by Conrad Allen
“Who was that?” he asked.
“Guljar Singh,” she replied. “He’s a mystic.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve talked to him, Daddy. He’s also a fortune-teller. When he saw me watching him earlier, he made some predictions about my future.”
“Indeed?”
“He said that I’d do something to be proud of on this ship, and that I’d have a pleasant surprise when I got back to school.”
“How much did he charge you for this fortune-telling?”
“Nothing, Daddy. It wasn’t like that.”
Her father was cynical. “He’s just a confidence trickster.”
“No, he isn’t!”
“Nobody can predict the future with any accuracy.”
“Guljar Singh can. You can feel this strange power that he has.”
“I think you were taken in,” said Greenwood. “The old man is probably a fraud. Forget him, anyway. Did you do what your mother asked you?”
The girl sighed. “Yes, I did.”
“Your uncle deserves a letter of thanks.”
“But Mummy was writing one already,” complained Lois. “Why did I have to write to Uncle David, as well?”
“Simple courtesy. He went out of his way to make your visit a memorable one. When we get to Aden, the two letters can go straight back to Bombay on the Salsette.”
“I wish that I could.”
“So do I, Lois. The trip was a revelation.” He glanced across at Guljar Singh, who was now talking to a group of Indian passengers. “Perhaps the old man was right. You have done something to be proud of on this vessel. After two days of putting it off, you finally wrote to thank your uncle.”
“I want to do something much more special than that, Daddy!”
“I was only teasing.”
“I want to save someone’s life,” she said with passion.
“Calm down, Lois.”
“Guljar Singh is a genuine seer. What he told me will come true. Look at the respect those men are showing him,” she went on, pointing to the little entourage. “You ask Mr. Dillman. He believes in Mr. Singh.”
“I’m glad that you mentioned Mr. Dillman.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yes, I did.”
“He’s such an interesting man, isn’t it?”
“Very personable,” conceded Greenwood. “What does the fellow do exactly?”
“He works for the family firm, I think,” explained Lois. “They make large yachts. Mr. Dillman crossed the Atlantic on one when he was only ten. He’s a real sailor. That’s why he seems so at ease on a ship.”
“What was that about Australia?”
“That’s where he went before he came to Bombay. He must be very rich if he can afford to travel round the world like that.”
“How did you meet him?” said her father.
“Out here on deck.”
“Did he approach you?”
“Oh, no,” replied Lois, thinking of the nocturnal collision with Dillman. “I sort of got into conversation with him. He’s such a charming man, isn’t he?”
“That’s beside the point,” her father said seriously. “I’ve warned you before about speaking to strangers. You must be more careful, Lois. You’re far too unguarded.”
“Mr. Dillman was a perfect gentleman.”
“It was still wrong of you to befriend him like that.”
“Why?”
“And to get involved with that old man over there.”
“Guljar Singh told me my fortune. It was exciting.”
“That’s what I’m complaining about,” Greenwood said patiently. “Your constant need for excitement. It worries your mother to death.”
“Mummy worries about everything.”
“Lois!”
“Well, she does,” insisted the girl. “When she read my letter to Uncle David, she worried that I’d been too effusive. It was the best holiday I’ve ever had, and I wanted Uncle David to know that.”
“Coming back to the point at issue,” he said, “I want you to restrain yourself in public. We’re on show as a family, Lois. If you shake hands with every Tom, Dick, and Harry that you meet on the ship, it lets us down badly. Don’t you understand that?”
“No. Where’s the harm in making new friends?”
“It’s the way that you make them that disturbs me. If it goes on like this, you’ll have to spend more time with us.”
“That’s unfair!” she protested. “I love strolling around on my own.”
“Then be more discreet.”
“You mean, that I can only talk to innocuous old ladies?”
“That’s not what I mean at all,” said Greenwood, raising an admonitory finger. “There are people of your own age onboard. If you need company, get to know some of them.”
“But they all look so dull,” she said scornfully, “especially the boys. I prefer to be with people who’ve done something in life. People like Guljar Singh, who has a kind of holiness about him. Or like that nice Mr. Dillman. I’ve never met an American before.”
“I think that you should keep away from both of them, Lois.”
“But they’re my friends.”
“No, Lois,” he corrected. “They’re casual acquaintances, and that’s a very different thing. They’re complete strangers to whom you had no business talking in the first place. I won’t tell you again,” he went on, raising his finger once more. “You’re a young lady, remember. It’s high time you started behaving like one.”
Genevieve had little success. When she called at the cabins adjoining the one occupied by Madame Roussel, she found only one person there. He was a pale-faced Dutchman, who suffered from seasickness and who had hardly ventured outside his cabin since they had set sail. He was unable to help Genevieve. She was about to knock on another door when Madame Roussel came around the corner. The complacent smile on the Frenchwoman’s face disappeared at once.
“What are you doing, mademoiselle?” she demanded.
“Pursuing my investigation.”
“You have news for me?”
“Not yet,” replied Genevieve. “But we are making progress.”
