by Conrad Allen
“Ships that pass in the night.”
Genevieve laughed. “What about your evening?” she asked.
“More perplexing, I’m afraid.”
“In what way?”
When Dillman told her about the latest developments, Genevieve was alarmed. “Two victims in first class?”
“Yes,” he said, handing over the piece of paper given him by Maurice Buxton. “Here are the names. Something tells me we won’t have the same happy outcome as we did in the case of Mrs. Dalkeith. Apart from anything else, you can’t slip a complete set of cutlery under the purser’s door in a brown envelope.”
“Why on earth keep something so valuable in a cabin?”
“That’s the question I put to the Goldblatts.”
“You’ve spoken to them already?”
“I felt it was important for one of us to make contact with them as soon as possible in order to get all the details and to offer some reassurance. I also had a word with Mr. Tavistock,” he explained. “The old man whose eyeglass case was stolen.”
“I would have thought he carried it with him wherever he went.”
“I’ll come to that in a moment, Genevieve. Let’s go back to the Goldblatts first. They’re a middle-aged couple from New Jersey. Their daughter is getting married in the New Year and they felt that a set of solid silver cutlery would make an ideal wedding present. When they saw it in the shop, they fell in love with it and couldn’t bear to be parted with it on the voyage. Mr. Goldblatt told me that they liked to take it out so they could just look at it. Thank goodness they did.”
“Why?”
“The theft might not have been discovered otherwise. Only the cutlery was taken, not the box it came in. The Goldblatts were devastated when they found out.”
“What about this other victim?” asked Genevieve, looking at the name on the piece of paper. “Mr. Clifford Tavistock.”
“He was enraged,” recalled Dillman. “Mr. Tavistock was born in England but he now lives in retirement in Washington, D.C. Collecting old eyeglass cases is his hobby. He has some that date back over a hundred years.”
“Did people wear glasses then?”
“Yes, Genevieve. From what Mr. Tavistock was telling me, I’d say they took more care of them in those days. They certainly spent more on cases to keep them in. The one that was stolen was made of silver and ivory. It cost vastly more than the glasses it was designed to hold.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “As our discriminating thief knew only too well.”
“Is it this Max Hirsch you’ve told me about?”
“Who else? There’s a definite pattern here.”
“It won’t be easy to conceal sixty-four pieces of cutlery.”
“No,” he agreed. “That’s why I went straight to his cabin when Mr. Buxton told me the news. Hirsch wasn’t there, and he didn’t show up in the dining saloon this evening either. I think he was out on the prowl again.”
“Breaking into people’s cabins while they were eating their food.”
“Exactly. My guess is that he’s still at work right now, Genevieve. When I’ve taken you back to your cabin, I’m going to search for the elusive Mr. Hirsch.”
“At this time of night?”
“ ‘We Never Sleep.’ ”
“It certainly looks as if he doesn’t.” She put the slip of paper in her purse. “What about these latest victims? Should I speak with them?”
“Yes, please. They could do with some soft words and reassurance. Tell them that we’re making every effort to recover their property. Mr. Tavistock was in a terrible state. You’d have thought he’d lost a wife, not an eyeglass case. Calm him down.”
“I’ll do my best, George.”
“In the meantime, I’ll go out on patrol.” He took her hand to help her up. “I can think of more enjoyable ways to spend a night, but duty comes first, alas.” He gave her a warm hug. “I feel revived already.”
“You don’t have to escort me back to my cabin, you know.”
“Try stopping me.”
She brushed his lips with a kiss. Dillman opened the door and they stepped out into a deserted passageway. They walked side by side toward the grand staircase.
“Nobody about,” she remarked. “Everyone must have gone to bed.”
“Not everyone,” he said quietly. “Some people work a night shift, I’m afraid.”
As they went ever deeper into the bowels of the ship, Glyn Bowen was puzzled. “Where are we going, Mansell?” he asked, trailing behind his friend.
