Murder on the Mauretania

by Conrad Allen

  Genevieve Masefield was glad there was no room for them in the upper section, where tables could accommodate from two to six guests. Instead of being an exclusive unit, she and her friends had to share with four complete strangers a table for ten in the lower section. What pleased her even more was that she collected a courteous nod of acknowledgment from Orvill Delaney as she took her seat. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Ruth Constantine.

  “Someone you know, Genevieve?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said the other. “Mr. Delaney.”

  “An American, by any chance?”

  “From Wisconsin. He gave me some advice about what to read.”

  “Is he an author or something?”

  “No, Ruth. I think he’s what you would describe as a man of means.”

  “He looks prosperous enough,” said Donald Belfrage with condescension. “I’ll grant him that. But where does his wealth come from, that’s what I want to know.”

  “The slave trade probably,” suggested Harvey Denning mischievously.

  “That wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

  “He’s not like us, darling,” said Theodora Belfrage. “We have Old Money.”

  “What does it matter where it comes from,” said Ruth crisply, “as long as you have it? Besides, I don’t think that you can occupy the moral high ground with an entirely clear conscience, Donald. I seem to recall that one of your illustrious ancestors owned a fleet of ships that was engaged in the slave trade.”

  “That was almost a century ago!” protested Belfrage.

  “Quite,” she said. “Old Money.”

  “The slave trade has long been abolished, Ruth.”

  “Except inside marriage.”

  “That’s an appalling thing to say,” squeaked Theodora.

  “Ruth was only joking,” soothed her husband.

  “If only I were!” sighed Ruth.

  “I think that Mr. Delaney looks more like a captain of industry,” decided Susan Faulconbridge, stealing a glance at him over her shoulder. “Something deliciously vulgar. An oil magnate perhaps.”

  “I’d say he owns a steelworks,” said Theodora. “Or something equally beastly.”

  “Beastly, but essential,” Denning argued.

  “Congratulations, Harvey,” teased Ruth. “Your first sensible comment today.”

  “And your first pleasant remark to me, my darling,” he countered. “But you’re all way off the mark. My guess is that Genevieve’s new friend is a newspaper tycoon.” He smiled at her. “Am I right?”

  “Not exactly,” she replied.

  “Then what is he? A politician? He looks wily enough.”

  “Politicians are not wily,” said Theodora with a protective hand on her husband’s arm. “Donald is going into Parliament one day. Nobody would call him wily.”

  “Certainly not!” murmured Ruth.

  “Donald is a man of real integrity.”

  “Let’s put the dazzling career of Donald Augustus Belfrage, M.P., aside for a moment,” Denning interrupted. “I want to hear about the mysterious Mr. Delaney. Tell us the truth, Genevieve. What is he?”

  “A timber merchant,” she explained. “At least he was.”

  Susan was horrified. “A lumberjack!” she exclaimed.

  “Far from it, Susan. He inherited thousands of acres of forest.”

  “And made his living by chopping down trees.”

  “Mr. Delaney didn’t need to swing an ax. He could employ others to do that for him. His real interest is in literature,” she continued. “He’s a very cultured man.”

  “Yes,” said Denning with light sarcasm. “I can just see him, trapped in some remote lumber camp, reeking of stale perspiration after a day of sawing up logs and reading Bret Harte by the light of the fire.”

  “O. Henry is his favorite, actually.”

  “Who?” asked Theodora.

  “An American writer,” explained Genevieve.

  “Well, I’ve never heard of him,” said the other as if that were the sole criterion of literary excellence. “Have you, Donald?”

  “Of course not,” replied her husband. “Why are we talking about Americans anyway?” He brought a fist down on the table. “We’re British through and through and we should be proud of the fact!”

  “You should work that sentence into your political speeches,” said Denning waspishly. “It has such a ring of originality.”

  “Why are you being so cruel to Donald?” asked Theodora, flapping a hand at Harvey. “You and Ruth are doing it all the time.”

