Murder on the Mauretania

by Conrad Allen

Reaching for the bottle of milk, she poured some into the cat’s bowl, but he did not even look at it. Bobo was unsettled, pacing the cabin restlessly and emitting a high-pitched cry when the ship lurched with increased violence.

  “He’s afraid,” said Alexandra. “Maybe he just wants a cuddle.”

  But the animal was in no mood for anyone’s attentions. As she bent down to pick him up, Bobo gave a hiss of protest and darted between her legs. Before either of them could stop him, he dived swiftly through the gap in the door and scurried off down the passageway. Alexandra was shaking with disappointment.

  “What’s wrong with him, Mr. Reynolds?” she bleated.

  “Bobo will soon come back,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “Where else can he go?”

  It was as if they were trapped on a gigantic roller coaster. The bow of the Mauretania was rising and dipping with increased speed and suddenness. Waves pounded her from all sides and washed her decks relentlessly. Wind tested her defenses with renewed ferocity. The noise was earsplitting. Down in the purser’s cabin, Dillman could feel that the storm was intensifying.

  “The Mauretania’s having a rough baptism,” he said, looking through the porthole at the heaving sea. “It was always in the cards with a November crossing.”

  “Yes,” agreed Maurice Buxton, plucking at his beard. “The Atlantic is the most treacherous ocean in the world and it’s letting us know it once again.”

  “She seems to be holding up well.”

  “So far, Mr. Dillman. But she was built for speed rather than for stability and comfort. I’m afraid our passengers are finding that out right now. I’m bracing myself for a bumper supply of complaints from them.”

  “You can’t control the weather, Mr. Buxton.”

  “That makes no difference. If there’s a complaint of any nature, it somehow lands on my desk. I’ve been blamed for rain, fog, ice, delays, engine noise, navigational errors, tardy service in the dining saloon, and unacceptable toilet paper. On my last ship, I was castigated by one lady because she found a spider in her bathroom and thought I had put it there on purpose.” He gave a sigh. “Who’d be a purser?”

  “You would, Mr. Buxton. You love it.”

  “Most of the time perhaps. Not at the moment.”

  “Does that mean our thief has been at work again?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. Dillman.”

  “How many victims this time?”

  “Three,” said the purser. “All from second class, and the thefts all occurred within a specific time frame. In each case, people went off to dinner last night and returned to their cabins to discover they’d been robbed.”

  “I think I can narrow the time down even more,” said Dillman, recalling the late arrival of Max Hirsch in the dining saloon. “My guess is that all three crimes occurred shortly before eight o’clock.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because that’s when my prime suspect was going about his business.”

  “Who is the man?”

  Before Dillman could reply, the ship was lifted by another mountainous wave, her bow reaching over sixty feet before she was dropped down again without warning. The force of the impact was so great that the spare anchor was dislodged on the foredeck, sliding against the forecastle with an awesome thud. Dillman looked up with concern.

  “That sounds serious,” he said.

  Max Hirsch heard the noise as well, but it was so distant and muffled that he paid no heed to it. Far more important matters commanded his attention. As he had learned from experience, bad weather was good for his business; there was little movement around a vessel during a storm. Passengers tried to stay in one place, members of the crew were all on duty, and stewards were less likely to patrol passageways that seemed to have a life of their own. Hirsch could walk with relative impunity throughout the ship, searching for empty cabins to enter with a skill born of a long apprenticeship. One of the master keys he had collected over the years almost invariably did the trick. Speed was his defining characteristic. Once inside a cabin, he sensed immediately where money and valuables were kept. He was out again in less than a minute.

  Having pillaged only the second-class passengers so far, Hirsch decided to go farther afield and explore the rest of the ship. It would exasperate Dillman even more. Hirsch was proud of the way he had outwitted the detective. It took cunning and bravado. Though Dillman was on his trail, he always managed to keep one step ahead of him. The burden of proof lay with the detective, and Hirsch vowed that the man would be given no evidence on which to make an arrest. Dillman was chasing shadows. Clutching his briefcase, Hirsch congratulated himself on his professional expertise and went along another passageway with an arrogant strut.