“Shut up and follow me,” grunted the other.
“But where are you taking that stuff?”
“To a safe hiding place.”
Price stopped and whirled around to face him. In his hands were the stolen implements, covered in the piece of sacking. He extended his arms toward Bowen.
“We can’t leave this lot in the cabin,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because someone might find them, you idiot.”
“Not if you stuff them under your mattress.”
“No? And what happens when the steward comes to make the bed?”
“I never thought of that, Mansell,” admitted the other.
“You wouldn’t.” He set off again, Bowen at his heels. “Why take chances? All we need is a hiding place before we get the lie of the land around that security room. Then tomorrow—we dig for gold.”
Bowen gave a shudder. He had profound misgivings about the plan but knew he was powerless to dissuade his friend from going ahead with it. Trying to overcome his sense of foreboding, he went down the companionway that led between the orlop deck and the lower orlop. Mansell Price seemed to know where he was going. Bowen tagged along, conscious that they were now well below the waterline and suffering from the first hints of a claustrophobia that he’d never experienced when down a coal mine. They reached a large metal door and Price came to a halt.
“Nobody will find the tools down here,” he asserted, putting them on the floor.
“Where are we?”
“The cargo hold.”
“But that’ll be locked, won’t it?”
“I thought of that, Glyn.”
Taking a penknife from his pocket, Price selected a blade, then inserted it in the lock. He had to twist it experimentally for a couple of minutes before he heard the telltale click. Easing the door open, he peered inside. The hold was at the forward end of the vessel, filled with the passengers’ luggage and items of freight for delivery to New York. As their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they picked out a shape that was looming above everything around it.
“Hey,” said Bowen, his curiosity rising. “What’s that?”
“Looks like a car,” said Price.
“I didn’t expect to find one of those down here.”
“Forget that. The only thing we’re interested in is that gold. Though I daresay we’d have easier pickings if we rifled our way through some of this luggage. Problem is that we’d have nowhere to stash it.” He snapped his fingers. “Pass me that stuff.”
“Where are you going to put it?”
“In here somewhere.”
Price stepped into the dark cavern and worked his way around a large wooden box, proceeding with care. He found a gap between the box and a crate that stood behind it and inserted a leg to see how much room there was.
“Give it to me, Glyn,” he hissed.
“I’m coming,” said the other, gathering up the tools and moving into the cargo hold. “It’s so creepy. I wouldn’t fancy being stuck down here on my own.”
“Look where you’re going,” scolded Price as his friend bumped into him. He took the tools from Bowen and placed them in the gap between the box and the crate. “There,” he said, straightening up. “Perfect place to hide them. We can pick them up tomorrow night when we actually do the job.”
“If you say so, Mansell.”
“I do say so,” affirmed the other. “Don’t try to back out on me now.”
“I won’t.”
Bowen gave a sudden yelp of surprise and bumped into Price once more.
“What the hell’s going on?” complained the latter.
“Sorry,” said the other, bending his knees slightly to grope around with his hand. “I thought I felt something brush against my ankles.”
“A rat probably. You ought to be used to them after all those years down the pit. I’ve had dozens of them running over my boots in the dark.”
“This was bigger than a rat, Mansell, believe me.”
“Whatever it was, it can stay down here. Come on. Let’s get out.”
Bowen was eager to comply. Price followed him out, grasped the door and pulled it hard. There was a satisfying click. Pleased with his choice of a hiding place, he went off in the direction of the security room with his reluctant accomplice in tow.
When they reached her cabin, Genevieve Masefield wanted to invite him in, but she abided by the terms of their agreement. Dillman had made the suggestion and she saw its value; while they were working in the ship, they had to set their personal relationship aside. There would be ample time for togetherness when they reached New York. Meanwhile, she contented herself with a brief kiss.
“It seems so unfair to you, George,” she said.
“What does?”
“I have this wonderful cabin in first class while you’re down in second.”