  “Only because we love him,” said Denning with a conciliatory smile.

  “They’re jealous of him, Theo,” confided Susan, “that’s all. Everyone is. I mean, he’s got everything. A beautiful home, a happy marriage, a glittering career ahead. That’s my definition of perfection. What more does he need?”

  “A brain?” muttered Ruth under her breath.

  Donald Belfrage was saved from any further sniping by the arrival of the guests who were obliged to share their table. The waiter escorted them to their seats, and the four newcomers exchanged a flurry of nods with the incumbent diners. The two couples who settled down at the other end of the table were middle-aged, patently English, and endearingly old-fashioned. Indeed, one of the husbands, a tall man with muttonchop whiskers and a rubicund complexion, wore the attire and manner of a mid-Victorian pater familias. Their presence imposed a restraint and formality on the proceedings. Harvey Denning acted as an interlocutor between the two parties, but it was Genevieve who profited most. Sitting alongside the Victorian gentleman, she engaged him and his wife in conversation and was amazed to learn how progressive some of their ideas were. They had sent their son to be educated at Harvard, and since he had married and settled down in Albany, New York, they were now planning to visit him with their friends for an extended vacation.

  A general discussion began on the relative merits of English and American universities, and Donald Belfrage rid himself cheerfully of his worst prejudices before telling the newcomers about his moment of triumph in the Boat Race. Pleased to widen her circle of acquaintances, Genevieve nevertheless kept one eye on the rest of the saloon, looking for the telltale signs that Dillman had warned about. She saw nothing untoward, however, though she knew that by the law of averages, at least someone in such a large gathering would have criminal inclinations. Harvey Denning was utterly charming toward the quartet at their table, and Ruth Constantine showed a more compassionate side to her nature, expressing genuine sympathy when one of the newcomers talked about her recent bout of illness.

  Though he was sitting some distance away, Orvill Delaney was never far from Genevieve’s thoughts, and whenever she glanced in his direction, his friendly gaze always met hers. She was sorry when he and his companions finished their meal and left the saloon. Unknown to Genevieve, her own departure was imminent. She had just eaten her dessert when a waiter brought a note for her. As soon as she read it, she rose to her feet and excused herself from the table.

  Susan Faulconbridge tried to identify the mystery correspondent. “It’s from that lumberjack,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “That Mr. Delaney.”

  * * *

  “I’m terribly sorry to put you to all this trouble, Mr. Dillman,” he said meekly. “I’m sure you have more important things to do.”

  “Nothing is more important than recovering stolen property, sir.”

  “If indeed it was stolen.”

  “Is there any doubt about that?” asked Dillman.

  “Only a very slight one.”

  The purser’s description of Stanley Rosenwald was quite accurate. The man was mild-mannered, with a bearing of excessive politeness. Of average height and with a sallow complexion, Rosenwald had a substantial paunch that was largely disguised by a resourceful tailor. His wife Miriam was equally unassuming, a quiet little mouse of a woman in an expensive but totally anonymous gray dress. Both were verging on old age, but Dillman suspected that they might have re
ached it, in some ways, several years earlier. The interview took place in the Rosenwald cabin. They were sitting, while the detective remained on his feet.

  “A slight doubt, you say?” probed Dillman.

  “Yes,” said the other. “I can be rather careless at times, can’t I, Miriam?”

  “Not really, Stanley,” she said loyally.

  “What about that invitation card I mislaid?”

  “That was quite different.”

  “The fact is, Mr. Dillman,” he said, looking up at their visitor, “there is an outside possibility that I may simply have put the snuffbox down somewhere and forgotten to pick it up. Unlikely, I grant you, but not impossible.”

  “Where do you normally keep it, Mr. Rosenwald?” asked Dillman.

  “In my waistcoat pocket,” he explained, opening his coat, revealing the paunch. He jabbed a finger into the appropriate pocket. “Right here. I always carry it with me.”

  “And you had it during dinner yesterday evening?”

