by Conrad Allen
“Let’s go through it all from the start,” she suggested. “You say that you first met Mr. Hirsch on the boat train from Euston?”
“That’s right. I shared a compartment with him. He was extraordinary,” Mrs. Cameron replied, a nostalgic smile breaking through the cloud of despair. “He made us all laugh. I tend to be rather shy on such occasions, and the Rosenwalds—an American couple who were also in the compartment—were even more diffident. But that didn’t trouble Max. I think he saw us as a challenge. In no time at all, he had us chatting away as if we’d been friends for years. That’s quite a gift, Miss Masefield.”
“It must be.”
“And it was all done so effortlessly.”
“What happened then?” asked Genevieve. “When you reached Liverpool.”
“He took me under his wing,” said the other “He insisted on carrying my bag and escorting me through the customs hall. It was wonderful to be looked after again.” A defensive note came into her voice. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about him,” she insisted. “Max wasn’t taking advantage in any way. Nobody could have been more courteous. I know that I was the only person in the compartment traveling on my own, but that wasn’t why he took such an interest in me. It was mutual. I suppose you might call it an attraction of opposites. We had this affinity. Has that ever happened to you?”
“Only once, Mrs. Cameron.”
“It was a little breathtaking, to be honest.”
“I’m sure.”
“Things like that just don’t happen to women of my age.”
“They did in your case.”
“Yes. It was magical.”
Genevieve made a few notes and gave her a brief opportunity to bask in her memories. Agnes Cameron had a reflective glow. Her spirits were temporarily lifted.
“What I really need,” said Genevieve softly, “is a precise record of the time that you and Mr. Hirsch spent with each other. Obviously, you embarked together.”
“Yes, Miss Masefield. And we stood side by side at the rail to wave at the crowd. What a moving occasion that was! I’ve never been on a maiden voyage before and had no idea that there would be so much excitement.”
“It was rather overwhelming, wasn’t it?”
“Completely. But to return to your question, Max and I shared the same table that evening in the second-class dining saloon, and we got even closer. He asked me if I’d care for a short stroll on deck later on.”
“Later on?”
“He said that he had a few things to do first.”
“Did you agree to go with him?”
“Of course.” The defensive note intruded again. “Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not given to casual relationships with complete strangers. In fact, if anyone had told me that I’d be walking around a deck that evening with a man I met on a boat train, I’d have thought they were mad. It’s so out of character for me, Miss Masefield, and yet it seemed so perfectly natural at the time.”
“When did you next see Mr. Hirsch?” asked Genevieve.
“Over breakfast on Sunday. We also met for a mid-morning cup of coffee.”
“What about luncheon?”
“We were at the same table as the Rosenwalds. And for dinner.”
“You and Mr. Hirsch hardly ever seem to have been apart.”
“Oh, we were,” corrected the other. “Max had work to do. He went off from time to time. Also, he told me that he didn’t want to monopolize me in case it prevented me from making other friends. But he was the only one that I cared about,” she said with feeling. “As far as I was concerned, he could monopolize me all he wanted. It was like a dream, Miss Masefield. I just never thought it could happen again.”
“It?”
“Meeting someone who aroused such strong feelings in me.” She raised a hand to brush back a strand of hair. “When my husband died, I hardly dared to look at another man. It seemed vaguely improper. I’d been very happily married for fifteen years, you see, and wanted to stay true to my husband’s memory. It turned me into something of a recluse, but I didn’t worry about that. I almost enjoyed it. Does that sound peculiar?”
“Not at all, Mrs. Cameron.”
“We had no children, alas, so I was left completely alone. What kept preying on my mind was the fact that we’d never managed to fulfill an ambition that my husband had nursed for years. He always wanted us to visit America.” She gave a rueful smile. “It wasn’t so much an ambition as an obsession. After brooding on it for months, I thought I’d make the trip on his behalf, so to speak.” She winced slightly. “Nobody warned me about the kind of weather we might run into on an Atlantic crossing in November. Yesterday was really frightening.”
