Murder on the Mauretania

by Conrad Allen

  A respectful tap on the door curtailed her scrutiny. Expecting it to be her cabin steward, she was surprised to open the door and find herself looking instead at two of her erstwhile companions from the train. Harvey Denning was a suave, smiling, dark-haired man of thirty with the kind of dazzling good looks that seemed faintly unreal. His smile broadened into a complimentary grin as he ran a polite eye over Genevieve’s slender body. Susan Faulconbridge was a beaming, bright-eyed, vivacious young woman with dimples in her cheeks and auburn hair peeping out from beneath her hat. Both visitors were still wearing their overcoats and scarves.

  “We’ve come to collect you,” announced Denning courteously.

  “Collect me?” said Genevieve.

  “Aren’t you coming out on deck? We’re about to set sail.”

  “Oh, do join us,” urged Susan Faulconbridge effusively. “We had such a lovely time together on the train that I wanted to share this experience as well. You’re one of us now. Please say you’ll come.”

  “I will, I will,” agreed Genevieve.

  “Good,” said Denning. “After all, you’re the expert.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, Genevieve. You hold the whip hand over us. You sailed on the Lusitania. We’re the innocents here. You can teach us the ropes. The moment when we actually set sail must be so uplifting.”

  “It is, Harvey.”

  “That’s the other thing,” said Susan happily. “We’re on first-name terms already. That so rarely happens, doesn’t it, Harvey? Do you remember that dreadful couple, the Williamsons? It was months before I could bring myself to call that odious creature ‘Ellen.’ Then there was Mr. Ransome, whom we met at the Ecclestones’ house party in the Lake District. We played bridge with him regularly after that, but it was over a year before he allowed us to use his first name.”

  Denning grimaced. “Obadiah! No wonder he kept it to himself.”

  “Obadiah Ransome.”

  “ ‘He of the Unfortunate Teeth.’ ” They laughed together at a private joke.

  “I’ll be out on deck shortly,” said Genevieve, “but I’m not quite ready yet.”

  “Do you want us to wait?” asked Susan.

  “No, no. I’ll find you.”

  “There’ll be a huge crowd out there.”

  “I’ll track you down somehow.”

  “We’ll be on the promenade deck.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t keep us waiting too long.”

  “I won’t, Susan, I promise you.”

  “Happy with your accommodation?” asked Denning, glancing into the cabin over Genevieve’s shoulder as if angling for an invitation to enter. “Our cabins are splendid. Needless to say, Donald and Theodora have one of the regal suites. Only the very best for them, what? We’ll be able to hold private parties there. Won’t that be fun? All our cabins are on the promenade deck,” he added, pointing at the floor. “Next one down. In fact, with luck, mine may be directly below yours, Genevieve. That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? If you hear someone burrowing up through your carpet, you’ll know who it is.”

  “Behave yourself, Harvey,” said Susan with a giggle.

  “You’ve changed your tune, Miss Faulconbridge,” he teased.

  They shared another private joke and Genevieve felt momentarily excluded.

  “I do beg your pardon,” said Denning, recovering quickly to make a gesture of appeasement to her. “Frightful bad manners. We must let you go, Genevieve.”

  “I’ll be as quick as I can,” she replied.

  “We’ll be with Donald and Theodora,” said Susan. “And with Ruth, of course.”

  “Look for Theo’s hat,” advised Denning. “Even in a crowd, you can’t miss that. It must be the largest chapeau on board, but then, that’s Theodora. She and Donald must have the largest of everything. Including income, lucky devils! Search for the hat and you’ll find all five of us sheltering underneath it.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  After an exchange of farewells, the visitors walked away and Genevieve was able to withdraw into her cabin again. Of her new friends, Harvey Denning and Susan Faulconbridge were by far the most amiable and talkative. Genevieve had still not worked out the precise nature of their relationship but felt that it would emerge in time. Donald and Theodora Belfrage were a pleasant young couple, still basking in the novelty of marriage. Ruth Constantine was both the outsider and the still center of the quintet. They were an interesting group and Genevieve felt at ease in their company. She was glad to have been invited to join them on deck. It was only when she was putting on her coat again that a sudden thought struck her.

