Murder on the Mauretania

by Conrad Allen

  “Understandably.” Genevieve glanced down at her notes. “When you visited the ladies’ room yesterday, you took off your watch to wash your hands. Did you also remove your rings, Mrs. Dalkeith?”

  “Of course. I always do. Don’t you?”

  “The rings and the watch were set down beside you. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was anybody else in there with you at the time?”

  “Three or four people.”

  “Did any of them stand next to you?”

  “A French lady in a rather appalling green dress that was most unbecoming. I know that the French have a reputation for setting fashion,” she said tartly, “but it’s very undeserved in my opinion. This lady was a case in point. She was too old and far too overweight to appear in public in such an unsuitable evening dress.”

  “Do you happen to know the lady’s name?” wondered Genevieve.

  “I’m afraid not, but I could easily identify her.” Her jaw tightened vengefully. “You don’t think that she might have taken my watch?”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Dalkeith. I’m just wondering if she might have noticed when you put it back on again. Along with your rings. But you say that there were other people in the room with you,” said Genevieve. “Might any of them have seen you taking the watch off and putting it back on?”

  “Only that American lady.”

  “American lady?”

  “Yes, Miss Masefield. She spent a lot of time in front of the mirror, brushing her hair and applying a little rouge to her cheeks. Heaven knows why. I would have thought that she was the last person who needed to worry about her appearance.”

  “Why is that, Mrs. Dalkeith?”

  Scrutinizing her visitor, the old lady spoke with a slightly wistful air. “Because she was almost as beautiful as you are.”

  SEVEN

  Mansell Price and Glyn Bowen were thoroughly chastened. Having spoken to some of the other immigrants on board, they came to see their own situation in a new light. Compared to the predicaments that others were facing, they had every reason for optimism. Both were young, healthy, and accustomed to hard physical work. They had a variety of laboring skills to offer. More to the point, they lacked the family commitments that hindered so many of their fellow passengers in steerage. One unemployed Irish navvy who embarked in Queenstown had a wife, three children, and a disabled sister in tow. They had barely managed to scrape together the money for the voyage. Another family, from Cumbria, five in number, had been evicted from their tied cottage by a vindictive farmer, who ensured that the laborer got no more work in the county by spreading cruel lies about him. Despair was driving the man and his young family to travel three thousand miles across the ocean in search of a new life.

  Other tales were even more harrowing. Some people scarcely owned more than the clothes in which they were standing. Most had no idea of what they would do once they reached New York, or indeed if they would even be allowed into America. Among the immigrants, there was a stench of poverty and a quiet sense of panic. The incongruity was startling. On the most elite liner in existence, the bulk of the passengers were beleaguered human beings making a last bid for survival. The two Welshmen had seen widespread deprivation in the Welsh valleys but nothing on the scale that surrounded them now. Glyn Bowen was shocked.

  “Did you notice his wife?” he asked. “That bloke from Wigan, I mean.”

  “Aye, mun,” said Price.

  “She was all skin and bone. I thought she was forty, not twenty-one.”

  “It was that kid that worried me, Glyn. Too weak even to cry. He just clung to his mother. You wonder if they’ll even make it to New York alive.”

  “Maybe we’re not so badly off after all, Mansell.”

  “Matter of opinion.”

  “Against some of this lot, we’re rich.”

  “Well, I don’t feel rich,” said Price rancorously. “I’m sorry for these other poor blokes, but we have to look out for ourselves, Glyn. Fact is, we’re going to land in New York with empty pockets and slim prospects. Where do we go from there?”

  “We’ll find something.”

  “Will we?”

  They were standing on the main deck, wrapped up against a searching wind in flimsy overcoats, woolen scarves, and flat caps. Sobered by his contact with the other passengers, Bowen was trying to remain positive and make the most of the voyage, but Price was a malcontent. He pointed an accusing finger upward.