  “No question about that, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Did you take it out in the course of the meal?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Rosenwald firmly. “That’s one thing I’m never careless about. I always have one of my pills after I’ve eaten.”

  “Your pills, sir?”

  “That’s what I keep in the box. I don’t take snuff, Mr. Dillman. I think it’s a disgusting habit. An occasional cigar is the height of my indulgence. No, the snuffbox was a present from my dear wife.”

  “Stanley needed a box for his pills,” she explained. “I saw it in an antiques shop.”

  Rosenwald smiled benignly. “Miriam spoils me.”

  “You deserve the best,” she murmured.

  Dillman was satisfied that the silver snuffbox had been visible during the meal and might conceivably have been noticed by a vigilant diner at an adjacent table. He jotted down details of Stanley Rosenwald’s movements since the man had been aboard and was also given a loving description of the stolen item.

  “If you need some more pills, sir,” he suggested, “you should get a prescription from Dr. Hordern. The dispensary is well stocked and the pharmacist should be able to provide you with what you need.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Dillman,” said the other. “I always carry an emergency supply with me. In the circumstances, it’s just as well.” He put a hand on his wife’s arm. “But we would appreciate the return of that snuffbox.”

  “I’ll do my best to track down the thief.”

  “My problem was that it took me such a long time to accept that it might actually have been stolen. I prefer to think well of my fellow man,” admitted Rosenwald with a sad smile. “I suppose that I’m a little too ready to trust people.”

  “The vast majority of passengers are entirely trustworthy,” Dillman assured him, “but we may have the odd villain in our midst as well. Finding him is my job. Meanwhile, I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell anyone about this.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t dare do that, Mr. Dillman.”

  “It’s too embarrassing,” added his wife.

  “Keep it to yourselves,” advised the detective, closing his pad. “There’s no point in spreading unnecessary alarm among the other passengers. And I hope you won’t let this incident spoil your enjoyment of the voyage.”

  “We won’t,” said Rosenwald. “It’s a privilege to sail on the Mauretania.”

  “Unfortunately, someone has abused that privilege. I’ll do everything in my power to hunt him down,” promised Dillman. “Carry on as if nothing has happened. Have you made many new friends since you’ve been aboard?”

  “A few, Mr. Dillman. But then it’s difficult not to make friends in such a cordial atmosphere. And, of course, we’d already met some of our fellow passengers on the boat train. That helped to break the ice, didn’t it, Miriam?”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “The Sinclairs are a delightful young couple. We had the feeling that they’re on their honeymoon. It was the way they kept looking at each other. Oh, and Mrs. Cameron is a lovely woman.”

  “To be frank,” resumed her husband, “we’re rather shy in public, so we were very grateful to share a compartment with someone who took control of the introductions. He was so adept at bringing people out. It was remarkable. We set out as a group of complete strangers, but—thanks to him—we arrived in Liverpool as firm friends.”

  “We owe it all to Mr. Hirsch,” said Miriam Rosenwald.

  Dillman blinked. “You shared a compartment with a Mr. Hirsch?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “Max Hirsch. Such pleasant company.”

  Genevieve Masefield was pleased to be given a specific assignment at last. Hers had been a mere watching spell until now, and she’d felt a trifle guilty to be enjoying all the delights of first-class travel without having to pay for them. She now had an opportunity to earn her keep in another way. Dillman’s note had sent her hurrying to his cabin, where he had given her the details of the thefts, then issued his instructions. When he went off to make contact with the owner of a silver snuffbox, Genevieve returned to the first-class dining saloon, established from the chief steward that Mrs. Dalkeith was not there, so repaired to the latter’s cabin. A thin, anxious, breathy young woman in a maid’s uniform invited her in, then vanished swiftly into the adjoining room so that Genevieve could speak alone with Mrs. Cynthia Dalkeith.

