by Conrad Allen
“Too many things can go wrong,” he said.
“Not if we choose our moment.”
“Suppose someone catches us?”
“How can they if you’re acting as lookout?”
“We were both on the lookout last night, mun, but that Mr. Dillman still managed to steal up on us. He worries me, Mansell.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. There’s something funny about him.”
“Yes,” said Price with a sneer. “He’s a Yank.”
“There’s something else. I mean, why should he be so friendly to us?”
“Haven’t you worked that out yet? Honestly, Glyn, you must be blind.”
“What do you mean?”
“You forgotten Sergeant Roberts already, mun?”
“Of course not.”
“Don’t you remember what he used to do?”
“Yes,” said Bowen with bitterness. “Give us hell during the week. Treat us like the scum of the earth. But on Saturdays, it was different. Off would come his uniform and on would go that old suit of his. There he’d be, propping up the bar in the pub, pretending to be one of us. It wasn’t Sergeant Roberts then.”
“No,” recalled Price. “He wanted us to call him ‘Denzil’ in there. Not a chance. Whatever he wore, he was still a lousy copper. On or off duty.”
Bowen was perplexed. “What are you trying to say, Mansell?”
“I think we got another Sergeant Roberts aboard.”
“Mr. Dillman?” said the other in surprise.
“I didn’t believe that rubbish about a friend having had something stolen,” said Price, pulling on the cigarette stub for the last time, then dropping it to the floor. He ground it beneath a foot. “He’s a copper of some sort. On the sniff.”
“All the more reason to drop your idea.”
“Never!”
“But he’s on to us, Mansell. He must sense something.”
“How can he, mun? All he wanted to know from us was whether or not we saw anyone on the prowl last night in second class. That’s Dillman’s beat. He won’t bother us down by the security room. Besides,” he said, hitching his belt, “he likes us. What we told him was a great help. You could see that. He trusts us.”
“Does he?” asked the other, unconvinced.
“Yes. If we turn up at the purser’s cabin with that gold, Dillman will be able to vouch for us. They’d have to give us a reward then.”
“I still have doubts, Mansell,” admitted the other.
“Then keep them to yourself. When the time is ripe, we go ahead with my plan. I’m not having you backing out on me, Glyn. Understand?” He squeezed the other’s arm until his friend yelped. “Understand?”
“Yes,” said Bowen, rubbing his arm. “I understand.”
The boat deck was swept by a stiff breeze, but it was not enough to frighten away the elderly couple who were taking a walk before they retired to bed, the two ladies who were exercising their dogs, or the young couple who were embracing impulsively behind one of the large ventilation cowls. Nor was it enough to make Genevieve Masefield wish that Dillman had suggested somewhere else for a meeting at the end of the day. Warmly wrapped in a coat, scarf, and hat, she found him waiting for her beside one of the lifeboats. He, too, was wearing a thick overcoat, and a hat that all but concealed his face.
“Step behind here,” he suggested. “It’s out of the wind.”
“I could do with some fresh air after being inside for so long,” she said, following his advice, “but I hadn’t expected it to be quite so raw.”
“This is relatively mild weather, Genevieve.”
“Then I’d hate to see it when it takes a turn for the worse.” He slipped an arm around her and she snuggled up to him. “Thank you, George. That’s better.”
“How did you get on this evening?” he asked.
“It was very enjoyable.”
“Meet anyone interesting?”
Genevieve nodded. She gave him a brief account of events in first class, omitting most of the badinage at the table and concentrating on her time spent in the lounge afterward.
“You sound as if you like this Orvill Delaney,” he noted.
“I do, George.”
“Does that mean I have reason to be jealous?” he teased.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “The awful truth is that Mr. Delaney preferred a game of chess with Walter Wymark to spending more time with me. That’s not very flattering to a lady.”
“Tell me more about Wymark’s wife.”
“Katherine? She’s a remarkable woman.”
