by Conrad Allen
Price’s scheme to break into the security room alarmed him. It seemed to belong to the realms of fantasy, yet he could not convince his friend of that. Price was single-minded. Once set on a course of action, he persevered until the very end. Regardless of his dissent, Bowen would be dragged along behind him, as he always had been in the past. He could see no way out of the dilemma. He began to wish he had never left the Rhondda. It was Price who had been sacked for violent behavior, not him. Nostalgia for the coal mine surged up inside him.
A banging sound on the door brought him out of his reverie. He lowered himself gingerly to the floor and groped his way across the room. The banging was repeated.
“Open up, Glyn!” ordered a voice.
“I’m coming, Mansell.”
“Quick, mun!”
When he opened the door, Bowen saw the reason for the haste. Cradled in his friend’s arms was something concealed in a piece of sacking. Price kicked the door shut behind him, then placed his cargo on the lower bunk. Laughing quietly to himself, he unwrapped the sacking to reveal his haul. Bowen stared down in dismay at two crowbars, a bolster chisel, and a lump hammer.
“Where did you get that lot, Mansell?” he asked.
“Never you mind.”
“You’re going ahead with this, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Price with a grim chuckle. “We both are.”
Dinner with the Jarvis family was a more muted affair on Monday evening. Dillman was grateful that the table also contained a young married couple from Birmingham, as well as two American businessmen returning to New York from a conference. Alexandra Jarvis was unusually subdued, fretting over the disappearance of the black cat, yet unable to raise the subject in front of her parents because it would be a confession of guilt. Oliver and Vanessa Jarvis had taken a jaundiced view of their daughter’s friendship with the ship’s mascot ever since their son had described the way in which Alexandra had abandoned him in favor of the animal. The girl was terrified to own up to the fact that she had not only sneaked off from her sleeping grandmother, but that she had disobeyed her father’s express command to stay away from Bobo altogether.
Oliver Jarvis was the most animated member of the family, coming out of his shell for once to discuss with the two businessmen the difference in banking practices between their country and his. Unable to join the conversation, his wife merely supported him with a series of smiles and nods. Noel Jarvis was the ghost at the feast, a pale, dark-eyed creature, still not rid of the trailing effects of seasickness and rejecting with a groan everything put in front of him. Lily Pomeroy, having recovered her voracious appetite, was not in a talkative mood and directed her energies to clearing her plate and making odd, embarrassing interjections. It was Dillman who provided what unity the table had, drawing everyone into a review of the afternoon’s mishaps on deck.
Alexandra was preoccupied with another kind of mishap. “Have you seen Bobo today, Mr. Dillman?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered. I hope he wasn’t frightened by the storm.”
“Were you, Ally?”
“No. I’m never frightened by bad weather. Noel is scared of lightning,” she said with contempt, “but I’m not. Noel is scared of lots of things.”
Her brother came out of his silence to glare at her and poke out his tongue.
“So where were you this afternoon?” asked Dillman.
“Looking after Granny in her cabin.”
“She was as good as gold,” said Mrs. Pomeroy, wiping her lips with her napkin. “My granddaughter watched over me like a guardian angel, Mr. Dillman.”
“That’s because she loves you so much,” said Vanessa.
“I know. It’s a great consolation.”
“Where do you think he is now, Mr. Dillman?” said the girl. “Bobo, I mean.”
“Don’t keep on about that cat, dear,” cautioned her mother.
“I’d like to know, Mummy.”
“Then the most probable answer is that he’s fast asleep somewhere,” said Dillman. “Cats spend a large part of the day curled up asleep, Ally. Especially when there’s such dreadful weather. Bobo would have far more sense than to go out on deck in that storm.”
“Would it be a sign of bad luck if he disappeared?”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes,” she said artlessly. “Got lost or something.”
“I don’t think a ship’s mascot is likely to get lost. He has far too many friends aboard for that. And you needn’t have the slightest fear that any harm has come to him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s a cat,” said Dillman. “Cats have nine lives.”
