Murder on the Mauretania

by Conrad Allen

  “How do you do, Mr. Hirsch? My name is George Dillman.”

  “I have another name for you.”

  Three elderly passengers came along the corridor and walked past. Hirsch looked embarrassed. It was time to move the interrogation to a more private venue.

  “Could I suggest that we step inside your cabin?” said Dillman.

  “Why?” challenged the other with vestigial defiance.

  “It’s either here or in the purser’s quarters. Your choice, Mr. Hirsch.”

  Cursing under his breath, Hirsch unlocked the door of his cabin and led the way in. Dillman shut the door behind him and glanced around appreciatively.

  “Almost identical to my own,” he commented. “Second-class cabins on the Cunard Line are now as good as first-class accommodation on earlier vessels.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You sound like a seasoned traveler, Mr. Hirsch.”

  “Not really.”

  “How many times have you crossed the Atlantic?”

  “Enough,” said the other. “And if this is the kind of treatment I get from Cunard, I sure won’t be booking my passage on one of its liners again.”

  “Unless we can sort out this matter amicably,” warned Dillman, “you may not be allowed on board a Cunard ship again. Why not cut the shadow boxing? We both know that you took something off that table. I want to see what it is.”

  Max Hirsch studied him with a mixture of exasperation and respect. Dillman was a handsome man with a hint of a dandy about him, but the broad shoulders and lithe movements indicated someone who kept himself in prime physical condition. There was a quiet intelligence about him, and his eyesight was evidently keen. Hirsch’s only hope lay in trying to talk himself out of his predicament. Holding out both arms, he let them flap to the sides of his thighs.

  “They put the right man on the job, Mr. Dillman,” he complimented.

  “Thanks.”

  “Trouble is, you picked the wrong culprit. That’s to say, I’m no light-fingered thief. I did what a lot of guys might’ve done in my position and acted on impulse.”

  “And what did this impulse lead you to take, Mr. Hirsch?”

  “These.”

  Putting a hand in his trouser pocket, he extracted a silver saltcellar and a pepper pot. Dillman took them from him and wrapped them carefully in a handkerchief.

  “You forgot the vinegar, Mr. Hirsch.”

  “If I’d stashed that in my pocket, the stopper would’ve come out and I’d have ended up looking as if I’d pissed in my pants. That’s it, Mr. Dillman. On the level.” He spread his arms. “Frisk me if you don’t believe me.”

  “No need. I’ve got what I want. Apart from an explanation, that is.”

  Max Hirsch let out a world-weary sigh and flopped into a chair. “Where do I start?” he wondered, scratching his head. “Do you want the full story, or will you settle for the shorter version?”

  “The shorter one, please.”

  “Then the truth is that I felt Cunard owed me a silver cruet. At the very least.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they managed to lose some of my baggage on the voyage from New York. God knows how. I mean, they load the stuff into the hold and they take it out again at the other end. How could it possibly go astray?”

  “Pilfering is not unknown,” said Dillman impassively. “Besides, I can’t believe that you didn’t insure the baggage against loss or breakage. The rates are very low.”

  “Yeah. Everything was insured. But it takes an age for the dough to come through. In any case, some of the things they lost were irreplaceable. They had sentimental value. Rachel will be real upset.”

  “Rachel?”

  “My wife,” he said, heaving another sigh. “She bought several of those things for me. I’m not looking forward to breaking the news to her, I can tell you. Rachel was to have made the trip with me, see, but she came down with an attack of shingles. I offered to cancel the whole vacation, of course, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’s that kind of woman, wanted me to have the experience for both of us.” He grimaced. “All the experience has amounted to so far is suffering a rough crossing on the Saxonia, losing some of my baggage, staying in a rotten hotel in London, missing my wife like hell, and getting hassled by you. Some vacation!”

  “You said earlier that you acted on impulse.”

