Murder on the Mauretania

by Conrad Allen

  “Orvill Delaney,” announced a voice.

  They looked up to see him bearing down on them with another man. Genevieve recognized the person who had sat beside Delaney over dinner. The American beamed.

  “Do forgive the interruption,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but I couldn’t resist a cue like that. I’m Orvill Delaney, by the way,” he said to Ruth. “Miss Masefield and I are already acquainted.”

  “Genevieve speaks very well of you, Mr. Delaney,” said Ruth, weighing him up. “I’m Ruth Constantine and I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise, Miss Constantine. Oh, and this is a colleague of mine,” he continued, easing the other man forward. “Patrick Skelton. A fellow countryman of yours.”

  “How do you do?” said Skelton with a polite bow. “Are you enjoying the voyage?”

  “Very much,” replied Genevieve.

  “So are we. It’s a unique experience.”

  “Well,” said Delaney, adjusting his bow tie, “we won’t intrude any longer. I could see that you were deep in an important conversation.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Delaney,” said Ruth, taking charge of the situation. “You and Mr. Skelton are most welcome to join us, if you wish.”

  “That sounds like an invitation too good to resist. What do you think, Patrick?”

  “I agree,” said Skelton. “Thank you, ladies. It’s an honor.”

  Ruth smiled. “That remains to be seen, Mr. Skelton,” she said.

  George Porter Dillman wasted no time in talking to the latest victims of the ubiquitous thief. They were still smarting at the outrage. The silver jewelry box had been taken from a cabin belonging to an American doctor and his wife, a robust couple who were threatening to sue the Cunard Line if their property was not recovered. The other victim was a nervous Englishwoman, a widow in her fifties, who was less upset by the theft of her jewelry than by the fact that someone had gained entry to her cabin so easily. Dillman managed to placate all three of them. One significant fact emerged. During luncheon that day, the doctor and his wife had been at the same table as Max Hirsch. It could just be another coincidence, but Dillman somehow doubted it.

  He decided to speak to the two Welshmen. Dillman had caught them wandering about in a part of the vessel that was out-of-bounds to steerage passengers, but he did not believe that they would venture into second class during the day, when there were far more stewards cruising about to enforce the rules. Since both of the recent thefts had occurred during the afternoon, the two former miners could be absolved of any blame. Notwithstanding that, Dillman was anxious to interview the pair of them. The detective’s immaculate appearance would make him an incongruous figure in steerage, but he did not worry about that. Solving crimes took precedence over sartorial considerations.

  When he finally traced them, Mansell Price and Glyn Bowen were in the smoking room. They had each cadged a cigarette off a garrulous old man from Birkenhead, who was telling them his life story in a meandering voice. Surprised to see Dillman, the Welshmen warmed to him slightly when he bought each a drink and detached them from the maudlin reminiscences of the old man. Price sipped his beer and eyed the newcomer.

  “Not exactly dressed for steerage, are you?” he observed.

  “There’s a more relaxed atmosphere down here,” said Dillman. “I like it.”

  “You wouldn’t like it if you had to share a pokey cabin with a couple of strangers and listen to one of them playing the mouth organ.”

  “Mouth organ?”

  “He never stops.”

  “It gets on Mansell’s nerves,” explained Bowen. “But what brought you here, Mr. Dillman? Nobody would be in steerage unless he had to.”

  “I wanted to have a chat with you,” said Dillman. “About last night.”

  “Last night?” echoed Price, going on the defensive.

  “We got lost, that’s all,” said Bowen. “It’s the truth.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Dillman. “It’s very easy to lose your way in a ship as big as this. But you might just be able to help. It’s a bit of a long shot, I know, but I wondered if you saw anybody behaving strangely when you were in second class.” They traded a glance with each other. “Let me explain,” he went on. “I have a friend who was playing cards in the smoking room until it was quite late. When he got back to his cabin, he found that someone had broken in and stolen something.”