“That’s true,” added Mrs. Pomeroy. “My husband ran over a cat with his wheelbarrow once. A ginger one with a frayed ear. He thought he’d killed the poor animal, but it suddenly jumped up off the grass and scratched him on the arm.” Her laugh set the double chin wobbling. “He’d have killed it for sure if he could have caught it.”
“Bobo wouldn’t scratch anybody,” said Alexandra.
Vanessa frowned at her. “Forget about him, dear.”
“He’ll be fine,” said Dillman. “I’ll keep an eye open for him.”
The girl brightened. “Thank you!”
As he gazed around the second-class dining saloon, however, Dillman was not in search of the cat. He was more interested in watching the behavior of the various people with whom he had come into contact before. Stanley and Miriam Rosenwald were dining with a family of eight, Mrs. Dobrowski was sharing a table with friends, and the others who’d been robbed in the course of the voyage were also seen about the room. Hester Littlejohn had made an appearance, but it was less to consume a meal than to give the chief steward a verbal questionnaire. From the hunted look on the man’s face, the detective concluded that she was asking him about rates of pay. A pad was taken out of her purse so that any new detail could be inserted. While almost everyone else was content to enjoy the meal, Mrs. Littlejohn had the earnest look of a missionary in search of a tribe to convert to Christianity.
It was Agnes Cameron who worried him most. She was in a position she had occupied once before, sitting at a table and manufacturing small talk with her companions while waiting for the empty chair beside her to be taken. Dillman’s first thought was that Max Hirsch was using people’s absence from their cabins as an opportunity to steal their property, and he had to resist the urge to go in search of the man. When half an hour rolled past, Mrs. Cameron’s hopeful expression slowly turned to bitter disappointment. After an hour, she looked utterly betrayed.
By the time the dessert arrived, she could stand it no more. Dabbing at tears with a handkerchief, she got up abruptly and hurried out of the room. Dillman’s compassion surged; he did not dismiss her merely as a gullible woman who had been taken in by a deceitful man. She deserved as much sympathy as Hirsch’s other victims because, as Dillman now realized, he had taken far more from her than from any of them. They had only lost property. She had surrendered her love and her trust.
Max Hirsch was leaving more damage in his wake than the tempest had.
ELEVEN
Though he had two able deputies to assist him, Maurice Buxton took the bulk of the work on his own shoulders, applying himself to the welfare of the passengers with a blend of tact and professional charm. Nobody seeing him at the entrance to the second-class lounge would have guessed that the first full day at sea had been fraught with such severe difficulties. He beamed reassuringly at all around him and fielded dozens of anxious inquiries without losing either his bonhomie or his equanimity. With his sturdy frame in its smart uniform, his friendliness and air of supreme competence, the purser was a comforting presence.
The lounge was quite full after dinner that evening, but Buxton eventually picked out the person he had come to see. Realizing that he was wanted, George Porter Dillman soon detached himself from the friends to whom he was talking and lef
t the lounge. A minute later, the purser casually followed him. He and Dillman met in the lift and ascended alone together.
“Aren’t you ever off duty, Mr. Buxton?” asked the detective.
“A purser is on tap for twenty-four hours,” said the other, “but you had your own experience of that with the Pinkerton Agency, didn’t you? What was your motto?”
“ ‘We Never Sleep.’ ”
“I’ve forgotten what sleep is, Mr. Dillman.”
“More trouble?”
“Yes,” said the purser, “though you may think it’s really Genevieve Masefield’s territory. Two thefts in first class, carried out this afternoon while the tempest was raging and you and the rest of the crew were doing heroics on the foredeck. Here are the names of the passengers involved,” he went on, slipping a piece of paper into Dillman’s hand. “They were irate. You might prefer to let Miss Masefield soothe them. She obviously did that very well with Mrs. Dalkeith.”
