Tolley. He knocked hard on the first door but got no reply. The other cabin also seemed to be empty when he tapped repeatedly on its door.
Dillman was glad that he had kept the master key provided by the purser. It let him into the first cabin, which he immediately identified as belonging to Caleb Tolley. Expecting to find damning evidence, he was dismayed to see nothing even remotely incriminating. When he went into the adjoining cabin, however, it was different story. Nominally belonging to Tolley’s daughter, the room bore few indications of a woman’s touch. What Dillman first noticed was the sketch pad, pencils, and ruler on the desk. He recalled seeing Ellen at work on deck and admiring her draftsmanship. Further examples of her skill with a pencil soon came to light. When he opened a drawer, he found exact copies of the diagrams that had been stolen from the chief engineer’s cabin. There was a bonus and it gave Dillman a surge of pleasure. On the wiring diagram was an obliging little cross.
The search was not yet complete. In the wardrobe, concealed behind Ellen’s dresses, was a large black valise. He flicked the catch and opened it up. Dillman could not resist a little shout of delight.
Charles Halliday was looking more haggard than ever. Too anxious to enjoy his dinner, he had returned to his cabin immediately afterward to brood on the
vicissitudes of life as a purser aboard an ocean liner. Pressure was being applied from all sides and it was threatening to squeeze him to a pulp. Captain Watt was pushing him hard for results, so was Fergus Rourke, so was Itzak Weiss, and so were the dozens of other passengers with more minor concerns. The accumulated pressure was stifling. A tap on his door promised no release valve.
“Come in!” he called, sitting up. “Mr. Dillman!”
His visitor stepped into the cabin with fire in his eye, blood on his temple, and a bruise on his chin. Draped over his arm was a large towel embroidered with the Cunard emblem.
“What in God’s name happened to you, man?”
“They tricked us, Mr. Halliday.”
“They?”
“The couple who’ve been behind us all along. The raid on Itzak Weiss’s cabin was partly a ruse to bring me out into the open. Once they knew who I was, they could choose their moment to pick me off, as you see. Luckily, I survived the fall.”
“What fall?”
“One of them pushed me down a companionway.”
“One of whom?”
“The Tolleys. Father and daughter. Man and mistress. Whatever their relationship, I’m sure of one thing. They’re in this together. They killed Barcroft between them.”
“How?”
“Think back to those two glasses with the bottle of Champagne,” said Dillman. “They weren’t for Barcroft and a male friend. He had an assignation with Ellen Tolley. Set up by her, I’ve no doubt. According to what I’ve heard, he propositioned a number of young ladies and must have thought he finally hit the jackpot with Ellen.”
“Who are these Tolleys?”
“First-class passengers. And first-class performers,” admitted Dillman with reluctant admiration. “They took me in. Ellen is clever enough and cunning enough to take in any man. She obviously hypnotized Barcroft. He invited her to his cabin, but she took someone along with her. It wouldn’t have been difficult to distract Barcroft. In the state he was in, he probably wouldn’t have heard a cavalry charge coming through the door behind him.”
“Yet they didn’t get what they came for, Mr. Dillman.”