  When he turned the corner at the far end, however, his manner changed at once. The sight that confronted him made him come to a dead halt. He pointed a finger.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

  Something hard and metallic struck him on the back of his head. Blood spurted across the bald pate as he staggered to the ground. A second blow was even more vicious, knocking him unconscious and forcing him to drop his briefcase.

  “Don’t let that blood get on the carpet,” ordered a voice. “Use a handkerchief.”

  “Right,” said another voice.

  “Then get rid of him.”

  “Where?”

  “Where do you think? And be quick about it. I need help here.”

  _____

  It was a case of all hands on deck. Detached from its mooring, the spare anchor was slithering all over the foredeck, dragging its chain behind it like a monstrous serpent. Wind and waves intensified their assault. The damage was extensive. Several windows on the promenade deck were shattered. The teak rails on the monkey island, high above the waterline on the top of the bridge, were twisted out of shape by vengeful waves. Ventilator cowls were dented, a tarpaulin was ripped off a lifeboat, and rivulets of cold, green seawater poured in to soak carpets and lap at interior walls. Securing the anchor was the main priority, but its vast size and weight made that a formidable task. It dwarfed the men who were trying to control it, and threatened to crush them each time it slid across the deck.

  The captain took swift measures. Turning the Mauretania’s stern to the wind, he reduced her speed drastically to three knots, leaving himself barely enough power to steer by. The possibility of a record crossing had been sacrificed, but his crew was at least able to grapple more effectively with the crisis. Dillman was in among them. Knowing that every pair of hands was useful, he donned some borrowed oilskins and quickly joined the others on deck, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the struggle and responding to the orders that were shouted above the banshee screech of the wind. Hawsers were used to lasso the anchor in an attempt to bring it under control, but it was impossible to hold on to them when several tons of solid iron were skidding around wildly in circles.

  Dillman was exhilarated. It was not just a sense of duty that had prompted him to lend his assistance; it was also the ambiguous pleasure of battling against the elements, of surviving the hazards that only a storm at sea can bring. Dillman was out of practice. It took him a little time to adjust himself to the conditions and to display the instant reflexes that were required in the situation. Part of a team, he was determined not to let it down. When another hawser was looped around the anchor, he and the other men pulled with all their might. It was hard, dangerous, exacting work in appalling weather, but Dillman was thriving on it. Like everyone else on deck, he was completely absorbed in his task.

  None of them heard the splash of a man’s body as it hit the water.

  _____

  “Well, at least we’re moving in the right direction now,” said Donald Belfrage. “When we turned around, I thought we were going back to Ireland.”

  “Why did the captain do that?” asked Theodora, prodding a potato.

  “To get out of the headwind,” explained Harvey Denning. “I spoke to one of the crew about it.
Apparently the spare anchor came adrift and rolled around on the deck, smashing anything within reach. Captain Pritchard slowed us down so the crew could secure the anchor again. It took them over two hours.”

  “I hope they’ve made a better job of it this time,” said Belfrage.

  “I think they deserve our admiration,” said Ruth Constantine. “Would you have gone up on deck in such foul weather, Donald?”

  “Of course. If I was paid to.”

  “No amount of money would have got me up there,” said Susan Faulconbridge. “I saw the waves through my porthole. They were colossal.”

  “They’ve calmed down a bit now, thank heavens,” sighed Belfrage. “That means we can start to eat properly once again.” He raised a glass. “Welcome to the regal suite, everyone. Theo and I are delighted to be your hosts.”

  “I think that we should be toasting the crew,” argued Ruth.

  “Hear, hear!” supported Genevieve Masefield. “They were Trojans.”

  “Trojans didn’t have turbine-driven oceanic liners,” observed Denning tartly.

  “Don’t be so fatuous, Harvey,” said Ruth.

  “I’m just striking a blow for historical accuracy.”