“That other detective, your partner, he say he get my jewelry back.”
“We will, Madame Roussel.”
“When?”
“In the fullness of time. Please try to be patient.”
“I will not wait much longer.”
“We won’t let you down.”
“I am told this thief, he strike again.”
“That’s right,” said Genevieve. “A Norwegian lady named Mrs. Lundgren had her purse stolen on deck. She left it on a bench for a couple of minutes while she stood at the rail with her husband. When she came back, the purse had gone.”
“How many more things will this thief steal?”
“None, I hope.”
“Then catch him and lock him up.”
“It’s not as straightforward as that, Madame Roussel. We have to watch and wait. We have to build up intelligence about the two thefts.”
“What more do you need?” asked the Frenchwoman with a dramatic gesture. “I leave my cabin, the thief goes in and steals my jewelry. Find this criminal and punish him.”
“We’re on his trail, I assure you.”
Madame Roussel was unconvinced. “You have done this before?” she said, clearly doubting Genevieve’s competence.
“Done what?”
“Worked on the ship as a detective?”
“Yes, Madame,” replied Genevieve. “I was employed by Cunard for over eighteen months and made dozens of Atlantic crossings in that time. Mr. Dillman and I have worked for P and O since last autumn.”
“And you have actually caught thieves?”
“Without fail—thieves, pickpockets, cardsharps, blackmailers, and we’ve even solved a number of murders.”
“Murders!” gasped Madame Roussel, a hand to her neck. “Such things happen onboard a cruise ship?”
>
“Only very rarely.”
“I thought I am safe when I step on the Salsette.”
“You are,” Genevieve reassured her. “Completely safe.”
“Mon Dieu! I just have the terrible idea.”
“About what?”
“That thief, the one in my cabin. What if I come back and find him with my hatbox? Is possible he might have attacked me.”
“Luckily, that didn’t happen.”
“No,” said the other with a shudder, “but it make me think. When we sail to Bombay from Aden, we have no trouble. No thieves, nothing. I feel very safe. But now, is different.”
“Does that mean you sailed on the Salsette before?”
“Yes, mademoiselle. In first class.”
“Why were you going to Bombay?”
“Is not for you to know,” retorted the other, tartly. “Just do your job, please, and leave my private life alone.”
“Of course, Madame Roussel.”
“And get my things back soon or I make the complaint.”
“Mr. Cannadine is all too aware of the difficulties we face.”
“I not bother with the purser,” Madame Roussel said grandly. “I speak to the person in charge and tell him what I think of his detectives. I report you and your partner to the captain!”
______
Dillman found him in the second-class lounge. The man was so absorbed in what he was reading that he did not see the detective approach. It was only when a shadow fell across the book that he looked up.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I believe so,” replied Dillman. “I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time, please. My name is George Dillman.”
“Then you’d better sit down, Mr. Dillman.”
“Thank you.” He took a seat. “May I know your name, sir?”
“Archibald Sinclair.”
“Well, Mr. Sinclair, I couldn’t help noticing that you were talking in here yesterday to someone with whom I’ve become acquainted.”
“Oh, and who was that?”
“Dudley Nevin.”
“Yes,” sighed the other. “Poor Dudley. Not one of my successes.”
“Successes?”
“He was a Wykehamist, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” admitted Dillman. “To be honest, I only met him recently. What exactly is a Wykehamist?”
“A former pupil of Winchester College—it was founded by William of Wykeham in the fourteenth century, you see. He was Chancellor of England for a time, and Bishop of Winchester for over thirty-five years.” He lifted up his book. “I taught classics there. That’s why I’m the only person on this ship with his head in a copy of Cicero’s De Inventione.”
Dillman was not surprised to hear that the man had an academic background. Sinclair had a long, thin, earnest face with intelligent eyes, peering through wire-framed eyeglasses and surmounted by wispy silver eyebrows. Silver hair was scattered indiscriminately across his pate. There was a scholarly roundness to his shoulders and a cultured tone to his voice. Dillman could understand why Nevin had not described his old classics master as his friend. Even in retirement, Sinclair maintained the authority gap between master and pupil.
“I take it that Mr. Nevin was not the most gifted student you ever taught,” said Dillman.
“Oh, he was gifted,” explained the other, “but far too wayward. Dudley could never apply himself. He was interested largely in the pleasures of life and, as Cicero has warned us, voluptas est illecebra turpidinis.”
“You’ll have to translate for me, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Pleasure is an incitement to vileness. I became so frustrated with him that I made Dudley write it out three hundred times. It did not, alas, do the trick. He continued to go astray.”
“It’s something of a coincidence, you running into him like this.”
“Not really, Mr. Dillman,” said the other. “I’ve always tried to keep track of my former pupils—even the more slothful ones. Paradoxically, it’s often the latter who shine in later life, while the true scholars waste their talents in unworthy professions like popular journalism.”
“Would you say that Mr. Nevin shone?”