  “Yeah, I did. And it wasn’t only an impulse of revenge. Love came into it as well. Rachel begged me to bring her back a souvenir from the Mauretania.” Sadness came into his eyes. “I couldn’t help myself, Mr. Dillman. I promised her. My wife has a thing about silver, see.”

  “So does the Cunard Line. It likes to keep its supply intact.”

  “It’s not going to miss a saltcellar and a pepper pot.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to take them.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” confessed the other, “and I’m ashamed of what I did. It was a dumb thing to do. I’ll happily pay for them.” He produced a wallet and flipped it open. “How much do you reckon they’re worth, Mr. Dillman?”

  “They’re not for sale, sir,” said Dillman pointedly. “Neither am I.”

  “That wasn’t a bribe I was offering you, I swear it. What kind of man do you take me for?” He put his wallet away. “Look, let’s be realistic here. I grabbed those things and I’ve told you why. Human nature being what it is, they won’t be the only souvenirs that get snatched aboard this ship. So what do you say, Mr. Dillman?” he asked, adopting a jocular tone. “It’s hardly the crime of the century, is it? What are you going to do with me—lock me up in the brig?” He offered his wrists. “Come on. Cuff me if you have to. I’ll go quietly.”

  Dillman needed a full minute to reach his decision. He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Hirsch.”

  “So what happens? A diet of bread and water from now on?”

  “No, sir,” said Dillman pleasantly. “You can continue to use the facilities that other second-class passengers enjoy. Now that you’ve explained it to me, I can see how it must have happened and I’m certain it was an isolated incident.”

  “You can count on that.”

  “Then I suggest we forget the whole thing.”

  Hirsch brightened. “You won’t report this to the purser?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Dillman. You’re a pal.”

  “No, sir,” said Dillman coolly. “This has nothing to do with friendship. I’m hired to keep a lookout for genuine thieves, and I don’t believe you fall into that category.”

  “Hell, no!” exclaimed the other. “If I were a pro, I wouldn’t be trying to sneak off with a saltcellar and a pepper pot. Why settle for a pocketful of silver when there’s almost three million in gold bullion aboard? That’s what I’d be after, I tell you.”

  “Fair comment, Mr. Hirsch.”

  “Say, while you’re here, can I offer you a drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Sure? I always keep a bottle handy.”

  “Another time perhaps,” said Dillman, opening the door. “I have to return these items to the dining saloon before anyone misses them. Good night, Mr. Hirsch. I’m glad we were able to sort this out.”

  “So am I.”

  “Confession is good for the soul.”

  “Sweet dreams!”

  Dillman stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind him. As he headed back to the dining saloon, he gave a wry smile. Max Hirsch was too plausible to be true. Dillman did not believe a word of his explanation and doubted if the man even had a wife, let alone one called Rachel, conveniently afflicted by shingles. When he first spotted Hirsch during the meal, Dillman saw him paying court to a middle-aged woman beside him in a blue-satin dress. Judging by the way she had lapped up his flattery, she had taken Max Hirsch at face value. It was a mistake that Dillman would never make.

  Their paths would definitely cross again; Hirsch was no first-time offender who had learned his
lesson. What gave him away was the fact that he’d recognized the detective for what he was without even asking to be shown credentials. He would soon be prowling after fresh spoils. Having caught him red-handed, Dillman had released him so the man would think he had gotten away with the crime. Hirsch would be emboldened to strike again. Dillman would be ready for him, eager to arrest the man for something more serious than the theft of a saltcellar and a pepper pot.

  All he had to do was to bide his time.

  _____

  Harvey Denning inhaled the smoke from his cigarette, then blew it slowly out again. “Why have you never married?” he asked softly.

  “I might ask you the same question,” replied Genevieve.