  “Then you’re being absurdly pedantic as well as fatuous.”

  “Who exactly were the Trojans?” asked Theodora innocently.

  They were dining in the Belfrages’ suite that evening, a sumptuous collection of rooms with a degree of luxury to rival any hotel. Having accepted their friendship and hospitality so far, Genevieve found it difficult to refuse the invitation, and she was, in any case, curious to see the inside of a regal suite. Now that the wind had lost some of its venom, the ship was back on a more even keel, steaming at her optimum speed on her intended course. A degree of normality had returned to the Mauretania and to the table presided over by Donald Belfrage. He was the common target once more.

  “A Trojan was a person from Troy,” explained Denning. “They were big, strong, industrious people—just like Donald, really. You ought to know what a Trojan is, Theodora. You married one.”

  “No I didn’t,” she said. “I married the perfect Englishman.”

  “Technically, he was born in Scotland,” argued Ruth. “What does that make you, Donald? An Anglo-Scots Trojan?”

  “Yes,” added Denning, seizing his cue. “Donald ought to have his portrait painted wearing a kilt, waving a Union Jack, and sitting astride a wooden horse. Just think what that would make you, Theodora.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Helen of Troy!”

  “Is this the face that launched a thousand Cunard liners?” intoned Ruth.

  Susan giggled, Denning rolled his eyes, and Ruth took a sip of her wine. Genevieve took no part in the amiable baiting. Seated opposite Belfrage, she was concerned about the glances he kept flicking in her direction. They signaled far more than affection. For a man who had not long returned from his honeymoon, he was behaving with a worrying lack of decorum.

  “How is your tame American?” he asked her.

  “Who?” said Genevieve.

  “That timber merchant.”

  “Mr. Delaney is not a timber merchant.”

  “Then what is he?”

  “A man of the world.”

  “Didn’t you say that the lumberjack gave you a magazine?” Susan asked.

  Genevieve smiled. “Yes, Susan, but he’s not a lumberjack.”

  “What was in the magazine?”

  “A short story that Mr. Delaney wanted me to read.”

  “Beware of Americans bearing gifts,” said Denning.

  “I’d never trust any foreigner,” insisted Belfrage, slicing his way through a steak. “You never know where they’ve been. As for Americans, I feel as if I’d have to put newspapers down on the floor before I invited them into my house.”

  “That’s unkind,” protested Genevieve.

  “No,” said Ruth. “It’s typical of Donald’s attitude. He still thinks that the Welsh should be kept in cages and fed twice a week, and he’s even more critical of the Irish.”

  “Barbarians!” said Belfrage.

  “See what I mean, Genevieve?”

  “Well, I won’t have him sneering at Mr. Delaney. I thought him delightful.”

  “So did I. Delightful in a peculiar sort of way,” said Ruth. “He has depths to him.”

  “That’s a rare compliment, coming from you,” said Denning with surprise. “As a rule, you don’t have a good word to say for any man.”

  “Only because most of them don’t deserve it.”

  “What was the story he wanted you to read, Genevieve?” asked Susan.

  “It was by that American writer I mentioned before—O. Henry. I did read it, and liked it immensely.”

  “The only author I have time for is Rudyard Kipling,” said Belfrage.

  “Oh, yes, darling,” said Theodora. “I’ve heard of him.”

  “The supreme accolade,” mocked Denning. “Being heard of by Theodora.”

  “Splendid fellow, Kipling,” said Belfrage. “Has the right attitudes.”

  “That’s one vote you can count on, then,” said Denning sarcastically. “If old Rudyard happens to be in your constituency, that is. But that’s enough literary table talk.” He tapped his fork against his glass to call for silence. “Listen, everybody. We’re going to have a round of predictions. This voyage still has over four days to run, remember, and a lot can happen in that time. What each of you has to do is to choose someone else and predict what’s going to befall that person before we reach New York. Be serious, all of you. Who’s going to start?”

  “I will,” said Ruth levelly. “My choice is you, Harvey.”