“You saw Mr. Hirsch at breakfast, I believe?”
“Yes. Then we met again for luncheon.”
“And after that?”
“He brought me back here before going off to lie down in his own cabin.”
“Could you give me an exact time, please.”
“It must have been around two-thirty in the afternoon,” recalled the other. “Just as the storm was building up. And that was the last time I saw him.”
“Did you arrange to dine together?”
“We did, Miss Masefield. And I made him promise to be there on time. He was rather late for one of our other meals and I chided him a little about that.” She used a handkerchief to blow her nose. “You can imagine how I felt when I sat there in the dining saloon for well over an hour. It was humiliating.”
“So what did you do?”
Agnes Cameron told her about the sudden flight from the table and the fruitless search for her admirer. Genevieve had already heard Dillman’s account of his meeting with the woman that morning, but it was interesting to be given the other’s version. She was deeply sorry for Mrs. Cameron. All the evidence was pointing to the fact that Max Hirsch might no longer be on board, but she did not wish to distress her companion any further by suggesting that. The latter had obviously suffered enough already. She looked to Genevieve for a crumb of comfort.
“Where can he be?” she asked softly.
“We’ll soon have the answer, I’m sure.”
“I couldn’t bear it if anything nasty had happened to Max.”
“Then let’s hope it hasn’t, Mrs. Cameron.”
“You don’t think …” The woman’s voice trailed away. Then she made an effort to ask a question that clearly caused her pain. “You don’t think he may have found someone else, do you?”
“There’s no chance of that,” said Genevieve, quick to reassure her. “You and Mr. Hirsch obviously had a deep and trusting relationship, even though you’ve known each other for such a short time. From what you tell me, he was a very loyal man.”
“He was, Miss Masefield. He doted on me.”
“Then rule out any fears on that score.” Genevieve looked down at her notes. “You and Mr. Hirsch were in each other’s company so much that he wouldn’t have had time to meet anyone else. Besides,” she said, glancing up, “why would he look elsewhere when he had the friendship of someone like you?”
“It’s kind of you to say so.”
“You and he were effectively a couple.”
“We were, Miss Masefield. That’s exactly what Max called us. A couple.”
“And is this a complete list of the times you spent together?” asked Genevieve, tapping her notebook with the pencil. “You haven’t left anything out, have you?”
“No,” replied the other quickly. “I haven’t.”
But they both knew she was lying.
Still continuing his search, Dillman elected to forgo luncheon, but he did make a point of stepping into the first-class kitchens. He found the steward who was responsible for bringing up supplies from the storage areas and the refrigeration units. Dillman took the man aside and explained his position on the vessel.
“I understand you had a trolley stolen?” he began.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t
you report the theft to the purser?”
“Because I wasn’t completely sure it was stolen,” said the steward. “I thought someone might just have borrowed it. That sort of thing often happens.”
“When did the trolley go missing?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“Did you go in search of it?”
“Of course, sir. But there was no sign of it until this morning.”
“What do you mean?”
“It turned up again.”
“Where?”
“In the place where I normally keep it,” explained the steward. “The little room at the back. So I was right. It wasn’t stolen at all. I knew it would turn up eventually.”
“Who could have taken it?”
“Somebody from one of the other galleys, probably. Or even some joker from around here. Working in a kitchen all day can get a bit boring. There’re a couple of stewards who’re always trying to liven things up by playing tricks on the rest of us. One of them may have hidden the trolley on purpose.”
“That’s one explanation, I suppose.”
“The most likely, sir,” said the other. “I mean, it has to be a member of the crew. What use would any of the passengers have for a trolley like that?”