  “There’s an easy answer to that. I’m simply not the marrying kind.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What it says. I enjoy the chase but have no wish to chain myself to the quarry for the rest of my life. I thrive on risk and novelty.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “Also,” he continued smoothly, “I happen to think that connubial bliss is a myth. Show me a marriage that doesn’t start to creak and groan very early on. A wedding ring may give you a momentary feeling of possession, but it’s no guarantee of happiness.”

  “Donald and Theodora seem happy enough.”

  “A temporary illusion.”

  “They’re besotted with each other, Harvey.”

  “Yes, I know. He’s madly in love with her and she’s infatuated with his money.”

  “Don’t be so cynical!”

  Genevieve Masefield gave a laugh of reproof. The two of them were reclining in the first-class lounge, a sumptuous room on the boat deck. Designed in late eighteenth-century French style, the lounge was crowned by a large oval dome with bronze framing, set against a ceiling that was pristinely paneled in white. Sitting in chairs of polished beech with variegated brocade upholstery, they were the last survivors of a group that had slowly disintegrated as the evening wore on. The Belfrages had been the first to go, abandoning decorum when they reached the exit and clutching each other like drowning sailors clinging to their life rafts. Ruth Constantine had soon followed, pleading a headache. Susan Faulconbridge had stayed until her eyelids began to droop; then she, too, quit the field. Harvey Denning showed no sign of tiredness. Genevieve had agreed to have one last drink with him, less for the pleasure of enjoying his company than for the chance to probe the relationships within the little party.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” he prompted. “Every mirror you’ve ever looked in must have told you what a beautiful creature you are, and no red-blooded male can fail to notice it. You must have had dozens of proposals.”

  “One or two,” she conceded.

  “Both rejected, it seems.”

  “Not at all, Harvey. I was engaged to one gentleman for some months.”

  “Ah!” he said with triumph. “A broken engagement, eh? Do I detect a scandal? What happened? Did the fellow turn out to be a bounder? Or did you uncover some hideous secret about his family?”

  She gave a shrug. “I realized that I didn’t love him enough.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s a private matter.”

  “You can trust me,” he coaxed. “I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone else.”

  “You won’t get the opportunity.” Genevieve toyed with her glass. “Did you say that Donald might be going into politics one day?”

  “There’s no ‘might’ about it. All cut-and-dried. As soon as a seat becomes vacant, Donald Belfrage will have it. Rather an alarming thought, isn’t it?” he said, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Donald as a member of Parliament. I mean, he’s the most generous soul alive, but he’s hardly the stuff from which statesmen are made. The only two things that Donald has done well are to inherit wealth and to gain a rowing blue at Oxford. Did he tell you that he was president of a winning crew in the Boat Race?”

  “Several times.”

  “Donald’s inordinately proud of that achievement. I can’t think why. Mindless muscularity has never appealed to me but then, I was sent down from Balliol after only one term. It was a blessed release.”

  “Do you have any political ambitions, Harvey?”

  “Heavens, no! It would be the ruination of my career.”

  “As what?”

  He gave a brittle laugh. “Haven’t you worked that out yet?”

  “Not completely.”

  “How far have you got?”

  “Not very far at all,” she lied tactfully. “What I have noticed is how tightly knit the five of you are. You’re genuine soul mates. You seem to have done so much together. Susan keeps reminding me of that. She’s the archivist in the party, always taking out the scrapbook to jog your memories.”

  “Genevieve Masefield will go into that scrapbook now.”

  “Briefly.”

  “We shall see.”

  “A moment ago, you mentioned your career.”

  “I was speaking metaphorically,” he said with a lazy smile. “Most people would call it a life of sustained sponging, but more discerning eyes appreciate my true value. I’m not just a social butterfly, Genevieve, flitting here and there to brighten up the lives of my friends. I also act as their confidant, their adviser, their court jester, and—most important of all—their secret weapon at the card table.”

  “Secret weapon?”

