Murder on the Mauretania

by Conrad Allen

  “That must be a mighty fine story you’ve got there,” commented a man’s voice. “Since you opened that book, you haven’t lifted your head once.”

  “I didn’t realize that I was being watched,” she said, looking up.

  “Oh, I think you did. My guess is that you’ve spent a whole lifetime being watched. If I had your looks, I’d not only expect it, I’d demand it.” She acknowledged the polite compliment with a brief smile. “Do I get to know the title?”

  “Moby Dick.”

  “My, you’re a brave young lady, reading a story like that on a voyage. Some people might say you were tempting fate. However,” he said, backing away slightly, “it’s your choice, so I won’t keep you from it. My apologies for intruding.”

  “Not at all,” she said, responding to his warm smile and courteous manner. “I was only whiling the time away.”

  “Then you need almost any author other than Melville. If all you want is mild diversion, find someone lighter and more inconsequential. Moby Dick is the kind of book that grabs you by the throat. It calls for real concentration.”

  “I found that out.”

  “Then why choose it?”

  “I wanted an American writer.”

  “You should have picked Mark Twain or Washington Irving.”

  “I toyed with Henry James at first,” she admitted, putting the book down on the table. “They have several of his books in the library.”

  “Let them stay there,” he counseled. “James is far too dull for you. He’s less of an American than a fake Englishman. Believe me, I’ve met the guy. He’s not the author to give you a true flavor of our country.”

  “Then who would you recommend?”

  “It would be presumptuous of me to say,” he replied seriously. “I only stopped by to say hello. I’m not offering to take charge of your literary education.”

  “But I’d value your advice.” She indicated the chair. “Would you care to join me?”

  There was a momentary hesitation before he spoke. “I’d love to,” he said, lowering himself into the seat beside her and offering his hand. “The name is Delaney, by the way. Orvill Delaney.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Delaney?” She shook his hand. “I’m Genevieve Masefield. And this,” she added, pointing to the book, “is the Great White Whale.”

  “Hardly suitable reading for a charming young lady.”

  “Perhaps that’s why I picked it.”

  Genevieve had no qualms about inviting him to sit down. Orvill Delaney was a pleasant, relaxed, sophisticated man of fifty with long, wavy hair streaked with gray and a luxuriant mustache. Thin, wiry, and of medium height, he was impeccably dressed and exuded a mixture of culture and wealth. There was something completely unthreatening about him, and if nothing else, the presence of an American would at least keep Donald Belfrage away from her. Unlike the potential member of Parliament, her new acquaintance had a cosmopolitan air about him and a tolerant smile. He had the look of someone who had long outgrown his prejudices.

  “Did you really meet Henry James?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Where?”

  “The first time was in London. I heard him give a lecture there. Well, most of it, anyway,” he confessed. “I dozed off toward the end. The next time I came across him was down in Rye. I guess you know where that is.”

  “Sussex.”

  “Beautiful little place. I was strolling along the sidewalk one morning and there he was in front of me, crossing the street. Henry James. In the flesh, so to speak. You don’t expect great writers to do anything as mundane as crossing a street. Not that I rate him as a great writer, mark you, but you take my point.”

  “So who would you advise me to read?”

  “My own favorite is O. Henry. Best short-story writer in creation.”

  “That’s a bold claim, Mr. Delaney.”

  “Read him. Judge for yourself.”

  “I will.” She studied him for a moment. “What were you doing in Rye?”

  “You might well ask,” he said evasively.

  “In other words, you’re not going to tell me.”

  “Let me put it this way. The reason I went to hear Henry James lecture is that he and I are in what you might call associated walks of life.”

  “Are you a publisher or a bookseller?”

  “Both, Miss Masefield,” he explained, noting the absence of a wedding ring on her left hand. “Indirectly, that is. I’m in the lumber business. At least I was. I sold to paper mills all over the country. Who knows?” he joked, nodding at the book. “That may even have started life as one of my trees in Wisconsin.”