  How had they known what cabin she was in?

  Dismal weather did not deter either the passengers or the spectators. As the moment of departure drew close, the former moved to the decks or the windows and the latter surged forward along the landing stage. At 7.30 P.M., Captain John T. Pritchard gave the signal and the Mauretania’s siren rang out boldly. To cheering and applause, the lines were cast off and the tugs pulled the vessel clear of the land. The maiden voyage had begun. River craft of all sizes added their own salutation with whistles and hooters. When she passed the New Brighton pier, a fireworks display was set off in her honor, brightening the sky for fleeting seconds and drawing gasps of pleasure from all those watching. A new chapter in maritime history was being written. It was an invigorating experience.

  Genevieve Masefield found it even more stimulating than the moment of the Lusitania’s departure, a fact she put down to her change of attitude and improved circumstances. Wedged in at the rail between Susan Faulconbridge and Ruth Constantine, she waved as long and energetically as either of them at the slowly disappearing well-wishers, wondering what it was that drove people who would never make a transatlantic voyage themselves to give such a wonderful send-off to those who did. For more reasons than one, she felt highly privileged.

  Susan Faulconbridge was shaking visibly with excitement. “Wasn’t that marvelous?” she exclaimed.

  “Yes,” said Genevieve.

  “Oh, I’m so glad we decided to sail on her. Actually,” she confided, turning to face Genevieve, “we wanted to go on the maiden voyage of the Lusitania, but Donald and Theodora were on their honeymoon in Italy in September, so that was ruled out.”

  “Do you always take your holidays together, Susan?”

  “Of course. We’re friends.”

  “That’s right,” said Ruth Constantine, joining in the conversation. “Holidays are a true test of friendship. If you can spend three weeks skiing in the Alps with people and still be civil to them afterward, then you’ve found kindred spirits.”

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Susan. “Do you remember the Glovers? What fools we were to go on a Mediterranean cruise with that gruesome pair! We found them out after only two days, and the holiday lasted a month. It was excruciating.”

  “One learns from experience.”

  “I hope so, Ruth.”

  “Instincts are sharpened by time.”

  Genevieve liked Ruth Constantine. It was not simply her poise and elegance that were so attractive. She had a deep, melodious voice that was informed by a clever brain and a keen sense of humor. Though she lacked the conventional beauty of Theodora Belfrage and Susan Faulconbridge, she had a composure that neither of them could match and a way of dealing with the two men in the party that compelled their respect. Genevieve hoped to get to know Ruth a lot better.

  “Well, this is it!” declared Harvey Denning. “Doctor Johnson time.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” asked Susan.

  “The moment when we should take his warning to heart.”

  “Warning?”

  “Yes, Susan,” he continued, raising his voice so that the whole group could hear him. “Do you know what Samuel Johnson said about the sea? ‘No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into jail, since being in a ship is being in jail, with the chance of getting drowned.’ Good
point.”

  “Harvey!” reproached Susan. “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  “Especially at a time like this, old chap,” noted Donald Belfrage, tightening an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Don’t want to spread gloom and despondency, do we? Occasion for celebration. Why try to upset the ladies?”

  “He sent a shiver down my spine,” confessed Theodora Belfrage.

  “And mine,” said Susan.

  “Harvey never frightens me,” said Ruth calmly. “It’s just one more way of drawing attention to himself. Ignore him. Besides,” she observed dryly, “there’s something he forgot to mention about Samuel Johnson.”

  Denning smiled tolerantly. “What’s that, Ruth?”

  “He never sailed on a vessel the size of the Mauretania.”

  “I have,” volunteered Genevieve, “and it didn’t feel at all like being in jail. It was liberating. The Lusitania was as solid as a rock beneath our feet.”