  “Bridge. A game of infinite subtlety, which is why I took such trouble to master its intricacies. That’s why I’m in continual demand as a partner. Lady Ferriday made me stay for over three weeks this summer so we could trounce all and sundry. And I went straight from there to Sir Gerald Marmion’s family seat. It’s a gift,” he said with feigned modesty, “and I exploit it to the full. There is the small matter of a couple of directorships I hold, but they don’t deflect me from my main purpose in life.”

  “Being a cardsharp?”

  “That’s unkind, Genevieve,” he protested. “Bridge is an art form, not a mere game of cards. It’s taken me all over England and the Continent in the company of the great and the good. How many people can claim that? And wherever I go, I earn my keep, I promise you. I have a system, you see.”

  “Yes,” she said with a twinkle in her voice. “I’ve noticed.”

  He gave another laugh and rose slowly to his feet, holding out a courteous palm. Genevieve let him take her hand to help her up. He kissed her fingers lightly.

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “May I see you to your cabin?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said.

  “An independent spirit, eh?”

  “No, Harvey. It’s just that I have someone else to see before I retire.”

  “Oh? Anyone I know?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Float a name past me.”

  A shake of the head. “Good night. I thoroughly enjoyed our chat.”

  “The first of many, I hope,” he said, his hand gently resting on his heart.

  “Possibly” She was about to move away when she remembered something. “One thing,” she said, turning back. “You and Susan came to call on me earlier. How did you know which cabin was mine?”

  “I told you,” he said with a grin. “I have a system.”

  FOUR

  Maurice Buxton was a big, beefy man in his late thirties with curly brown hair and a well-groomed beard. Resplendent in his uniform, he conveyed an impression of trustworthiness and reliability. As purser on the Mauretania, he had enormous responsibilities, but he carried them lightly and discharged his many duties with cool efficiency, giving each worried passenger who came to him with a complaint or an inquiry a reassuring feeling that he was taking a personal interest in the matter. Buxton had a gift of creating instant goodwill. Dillman liked him from the start and was very grateful when, at the end of the day, the purser even found time to give him a private view of an exclusive part of the cargo.

  �
�Well,” said Buxton, turning the last key in the lock and pulling the heavy door open, “there it is, Mr. Dillman. You’re looking at £2,750,000 in gold bullion.”

  “All that I can see are strongboxes,” said Dillman.

  “Ironbound and sealed. Every precaution has been taken.”

  “Quite rightly, Mr. Buxton.”

  “On the journey by special train from Euston, it was guarded like royalty by the railway police. When we got it aboard, the whole amount was checked and accounted for with meticulous care.” He grinned at his companion. “Don’t want to shortchange our American friends, do we?”

  “The situation over there is desperate,” said Dillman, surveying the neatly stacked boxes. “This couldn’t come at a better time. Banks are collapsing right, left, and center. Over two hundred state banks have failed already. When I was in New York a couple of weeks ago, there was an article in one of the newspapers about the smart set having to sell their jewels. The crisis is biting deep.”

  “Let’s hope that this little consignment helps to steady things.”

  “Where has it all come from?”

  “Not from anyone on the Cunard Line,” said Buxton with a chuckle. “That’s for sure. They pay us a fair wage, but nothing in this league. No, I gather that six hundred thousand pounds of it was bought principally from South African mining companies through the bullion brokers. Needless to say,” he continued, hitting his stride and revealing his love of statistics, “they made a tidy profit, charging seventy-eight shillings per ounce for it—that includes brokerage, assay, and other costs. The metal was refined during the week into gold bars.”

  “What about the Bank of England?”

  “Something like nine hundred and forty-seven thousand pounds’ worth was bought from them in bar gold, plus five hundred and sixty-four thousand in American eagles. No need to tell you what they are, Mr. Dillman.”

  “I guess not.”

  “The current value is around two pounds in sterling.”

  “There must be hefty insurance for all this.”

  “Prohibitive.”

  “The insurance brokers stand to reap a rich harvest.”

  “If all goes well and we get the gold to New York in one lot.”