  “It wasn’t us!” denied Price aggressively.

  “I’m not saying it was.”

  “We never went near any cabins. Did we, Glyn?”

  “No, Mansell,” chimed the other.

  “You’d better watch who you’re accusing, mister.”

  “It’s not an accusation,” said Dillman calmly. “I’m certain that neither of you is involved in any way. All I’m hoping is that you might be able to provide us with a clue.”

  “What sort of clue?” asked Price.

  “Any sort would be valuable. Now, did you see anyone last night?”

  “Loads of people. We kept dodging them.”

  “Were any of them behaving suspiciously?”

  “We didn’t hang around to find out.”

  “How long had you been in second class before I bumped into you?”

  “Not long,” lied Price, taking a swig of his beer. “And we didn’t see anyone suspicious. Did we, Glyn?”

  “No, Mansell.” Bowen pondered. “Except for that little bloke.”

  “Who?”

  “You remember. We met him two or three times.”

  “When was this?” asked Dillman.

  “Just before you turned up,” said Bowen. “Well, no, a bit earlier, probably.”

  “So you did spend some time roaming around?”

  “No,” said Price, sticking to his story. “Five minutes at most.”

  “Tell me about this man,” coaxed Dillman. “What was he like?”

  “Short,” said Bowen, indicating the man’s height with his hand. “And stocky.”

  “Ugly little chap,” added Price. “Had a bald head.”

  “So he wasn’t wearing a hat?” asked Dillman.

  “No.”

  “What about an overcoat?”

  “He just had this suit on.”

  “Did you see him on the main deck?”

  “Yes,” volunteered Bowen. “And on the two decks above that.”

  “The upper deck and the shelter deck?” He smiled. “You obviously got around.”

  “Only because we was trying to find our way back, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Of course. So you saw this man—what? Three times?”

  “Yes.”

  “Close enough to get a good look at him?”

  “He passed within a couple of feet of us,” said Price. “We ducked into an alcove and he walked by with this little case in his hand.”

  “A briefcase?” The other nodded. “What was suspicious about him?”

  “It was the way he kept pausing at different cabins, tapping their doors.

  “He had this list in his hand,” recalled Bowen. “Kept checking it.”

  “This is all extremely helpful,” said Dillman. “I had a feeling that you might just have seen something. Do you think you’d recognize this man again?”

  “Yes,” said Bowen.

  “No!” boomed Price, countermanding him at once. “We wouldn’t, Mr. Dillman. Glyn and me don’t want to get involved, see? We told you all we know.”

  “Is there anything else you can remember about him?”

  “We only got these glimpses of the man.”

  “Short, stocky, bald-headed. Wearing a suit.”

  “An expensive suit,” said Bowen. “You could see that. And there was one other thing.”

  “Go on,” said Dillman.

  “Well, we never heard him speak, mind, but I got the feeling that he wasn’t British. It was the way he looked and strutted along. Like he owned the ship. No offense, Mr. Dillman,” he said cautiously, “but I think he was an American.”


  “Have you had time to read that story I gave you, Miss Masefield?” asked Orvill Delaney.

  “Yes,” said Genevieve. “It was very clever and wonderfully amusing.”

  “O. Henry is more entertaining than Moby Dick. Besides, you don’t look like a Melville devotee. I’d say that you were more attuned to British authors. When I first saw you,” he admitted, “I put you down as a Jane Austen reader.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “I leave you to judge that.”

  “What about me, Mr. Delaney?” asked Ruth Constantine. “Since you can classify us so readily at a glance, who’s my favorite author?”

  “I don’t think you have one.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t read books, Miss Constantine. You read people instead.”

  “That’s very perceptive of you.” She gave him a smile of approval, then switched her gaze to the other man. “What about you, Mr. Skelton? Are you a literary man?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said diffidently.

  “Patrick is an accountant,” explained Delaney. “All that he reads are balance sheets. Though some of those can have a swirling drama to them, can’t they?”