  “I bow to your superior wisdom,” said Denning with mock humility.

  “We’re not really in danger, are we, darling?” asked Theodora, snuggling up to her husband. “I thought that this was the safest ship afloat.”

  “It is, Theo,” he said, ducking under the brim of her hat to plant a reassuring kiss on her cheek. “Harvey is being Harvey, that’s all. Look at those names we saw in the newspaper. The Princess de Poix, Prince Andre Poniazowski, Sir Clifton and Lady Robinson, and dozens of other famous people. Do you think they’d step aboard any ship that wasn’t one-hundred-percent safe? Then there’s Mr. Hunter, from the firm that actually built the Mauretania. He has complete faith in the vessel.”

  “So do the sundry millionaires who are traveling with us,” conceded Denning. “Believe it or not, Donald, there may be people on board with more money than you.”

  Belfrage wrinked his nose. “Ghastly Americans, most of them.”

  “That’s a contradiction in terms,” said Genevieve loyally. “All the Americans I’ve encountered have been quite delightful.”

  “Well, yes, there are always exceptions to the rule.”

  “How many have you actually met, Donald?”

  “Enough to know that they’re a different species.”

  “Different perhaps, but not inferior.”

  “Let’s not make an issue out of it,” he said dismissively. “The truth is that I don’t give a damn about Americans.”

  “Then why are you so eager to visit their country?”

  “Don’t pester him, Genevieve,” complained Theodora, coming to her husband’s defense. “We’re here because we’ve never been on a maiden voyage before. Isn’t that justification enough? As for Americans, we must just live and let live.”

  “You’ll have to do more than that, Theodora,” cautioned Ruth.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A large number of first-class passengers will have hailed from the other side of the Atlantic. Indeed, I suspect there may be more of them than us. You’ll be rubbing shoulders with Americans every day. Overcome your prejudices and make friends.”

  “I don’t have any prejudices,” squeaked the other. “Do I, Donald?”

  “None at all,” he flattered her.

  “I just prefer to be with my own kind.”

  “I rest my case,” said Ruth.

  She caught Genevieve’s eye and they traded an understanding look.

  The lights of Liverpool had now dropped astern as the four monstrous screw propellers churned up the dark waters of the Mersey and sent the vessel onward with gathering speed. Half an hour after departure, a bugle sounded. Susan was startled.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “The signal for dinner,” explained Harvey. “We can adjourn to the dining saloon so that Donald and Theodora can patronize all those Americans.” He rode over their spluttered protests with a grin. “As for the safety of the ship, you omitted the strongest argument of all, one that even Samuel Johnson would have to accept.”

  “We’re not back to him, are we?”

  “No, Susan.”

  “Then what’s this strongest argument?”

  “The Mauretania has the most valuable cargo ever to leave the British shore.”

  “Is he trying to pay us a compliment?” asked Theodora suspiciously.

  “No,” he returned gallantly. “But then, anyone as gorgeous as you are will fly through life on a magic carpet of compliments. What you’re all forgetting is the money famine in New York. This ship is carrying almost three million pounds in gold bullion to relieve the financial crisis across the water. Bankers are the most cautious people in the world,” he pointed out. “Do you think they’d risk putting all that wealth aboard a ship if they were not absolutely certain that it would reach its destination? It’s something to reflect upon while we dine this evening. We’re not simply traveling with precious friends beside us,” he said, waving an arm to include them all, “we’re sailing with a veritable fortune. Britannia is ruling the waves with a gold-bullion smile.”

  THREE

  George Porter Dillman was called into action that very evening. After sharing a table with the Jarvis family in the second-class dining saloon, he hovered near the door for a few minutes, chatting to a steward while keeping one eye on a man in the far corner whose behavior had aroused his suspicion.

  “Splendid meal!” said Dillman with evident sincerity.

  “Thank you, sir,” replied the steward.

  “My compliments to the chef.”

  “I’ll pass them on.”