  “A sobering thought. What took you to England?”

  “The prospect of sailing back on the Mauretania. It was too good to miss. I had an enyoyable vacation as well, of course, doing all the things I like to do. Visit with friends, go to the theater, buy lots of books. Oh, yes,” he said as an afterthought, “I bought something else in England. A new automobile.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to take it back home with me.”

  She was amazed. “It’s on board?”

  “Tucked away down in the hold.”

  “Don’t they make enough cars in America for you to choose from?”

  “I took a fancy to this one,” he said easily, “so I reached out and took it. That’s not quite as mercenary as it sounds, Miss Masefield.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful that a British car tempted you.”

  “There’s a lot more than automobiles to tempt me in your country. That’s why I plan to visit again in due course. Often.”

  “Does that mean you’re retired?”

  He shook his head. “People like me never retire. When I got out of lumber, I bought a controlling stake in a copper mine. When that palled on me, I moved into the construction business. And so it’s gone on,” he said with a self-effacing smile. “When I see what I like, I usually have it, though there are always sound commercial motives involved. Not with that automobile, however. That was different.”

  “In what way?”

  “Promise you won’t hightail it out of here if I tell you?”

  “Why should I?”

  He leaned slightly forward. “Because the horrible truth is that I responded to a sudden and uncontrollable urge. You’ll be relieved to know that it’s quite uncharacteristic of me,” he stressed, drawing a whisper of a smile from her. “But let’s talk about you,” he went on, stroking his mustache reflectively. “I’m just a businessman looking to make an honest dollar. What about you, Miss Masefield?”

  “I’m curious to visit America, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I think there’s more to it than that.”

  “Is there?”

  “Yes,” he said, eyeing her shrewdly. “When I saw you in the dining saloon yesterday evening, you seemed to be part of a merry little group, carousing happily with your friends. Yet here you are now, all alone, with no one for company but that weird old one-legged Captain Ahab.”

  “So?”

  “In a short space of time, I’ve been privileged to see two completely different Miss Genevieve Masefields. That’s why you interest me so much.”

  “There’s only one of me, Mr. Delaney.”

  “Not from where I sit. You’re split right down the middle.”

  “Into what?”

  “The reveler and the reader.”

  “I do like to curl up with a book,” she admitted.

  “You also like to drink champagne and have fun. One woman, two aspects. The party-goer and the recluse. My question is this,” he said casually. “Which is the real you?”

  It was her turn to be evasive. She gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “I wish I knew,” she replied.

  SIX

  The Sunday luncheon menu was particularly enticing, and George Porter Dillman was looking forward to working his way through it in the company of the Jarvis family. Having seen nothing of them that
morning, he wanted to catch up on their news and gauge their first impressions of life afloat. However, duty intervened. When he arrived at the second-class dining saloon, the steward was waiting for him with a message.

  “The purser’s compliments, sir, and could you please join him in his cabin?”

  “Now?” said Dillman.

  “As a matter of urgency.”

  Luncheon was postponed. Dillman asked the steward to convey his apologies to the Jarvis family and to express the hope that he might join them later. Long strides took him off in the direction of the purser’s quarters. Maurice Buxton was waiting for him, smoking a pipe and filling the room with a pleasant aroma of tobacco.

  “Sorry to haul you away from the feeding trough, Mr. Dillman,” he said.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “There are five in all, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh?”

  “A spate of theft seems to have broken out.”

  “Where?”

  “Largely in second class,” said Buxton, “though one of the first-class passengers also reported something missing.”

  “What was taken?”

  “Various things. A purse in one case, and a silver snuffbox. The most expensive item was the gold watch stolen from a lady in first class.” He rolled his eyes. “Angry is too mild a word to describe Mrs. Dalkeith. She was pulsing with fury. Came charging in here like a she-elephant on the rampage.” The purser gave a wry smile. “Anyone would think that I was the thief.”