“What was taken?”
“A silver-and-ivory eyeglass case from one cabin.”
“And the other?”
“You won’t believe this, Mr. Dillman.”
“Astonish me.”
“A complete set of cutlery.”
“Cutlery?”
“Yes,” explained the other. “Solid silver. Bought from an antiques shop on Bond Street at great expense. Unfortunately, when the people opened the box to gloat over their purchase, it was empty. Sixty-four pieces of silver cutlery had vanished into thin air.”
“No,” sighed Dillman. “I think I know where they may have gone. The same place as the other stolen items. He’s starting to spread his wings.”
“Who is?”
“My little silversmith. After concentrating on second class, he’s now moving up in the world to richer pickings. I bet the eyeglass case was valuable as well.”
“It was. Mr. Tavistock was more upset by the loss of that than of the four hundred dollars that also disappeared.” The lift stopped and they got out. “When I asked him why he was so reckless as to leave that much money in his cabin, he said that he trusted the Cunard Line.”
“The Cunard Line is entirely trustworthy,” said Dillman. “It’s human nature that you have to guard against.” He glanced at the piece of paper. “I’ll get on to this at once, Mr. Buxton. Unless there’s anything else on the docket.”
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” said the other, stroking his beard, “I’m not sure if this is a crime or a case of absentmindedness. A couple of crowbars have disappeared.”
“Crowbars?”
“They use them to open boxes of food brought up from the storage area.”
“Where were they taken from?”
“The third-class galley, Mr. Dillman. Except that we’re not certain they were taken. The lad who normally uses them is not the brightest star in the firmament. My guess is that he may have forgotten where he put them.”
“I wonder.”
“We can rule out your prime suspect, anyway.”
“Can we?”
“The crowbars were solid iron,” said Buxton, “not silver.” Two passengers walked past and the purser smiled at them, waiting until they were out of earshot. “We’d better not be seen talking shop together, Mr. Dillman. To all intents and purposes, you’re just one more passenger on the Mauretania.”
“Then I’d like to report another disappearance, Mr. Buxton.”
“Are you serious?”
“Ally was deeply upset about it, I could see that.”
“Who’s Ally?”
“Alexandra Jarvis,” said Dillman. “A little girl I met on the boat train. It seems that she struck up a friendship with the ship’s mascot, and now he’s vanished. When I had dinner with Ally and her family this evening, she kept sending up silent distress signals to me. Bobo has disappeared.”
“Leave it to Mr. Reynolds. He looks after the cat.”
“Mr. Reynolds can’t find Bobo either, apparently.”
“Well, don’t come to me,” said the purser with a grin. “I’ve got more than enough on my plate as it is. Let’s catch this thief first, Mr. Dillman. He’s our top priority. Don’t worry about Bobo. He’ll be back. Cats have a way of looking after themselves.”
_____
The lavish meal offered in the first-class dining saloon that evening had included Tortue Verte, Crème Chatrillon, Supreme de Sole, Sirloin and Ribs of Beef, served with a selection of vegetables as well as Boiled, Mashed, and Chateau Potatoes, and a range of desserts to suit all palates, the whole banquet served up on exquisite crockery embossed with the Cunard emblem. What the guests saw was a magnificent repast, set out before them with quiet efficiency by an army of stewards, who removed the plates between each course at precisely the right moment. The sense of organization was all-pervasive. What the passengers did not see was the controlled hysteria in the kitchens, making it all possible. While the French chef had devised the menu, it was his industrious sous-chefs who were charged with the job of reproducing hundreds of meals to his exact specification, submitting them for inspection before they were allowed into the dining saloon. High standards of cuisine were an essential element of the voyage.