“In what way?”
It was only when she described her earlier conversation with Katherine Wymark that Genevieve remembered why she had spoken to the woman. Her memory was jogged.
“Oh!” she said with self-reproach. “I forgot to mention Mrs. Dalkeith.”
“I was wondering when you’d get around to her.”
“She was dining at the captain’s table, George, and guess what?”
“Mrs. Dalkeith was wearing her gold watch.”
Genevieve was hurt. “You knew?”
“The purser told me.”
“Well, I wish that he’d tipped me off as well. It took me completely by surprise.”
“I’m sorry about that, Genevieve,” he said. “I only learned about it myself when I was hauled away from the dinner table. According to Mr. Buxton, the watch was pushed under his door without explanation in a brown envelope.”
“Somebody must have found it,” she concluded. “Though I don’t see why they wish to remain anonymous. Mrs. Dalkeith would have been thrilled to get that watch back. She’d have wanted to thank the person who stumbled on it.”
“I’m not at all sure that that’s what happened.”
“How else could it have turned up?”
“That’s for you to find out,” he said. “The case is far from closed.”
“What about your cases, George?”
“They’re like the animals that left Noah’s ark,” he sighed. “They went forth and multiplied. We’re up to six at the present time, but my guess is that he’ll double that before too long.”
He told her about the progress of his inquiry and of how he was convinced that Max Hirsch was responsible for the crimes. Dillman also explained why he lacked enough evidence to make an arrest. Genevieve was interested in the mention of Agnes Cameron.
“Doesn’t she realize what a crook he is?”
“No, she thinks he’s a wonderful man.”
“Is he that attractive?”
“Not to my eye, but Mrs. Cameron seems to think so.”
“Somebody ought to warn the poor woman,” said Genevieve, “or she’s going to have the most enormous shock.”
“I know,” said Dillman sadly, “but what we can do? Our job is to prevent and solve crimes, Genevieve. We can’t intrude into a romance, and that’s what it is to Mrs. Cameron. She’d never forgive us.” He pulled her close. “How would you like it if someone told you to have nothing whatsoever to do with George Dillman because he’s the most appalling character?”
“But I already know that,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”
He kissed her on the lips and she responded. It made up for some of the time they had spent apart, working in different sections of the ships and pretending to be traveling independently. Genevieve shivered in the cold.
“Could we meet somewhere a little warmer the next time?” she asked.
“Of course. You’d better get back inside.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, I’m going on patrol tonight. Just in case Max Hirsch is up to his little tricks again.” He gave a hollow laugh. “There is one consolation, I suppose.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s only interested in silver. Thank heavens it’s not gold.”
The sheet of paper was inserted two thirds of the way into the narrow slit beneath the door of the s
ecurity room. A match ignited the paper, then an eye was swiftly applied to one of the keyholes. The blaze lasted no more than a few seconds, but its glare lit up the stacked boxes with vivid clarity. The visitor was satisfied. After removing all trace of the burned paper outside the door, he padded off silently to his cabin.
TEN
The message received by the Cunard Company headquarters in Liverpool was sanguine:
MAURETANIA 207 MILES WEST OF FASTNET AT 10 P.M. SUNDAY STOP ALL WELL STOP
Monday morning found the ship maintaining good speed as her turbine engines settled into their routine and powered the huge vessel along. By noon, she was 571 miles out of Queenstown, a distance that encouraged many people to believe that the coveted Blue Riband might actually be within her grasp at the first attempt. All hope of that was soon shattered beyond recall. That afternoon, the Mauretania ran head-on into a November gale, with winds of over fifty miles an hour buffeting the ship remorselessly and whipping up the waves into steep mountains.