Dillman smiled inwardly as he remembered Hester Littlejohn’s theory about the theft of the cutlery. Even the industrious Max Hirsch, pillaging on a regular basis, could not have stolen enough property to justify the use of a trolley. The steward’s suggestion was the most convincing, and it gave Dillman a degree of comfort; one allegedly stolen item could be crossed off his list. Like Mrs. Dalkeith’s watch, the trolley seemed to have come back of its own accord.
After thanking the steward, he made his way to the second-class lounge, hoping for a brief word with Alexandra Jarvis. Seated beside her grandmother, the girl was reading a book. She looked up with a grin as her friend bore down on her.
“Hello, Mr. Dillman,” she said.
“Hello, Ally,” he replied. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Pomeroy.”
“Thank you,” said the old woman. “We didn’t notice you in the dining saloon.”
“No, I wasn’t hungry.”
Alexandra spoke up eagerly. “Is there any sign of Bobo yet, Mr. Dillman?”
“Yes, Ally,” he told her. “That’s why I came over to see you.”
“Where is he?”
“I can’t say for sure, but he’s definitely about. I spoke to someone earlier who’d seen him lots of times in the past twenty-four hours.”
“Has he been back to Mr. Reynolds’ cabin for his food?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’d be ever so grateful if you could find out for me. Daddy won’t let me go anywhere near Bobo, and I think that’s cruel. Isn’t it, Granny?” she asked, stroking the old woman’s arm. “You’d let me feed the cat, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” agreed the other, “as long as you didn’t take food off my plate.”
She let out a cackle. Dillman was fond of Lily Pomeroy. She took an almost childlike glee in flouting convention and in expressing herself freely. Her gaudy attire was an act of senile rebellion in itself. Alexandra was much happier in the company of her grandmother than she was under the more repressive regime of her parents.
“I wonder where Bobo is now,” she said wistfully.
“Safe and sound, Ally.”
“Thank you so much for telling me that, Mr. Dillman.”
“I hope it’s put your mind at rest,” he said. “I never had the slightest worry about him myself. Cats have a knack of making the most of things. On a cold day like this, Bobo has probably sneaked off to the warmest place on the ship.”
“Where’s that?”
“The boiler rooms. I’ll bet he’s curled up in front of a furnace right now.”
Bobo liked his new domain. The cargo hold was quiet, spacious, and filled with interesting objects to sniff and explore. He spent hours simply pacing out his new territory, scrutinizing boxes, rubbing against wooden crates, picking his way through neatly stacked piles of luggage, and jumping up on the multifarious items that were stowed away in the bottom of the ship. There was even a new car on which he could leave the dusty signature of his paws. When his inventory was complete, he found some sacking and settled down to spend the night on his comfortable bed, untroubled by the weather and undisturbed by any passengers. It was the happiest time he had spent so far on the ship.
Tuesday morning compelled him to revise his judgment slightly. While he still enjoyed the privacy that he had found, he noticed one alarming deficiency in the hold. It had no food supply. A careful tour around the perimeter of his empire showed him that it also lacked an exit. Bobo had no opportunity to slip back to the cabin for one of his regular meals or to forage in the kitchens for scraps. Since it was a problem he could not immediately solve, he decided to bide his time. Finding his way back to the door through which he had entered on the previous night, he hopped onto a box nearby and curled up into a ball. He was soon drifting off into a deep and restorative slumber.
“That’s what it was,” said Glyn Bowen after long deliberation. “It must have been a cat.”
“What are you going on about?” grumbled Mansell Price.
“That thing I felt brushing against my leg in the cargo hold last night. It was a cat.”
“Or a large rat.”
“No, Mansell,” said the other. “Rats dart over your feet. They don’t rub against you like this animal did. I’m certain it was a cat of some sort.”
“That must’ve been a disappointment for you.”
“Why?”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a woman rubbing up against you in the dark?” asked Price with a lecherous grin.
“Fat chance of that!”