  “That’s where the rich people are,” he sneered. “Up there in first class, drinking their champagne and eating their five-course meals. Well, you saw what second class was like, Glyn. Luxury, compared to what we have to put up with down here. First class is even better than that. Cost us more than a year’s wages to have a berth there.”

  “Some people have all the luck.”

  “Why them and not us?”

  “They were born to it, Mansell,” Bowen replied with a fatalistic shrug. “All we were born to was a life down the pit. Just like our fathers.”

  “Your father maybe,” retorted the other vehemently. “He’s still swinging a pick at the coal face right now. Not my dad. When the roof collapsed on him, he was trapped for days before they dug him out. And what did the bastards do?”

  “Took him home to your mam on a stretcher.”

  “With nothing but a blanket thrown over him,” recalled Price, eyes smoldering. “Mam fainted when she saw him. Someone came ’round next day and gave her a five-pound note like they was doing us a favor. Thirty years down that hellhole and all he’s worth is five quid!” He spat over the bulwark. “That isn’t going to happen to me, I tell you. I’m not going to be buried alive under tons of coal because some clever fool of a manager, who works above ground, doesn’t know how many pit props are needed to shore up a tunnel. Mam won’t ever have me brought home on a stretcher.”

  “But she’ll miss you, Mansell.”

  “Can’t be helped. I had to go.”

  “So did I.”

  “It’s a dog’s life.”

  “Got to be better in America.”

  Price nodded. “Let’s get out of this bloody wind,” he said irritably.

  They headed for the lounge, a cavernous space with a functional air about it, lined with wood paneling and built to accommodate the large number of steerage passengers in revolving chairs that were fixed to the floor. As they entered, one of the stewards was coming toward them, a jaunty little Irishman with a tray under his arm. Price’s manner changed at once. He grinned at the steward and adopted a familiar tone.

  “Hang on a minute, boyo,” he said. “Want to ask you something.”

  “Yes, sir?” said the steward.

  “Is it true we got a fortune in gold aboard?”

  “You know it is, Mansell,” said Glyn.

  “I want to hear it from someone in authority,” returned the other, silencing him with a glare. He grinned at the steward again. “Is it?”

  “Yes,” replied the Irishman, “but you’re not hearing that from someone in autority, sir. Steward in third class is about as low as you can get on board. The ship’s mascot has more autority than I do. As for the gold, there’s heaps of the stuff here. Enough to keep every man jack of us in clover for the rest of our lives.”

  “And where’s it kept?” asked Price.

  “In the security room.”

  “Under armed guard?”

  “Who knows? I’ll never get near it, that’s for certain.”

  “Did you see it come aboard?”

  “Now that I did,” confessed the steward. “A small army of railway police brought it to the dockside. The boxes were unloaded one by one.”

  “Boxes? What kind of boxes?”

  “Drop it, Mansell,” said Bowen uneasily.

  “How big were they?”

  “Oh—so big,” explained the steward, tucking the tray between his legs and holding his arms apart to indicate dimensions. “And heavy as lead. You could see that from the way the
y lifted them.” He grabbed the tray again. “Anyway, I have to be off.”

  “One last question,” said Price.

  “No, Mansell,” urged his friend.

  “Keep out of this, Glyn.”

  “But this is ridiculous, mun.”

  “Shut your gob, will you!” He turned to the steward. “Don’t mind him.”

  “What’s this last question, sir?”

  Price tried to sound casual. “Where is this security room?” he asked.

  Max Hirsch was singularly elusive. George Porter Dillman made three circuits of the second-class section and two visits to the man’s cabin before he finally ran him to ground. Wearing a fur-collared overcoat and a black homburg, Hirsch was about to go out on deck. Dillman touched his arm to restrain him.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Hirsch,” he said politely. “Might I have a word?”

  “As long as it’s a quick one,” replied Hirsch, looking over his shoulder. “I’ve arranged to go for a stroll on deck with a friend.”

  “Talking of friends, sir, I believe that you know a Mr. and Mrs. Rosenwald.”