Even a ship as large and well built as the latest Cunard liner was at the mercy of the tempest. Experienced mariners had endured worse conditions before, but most of the passengers were new to such violent pitching and rolling. They either locked themselves for safety in their cabins or found seating in the public rooms, gripping the arms of their chairs with desperate fingers and trying to make light of their ordeal with labored humor. A few stoics sat over the vestiges of their meals in the dining saloons. No passenger was courageous or foolhardy enough to go out onto the decks.
George Porter Dillman was more accustomed than most to hostile weather. While engaged in the long-distance trials of the yachts built by the family firm, he had often been given proof of the sea’s capricious moods and drenched by saltwater for hours on end, as if someone were playing a hose on him. At least he would not have to lash himself to a mast this time to save himself from being washed overboard. After a morning spent pursuing his inquiries, he took time off to worry about Genevieve Masefield, who had never encountered conditions like this before. When she was not in her cabin, he went to the first-class lounge in search of her and hovered near the door. The faces that gazed over at him were white and apprehensive. Even the stewards had a pinched look about them, moodily shifting their feet to accommodate the unpredictable movements of the vessel and trying not to show their anxiety to the passengers.
He saw Genevieve on the far side of the saloon, sitting beside a woman of such striking appearance that she had to be the Katherine Wymark about whom he had heard so much. Dillman was relieved to observe that Genevieve showed no signs of distress or queasiness. He was about to slip away when she caught sight of him and raised a hand in greeting. Dillman hesitated. It might be his only opportunity to meet Katherine Wymark, and Genevieve obviously wanted to speak to him. A fleeting encounter with her in a public room would not give anything away. Letting curiosity get the better of him, he walked across the saloon.
Genevieve introduced him to her friend with studied politeness and Dillman had a closer look at Katherine Wymark. He decided that she was every bit as remarkable as he had been led to believe. Though it was difficult to retain poise when the ship was tilting to and fro, Katherine managed it better than most. She was wearing a pale-blue dress with long, vertical box pleats down the skirt. A series of small blue buttons was arranged in diamond patterns across the chest, half hidden by a light brown jacket, meticulously tailored to add style and warmth. His appraisal of her was brief, but Katherine took a much more detailed inventory of Dillman, admiring what she saw and turning to Genevieve with a smile.
“Mr. Dillman is a friend of yours?” she asked. “Where’ve you been hiding him?”
“I’m more of an acquaintance, really,” he explained. “Miss Masefield and I bumped into each other on another voyage.”
“Lucky for her!”
“How are you coping with this bad weather, Mrs. Wymark?”
“Badly.”
“You seem very calm under the circumstances.”
“An optical illusion.”
“What about you, Miss Masefield?” he asked.
“I decided that we just have to grin and bear it,” she said.
“I’m not sure that I can rise to a grin,” warned Katherine. “I’m just gritting my teeth and bearing it. But you seem to take it all in your stride, Mr. Dillman,” she went on. “You walked across the room just now as if this turbulence was quite normal. Are you a seasoned mariner?”
He nodded. “I spent some years helping design and sail yachts.”
“No wonder you look so hideously at ease. It’s unfair. Most of us in here are still trying to hold on to our luncheon.”
“The friends with whom I’m traveling took to their cabins,” said Genevieve, feeding the information to Dillman. “They daren’t even look out of their portholes. I felt I’d rather be in a larger space, where the pitching was less obvious. So I came into the lounge. I thought I’d be sitting here all alone, until Mrs. Wymark came to my rescue.”
“We came to each other’s rescue,” said the other. “I didn’t want to stay in the cabin and listen to my husband being ill in the bathroom, so I came here in search of company. Look,” she said, indicating the chair, “why not join us for a few minutes?”
“I can’t stay,” said Dillman. “I only came over to say hello to Miss Masefield.”
“And to me, I hope.”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“Good.”
“But I’m sorry to hear your husband is unwell.”
“It’s not only the bad weather, Mr. Dillman. Walter had a very late night.”
“How did his game of chess go?” asked Genevieve.
“Chess?”
“I thought he was playing against Mr. Delaney.”