  “Fire away.”

  “I predict that by the end of the voyage, you will have rapped on the cabin door of every woman in first class in search of new conquests.”

  “Not every one!” he protested over the laughter. “Only the pretty ones. Right, it’s my turn now. I’m picking Donald and Theodora.”

  “You can’t have them both at once,” said Susan.

  “Why not?”

  “It spoils it, Harvey.”

  “Who’s making the rules here? They must be together. You’ll see why.”

  “Is he going to poke fun at us again, Donald?” asked Theodora.

  “He’d better not. Go on, Harvey,” he said warningly. “What about us?”

  “I predict that one night this week, all things being equal, given ideal conditions and a following wind, the son and heir will be conceived within these four walls.”

  “Gosh!” exclaimed Theodora, blushing a deep crimson.

  “That’s a bit personal, isn’t it?” chided Belfrage. “We haven’t even discussed that, have we, Theo? On the other hand,” he added as the notion slowly grew in appeal, “it’s not something I’d find altogether unwelcome. We have a dynasty to consider.”

  “Susan’s turn,” said Denning.

  “Oh, I’ll pick Ruth,” she said without hesitation. “My prediction is that she’ll actually find a man on board this ship who’ll make her fall head over heels in love with him and regret all those years she’s spent attacking the entire male sex.”

  “That’s not a prediction,” retorted Ruth. “It’s a dire threat.”

  “The simple truth is that you’re afraid of men.”

  “No, Susan. I’m afraid of tying myself to one of them for life, that’s all. Men are like that spare anchor that got loose this afternoon. They drag you where they want to go.”

  “But Donald and I always want to go to the same place,” said Theodora.

  Denning smirked. “What did I tell you? Conception is imminent.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Harvey, and you know it.”

  “Your turn now, Ruth.”

  “Then I’ll get my own back on Susan,” said the other.

  “What’s going to happen to me in the next four days?” challenged Susan.

  “Nothing,” said Ruth with a sh
rug. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s a silly thing to say!”

  “Is it? Wait and see.”

  There was an awkward pause. Genevieve tried to heal the rift with her contribution. “My turn,” she offered. “I don’t know any of you well enough to make an accurate prediction, so my forecast is for all five of you. No matter how many arguments and misunderstandings you have between now and the time we arrive in New York, I predict that you’ll still be the best of friends and that you’ll go on to have a wonderful time in America. I raise my glass to all five of you.”

  There was warm approval of her prediction and they all clinked her glass with their own. Susan was beaming again, Denning was pleased, and Ruth refrained from any cutting remark. Theodora was touched by the prediction. She nudged her husband.

  “You do it for both of us, darling,” she suggested. “There’s only Genevieve left.”

  “I hardly need to be told that,” said Belfrage.

  “So what does the future hold for Genevieve?” prompted Denning.

  “Romance with the lumberjack?” suggested Susan.

  “Dinner at the captain’s table would be my guess.”

  “Nobody is asking either of you,” said Belfrage, staring hard at Genevieve, his glass in his hand. “I’ll tell you what my prediction for her is. Genevieve has been a delight to have at our table and she deserves a just reward. That is why,” he continued, a smile forming around his lips, “I can confidently predict that sometime in the next four days, something very, very special is going to happen to her.”

  There was general agreement and everyone made flattering comments about her. Genevieve was touched by the affection she had generated, but her pleasure was marred by a highly disagreeable fact. At the very moment when he was making his prediction about her, Donald Belfrage, an adoring wife at his side and his closest friends around him was trying to stroke Genevieve’s leg under the table with his foot.

  _____

  Glyn Bowen felt well enough to sit up on his bunk, but he had no inclination to lower himself to the floor. The turbulence that afternoon had given him a severe bout of seasickness and confined him to the little cabin in third class. Mansell Price was spared any discomfort. He had gone off to the dining saloon with relish, leaving his friend to suffer alone. Gradually the pain and the queasiness began to relent. Bowen even had the strength to turn his mind to matters other than his health.