  “When exactly was the watch stolen?” asked Dillman.

  “That’s the problem. Mrs. Dalkeith was not quite sure. The old dear is nearly eighty and her memory is not all that reliable. She remembers taking the watch off in the ladies’ room yesterday evening when she washed her hands, but she’s fairly certain that she put it on again. When she woke up this morning, however, it wasn’t lying on the dressing table, as it should have been.”

  “Does she recall putting it there?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “So she may simply have mislaid it?”

  “Not according to her. Mrs. Dalkeith is certain that she’s the victim of a heinous crime. She wants the culprit caught immediately. If she had her way, he’d be strung and given a hundred lashes.” He gave a dry laugh. “Her memory may be failing, but there’s nothing wrong with her lungs. Mrs. Dalkeith could bellow for Scotland.”

  “Give me the details, Mr. Buxton.”

  The purser drew on his pipe and reached for the ledger in which he’d recorded all the thefts that had been reported. Taking pad and pencil from his inside pocket, Dillman listened to Buxton’s litany and jotted down the information in a neat hand, looking for connecting links between the crimes as he did so. When he folded his pad, he had already reached an interim conclusion.

  “The thefts in second class may well be related,” he said thoughtfully, “but my guess is that the gold watch was taken by someone else entirely.”

  “That’ll please Mrs. Dalkeith.”

  Dillman smiled. “Tell her that even thieves observe class distinctions.”

  “The only thing I’d dare tell her is that we’ve recovered her watch. Anything less than that would set her off again.” Buxton closed his ledger and took the pipe from his mouth. “If I were you, Mr. Dillman, I’d put my earplugs in before I spoke to her.”

  “I have a much better idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll ask Genevieve Masefield to handle that part of the inquiry,” he decided, putting the pencil and pad away. “A woman’s touch is obviously needed here. Genevieve will be able to tease out details from the victim that may prove crucial. She knows how to deal with the Mrs. Dalkeiths of this world.”

  “So do I—but I didn’t have my elephant gun handy.”

  “Was she really that difficult?”

  “No,” replied the other with a ripe chuckle. “I just felt a bit trampled on, that’s all. Still, that’s part and parcel of the job. A purser has to take the brickbats along with the plaudits, and there’ve been a fair number of the latter, I’m pleased to say. But we can’t have thieves loose on the ship,” he added, brow furrowing. “Bad for business and bad for passenger morale. We have to nip this in the bud before it gets out of hand.”

  “We will, Mr. Buxton.”

  “Where will you start?”

  “In the dining saloon.”

  Buxton frowned again. “Are you that hungry, Mr. Dillman?”

  “No,” said the detective, “and I may have to forgo luncheon altogether in the interests of law enforcement. Four second-class passengers have had something stolen since we set sail from Liverpool. I’d like to know exactly where they were sitting for dinner yesterday evening. Especially the gentleman who had the silver snuffbox taken.”

  “That was Mr. Rosenwald,” recalled Buxton, putting his pipe back into position. “A charming man. The complete opposite to Mrs. Dalkeith. He more or less apologized for having to report the theft. Some of your countrymen can be a little demanding at times, but Stanley Rosenwald was politeness itself. You’ll get every cooperation from him.”

  “Good. He’ll be my first port of call.”

  “Keep me informed of developments.”

  “Of course, Mr. Buxton.”

  Dillman let himself out of the cabin and walked along the passageway. His mind was racing. Four people had been robbed under his nose and that was a blow to his pride. He was determined to root out any criminal activity early on. Instincts honed by his years with the Pinkerton Detective Agency, he knew the importance of solving a crime as soon as possible after it was committed, while the trail was still warm and the details still fresh in the minds of the victims. Since three of the four thefts had taken place overnight, his thoughts immediately turned to the two Welshmen he had found loitering in the second-class section. When he had shown them the way back to their cabin, Dillman had found out as much as he could about them, suspecting that they had ventured into that part of the vessel only out of a mixture of curiosity and bravado.

