by Conrad Allen
“Hello, Bobo,” she said. “Did you enjoy your meal?”
“He’s never let anyone pick him up before,” observed the officer. “Not even me.”
Alexandra giggled. “Bobo is my friend. Aren’t you, Bobo?”
By way of reply, the black cat rubbed his head softly against her arm.
Her patience was finally rewarded. Genevieve Masefield had no difficulty in identifying her. The woman had a natural beauty that was subtly enhanced by a sparing use of cosmetics and a stylish silk dress in a shade of green that matched her eyes. Though she seemed to be in her early twenties, there was a poise and maturity about her that hinted at more years than were at first apparent. Her smile, frugally used, seemed to light up her whole face. Genevieve watched her talking to a distinguished-looking man with a dark beard. Their conversation was long and intense. When it finally came to a close, the man rose to his feet, kissed her hand with great courtesy, then left the room. Genevieve got up from her own seat and glided across to the woman.
“Excuse me,” she said affably. “I wonder if I might have a word with you?”
“Of course,” replied the other. “Please sit down.”
“Thank you.” Genevieve lowered herself into the chair beside her. “My name is Genevieve Masefield, by the way.”
“Katherine Wymark,” said the other, appraising her. “To be honest, I was rather hoping for the opportunity to meet you, Miss Masefield. You aroused the envy of every woman in the dining saloon. Myself included.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Oh, come on. You must surely have grown used to being the center of attention by now. The women were envious because the men couldn’t take their eyes off you. There’s nothing to touch that classical English beauty,” she said with a confiding smile. “It has such purity. An all-American girl like me just can’t compete with that.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that you had any shortage of male attention,” remarked Genevieve pleasantly. “There are probably dozens of jealous women here who’d be only too glad to scratch your eyes out as well.”
“Not really, Miss Masefield. I’m spoken for, you’re not.” She held out her left hand to show off the gold wedding ring, partnered by an engagement ring that featured a large sapphire in a circle of diamonds. “It’s amazing what a difference that makes. But,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, “I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about that. What can I do for you?”
“Actually, I’ve come on behalf of a friend,” said Genevieve. “Mrs. Dalkeith.”
“I don’t believe I know the lady.”
“Your paths did cross yesterday evening. In the ladies’ room.”
Katherine Wymark gave a laugh. “My! This conversation is taking a strange turn,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Who is this friend of yours?”
“Mrs. Dalkeith is an elderly Scots lady. Gray-haired and dignified.”
“Oh, yes. I think I remember her. We exchanged a word or two.”
“Did you happen to notice that she removed her rings and her watch?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because the watch has gone astray,” said Genevieve, “and Mrs. Dalkeith wonders if she simply forgot to put it back on again after she’d washed her hands. She is rather prone to do something like that. But she’s dreadfully upset about the disappearance of the watch, so I offered to try to track it down.” She looked into the green eyes. “Do you recall seeing her leave the room without a gold watch?”
“No, Miss Masefield,” said the other firmly. “If I had, I’d have picked it straight up and gone after her. The truth is that I hardly looked at her. It’s not the kind of thing you do in those circumstances.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Though I do seem to recall someone else in there at the time. A French lady.”
“Madam Coutance. I’ve already spoken to her.”
“You have been diligent.”
“I promised to help Mrs. Dalkeith,” said Genevieve. “She’s very distressed.”
“Was this Madame Coutance able to help you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“And nothing was found in the ladies’ room when it was cleaned?”
“No, Mrs. Wymark. That was the first thing I checked.”
“Then the mystery thickens.” Katherine gave a wry smile. “I stepped in there only to brush my hair. I didn’t realize that I’d get involved in a search for a gold watch. Incidentally,” she wondered, “how did you know that I was even in the room? I didn’t give my name to your friend.”
“Mrs. Dalkeith gave me a clear description of you.”
