by Conrad Allen
“Oh, yes, they did, sir.”
“But they didn’t find that brown envelope.”
“They didn’t need to, Mr. Halliday. They took it into the room with them. Think back. The body was positioned in the one place from which that envelope would be spotted. We were meant to find it there so that we would assume it was Barcroft who stole the diagrams from the chief engineer’s cabin.”
“And he didn’t?”
“No. They copied what they stole, then planted it on him.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve just seen concrete proof in Ellen Tolly’s cabin.”
Halliday sprang to life. “Let’s arrest them at once!”
“Stay where you are, sir!” warned Dillman. “Going after them is the worst thing you can do. It would not only cause a scene in public, it would end in violence and some of the other passengers might get hurt. Caleb Tolley is a strong man. He uses a walking stick because he claims to have a bad leg but I don’t believe there’s anything the matter with him. I have a horrible feeling that he used that stick to batter Henry Barcroft to death. Do you want him flailing it around in the lounge?”
“Of course not.”
“Then play this quietly, sir. Let him come to us. I know exactly where the rendezvous will be. I’ll tell you where to station your men. If we plan this with care, we may be able to tidy up this whole mess in one night and none of the other passengers would be any the wiser.” He gave a broad grin. “How does that sound?”
“Too good to be true!”
“Won’t anything put the color back in your cheeks?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman.”
“What?”
“A stolen violin.”
“I was forgetting that,” said Dillman, removing the towel from his arm. He held up the Stradivarius. “This was hidden away in a valise in Ellen Tolley’s cabin. Why don’t you do yourself a supreme favor, sir?” He handed the instrument over. “Take it back to Itzak Weiss now and win yourself a friend for life.”
* * *
Violet Rymer was more distressed than ever. The afternoon’s meeting with Philip Garrow had started so well but ended so badly. Money had once again been the stumbling block. It was his turn to be shocked this time. When she told him that her marriage to him would jeopardize the payment of the trust fund to her, his manner had altered completely, and before they could talk the matter through properly, the third-class lounge had been invaded by a fancy-dress contest. Driven out, they parted in the most unnerving way, Violet seeking assurance that looked like it was never coming from him. Pulsing with frustration, Philip Garrow, the young man she loved and with whom her whole future was entwined, had pushed her away and run off. Violet had been spurned. It was demeaning.
Another gap had suddenly opened up between them. Yet it was not irremediable. In her heart, she knew and believed that. Philip loved her. All that she had to do was to demonstrate the full strength of her love for him and everything would be all right. That was the thought that helped to sustain her through dinner and through the long conversation that followed. When the guests departed, she retired to her own room and left her parents in the parlor. They would not remain there long. Her father had drunk quite heavily and her mother, a woman of delicate constitution, did not like late nights, preferring instead the solace of a sleeping pill prescribed by the family physician.
Violet waited, listened, and bolstered her resolve with thoughts of what lay ahead. Philip would be so pleased that she was ready at last to sacrifice herself wholly to him. It would bind them forever. Lying fully clothed in the dark, she watched the light under her door go out. Her parents had left the lounge and gone to bed. Another half hour would be a sufficient safety zone. Each minute was separate torment. When she felt certain that the coast was clear, she let herself back into the lounge and went out through the door to the passageway. In giving her a key of her own to the suite, her parents had never imagined it might be used during a bold escapade at night.
A mixture of elation and foreboding took her onward. She was stepping into the unknown. It was not at all as she had hoped or envisioned but there was no helping that. Only by throwing herself into Philip’s arms could she prove what he meant to her and receive the answering assurances from him. It seemed an age before she reached his cabin and she was trembling like a leaf as she tapped on it. There were sounds from within. She tapped harder. Afraid that someone might see her, she banged on the door with more purpose. A lock clicked and the door inched open. Two dark, guilty eyes peered out at her.
“Violet!” said Garrow in a hoarse whisper.
“Let me in, Philip.”
“I can’t. I mean, not now.”
“Don’t you want me to come in? You did yesterday.”
“Well, yes. But—”
“Let me in!” she begged. “Please!”
“Who is it?” asked the voice of Rosemary Hilliard.
Violet Rymer staggered back. Philip Garrow opened the door to reach out to her, then realized that he was stark naked. He immediately retreated back into the room. But she no longer needed him now. Ashen-faced and feeling sick, she supported herself against a wall while she took in the full horror of what she had discovered. The door clicked shut and Philip Garrow went out of her life forever. Raised voices were heard inside the cabin. Minutes after Violet had trudged slowly away, a fuming Rosemary Hilliard stormed out of his room and left her host to enjoy another cold night alone in his bed.
On the long walk back to her suite, Violet went through the tortures of recrimination. Cruel as they had seemed, her parents had been right about Philip Garrow all along. He was not worthy of her. At least she had made that discovery for herself before it was too late. She would not have to carry any more false hopes in her breast. Finding him with another woman had been a shattering experience for her and left her walking in a trance. Yet her night of disillusion was not over. As she turned into the passageway that led to her suite, she saw her father at a distance let himself out of the door and creep along to the cabin occupied by Mildred. When he let himself in with a key, Violet’s misery was complete.