The two men were in the third-class smoking room, seated in two of the revolving chairs. Price was trying to manufacture a cigarette out of a series of discarded butts that he had collected from the floor. Bowen was preoccupied with the second visit he would have to make to the cargo hold. He screwed up his courage to voice his protest.
“I still have my doubts about tonight,” he said. “I think we should call it off.”
“Too late, mun.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve set everything up. I didn’t go to all the trouble of borrowing those tools just to leave them in the cargo hold for a night. We’ve come too far to turn back now, Glyn. Don’t you see that?”
“Yes, Mansell.”
“Then what are you moaning about?”
“I got this feeling in my stomach.”
“Excitement,” diagnosed the other. “It’s the same feeling you get before a rugby match. You’re all worked up and raring to go.”
“But I’m not. It scares me stiff.”
“Rubbish!”
“It does, Mansell.”
Price finished rolling his cigarette, then got up to ask for a light from an old man with a clay pipe in his mouth. Returning to his seat, the Welshman inhaled deeply while staring at his friend. His eyelids narrowed to a thin slit.
“This is a two-man job, Glyn,” he warned. “I need you.”
“Too risky.”
“Is it? Been very easy so far. We got the tools, found a hiding place for them, and staked out the security room. Stewards only patrol it once an hour. We had to hang around even longer for one of them to turn up.”
“We may not be so lucky tonight.”
“Of course we will.”
Bowen writhed in discomfort. “Think what’ll happen if we’re caught,” he urged.
“I’d rather think about what’ll happen if we don’t take our chances,” retorted Price. “We’ll go on as we are, cadging drinks, scrounging smokes, and arriving in New York with barely enough money to last us for a week. Is that what you want?”
“You know it isn’t.”
“Then do something about it. Stick to my plan.”
“It worries me.”
“Th
is time tomorrow, you’ll be thanking me,” said the other confidently. “We’ll have pocketed a tidy reward by then. You’ll see.”
“If only I could believe that, Mansell.”
“You’ve got to believe it,” snarled Price vehemently. “Lose your nerve and the whole thing falls to pieces. You can’t go soft on me now. You’re as much part of it as I am. You helped to hide those tools and you helped to keep watch on that security room. That makes you an accomplice, Glyn, like it or not.”
“I don’t like it,” confessed Bowen. A hand grabbed his wrist and squeezed hard. “But I’ll go through with it,” he said reluctantly. “I suppose I have to now.”
“Yes,” said his friend, relaxing his hold. “You do.”
* * *
Genevieve Masefield had a late luncheon in the company of her friends. The table for eight also included the couple with whom Susan Faulconbridge and Harvey Denning had played bridge. Donald Belfrage was at his most expansive, talking about his plans to improve the estate that he had inherited and promising that he would hold regular shooting parties there.
“Good,” said Ruth Constantine. “There are lots of people I’d like to shoot.”
“I hope I’m not on your list,” said Denning.
“No, Harvey. I don’t think your head would look very nice mounted on a wall.”
“It prefers to be mounted on my shoulders.”
“What about you, Genevieve?” said Belfrage solicitously. “You’ll join us at some of our weekends, won’t you?”
“If I’m invited,” she replied.
“You will be,” said Susan firmly. “I shan’t go without you, I know that. You’re part of our circle now. You’ve been initiated.”
“Not completely,” said Denning under his breath.
Belfrage’s glance seemed to convey a similar message. Genevieve responded with a bland smile. The anonymous note was still causing her concern, and she was never allowed to forget that she might be eating a meal in the company of its sender. Belfrage was more attentive to his wife today, as if trying to atone for some earlier neglect, but he still managed to let Genevieve know that he harbored certain feelings for her. She had been careful to choose a seat that put her well out of reach of even his long legs. Denning was directly opposite her but attempted no clandestine maneuvers beneath the table with his foot. His technique consisted of suave compliments, gentle innuendos, and the raising of a loquacious eyebrow. Neither man confirmed or denied by his manner the authorship of the note.
