by Conrad Allen
“No doubt about that, is there?”
“None at all, Mr. Dillman,” said the other confidently, closing the door and using the different keys to lock it. “You’d need dynamite to get into this security room. The crown jewels would be safe in there. Then, of course, we have our own special security device.”
“What’s that?”
“The Atlantic Ocean. It’s one vast insurance policy. Only a fool would try to steal the gold when there’s nowhere to take it. In the unlikely event that we were robbed, we’d simply have to search the ship in order to find the loot.”
“That’s true.”
“Captain Pritchard is very proud of the fact that the Mauretania was chosen to transport the consignment. It gave us one claim to fame before we even set off. What you’ve just seen is the largest amount of gold bullion ever carried across the Atlantic. The Lusitania led the way before with two million pounds’ worth. In one fell swoop, we’ve relieved her of that particular record.”
“What about the more important record you covet, Mr. Buxton?”
“The Blue Riband will come in time, have no fear. It’s inevitable.”
They moved off down the corridor, then went up a companionway in single file. “Are you managing to find your way around?” asked the purser.
“Just about. It’s like being in a maze.”
“I know. I get lost myself occasionally.”
“Daresay I’ll master the layout in time.”
“What do you think of second class?”
“Extremely comfortable. I’ve met lots of nice people there.”
“It’s the bad boys that you have to look out for, Mr. Dillman. I expect that we have our share of those aboard as well. Pickpockets and confidence tricksters love to work these ships.”
“I know,” said Dillman as they reached the top of the steps and walked along another corridor. “They get such easy pickings. People can be surprisingly off guard when they go on a voyage.”
“They surrender to the magic of oceanic travel.”
“Some of them, perhaps.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s all very well for passengers in first and second class, Mr. Buxton. They can relax and enjoy themselves in plush surroundings. And so they should, having paid handsomely for the privilege. But the largest group of people aboard are immigrants, traveling in steerage. Facilities are a little more spartan for them.”
“Yet a big advance on what they used to be,” argued the other. “When I joined my first ship—not a Cunard vessel, by the way—steerage passengers were treated like cattle. No comforts, no trimmings, no privacy. They had to sleep in those awful open berths. I met some who actually stayed on deck throughout the entire voyage to escape the cramped conditions down below. Imagine that. Sleeping out under the sky.”
They paused when they reached a corner. Lips pursed, Dillman was somber. “Ironic, isn’t it?” he mused.
“What is?”
“The immigrants are leaving Britain because they can’t make a decent living there. In their eyes, America is the land of opportunity. It’s a cruel mirage,” he said ruefully. “Hundreds of people in steerage are braving this voyage in the hope that they’ll find the streets of New York paved with gold.”
“Instead of which, New York is having to import the gold from us.”
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
The purser was businesslike. “I’m not paid to cry into my handkerchief, Mr. Dillman,” he said briskly. “My job is to see to the welfare of the passengers, whichever part of the ship they’re traveling in. Once we get to New York, they’re on their own. From a commercial point of view, westbound immigrants are a godsend to us in the cutthroat world of transatlantic travel. Traffic has peaked this year. Cunard made well over a million pounds taking them to the New World, and we’re duly grateful. But they went of their own volition,” he emphasized. “All that we can do is get them there. Don’t ask us to improve their lives as well.”
The four-berth cabin was on the lower deck at the forward end of the ship. Not only could they hear the muffled roar of the engines, they could feel the vibrations as the ship powered its way across the Irish Sea. Glyn Bowen, a short, dark, thickset man in his twenties, lay on the top bunk with his eyes wide open. He gave an involuntary shiver.
“Mansell,” he whispered. “You still awake?”
“How can I sleep with that bloody noise going on?” complained Mansell Price in the bunk below him. “We might as well have had a berth in the boiler room.”
“At least it would have been warm there.”
“Diu! I can’t stick this for five days, Glyn. It’s worse than being down the pit. I didn’t realize it was going to be so primitive in steerage. I mean, I didn’t expect the Ritz Hotel, but this is terrible. Sharing a tiny cabin with complete strangers.”
“What if those strangers had been two gorgeous women?”
“That would’ve been different, mun,” said Price with a laugh. “All four of us could’ve kept ourselves warm then. No such luck, though. We got shoved in here with those two drunken idiots from Huddersfield.”
“They’re not too bad, Mansell.”
“Wait till you’ve spent a night with them.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t get a wink of sleep. I know their type. Selfish morons, the pair of them. No consideration for others. Talk, talk, talk. And if that old man plays his mouth organ in here again, I’ll ram it down his bloody throat.”
“Hey, calm down,” said his friend.
“How can I stay calm when someone is playing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in my ear? Doesn’t the old fool know any other tunes? It wouldn’t be so bad if he could play a few Welsh songs on that mouth organ, but ‘Auld Lang Syne!’ Makes me want to puke.”
Mansell Price was a tall, muscular young man with a rugged face animated by blazing brown eyes. Like his friend, he bore the legacy of years spent in the coal mines of South Wales. His forehead, body, and arms were flecked with the blue scars of a miner, but the deeper gashes were in his soul.