She fell to her knees and wrapped herself in her arms as if protecting herself from any more blows. Self-pity gradually passed off, however, as she considered the implications for her mother. Subdued by a sleeping pill, Sylvia Rymer was dreaming happily in her bed, quite unaware that her husband was no longer beside her. Violet’s dismay turned to anger and she hauled herself up. The two most important men in her life had betrayed her but they had left her feeling vengeful and strangely empowered now. She knew exactly what to do.
Letting herself into the suite, she went into her parents’ bedroom, pushed home the bolt behind her, then looked down sadly at the sleeping figure. Violet took off her dress, climbed into bed, and enfolded her mother in her arms. They needed each other now.
Caleb Tolley went down the steps, then strode swiftly along the corridor. There was no sign of his limp now and his walking stick was tucked under his arm. Having waited until most of the other passengers went to bed, he was confident that he would now be unobserved and unobstructed. His destination was a room on the orlop deck, and it took him only a matter of seconds to pick the lock. Once inside, he pushed home the catch on the door and used a torch. Its beam played across the wall until it located a large fuse box. Tolley grinned. A small explosive device would cause untold havoc. It would knock out the lights in a substantial part of the vessel and achieve his objective in the simplest way.
He was about to place the miniature bomb in the fuse box when the light was suddenly switched on. Tolley swung round to see Dillman standing with his back to the door.
“You can see better with the light on, Mr. Tolley. So can I.”
“What are you doing here?” growled the other.
“Waiting for you,” said Dillman calmly. “Only this time, I won’t turn my back to you. That was a nasty shove you gave me down those stairs.”
“I can do wor
se than that.”
“I know. I was the one who found Henry Barcroft.”
“Barcroft was a fool,” sneered the other. “He stumbled on to something which was no business of his and had to be eliminated.”
“Well, before you try to eliminate me, Mr. Tolley, I’d better warn you now that there are two armed men stationed at either end of the corridor outside. You didn’t switch on the light in case it was seen under the door. An unnecessary precaution,” said Dillman calmly. “I knew exactly where you’d come because you were obliging enough to mark the spot on the wiring diagram that Ellen so cleverly copied. It was in your daughter’s cabin. Not that I believe for a moment that she really is your daughter, of course.”
Watching him carefully, Tolley put down the explosive device and reached for his walking stick. The torch was still in his other hand. He gave a slow smile as he studied his captor.
“You’re an astute man.”
“I tend to get results.”
“What do you want, Mr. Dillman?” he asked.
“You, sir.”
“Don’t you realize what else you might have, man?”
“Caleb Tolley is prize enough.”
“But there’s money in this. Big money, I promise you. Let me go and I guarantee that you’ll have your share.”
“How? There’s no escape for you from here.”
“Yes, there is. When I blow out the lights, there’ll be pandemonium everywhere. I’ll be able to slip away in the dark.”
“Where to? You’ve got nowhere to hide.”
“There are other ways of protecting oneself.”
“Just give me the walking stick,” said Dillman, approaching with caution. “Then we can talk this over. You’re far too intelligent to try to fight your way out of this, aren’t you?”
Caleb Tolley tensed into a defensive posture, then he seemed to accept the hopelessness of his situation. He tossed his stick to the floor. Dillman moved to kick it aside, knowing what brutal damage the stout handle could inflict on the human skull. Tolley acted quickly. Without warning, he hurled the heavy torch at Dillman and caught him a glancing blow on the temple that sent him reeling. Tolley retrieved his stick in a flash and lifted it menacingly. Dillman backed away.
The voice of Charles Halliday came through the door.
“Are you all right in there?” shouted the purser.
“Stay out!” called Dillman.”
“We’ve sealed off the corridor!”
“I’ll be there in a minute!”
“You’re a brave man,” taunted Caleb Tolley, circling his man. “There’s only one problem, Mr. Dillman. In order to leave here, you’ll need a couple of stretcher bearers. Henry Barcroft was not the first victim of this stick—and he certainly will not be the last.”
He lashed out with the stick but Dillman parried the blow on his left arm. Ignoring the pain, he flung himself hard at his adversary. Tolley was knocked to the ground with such force that he dropped the walking stick. Grappling with him, Dillman rolled over a few times as he fought to secure an advantage. Tolley was strong and resourceful, punching, gouging, and even biting his opponent but he had met his match this time. Forcing him onto his back again, Dillman sat astride him and pummeled away with both fists until resistance finally stopped.
Dillman was exhausted, dripping with perspiration and gasping for breath. His fists were bloodied, his left arm still smarting from the blow. Tolley was in a far worse state. His face was streaming with blood and his clothes were torn. He gulped in air noisily. Yet he was still not vanquished. When Dillman crossed to flick open the catch on the door, the wounded man was unperturbed by the sight of the revolver in the purser’s hand.
“Get up!” ordered Halliday.
“You heard him,” said Dillman, hauling Tolley up by the scruff of his neck. “He wants to lock you up where you won’t do any more harm.”
Tolley gave a weary grin. “Didn’t you tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
“About my profession,”
“We’ve discovered what that is.”