As each set of plates, bowls, and cutlery was returned to the kitchen, it was handed over to the real galley slaves: the lowliest stewards, with the task of washing everything in readiness for the next meal. Before they could plunge the crockery into the water, they had to clean off any remaining food, invariably marveling at the amounts that were sometimes left on a plate and making trenchant comments about the prodigality of the rich. Some of them popped an occasional leftover tidbit in their mouths, but most of the food was scraped off into the waiting bins.
It was between these bins that a black cat lurked in readiness. Bobo knew where to come. The first-class kitchens supplied the richest fare on the ship. It was almost as if he sensed that there was fish on the menu. When another piece of sole was pushed into a bin, Bobo came out of his hiding place, leaped nimbly onto the rim of the receptacle and retrieved the fish before anyone could see him.
Darting out of the kitchen, he found a quiet comer where he could dine in style.
It took time for Genevieve Masefield to extricate herself from the private dinner party, and even more time to shake off the respective offers from Donald Belfrage and Harvey Denning to escort her to her cabin. In any event, she and Ruth Constantine left the regal suite together. The latter was complimentary.
“You’re becoming quite adept at it,” she observed.
“At what?”
“Dodging the outstretched hands of Donald and Harvey.”
“I didn’t want an embarrassing scene outside my cabin door,” said Genevieve briskly. “Donald might have settled for a kiss on the cheek, but Harvey seemed to have rather higher ambitions.”
“He always does.”
“It was a lovely party, though. The five of you are such entertaining company. I thoroughly enjoyed it. You were in such good form, Ruth.”
“No,” said the other cynically. “I wasn’t nearly malicious enough.”
Genevieve smiled as they came to a halt outside Ruth’s cabin. She now had a much clearer idea of how the other fitted into the scheme of things. Theodora Belfrage and Susan Faulconbridge were agreeable members of the leisured class, but their roles were largely decorative. Ruth was an altogether more positive character. She was the catalyst in the group, controlling the balance of power between Belfrage and Denning, while bringing out the hidden traits in the other women. She might affect a world-weary disdain at times, but Ruth Constantine needed her friends as much as they needed her.
“Good night, Ruth,” said Genevieve.
“You still haven’t answered my question. What’s his name?”
“How do you know that he even exists?”
“Intuition.”
“Then you’ll have to rely on it to provide you with a name as well,” said Genevieve, tea
sing her. “And when you find it, perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me who he is, because I’d like to know myself.”
Ruth laughed, gave a farewell wave, then let herself into her cabin. Genevieve walked on down the passageway to the stairs, but instead of going up a flight to her own deck, she descended the steps and made her way to the second-class cabins. A glance at her watch showed her how late it was, but she knew that Dillman would be waiting for her. When he let her into his cabin, he made no complaint, giving her a kiss of welcome and offering her a chair. Genevieve settled down.
“This is a warmer place for a rendezvous than the deck,” she observed.
“But not quite so romantic.”
“That depends on the weather. It was foul earlier on.”
“I know,” said Dillman. “I was out in it. Conditions are still pretty unpleasant out there, but we seem to have come through the worst of it. According to Mr. Reynolds, we’re making good time.”
“Mr. Reynolds?”
“One of the officers. He looks after the ship’s mascot, that black cat you may have seen loping around. I met Mr. Reynolds when I was on my way back here. He tells me that the captain still expects us to cover over four hundred and sixty miles today,” he said, checking his watch, “which is due to end very shortly. Given the fact that we had to slow down this afternoon, that’s an achievement.”
“Has the Blue Riband been ruled out?”
“More or less. Anyway, that’s not our problem. We have enough of our own.”
“Do we, George? What’s happened?”
“Tell me about your evening first.”
Genevieve recounted the details of her dinner party in the regal suite, glossing over any mention of the subterranean foot that had tried to stroke her leg during the meal. Dillman was amused to hear of Ruth Constantine’s suspicion about her.
“So she knows that I do exist, does she?” he said.
“But you don’t, George,” replied Genevieve. “Not on this voyage, unfortunately. We’re nothing more than employees of the Cunard Line, traveling independently.”