“It’s got to work, mun,” he insisted.
“What has, Mansell?”
“This, of course. Going to America. Starting afresh. Trying to make something of ourselves. It’s got to work, Glyn. We can’t go back to the Rhondda with our tails between our legs. I’d rather die than do that.”
“Me, too.”
“I just wish we’d got off to a better start.”
“Could be worse.”
“What’s worse than sharing a cabin with two drunks and a mouth organ?”
“Sharing one with even more people,” said Bowen reasonably. “They’ve got six-and eight-berth cabins. Some are probably bigger than that. Hey, they might even have a fifteen-berth,” he added, brightening at the thought. “Wouldn’t it be great to share that with the rest of the boyos in the rugby team? We could shut out the noise of those propellers with a chorus of ‘Men of Harlech.’ ”
“I’m going to shut them out right now,” decided Price, hauling himself out of his bunk. “Come on, Glyn. Get dressed. We’re out of here.”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere to escape this pandemonium. Up on deck, if need be.”
“It’ll be freezing up there.”
“Then we’ll explore the Mauretania and see if she’s all she’s cracked up to be. Yes,” he said, warming to the idea, “we might even take a look at parts of the ship we’re not allowed to go in. One thing about miners—we know how to find our way around in the dark. Hurry up, Glyn,” he ordered, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “Let’s have an adventure, shall we?”
Mansell Price reached for his trousers and clambered into them eagerly.
* * *
An extension of the grand staircase, the second-class lounge was on the boat deck aft. The room was paneled in teak and had gracious blue curtains and carpets. Its furniture was tasteful, its fittings eye-catching. Though it lacked the opulence of the first-cla
ss lounge, it offered Genevieve Masefield plenty to admire during her wait. Most of the passengers had retired, but there were still a few hardy spirits ensconced alone in chairs or deep in discussion with friends. George Porter Dillman glided in, sat down beside her, and apologized for the delay in his arrival.
“The purser wanted to show me the gold bullion;” he explained.
“Did he give you a free sample?”
“No, unfortunately. And I probably wouldn’t have been able to carry it if he did. The bars are all sealed up in heavy boxes. Still, how are things with you, Genevieve?”
“Oh, I’m enjoying myself,” she said with a smile.
“I’m sorry that you have to come down the social scale into second class, but I thought this would be a good place to meet. Being seen here with me won’t compromise your position among the wealthier passengers.”
“What about your position, George?”
“Right now it’s just about perfect.”
He gave her a warm smile and let his affection show for a second. Genevieve replied with a twinkle of her eyes, then gave him an account of her experiences so far on the ship. Dillman listened intently, pleased with what he was hearing.
“You’ve made a good start,” he concluded. “You’re accepted by that party in a way that I could never be—especially not by this Donald Belfrage. He obviously hates Americans. What does he think is wrong with us?”
“You’re not English.”
“Some people might find that appealing.”
“Stop fishing for compliments,” she said with mock reproach. “Yes, I seem to have got off on the right foot, and Susan actually told me that I was one of them now. What worries me is that they may envelop me so much that I can’t do my job properly.”
“Ration the amount of time you spend with them, Genevieve.”
“That’s easier said than done. Susan Faulconbridge hardly left my side all evening, the Belfrages insist that I dine in their suite, and Harvey Denning looks as if he might suggest an even more intimate get-together.”
“What about this Ruth Constantine?”
“Ruth is the one that intrigues me,” she said, wrinkling her brow. “The other four seem to be birds of the same feather—denizens of high society collecting a maiden voyage on the Mauretania in the same way they collect Ascot or Henley or any other event where it’s important to be seen. Their life seems to be one long party, interrupted by an occasional game of bridge. That’s not a criticism, by the way. Given the chance, I could probably take to it myself.”
“Could you?” he said doubtfully.
“For a short while, anyway.”
“Tell me more about Ruth.”
“There’s not much to tell, George, except that she’s the brightest and wittiest of them. She’s also the only one who can put Harvey Denning in his place, and that takes some doing. He’s incorrigible. He almost glories in the fact that he’s a kind of parasite. As for Ruth,” she judged, “she doesn’t really belong with them, and yet they’d be lost without her. It’s curious. I can’t make it out.”
“Well, don’t spend too much time trying to fathom Ruth Constantine,” he advised, “or you’ll be diverted from your real purpose on this voyage. Use your new friends as a useful camouflage but spread your net much wider.”
“I will. Just like you.”
“No, Genevieve. Don’t copy me.”
“Why not?”
“You have to develop your own methods.”
“But you set such a good example, George,” she said with an approving smile. “When I first met you on the Lusitania, I’d never have guessed that you were a detective working for Cunard. You blended in so easily.”
“When I first met you on that maiden voyage, I’d never have imagined that we’d be making a second one on the Mauretania, working alongside each other.”
“That was only thanks to you.”
“We made such a good team,” he reminded her. “Without your help, I wouldn’t have been able to solve that murder and bring the villains to justice. I had to recommend you. Apart from anything else,” he said with a grin, “it was the only way I could be sure of seeing you again. Don’t underestimate your skills, Genevieve. You’re a natural sleuth. And you have one supreme advantage over me.”