“My other profession.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Insurance, Mr. Dillman,” said Tolley, still fighting for breath. “You don’t think I’d take such risks without adequate insurance, do you? I arranged for a hostage to be taken.”
“Hostage?” echoed Dillman, fear stabbing at him.
“Yes. I believe that you know the lady in question.”
Genevieve Masfield was in a state of agitation for the rest of the evening. After her visitor had departed with a kiss, she put on another dress and went everywhere in search of him, but Dillman seemed to have vanished. While tending his wound, she had come to realize just how much she liked him and she could not believe she had been so honest with him about her situation. At the same time, she knew that Dillman would not betray a confidence. She could trust him as implicitly as he trusted her. Though she feared for his safety, she was eventually forced to give up the search and went back to her cabin, hoping that he would at least get a message to her in due course. Opening the porthole to let in some fresh air, Genevieve sat on the bed and waited.
It seemed an age before the knock came. She went bounding across the cabin with alacrity. Flinging open the door, she spread her arms as if to welcome Dillman back but she saw that her visitor was in fact Ellen Tolley, carrying a valise and a carpet bag. Genevieve’s pleasure vanished instantly.
“Say, could I ask you a favor?” said Ellen, pushing past her with the luggage. “It’s a terrible imposition, I know, but could I bring these in here for a while?”
“No,” replied Genevieve, asserting herself. “You certainly can’t. You have no right to barge in here. Take them back to your own cabin.”
“That could be difficult.”
“Well, you can’t leave them here.”
The slap across the face was so violent and so unexpected that it sent Genevieve flying. When she sat up on the floor, she saw that the door had now been closed and that Ellen Tolley was now standing over her with a gun in her hand.
“Don’t think I won’t use this,” warned Ellen. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fired in anger. Now sit over there, on the bed,” she added, motioning her with the barrel of the weapon. “And take that stupid expression off your face.”
Genevieve crawled to the bed then perched on the edge of it. Her cheek was on fire. Ellen Tolley was no longer the chatty young American woman who followed her into the ladies’ room. She was an armed intruder, standing between Genevieve and the door. When the latter opened her mouth to speak, the gun waved her into silence.
“All you need to know is this,” said Ellen, moving to sit on the chair. “I’m the one with the loaded weapon. You’re the one with the serious problem. So do as you’re told. I was hoping that we wouldn’t have to resort to this but something has obviously gone wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Caleb didn’t come back in time so he must have encountered some obstacles. Our insurance policy had to be activated. You, Genevieve.”
“Me?”
“You’re our way out.” She laughed harshly. “And it’s no use squinting at me like that. You’re going to have to get used to having me around. Caleb and I plan to share your cabin until we reach New York. You’re our hostage, you see. Our landing card. They’ll have to release Caleb or they’ll have a first-class passenger with a bullet between her eyes and you would be extremely bad publicity for the Cunard Line.”
Genevieve quailed. She looked across at the luggage.
“What have you brought?” she asked.
“A few overnight things. Oh, and I packed another hostage into that valise. As secondary insurance. They wouldn’t dare try anything heroic while we have that in our possession.”
“That?”
“Yes. It’s worth far more than that diamond necklace of yours, I can tell you. It’s the most valuable item aboard this ship. When Caleb gets here, we�
��ll show it to you.” She gave a mocking grin. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever shared a cabin with a man and a woman, have you? Don’t worry. Your virtue is not in danger. My husband will not touch you.”
“So he’s your husband? I knew he was not your father.”
“That was very perceptive of you.”
Genevieve was slowly recovering her composure. Her cheek still burned but she was not going to give Ellen the satisfaction of watching her put a comforting hand to it. She took a deep beath.
“Why me?” she asked. “Why pick on me?”
“Because you’re his weak point. Men always have one somewhere and I’m an expert in finding it out. The only person on board this ship whom George Dillman would never endanger is you. He’s far too chivalrous. That’s why we chose Genevieve Masefield. To exploit his weak spot. You’re his Achilles’ heel.”
“And who is yours?”
“I don’t have one.”
The gun remained pointing at her and Genevieve had to make an effort not to stare at it. There was no doubt in her mind that her unwanted guest would use it if necessary. She probed for more detail.
“Why do you need a hostage?” she said. “Is this something to do with Mr. Dillman being pushed down those steps earlier on? He crawled along here so that I could bathe his head wound.”
“Now, isn’t that touching?” said Ellen with sarcasm. “And so symbolic. He came to you on his hands and knees. We were rather hoping that he wouldn’t have the strength to get up again. Ever!”
“So much for the interest you showed in him!”
“Oh, that was genuine at first. I liked the guy. Until we discovered that he was the resident detective. That put us on opposite sides.”
“And what sides are those?”
“Winners and losers. We’re the winners. No question of that.”
“Who are the losers?”
“You, George Porter Dillman and the dear departed Henry Barcroft.”
Genevieve was shocked. “Mr. Barcroft is dead?”
“He made the mistake of inviting me to his cabin.”
The tap on the door removed the cold smile from Ellen’s face. Keeping the gun on Genevieve, she put a warning finger to her lips. Carlotta Hubermann’s anxious voice pierced the door with ease.