  “Stanley and Miriam? Yes, they were in my compartment on the boat train. Nice people. Very civilized. I’ve never met a couple who were so shy. Not a common failing among Americans, is it? I got on very well with both of them.”

  “So they say.”

  “Has anything happened to them?” asked the other with mild concern.

  “Mr. Rosenwald had something stolen, I’m afraid.”

  Hirsch clicked his tongue. “I’m sorry to hear that. What was it?”

  “A few other things went astray in the night as well.”

  “That’s a rather poor advertisement for Cunard security,” mocked Hirsch.

  Dillman did not rise to the bait. “After we spoke last night,” he said evenly, “did you have reason to leave your cabin at all?”

  “What’s that to you?”

  “I’d like to know, please.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “Do I need to spell it out for you, Mr. Hirsch?”

  “Ah!” exclaimed the other as if it had just dawned on him. “I get it now. You think I’m the culprit. It all fits. You believe that as soon as you left me, I sneaked off to the Rosenwald cabin and stole whatever it is that was taken.” He smirked. “By the way, what was it? Money? Jewelry? State secrets of some kind?”

  “A silver snuffbox.”

  “Oh, I remember that. Stanley was so proud of it.”

  “He showed it to you?”

  “Of course. On the train. After I’d shown him my silver cigarette case.”

  “So you know where Mr. Rosenwald kept it.”

  “In his waistcoat pocket. There were pills in that box, not snuff. I teased him about it, actually,” said Hirsch with a chuckle. “I asked him if he kept his snuff in a pillbox.”

  “Let’s go back to last night,” said Dillman.

  Hirsch checked his watch. “Must we?” he sighed.

  “Yes, sir. Did you leave your cabin?”

  “I may have.”

  “Can’t you remember?”

  “I just don’t see that it’s relevant, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Then let me be a little more explicit,” said the other, stepping in closer. “Three cabins were entered last night by a thief. Valuable items were stolen. You had already been apprehended earlier on, helping yourself to a silver saltcellar and a pepper pot from the dining saloon.”

  “I explained that,” said Hirsch in anguished tones. “They were a gift for my wife.”

  “Husbands tend to buy gifts, sir—not steal them.”

  “I was impulsive.”

  “Thieves often use that excuse.”

  “Rachel has a thing about silver. I told you that.”

  “Yes, sir. You did. So why did you leave your cabin last night?”

  “What makes you think I did, Mr. Dillman?”

  “Because I saw you, sir.”

  He looked deep into Hirsch’s eyes and saw a momentary flicker. The suspect recovered his composure with great speed. Putting a hand in his pocket, he took out a key and offered it to Dillman.

  “Go on,” he encouraged. “Take it. Search my cabin. Find all this loot I’m supposed to have taken. Stanley Rosenwald’s silver snuffbox is hidden inside one of my black shoes, by the way. Why not start with that?”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm, sir.”

  “Then get off my back, Mr. Dillman,” he said, pocketing the key once more. “Yes, I did leave my cabin last night, but only because I wanted some fresh air. I went out on deck for a stroll. If you really saw me, you’d have noticed I was wearing this coat.” He undid the buttons and held it wide open. “And in case you think I’ve got the booty sewn into the lining, give this the once-over while you’re at it.”

  “There’s no point, Mr. Hirsch. We both know that.”

  “Yes, my friend. We also know that it’s perfectly legitimate for any passenger to move about the ship of his own free will whenever he or she chooses. I was simply exercising that right. If you have evidence to the contrary,” he taunted, buttoning his coat again, “show it to me right now or stop pestering me.”

  Dillman hesitated. Before he could speak, another voice rang out behind him.

  “Where’ve you been, Max? I’ve been waiting for ages.”

  “I’m sorry, Agnes,” said Hirsch, a picture of contrition. “I was on my way when I was intercepted by Mr. Dillman here.” He beamed at the detective. “Have you met Mrs. Cameron?” he asked, then turned back to her. “Agnes, this is Mr. Dillman.”

  “Oh, how do you do?” she said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cameron,” he replied with a reflex smile.