“It could be worse,” he said with a grin. “I might be in steerage, sharing a cabin with five other people. Think of that. Besides, you deserve the best, Genevieve.”
“You’re a perfect gentleman.”
“My one big failing.” He kissed a finger, then tapped the end of her nose with it. “But seriously, it’s much better this way. We widen our opportunities. You cover first class while I cover second. And you blend in more easily up here. Let’s face it,” he pointed out, “I’d never have been accepted into the Belfrage circle in the way you were. Donald Belfrage despises Americans.”
“Some of us are more discerning.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Pleasant dreams.”
“Don’t stay up too late.”
He raised a palm, then went off toward the grand staircase. Genevieve watched him go and heaved a sigh of disappointment. When she first met Dillman, on the maiden voyage of the Lusitania, she had completely misjudged him and had never suspected for a moment that he was a detective in the employ of the Cunard Line. Adversity had drawn them together and allowed her to see the man concealed behind the professional mask. In the months since then, she had learned a great deal about George Porter Dillman, all of it to his credit, and in the process, she had been taught a lot about herself. She was still musing on that fact when she let herself into the cabin and switched on the light.
Something stared up at her from the floor. It was a white envelope that had been pushed under her door. Genevieve picked it up. Nothing was written on the envelope itself, and the note inside was perfunctory.
Three words were written in a looping hand: “Where were you?”
The message was unsigned, and that only served to make it rather unsettling. Genevieve wondered who sent it and why it had such an aggrieved tone. She had made no arrangement to meet anyone in her cabin. It troubled her that someone had come here in expectation of seeing her alone. Had the note been written by Harvey Denning? He seemed the most likely correspondent. Or had Donald Belfrage somehow slipped away from his wife to visit her cabin while she was in second class talking to Dillman? Only one other possibility came to mind. Perhaps the message was referring to the fact that she did not appear in the dining saloon that evening. Unaware of her invitation to join the Belfrages in their regal suite, had someone missed her enough at the table to register a protest by means of an anonymous note?
That brought the name of Orvill Delaney to mind….
Dillman’s perambulations were not without incident. He patroled the ship for well over an hour, during which time he directed three hopelessly lost passengers back to their cabins, rescued a drunken man from spending the entire night asleep in an alcove, and acted as the peacemaker between a furious wife and the repentant husband whom she had locked out of their cabin. What the detective did not see was anything that gave the slightest grounds for suspicion. There were no trespassing Welshmen pretending to have gone astray, and no bald-headed thief with a briefcase in his hand. Dillman decided to call it a day and retire to bed.
On Tuesday morning, while the Mauretania was still feeling the effects of the storm, Dillman was being reminded of his part in the securing of the spare anchor. The muscles in his arms and shoulders ached and there were sharp twinges in his back. In spite of the discomfort, he was up at the crack of dawn to pursue his inquiries. Having located the steward who was responsible for Max Hirsch’s cabin, he took the man along with him and pounded on the door. There was no answer.
“Maybe he’s still asleep,” said the steward.
“Knock harder.”
The steward, a beefy little man with a red face, used his fist to beat on the door, but the noise produced no response. At a signal from Dillman, he used his key to open the door and step deferentially into the cabin.
“Good morning, Mr. Hirsch,” he said. “I’m sorry to intrude, but there’s a gentleman who’s anxious to see you.” He looked over at the bed. “He’s not here, Mr. Dillman.”
“Are you sure?” said the other, coming into the cabin.
“Look, sir. The bed hasn’t been slept in.”
“Did you turn it down last night?”
“Yes, sir. Usual time.”
“Was the cabin empty then?”
“Completely.”
“Thank you,” said Dillman, gazing around. “I’ll take over here now. You have other things to get on with, I’m sure.”
“Oh, yes. Lots of them, sir. Excuse me.”