“Yet she can’t remember if she put her watch back on or not. What a curious thing memory is! Well, Miss Masefield, I’m sorry I can’t help you.” Her eyes twinkled. “And I won’t embarrass you by asking what this ‘clear description’ of me was. Besides, I’m not sure I want to know how I’m viewed by an absentminded elderly Scots lady.”
“Very favorably.”
“I’ll settle for that and ask no more. So where will you go from here?”
Genevieve gave a shrug. “I’m not sure, to be honest.”
“Dozens of women must have been in and out of that room after we left. If the watch was there, any one of them might have picked it up. You could be in for a long search, Miss Masefield.”
“I know.”
“Good luck!”
“Thank you for talking with me, anyway.”
“My pleasure.”
Disappointed that she had made no progress in the search, Genevieve was nevertheless pleased to have met Katherine Wymark. She was an interesting woman, with an easy drawl in her voice and a relaxed manner. There was none of the reserve and formality that might have been encountered in an Englishwoman of the same age. Katherine had a sophistication that made friends like Theodora Belfrage and Susan Faulconbridge seem almost naïve. Even the worldly Ruth Constantine would have looked inexperienced beside her. There was a composure about Katherine Wymark that was formidable. Only one thing was troublesome: The woman was far too intelligent to believe that Genevieve was acting on behalf of an elderly lady out of the kindness of her heart. Genevieve’s disguise had been penetrated.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man approaching them and turned to face him. Orvill Delaney bore down on them with a magazine in his hand.
“Pardon this intrusion, ladies,” he said, distributing a smile evenly between the two of them. “I just wanted to give you this, Miss Masefield,” he explained, handing the magazine to her. “It has a story by O. Henry in it. I think you’ll appreciate it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Delaney.”
“And while I’m here, Mrs. Wymark,” he said, turning to face her, “could I ask you a favor, please? Remind your husband about that game of chess he promised me.”
“I will, Mr. Delaney.”
“No better way to end the day than with a game of chess.” He looked back at Genevieve. “And with a story by O. Henry, of course.”
“So, on balance, Mr. Dillman,” she concluded, “you’d prefer the Lusitania.”
“I didn’t say that, Mrs. Littlejohn.”
“But that’s what it amounts to. From what you’ve told me, it was obviously a memorable and exciting maiden voyage.”
“Yes,” agreed Dillman, “it certainly didn’t lack for excitement. And it gave me some very precious memories,” he confessed, thinking of Genevieve Masefield and the firstlings of their romance. “But that doesn’t mean I’d rate the Lusitania as the finer vessel. It’s far too early to judge. Ask me when we reach New York.”
“What about the interior decoration of the two ships?”
“I’d have to say that the Mauretania has the edge there. I hold the highest esteem for what Mr. Peto has done. He was known for his work on country houses before he got this commission, and he’s incorporated a lot of ideas from stately homes into the design. The paneling throughout is a revelation, and those lavish plaster ce
ilings are works of art. Everywhere you look,” he said with admiration, “there’s an arresting design feature.”
“I know,” said Hester Littlejohn. “I’ve used up half a dozen pencils just trying to list them. Harold Peto will certainly get a mention in my magazine. He’s left the stamp of his genius on this ship.”
“Even though that stamp can be a little too firm at times.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Dillman?”
“Well, he does tend to gild the lily,” argued Dillman. “In the first-class smoking room, for instance, the Italian Renaissance style is a trifle forced, I think. And I do have my doubts about those encrusted mullions.”
They were seated in the second-class lounge, sharing a pot of tea and their impressions of the vessel. Hester Littlejohn had a pad on her lab, but she was committing far more to memory than to the page. She was also making no secret of the fact that she enjoyed Dillman’s company, grinning at regular intervals and even touching his arm when he made a polite joke. Dillman gave a highly edited version of the maiden voyage of the Lusitania, concealing the fact that it was essentially a work assignment for him. There had been little time to relish the event.
Hester Littlejohn was as irrepressible as ever, wearing a traveling dress of a reddish hue that softened the contours of her body, and a brown cloth-and-felt hat shaded with plumes. Her eyes sparkled over the top of her glasses.