  “Yes, Mr. Delaney.”

  “Figures can be just as expressive as words.”

  Genevieve was pleased to be able to talk to Orvill Delaney and she could see that he was making a good impression on Ruth, but she was finding his colleague far too stiff and reticent. A personable young man with a deep voice, Skelton never actually initiated conversation. He confined himself to polite nods of agreement and the briefest of neutral comments. Genevieve could not decide whether he was shy or merely uninterested in their chatter. Ruth tried to draw him out with a few acid comments about the British male, but Skelton did not respond. He left most of the talking to Orvill Delaney.

  “I once met O. Henry,” said the latter airily. “At least, I met the man who used that name as his pseudonym. It wasn’t what you might call a marriage of true minds. We were in a bar in Manhattan at the time and he was rather more enthusiastic about drinking his whiskey than in listening to my fulsome praise. But,” he continued, “I still think he writes like an angel, albeit a tarnished one.”

  “The best kind,” remarked Ruth.

  “Do you have a liking for tarnished angels, Miss Constantine?”

  “That depends on how far they’ve fallen from grace, Mr. Delaney.”

  “What about you, Patrick?” he asked. “Where do you stand on angels?”

  “I’m not sure that I believe in them,” replied the other quietly.

  “When you have two of them sitting right in front of you?” scolded Delaney.

  “Present company excepted, of course,” added Skelton, dividing an awkward smile between the two ladies. “Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you both,” he said, rising to his feet, “but you must excuse me. I have some work to do before I retire.”

  “Work?” said Ruth. “At a time like this?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Delaney.”

  After an exchange of farewells, Skelton marched swiftly out of the room.

  “You’ll have to excuse Patrick,” said Delaney, looking after him. “Accountants are not the most sociable people at the best of times. Also, it’s his first voyage and he’s heard too many horror stories about Atlantic crossings at this time of year. Patrick still has a sneaking fear that we’re all going to finish up at the bottom of the sea.” He looked at Genevieve. “He has none of that indomitable Captain Ahab spirit.”

  “You’re obviously a veteran sailor,” she said.

  “Well, I have been lucky enough to visit your country a number of times.”

  “Have you never encountered bad weather while en route?”

  “Of course, Miss Masefield. But always we came through it without any problem.”

  “How do you rate the Mauretania?” asked Ruth.

  “She has to be my first choice.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Lots of reasons, Miss Constantine. Two of them are seated opposite me.”

  Ruth tried to probe more deeply into his background, but it was soon Delaney’s turn to leave. On the other side of the lounge, Katherine Wymark and her husband got up from their seats and walked arm in arm toward the door. Before they went out, Walter Wymark waved a hand in the direction of Delaney.

  “Ah!” said the latter. “I’m sorry, ladies, but that’s my signal to go. I promised to play chess with someone and I always keep my promises.” He stood up and looked down at Ruth. “Do you play chess, Miss Constantine?”

  “I thought that we’d just been having a game,” she answered.

  Delaney laughed, then bowed. “Good night, ladies! Sleep well.”

  “Good night.”

  Genevieve added her own farewell, then waited until he was out of earshot. “What did you think of him, Ruth?” she asked.

  “Exactly the same as you. He’s witty, sophisticated, and very wealthy.”

  “He obviously liked you.”

  “Oh, let’s not fool ourselves, Genevieve. You were the person he really came to see, though I wish he hadn’t brought that dry stick of an accountant with him. Orvill Delaney is entranced with you.”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  “I was using a polite word for it,” said Ruth. “Put it this way—if there’s a tap on your door tonight, it won’t be Harvey Denning, I assure you. It will be Mr. Delaney.” She looked after him. “And he won’t be carrying a chess set.”