  “What’s on the menu for breakfast?”

  “You’re a man who likes his food, sir, I can see that.”

  “One of the pleasures of traveling on the Cunard Line.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  While the steward listed the items on the breakfast menu for the following day, Dillman changed his position slightly so that he could get a better view of the dinner guest in the corner. The man had waited until everyone else had vacated his table, then shifted surreptitiously from his own seat to the next one so that his back faced into the saloon and obscured the movements of his hands. Dillman had no idea of what he was about to steal, but he saw the swift grab and knew that something had been snatched with professional ease. Draining his glass of whiskey, the man rose to his feet, glanced around, then strode casually underneath the lofty dome in the center of the room and toward the exit. Short, stubby, and smartly dressed, he looked more like a successful realtor than a thief. His bald head glistened under the light of the crystal chandeliers. When he passed Dillman and the steward, he gave them a token smile of farewell before going out.

  After waiting for a few moments, Dillman excused himself in order to follow the man. The second-class dining saloon was on the upper deck and opened off the grand staircase. It could accommodate two hundred and fifty people at its refectory-style tables, but only one of the diners interested Dillman at that juncture. Instead of joining the other second-class passengers in the lounge, the drawing room or the smoking room, the man headed for his cabin, sauntering along with a law-abiding gait, quite unaware of the fact that he was being trailed at a discreet distance. Dillman waited until the man reached his door before he moved in.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, closing in briskly, “but I believe you may inadvertently have taken something from the dining saloon that doesn’t belong to you.”

  The man stiffened. “You’re crazy!” he retorted.

  “I watched you put it in your pocket, sir.”

  “Then you need your eyes tested, mister.”

  He glared at Dillman with controlled belligerence, as if deeply offended by the charge. His accent had Brooklyn overtones. Dillman remained deliberately polite.

  “Would you have any objection to emptying your pockets, sir?”

  “You bet I would!”

  “Then we’ll have to discuss the whole matter with the purser.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “He doesn’t approve of
theft.”

  “And I don’t approve of being accused of something I haven’t done!” said the other, flaring up. “Can’t a man enjoy a meal without having someone spy on him? Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I work for the Cunard Line, sir.”

  “Well, I’m a passenger, buddy. That means I help to pay your wages, indirectly. It also means you’re supposed to be nice to me. Got it?”

  “In the circumstances, I’m being extremely nice,” said Dillman, letting his voice and eyes harden slightly. “The Cunard Line has certain idiosyncrasies, I’m afraid. One of them is that it doesn’t condone the loss of its property. If you’d care to come with me to the purser, I’m sure that he’ll explain the rules to you in full.”

  “Listen here, wise guy!”

  Squaring up to Dillman, he seemed to be on the point of striking him, but he quickly repented of his hasty action. Dillman did not flinch. Not only was the detective much younger and taller, he looked as if he knew how to handle himself in a fight. The man changed his tack at once, shrugging off his anger and extending apologetic palms.

  “Look, there’s been a misunderstanding here,” he soothed.

  “Has there, sir?”

  “Okay. I’ll come clean. I’m no kleptomaniac. You did see me take something off the table,” he admitted, slipping a hand inside his coat, “but it was only this.” The menu was waved under Dillman’s nose. “What’s more, the steward told me I could have it as a souvenir, so I guess he’s an accessory before the crime. Satisfied now?”

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “You going to march me off to the purser because I take a lousy menu? Here,” he said, thrusting it at him. “Have it back.”

  “It’s the other item I’m after,” persisted Dillman. “The one that the steward didn’t give you permission to steal. Let’s do this properly, shall we? Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell me your name, sir.”

  “Mind your goddam business!”

  “It won’t be difficult to find it out. I know your cabin. All I have to do is check the passenger list. Now, why don’t you start cooperating, Mr.—?”

  Dillman’s composure was slowly unnerving the man. He eventually capitulated. “Hirsch,” he grunted sourly. “Max Hirsch.”