“Fitfully. But he was a Wykehamist, so I followed his career. My wife and I had always promised ourselves that, on my retirement, we’d visit India. Since I knew that we’d be in Delhi for a short time, I wrote to Dudley to forewarn him.”
“Did he reply?”
“Yes,” said Sinclair. “Eventually. He offered to buy us dinner one evening. And—mirabile dictu—he proved that he had learned something during my lessons, after all. On the back of the envelope, he wrote the Latin tag from Cicero that I made him copy out three hundred times.”
“He obviously didn’t hold a grudge against you.”
“I found that heartening.”
“When did you discover that you’d be sailing together from Bombay on the Salsette?”
Sinclair removed his glasses and studied Dillman for a moment. “Why are you asking me all these questions?” he wondered.
“Purely out of interest.”
“There’s more to it than that, Mr. Dillman. There’s nothing I’ve told you that Dudley couldn’t have volunteered for himself.”
“All he ever talked about was his job in Delhi. He hated it.”
“You’re evading my question, sir.”
Sinclair was too clever a man to be fooled by glib answers. As a former teacher, he had spent a lifetime listening to excuses dreamed up by erring pupils and his instincts had been sharpened in the process. Dillman decided that he would have to tell him a measure of truth if he wanted any further cooperation.
“I work for P and O,” confessed Dillman. “I’m a detective.”
“Dear me! Is Dudley in some kind of trouble?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Mr. Sinclair. Needless to say, I’m speaking to you in the strictest confidence. I can do my job much more effectively if the passengers are unaware of my role on the ship.”
“Yes, yes,” said Sinclair, putting on his glasses again, “I appreciate that. Have no worries on that score, Mr. Dillman. I’m as close as the grave. Our conversation will go no further than this lounge.”
“Thank you.”
“What precisely has Dudley done?”
“He seems to have fallen in with bad company,” said Dillman. “That’s why your remarks about his time at school were so valuable. You’ve been a sort of character witness.”
“His character did have severe defects, I fear.”
“What did he do when he left Winchester?”
“He went up to Cambridge to read jurisprudence, and spent three years indulging in the very pleasures that Cicero and I had warned him against. He got a poor degree. We don’t expect that of Wykehamists.”
“And afterwards?”
“He drifted from one job to another.”
“In the law?”
“For the most part, Mr. Dillman. Then he dabbled in politics.”
“Supporting the Conservative Party, I assume.”
“Of course,” replied the other. “For all his faults, he hadn’t allowed himself to be corrupted by Liberal values. His father and grandfather were military men who’d both served in India. It was a family with real backbone. When he stirred himself into action, Dudley displayed authentic Nevin spirit. I think it’s the one thing he did that his father could approve of wholeheartedly.”
“His dabbling in politics?”
“To do him justice, it was rather more than that.”
“Oh?”
“He stood for Parliament in a by-election.”
“Really?” said Dillman in surprise. “I would have thought his attitude a little too flippant for something as serious as that.”
“Dudley gave a good account of himself, I’m told. He fought hard to retain the seat for the Conservatives but he was beaten by a small majority. Now, if you really want a coincidence, Mr. Dillman,” he went o
n with a high-pitched laugh, “I can offer you one that will astound you.”
“Can you, Mr. Sinclair?”
“The Liberal candidate who actually won that by-election is also on the ship—a fellow by the name of Sylvester Greenwood. What do you make of that, eh? Old adversaries, locking horns once again.”
______
Sitting in the purser’s office, the woman was in tears. When she was introduced to Genevieve Masefield, she dabbed at her eyes with a scented handkerchief and made an effort to control herself.
“Will you get it back for me?” she pleaded. “Everything of any real value to me was in that purse, Miss Masefield. It’s not the money I worry about but the photographs. Some of them are irreplaceable.”
“We’ll do all we can to retrieve them, Mrs. Verney,” said Genevieve.
“Just give us the details,” suggested Max Cannadine.
“Where and when did this theft occur?”
May Verney blew her nose into the handkerchief before launching into her tale. She was a stout Englishwoman in her forties with a pudgy face that was furrowed by anxiety, and a habit of adjusting her hair with her right hand as she spoke. Her story bore some similarity to that of Mrs. Lundgren. Like the Norwegian passenger, she had had her purse stolen on deck.
“It was right beside me,” she explained. “I was reading in a deck chair, and I must have drifted off to sleep. When I woke up, the book was still in my lap but my purse had gone.”
“And you reported the theft instantly?” said Genevieve.
“Yes, Miss Masefield.”
“I can confirm that,” said the purser. “Mrs. Verney came in here a few minutes ago and I sent for you at once. The theft must have occurred sometime in the last half hour.”
“I couldn’t have been asleep for more than twenty minutes or so,” insisted Mrs. Verney. “I never doze off for any longer than that.”
“Were there many people on deck?” asked Genevieve.
“Dozens.”
“Was anyone sitting or standing close to you?”
“Lots of people.”
“Can you remember any of them, Mrs. Verney.”
“Only that ancient Indian gentleman.”
“Who was that?” said Cannadine.