  Dillman had to admire the man’s effrontery. When he got back to the second-class lounge, the detective saw him at once. Seated in a chair beside Agnes Cameron was the stubby figure of Max Hirsch, gesticulating with both hands as he talked to Stanley and Miriam Rosenwald holding them enthralled with his tale and treating them as good friends, when in fact he had, Dillman believed, stolen property from them. Hirsch was a consummate performer. He might have been their stockbroker, advising them about an investment, or a lawyer, reassuring them about some litigation in which they were involved. Judging by the expressions on their faces, the Rosenwalds were very happy with what they heard, and Mrs. Cameron was plainly entranced. Her gaze never left Hirsch’s mobile face and her hand fluttered to his arm more than once.

  Eventually the Rosenwalds made their excuse and began to leave. Dillman saw Mrs. Cameron lean across to squeeze Hirsch’s hand. When he whispered something in her ear, she gave a laugh and administered a harmless slap on the wrist. Standing near the exit, Dillman offered the Rosenwalds a token smile as they approached.

  “Any news, Mr. Dillman?” asked Stanley Rosenwald.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “I’d so like to get that snuffbox back.”

  “It was an antique,” his wife insisted. “An expensive one at that.”

  “That’s why it was taken, I’m afraid, Mrs. Rosenwald. Thieves don’t usually bother with trinkets. They tend to know the value of things.”

  “Can we hold out any hope?” asked Rosenwald.

  “Yes,” said Dillman with more confidence than he actually felt. “There’s every hope, sir. It’s simply a case of amassing enough evidence to make an arrest.”

  “Do you have any idea of who the thief is?”

  “I think so.”

  “We didn’t realize that criminals operated on these ships,” said Rosenwald with rueful innocence, “but our friend Mr. Hirsch was just telling us about a pickpocket whom they caught on the Campania. He made a comfortable living out of it, apparently.”

  “Until they arrested him,” said his wife.

  “We always catch them in the end, Mrs. Rosenwald.”

  He sent them off to their cabin with at least a degree of optimism, then looked across at Max Hirsch again. The man replied with an impudent grin. Dillman strolled across and exchanged polite greetings with him and Agnes Cameron.

  “Did you enjoy the meal, Mr. Dillman?” Agnes asked.

  “Very much,” he
said.

  “Then why did you charge off in the middle of it?” demanded Hirsch. “A call of nature?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Hirsch.”

  “Agnes and I had a wonderful time, didn’t we, honey?”

  “Yes, Max. Heavenly.”

  “This is the best voyage I’ve ever had, bar none.”

  “Better than your trip on the Campania?” asked Dillman meaningfully. “I understand that you were talking about that to Mr. and Mrs. Rosenwald. You warned them to be wary of pickpockets.”

  Hirsch’s grin returned. “That’s right, I did. You can never be too careful when you’re in the middle of so many strangers. Some people have no respect for other people’s property.”

  “You surprise me,” said Dillman with faint sarcasm.

  “I feel completely safe,” affirmed Mrs. Cameron. “Especially now that I have you to protect me, Max. He has such wonderful knowledge of the ways of the world, Mr. Dillman,” she went on. “He’s so cosmopolitan. You’d never think it of a man with his background.”

  “And what sort of background would that be, Mrs. Cameron?” asked Dillman.

  “He had his own business in Brooklyn.”

  “His own business?”

  “Yes,” she explained. “A very successful one at that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Max was a silversmith.”

  Hirsch gave his broadest grin yet. He was reveling in his invincibility.

  Emboldened by the unexpected pint of beer, Glyn Bowen decided to speak his mind. “I think we should call it off, Mansell,” he declared.

  “What?”

  “This wild idea of yours about that gold.”

  “It’s not wild,” insisted Price. “I was talking to one of the lads who helps out in the galley. It’s his job to open up the boxes that he fetches from the storeroom down below. Know what he uses? A crowbar.”

  “So what?”

  “We borrow it, that’s what.”

  They were in a corner of the third-class smoking room, taking turns to pull on the remains of a discarded cigarette that had been retrieved from the floor. Bowen was rapidly losing faith in the plan that his friend had worked out.