  Having had her luncheon served in the privacy of the cabin, the old lady was fairly quiescent, reclining in a chair and looking remarkably well preserved for her years. She was fleshy without being fat, poised without being arrogant. Genevieve took note of the delicately embroidered long blue skirt and the zoave jacket in a navy hue, trimmed with gilt braid applied in a serpentine fashion. Beneath the jacket was a white silk blouse. At her neck, like a bejeweled Adam’s apple, was a large black-and-gold brooch that bobbed up and down as she spoke. Her mottled fingers were encrusted with diamond rings. There was a thick gold bangle on her left wrist. Evidently, Mrs. Dalkeith liked to display her wealth. Dillman had warned his colleague about the old lady’s sharp tongue and fierce temper, so Genevieve trod carefully, introducing herself with a respectful smile and explaining her role on the vessel.

  Mrs. Dalkeith was caught between astonishment and disbelief.

  “You’re far too young to be a detective,” she said, peering at her visitor and speaking with a light Edinburgh accent. “And far, far too beautiful.”

  “Nevertheless, that is what I am, Mrs. Dalkeith.”

  “And you’re going to find my gold watch for me?”

  “I hope so.”

  “How?”

  “With a combination of inquiry and persistence.”

  “But what will you do when you catch the thief?” asked the other with concern. “You could hardly overpower the wretch and drag him off to the captain. Suppose the man turns violent? You could be hurt, Miss Masefield.”

  “In the event of violence, I have someone to help me.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that.”

  She waved Genevieve to a chair, then summoned the maid to pour them each a cup of tea. The latter was summarily dismissed with a flick of the hand before Mrs. Dalkeith resumed the conversation. She stirred her tea with methodical care.

  “I must have that watch back,” she declared.

  “Rest assured that we’ll do all we can to recover it,” said Genevieve, opening her purse to take out a pencil and a small notebook. “Now, if you would, please, I’d like you to tell me exactly when you discovered that the watch was missing.”

  “I’ve given all the details to the purser.”

  “I’d like to check them, Mrs. Dalkeith, to be absolutely sure. There may be a few things that you forgot to tell Mr. Buxton.”

  “That’s true,” conceded the old lady. “I was quite upset when I reported the theft. Rightly so, Miss Masefield. I mean, one doesn’t expect to be robbed in broad daylight on the Cunard Line.”

  “Are you certain that the theft occurred d
uring the day?”

  “Well, no. I’m not, to be quite candid.”

  “Let’s go back to yesterday evening,” said Genevieve patiently. “Describe your movements from the time you stepped aboard. Presumably, you were wearing the watch when you embarked.”

  “Of course.”

  “What happened then?”

  Cynthia Dalkeith needed a long sip of tea before she could begin. The river-delta of lines on her face acquired new tributaries as she summoned up her concentration, going over the events of the previous evening as if picking her way barefoot over a pathway strewn with sharp stones. Valuable new details emerged and went straight into her notebook. When the recital ended, Genevieve allowed herself a drink of tea from her own cup. Mrs. Dalkeith adjusted the brooch at her throat.

  “Was that helpful, Miss Masefield?” she asked.

  “Extremely helpful.”

  “It’s so much nicer talking to you than to Mr. Buxton. It wasn’t only the robbery that annoyed me, it was that foul smell of pipe tobacco in his cabin. It set me on edge. Mind you,” she added with a shrill laugh, “the purser was very fortunate.”

  “Fortunate?”

  “Having to deal with me rather than with my husband. Alistair really does have a vicious tongue. Compared to him, I’m a model of restraint.” She laughed again. “Alistair always says that I’m a West Highland terrier, while he’s a man-eating tiger. All I did to Mr. Buxton was to nip at his ankles. My husband would have torn him to shreds.”

  “He’s not on the voyage, I take it?” said Genevieve.

  “No, he’s already in New York. We have family there. If I was going to travel all that way again, I wanted to do it on the maiden voyage of the Mauretania.” Her voice darkened. “Though I didn’t expect to be robbed in the process.”

  “You have my sympathy, Mrs. Dalkeith.”

  “I need a lot more than that to smooth my ruffled feathers.”