  That opinion might have to be revised. Both men were extremely short of money and facing an uncertain future in America. Though the nervous Glyn Bowen did not look like a thief, there might well be enough desperation and social resentment in Mansell Price to provoke him into random theft. He was a creature of impulse. Dillman made a mental note to speak to them again in due course. He still doubted that they were the culprits; there was a distinct amateurism about them, and they had made no effort to get away when he cornered them. But they had to be investigated. Even if they were innocent, they might, in the course of their nocturnal exploration of the second-class facilities, have spotted someone on the prowl.

  That brought the name of Max Hirsch into play, and it leapfrogged immediately over those of the miners to the top of the list of suspects. Hirsch’s predilection for silver had already been demonstrated, and he had been seen flitting up a companionway the previous night. Dillman wondered if Stanley Rosenwald’s silver snuffbox was hidden away in Hirsch’s cabin, along with the rest of his spoils. One thing was clear: Two immigrants from the Welsh valleys would hardly have any use for a snuffbox; it was hardly standard issue in the coal-mining industry. Bowen and Price would probably never have seen such an item before, let alone possessed one. Dillman came slowly around to the view that Rosenwald’s property had followed the same route as the silver saltcellar and the pepper pot. It was time to reacquaint himself with Hirsch.

  When he returned to the dining saloon, Dillman had a discreet word with the chief steward about the seating arrangements on the previous evening. Swift inquiries were made among the staff. The waiter who had served Stanley Rosenwald and his wife remembered the man very well because the American had left such a generous tip. He indicated the table at which the couple had been sitting. Dillman was satisfied. The table was adjacent to the one from which Max Hirsch had removed the cruet set. If, as was likely, Rosenwald had taken a pinch of snuff at some stage, the thief could not f
ail to have noticed the silver box.

  Dillman checked the position of the three other victims whose names had been given him by the purser, but none had been seated anywhere near Hirsch. That did not matter. The proximity of the silver snuffbox was enough to lend extra weight to Dillman’s suspicions.

  Hirsch had to be questioned again, but a second interrogation, Dillman realized, might have to be delayed. When the detective caught sight of him, he saw that the man was at one of the tables in an alcove, holding forth to his companions with such authority that they all gaped at him in admiration. One of the people at the table was exhibiting more than admiration. Seated beside Hirsch, touching his arm affectionately as he made them all burst into laughter, was the woman whom Dillman had seen him paying his attentions to on the previous evening. Short, stout, and wearing a wide-brimmed hat, she was holding middle age at bay with mixed success, but friendship with Max Hirsch had apparently taken years off her manner. Teeth bared in an adoring smile, she was gazing at him with an almost girlish intensity.

  It was not the ideal moment for Dillman to speak to his prime suspect. In any case, he did not get the opportunity. Another priority suddenly beckoned as Alexandra Jarvis came trotting across the room to beam up at him.

  “There you are, Mr. Dillman,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Hello, Ally,” he said fondly.

  “Come and join us. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Before he could stop her, the girl grabbed him by the hand to lead him off.

  Because her maiden voyage was in November, when a rough crossing was feared, the Mauretania was not full to capacity. Nevertheless, she was carrying a record number of passengers for that time of year, and there was certainly no visible sign of a shortage of numbers in first class. Almost every table was taken in the dining saloon for Sunday luncheon. It was one of the most spectacular rooms in the vessel. Set on two levels on the upper and shelter decks, the saloon was designed in the style of Francois I, each panel of light oak with a different carving, with the richer and more elaborate work in the lower half of the panels. The splendid glass dome, a thing of wonder in itself, gave the upper half of the saloon an additional sense of light and space. Between the two rooms was an open space, defined by the carved balustrade that encircled the upper area with decorative solidity.