“Yes, he was,” said Katherine, pursing her lips. “That was the trouble. The game dragged on. I was fast asleep by the time my husband got back to the cabin. I’ll complain to Mr. Delaney about that.” She smiled at Dillman. “Have you met Orvill Delaney yet?”
“No, Mrs. Wymark,” he said.
“He’s a gentleman who makes himself known.”
“In the nicest possible way,” said Genevieve. “I’ve had some very pleasant talks with him. He has a keen interest in literature.”
“And business.”
“And people.”
“And chess,” noted Dillman. “Mr. Delaney is obviously a man of many parts.”
“I’d go along with that,” agreed Katherine.
“Did you know that he bought a car in England?” asked Genevieve.
“No, but it’s just the kind of crazy thing he’d do.”
“It’s in the hold, apparently.”
“Well, I hope it’s well secured,” said Dillman as the vessel tilted once more. “This kind of weather can play havoc with any cargo that’s not properly stowed away.”
“It’s playing havoc with me,” admitted Katherine. “I know that.”
“Nobody would guess it, Mrs. Wymark.”
She acknowledged his compliment with a warm smile. Dillman took a moment to study her more carefully. Katherine Wymark was a beautiful woman, but she was a little too aware of her beauty for his liking. Composed and sophisticated though she was, he detected a faintly calculating air about her. Looking into the handsome face, he could understand why he preferred Genevieve Masefield, but he schooled himself to give no indication of his true feelings for her.
“Ah!” said Katherine, looking across the saloon. “One of the walking wounded!”
A short, thickset, broad-shouldered man was waddling toward them, his face darkened by a scowl. Walter Wymark was not enjoying this phase of the voyage. When he was introduced to Dillman and Genevieve, he barely gave them a glance. His manner was almost curt. Katherine sensed that he needed her and made her excuses. Holding his arm, she led her husband out of the saloon.
“What an odd couple,” remarked Dillman.
“Yet she was talking so fondly of h
im before you came in.”
“He’s not exactly the most courteous passenger aboard, is he?”
“No, George, he isn’t. What did you make of his wife?”
Shrugging, Dillman tried to suppress a grin. “I only know which one of them I’d rather play chess with,” he said.
When conditions suddenly worsened, the Jarvis family took to their cabin. Alexandra was crestfallen at the thought that she might miss the opportunity to feed the ship’s mascot, and she sought for a way to escape. Her grandmother proved an unwitting ally. Alarmed by the shifting position of the vessel, she was afraid to suffer its undulations alone and asked for company to sustain her through the ordeal. Alexandra volunteered at once. Standing beside the old woman, she fought off her own feelings of nausea by thinking about her friendship with the black cat. Lily Pomeroy was reassured by her presence, lying on her bunk and stroking the girl’s hair, wishing that she still had the fearlessness of childhood. The ship began to settle into a more definite rhythm, rocking to and fro like a giant cradle. Protected from its howl and brutality, Mrs. Pomeroy heard the wind as a kind of distant lullaby that slowly sang her to sleep.
Alexandra watched carefully as her grandmother’s eyelids flickered, then closed. Only when she was certain that the old woman was asleep did she steal out of the cabin. Racing along deserted passageways, she reached the officer’s quarters just as Reynolds was about to feed Bobo. He looked at her in astonishment.
“I didn’t expect to see you, Alexandra,” he said.
“I couldn’t let Bobo down, Mr. Reynolds,” she replied, panting from her exertions.
“In that case, you’d better take over, hadn’t you?”
“Thank you,” she said excitedly, taking the plate of meat from him. “Here you are, Bobo. You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”
She set the plate down on the floor and stroked the cat’s back affectionately. Bobo, however, had no interest in the food. After giving it a cursory glance, he turned away in disdain. The girl looked over at Reynolds with dismay.
“Perhaps he wants a drink of milk first,” he suggested.
“Let me give it to him, please.”