“Tell me about the things I can’t see, Mr. Dillman,” she invited.
“I’m not sure that I understand you,” he said.
“Well, I looked at all the public rooms when I was given a tour of the ship this morning with the rest of the scribblers. We were even given a glimpse of the bridge and allowed two minutes with Captain Pritchard. But it’s difficult to get the proper measure of a vessel when you’re being shunted around in a group.”
“What else would you like to know?”
“What happens out of sight. In the boiler rooms, for example.”
“I don’t think your readers would be interested in that.”
“I am, Mr. Dillman.”
“Then you’ll need some basic knowledge of engineering to understand how the steam turbines work. They’re geared to quadruple screw propellers that are capable of generating a speed of approximately twenty-five knots under good conditions.”
“Such as we have now.”
“Exactly,” he confirmed. “The Mauretania has twenty-five boilers, a hundred and ninety-two furnaces, and a storage capacity for six thousand tons of coal. That may sound like a lot, but then we use up a thousand tons of coal a day. Think of how much shoveling is involved in that, Mrs. Littlejohn,” he said solemnly. “While you and I are sitting here, those boilers are being fed by the real heroes aboard this ship. Out of sight.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. How much are they paid?”
“Who?”
“The men who sweat away in the boiler room.”
“The different grades have different wages. The chief engineer and his officers will obviously be at the top of the tree.”
“I’m talking about the men who do the hard work. How many of them are there?”
“Oh,” he said, scratching his head, “I couldn’t give you an exact figure. My guess is that we have around two hundred firemen and over half that number of trimmers. Those are the men who bring the coal from the bunkers to the boilers. Then there are around thirty greasers, I’d say. All told, I reckon there won’t be far short of four hundred men in the engineering department.”
“Yet I haven’t seen a single one of them.”
“Do you ever see motormen when you ride the train, Mrs. Littlejohn?”
“No, that’s true.”
“It’s a world apart down there in the boiler room. Stokers earn their wages.”
“But do they get their just deserts?” she pressed. “Or are they cruelly exploited by the Cunard Line?” She saw his look of surprise. “I think you have the wrong idea about the Ladies’ Weekly Journal, Mr. Dillman. We don’t only give our readers nice recipes and offer them guidance with regard to fashion and etiquette. The magazine does have a conscience as well. Are you familiar with the name of Ida Tarbell?”
“Of course,” he replied. “She published a series of articles in McClure’s, exposing the coercion and double-dealing in the oil business. Mr. Rockefeller was hopping mad with the woman they called Miss Tarbarrel. I happen to think she performed a great public service. Standard Oil had a monopoly, and that can so easily lead to corruption.”
“I knew we’d talk the same language!” she said, patting his knee. “My magazine can’t match McClure’s or Munsey’s, or even the Ladies’ Home Journal, but my editor does like to court controversy from time to time. That’s why I’ve been sniffing around, you see. I’ve talked to stewards, cooks, bakers, mail sorters, barbers, even the two typists aboard. Most are too loyal to Cunard, but one of the stewardesses told me what she was paid. It’s pitiful. Without tips, her income would be derisory.”
“Cunard pays as well as anyone else afloat.”
“That’s no excuse, Mr. Dillman. They should give their lowliest employees a decent wage. That’s why I want to find out about the stokers and those other men. What did you say they’re called?”
“Trimmers. Though I’d warn you against a direct approach.”
“Why?”
“The language is a little raw down there, Mrs. Littlejohn. I’m afraid you’d get rather more than a flea in your ear. Stick to the stewardesses,” advised Dillman. “That’s more of a human-interest story for your readers. There are only ten stewardesses aboard the ship and two matrons, a tiny percentage of the entire crew. Why not examine the women’s role in a male environment? I’d have thought that was worth investigation.”
“I’m ahead of you there,” she said, flipping back through the pages of her notebook. “I’ve got lots of material along those lines. But I’d like something more sensational as well. You know,” she said, grinning happily. “A strike by underpaid laundry stewards. A mutiny among the stokers. Or even,” she added, patting his knee again, “a daring gold-bullion robbery. That would give me the hottest story of all!”