  Her hand emerged from the muff to shake his. Though she was immersed in a fur coat and hat, Dillman recognized her as the woman he had seen with Hirsch in the dining saloon. Clearly, their relationship had started in a compartment on the boat train. Agnes Cameron was a pleasant, pale-skinned Englishwoman with a mole on her left cheek that served as a kind of beauty spot. She gazed fondly at Max Hirsch. He offered his arm and she slipped a hand through it before tucking it back into her muff. On land he might be a loving husband but at sea, he allowed himself certain bachelor freedoms.

  “You’ll have to excuse us,” he said with a broad grin. “Mrs. Cameron and I have a lot to discuss. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” said Dillman, giving them a token wave of farewell and wondering why a woman like Agnes Cameron had been ensnared by Hirsch’s seedy charm.

  The two made an odd couple, but Dillman never made it his business to pass judgment on any nascent romances between passengers. There were far more unlikely pairings aboard, and others would develop over the next few days as the seductive power of oceanic travel worked on people’s emotions. He was annoyed with himself. After his brief confrontation with Hirsch, he was no nearer to deciding whether or not the man was involved in the spate of thefts. All that he had done was to alert him that he was under suspicion. Hirsch had, however, saved him the trouble of searching the cabin. Had any stolen property been hidden there, he would never have offered the key to Dillman with such blatant confidence. Firm evidence was needed, but before the detective could go in search of it, someone swooped down on him like a hungry seagull spotting a morsel of food.

  “Mr. Dillman!” she said with a cackle of triumph. “We can stop playing hide-and-seek at last. I want that long talk with you right now. Where shall we go?”

  Hester Littlejohn would not be denied.

  * * *

  Oliver Jarvis made a considered decision. Convinced that his children would be safe if they stayed together, he allowed them a degree of freedom that afternoon. It meant that he and his wife could spend some quiet time together in the lounge, unencumbered by his mother-in-law, who retired to her cabin to sleep off a gargantuan luncheon, or by Noel and Alexandra. The children, meanwhile, roamed the decks, stared at the sea, argued about the speed at which the vessel was going,
talked about what they would do when they reached New York, and engaged in the ceaseless banter of childhood. It was only when they stepped in out of the wind that Alexandra realized something. She stared up at the clock on the wall.

  “Is that the time?” she asked.

  “Yes, Ally.”

  “I’ve got to go!”

  “Where?” asked Noel.

  “Wait here for me!”

  “You can’t just run off.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Daddy said we had to stay together,” he reminded her.

  But the parental decree had already been forgotten. Alexandra went rushing off along a passageway, then turned a corner. Her brother set off in pursuit, wondering what could possibly have made her bolt like that. When he reached the corner, he turned into another long passageway, but it was quite deserted. Where had his sister gone? There were so many options. Companionways led up and down. At the far end of the passageway was a T junction that gave her further possibilities. Was it conceivable that Alexandra had gone into one of the cabins? Noel was puzzled and anxious. He knew that he would get a stinging reprimand from his parents if he returned to the lounge alone. They would blame him for Alexandra’s disappearance. He began a hasty search.

  The girl, meanwhile, was on the deck above, scampering toward a half-open door at the far end of a passageway. She was almost out of breath when she reached it. When she tapped on the door, it was opened immediately by one of the officers.

  “Hello, Alexandra,” he said. “I had a feeling that you might turn up.”

  “You told me that Bobo was always fed at set times.”

  “Oh, yes. He never misses his grub. You could set your watch by him.”

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  The officer stood back so that Alexandra could step into the cabin. On the floor in a corner was a plate with a few remnants of scraps that had just been eaten by the cat. With an urgent tongue, Bobo was now lapping up milk from a bowl. Alexandra waited until he had finished before she bent down to touch him. Licking his lips with satisfaction, he turned to look at the girl; then, with no warning, he hopped up onto her knee. Alexandra cradled him and stroked his fur with a gentle hand. The purring was like the revving of an engine.