Letting himself out, the steward closed the door after him. Dillman began a systematic search. He went carefully through every drawer and cupboard, paying particular attention to every item of clothing in the wardrobe. No hidden booty came to light. He even burrowed underneath the mattress in case something was secreted there, but it was all to no avail. Everything was as it should be. A tidy man, Max Hirsch kept all his things neatly arranged. Unless they were put back where they should be, he would be aware that the cabin had been searched. Dillman made sure that each item was returned to its rightful place. He did not wish to alert the thief.
After one last look around the cabin, he let himself out and walked down the passageway. His departure was timely. Seconds after he left, someone walked up to the cabin and tapped politely on the door. Dillman heard the noise and turned around. A rather pathetic sight greeted him. Tired and anxious, Agnes Cameron was trying to make contact with her newfound friend. Dark pouches under her eyes showed that she’d had little sleep during the night. Her hunched shoulders and tense body indicated the state of distress she was in. Dillman’s sympathy for her welled up. Deserted by Hirsch at the dinner table, Mrs. Cameron had come in search of explanation and solace. He could see her fighting to hold in tears. When she knocked again on the door, Dillman walked back toward her.
“I’m afraid that Mr. Hirsch is not there,” he said softly.
“What?” she replied, turning to face him. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Dillman.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Cameron. I wanted to speak with him myself, but he didn’t respond when I knocked on the door of the cabin.”
“But he must be here. Where else can he be?”
“I’ve no idea, I’m afraid.”
“He promised me faithfully that we’d dine together yesterday,” she said, taking a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at a solitary tear. “But he never turned up.”
“Did he leave no message for you?”
“None at all, Mr. Dillman.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Over luncheon yesterday,” she explained. “We had such a lovely time together. Then the weather took a turn
for the worse and Max—that’s Mr. Hirsch—very kindly escorted me back to my cabin. We arranged to meet last evening in the dining saloon.”
“Did he give you any hint as to where he was going after he left you in the afternoon?”
“Back here, he said. To his cabin. He was feeling a little unwell and wanted to have a lie-down. That’s the sort of man he is, Mr. Dillman,” she said proudly. “Even though he was queasy when the ship started to roll, he insisted on taking me back to my own cabin first. Mr. Hirsch was so considerate. He’d never let me down.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t, Mrs. Cameron.”
“This must be reported to the purser,” she announced. “He’s disappeared.”
“So it would seem.”
“When I left the dining saloon yesterday evening, I came straight here, but there was no sign of him. I looked high and low. That’s why I got up so early this morning,” she said, fatigue in her voice. “I was hoping against hope that I’d find him safely back in his cabin. He must be somewhere on the vessel.”
“Then he’ll soon be found. But there’s no need for you to distress yourself any further, Mrs. Cameron,” said Dillman, seeing another tear form. “Let me report this to the purser. I’m sure that Mr. Buxton will organize a search at once.”
“And when they find Mr. Hirsch …”
“I’ll make sure that you’re the first to know.”
Agnes Cameron could contain her feelings no longer. Bursting into tears, she brought both hands up to her face. Dillman put a consoling arm around her.
“Let’s get you back to your cabin, shall we?” he said.
With a busy morning ahead of her, Genevieve Masefield decided to make an early start. Breakfast at this time of day, she reasoned, would also free her from the attentions of her mystery correspondent since he probably was not even awake yet. When she reached the dining saloon, however, she was surprised to see how many other early risers were already there, examining the menu or munching their food. Choosing a table in an alcove, Genevieve ordered her own breakfast, then looked around. There was no sign of Donald Belfrage, and she had the feeling that Harvey Denning was a man who preferred to languish in bed of a morning. That ruled out two suspects. But the third was actually in the room. Sipping his orange juice, Orvill Delaney was listening to something his companion was saying, then nodding in agreement. Neither he nor Patrick Skelton, beside him, paid any attention to Genevieve. She was grateful for that and shifted her seat to keep her back to them.