“Do I?”
“You’re a woman. You can go places where I could never venture.”
Genevieve stifled a yawn. “The only place I want to go right now is to bed,” she murmured. “It’s been a long day, filled with heady excitement. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll be more alert.”
“So will I.”
Dillman helped her up and escorted her across to the grand staircase. A public situation dictated a certain restraint. Wanting to give her a farewell kiss, he instead settled for a brief handshake, then went off down the stairs toward his own cabin. Genevieve Masefield’s assistance would be invaluable and her presence on the ship made the voyage even more attractive to him, but he knew he had to keep his mind on his job. Eyes that were trained on a beautiful first-class passenger might miss things they ought to have seen elsewhere. He was given proof of the fact within a matter of minutes.
The farther they went, the bolder they got and the more they marveled. Mansell Price and Glyn Bowen picked their way furtively through the second-class areas of the ship and noted the marked increase in comfort and design. Creeping along dimly lit corridors, they gaped at thick carpets, exquisite paneling, an array of paintings, and all the other evidence of talent and investment. Bowen was less audacious than his friend, fearing they might be caught and conscious of the fact that though he wore his one suit, its quality and cut did not identify him as a second-class passenger. Price was untroubled by any feelings of social inferiority Indeed, the nocturnal tour brought out the rebel in him. While his companion held back, Price even contrived a glimpse into some of the public rooms, bringing back whispered reports of unimaginable luxury.
Both men were fit and lithe; whenever they heard someone coming, they dodged around a corner or slipped into an alcove, each time eluding discovery. Their luck was bound to run out in the end.
“Can I help you?” asked Dillman politely.
He had silently come up behind them, allowing them no chance to hide. Bowen gave a yelp of surprise, but Price was mutinous. He put his hands on his hips.
“We got lost,” he declared.
“Where’s your cabin?”
“Steerage,” volunteered Bowen, blurting it out before he could stop himself and earning a dig in the ribs from Price’s elbow. “It’s true, Mansell.”
“What’s it like down there?” asked Dillman pleasantly.
“Crowded.”
“Our cabin is like a rabbit hutch,” moaned Price. “And it’s so bare.”
“So you thought you’d see how the other half lives, did you?” said Dillman easily. “And why not? I don’t blame you. The only trouble is that the stewards patrol these corridors. If they catch you here, they’ll give you a stern reprimand.”
Price was defiant. “Just let them try!”
“Come on. I know a shortcut back to the third-class section. Let me show you the way.” They traded a glance as they hesitated. “Well?” encouraged Dillman. “You can’t stay here all night.”
The two of them fell in beside him and they walked down the corridor.
“Are you an American?” asked Bowen tentatively.
A friendly smile. “How did you guess?”
“We’re from Wales.”
“That was pretty obvious as well,” said Dillman. “Immigrants?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell him our business, Glyn,” snapped Price, nudging his friend. “It’s nothing to do with him.”
“But he might be able to help us, Mansell. He comes from America. He might be able to warn us what to look out for.” He looked at Dillman. “Could you?”
“If you like,” said the other obligingly. “My name is George Dillman, by the way. I hail from Boston. Howe
ver, I may not be the best person to praise my native country. To be honest, I’m coming around to the view that I’d rather live in London. I’m an Anglophile.”
“You sound like a madman to me,” said Price. “Who’d want to live in London?”
“We all have our weaknesses.”
Dillman led the two of them around a comer, then halted as he caught sight of a figure tripping nimbly up the steps of a companionway. The others also came to a halt. Tom between following the man and escorting the two Welsh miners back to steerage, Dillman opted for the latter. He would have time enough later to speculate on where Max Hirsch was going at that hour.
As they set off again, he looked across at them. “Now then,” he said helpfully, “what can I tell you about the States?”
“Will we get jobs there?” asked Bowen.
Price was more specific. “Good jobs?” he stressed.
“Put it this way, my friend,” replied Dillman. “People who work hard usually get on. And the pair of you look as if you’re not afraid of hard work. But I must be honest. Don’t bank on immediate success. You’ll have to work your way up slowly.”
“We’ve proved we can do that, Mr. Dillman,” said Price jocularly, softening toward his new acquaintance. “We’ve only been on the Mauretania one evening and we’ve already worked our way up from steerage to second class.” He let out a sudden laugh. “Before we finish, we’ll probably be wallowing in all that gold bullion we’re supposed to be carrying.”
FIVE
Alexandra Jarvis was the family alarm clock. Waking early out of sheer excitement, she made sure that her parents and her brother did not sleep blissfully on but roused them from their beds with tales of her vivid dreams about typhoons, killer whales, and the pirate ship that attacked the Mauretania in the night. Only her grandmother, the formidable Lily Pomeroy, slumbering peacefully in a separate cabin, was spared the persistent ringing of a child’s voice in her ear. It meant that four members of the Jarvis family were among the first passengers to have their breakfast that morning.
Alexandra was in her usual interrogatory mood. “Isn’t this wonderful?” she asked, chewing on a piece of toast.