A man’s shadow fell across the door of the security room. A hand reached out to touch the locks in sequence, caressing the last one with affectionate fingers. Every detail of the door was noted with care. It was tested by a shoulder that applied slow but firm pressure. The visitor was content with his findings, and the shadow swiftly flitted away.
EIGHT
Dinner that evening was a much more formal affair in the first-class dining saloon. On the day of departure, there had been no dress code and diners had worn a variety of apparel, from the ostentatious to the dowdy, from the elegant to the downright casual.
Sunday brought an entirely different mood. Evening dress was the norm, and passengers seized the opportunity to put on their finery. While the gentlemen paraded in white ties and tails, the ladies took their most striking gowns from their wardrobes and added a stunning array of diamond brooches, pearl necklaces, ruby rings, gold bracelets, and glittering tiaras with which to set them off. Silk and satin swished the floor as people glided into the room to the strains of the orchestra. Seated at the helm of his own table, the captain was in his best uniform, radiating goodwill. Waiters, too, were at their smartest, taking up their posts with starched and gleaming readiness. The first night on the Atlantic Ocean promised to be a festive occasion in every sense.
Because they were dining in the saloon that evening, Genevieve Masefield agreed to join the five friends she had made on the boat train. Had the invitation been to the regal suite occupied by Donald and Theodora Belfrage, she would have been less willing to accept, and she was not quite sure of how she would react when the couple did decide to host a dinner party in their cabin.
Genevieve had looked forward to Sunday evening. Apart from the fact that she could keep the saloon under surveillance while appearing to be only one more guest at a table, she had
the opportunity to raid her own wardrobe, choosing, after some deliberation, her black-velvet evening gown trimmed with pink and red rosettes. Her hair was swept up at the back and held in position by a comb of black jet edged with silver. Around her neck she wore a silver pendant that gleamed against the soft whiteness of her half exposed shoulders. Admiring herself in the mirror, Genevieve felt for a moment that she was a genuine first-class passenger, but the illusion soon faded when a sharp tap on the door brought her back to reality.
Harvey Denning had come to call for her. She opened the door to be greeted by his smiling face. He gave a courteous bow. There was no sign of Susan Faulconbridge.
“Ah!” he said with an expression of dismay. “I’ve come too late.”
“For what?” she asked.
“To lend assistance to a lady, of course. I rather hoped that there’d be a necklace to fasten or a dress to be hooked at the back. Is there nothing left for me to do?”
“I’m afraid not, Harvey.”
“That’s not what a gentleman likes to hear.”
“It’s what this one has to be told,” she said, running an approving eye over him. “You look as if you were born to wear tails, by the way. A study in elegance.”
“Then I’m a fitting escort for a beautiful lady in a dress that borders on the ethereal,” he complimented, “even if it induces thoughts that are a little more terrestrial. Are you sure there are no final touches I can help you with?” he asked, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper. “I’m known for my deft fingers.”
“It must be all that practice you get at dealing cards.”
“There’s more to life than a game of bridge, Genevieve.”
“I had the impression that life is a game of bridge to you,” she said pleasantly. “You seem so attuned to winning each round. Well, I am ready, as it happens. If you wait a second, I’ll be right with you.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“We don’t want to keep the others waiting, do we?”
“Oh, dear!” he said with mock horror. “We mustn’t do that.”
While not blind to his defects, Genevieve liked Harvey Denning. He took no offense when she kept him at arm’s length or prodded him with an occasional quip. Even the more caustic assaults by Ruth Constantine only bounced off him harmlessly. Denning was a model of imperturbability, sailing across high society with the same relentless smoothness as the Mauretania was cleaving her way across the ocean. After taking a last look at herself in the mirror, Genevieve collected her purse, then let herself out of the cabin. When her escort offered his arm, she took it and they headed for the saloon.
