by Conrad Allen
“Are you quite certain?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman.”
“Mr. Hirsch didn’t ask you to hide anything for him?”
“Why should he?”
“I was hoping that you might tell me that.”
“Max never asked me to keep anything in here,” she answered firmly. “I’m bound to say that I find some of your questions very impertinent. You’ve no right to come in here and badger me like this. If this goes on, I shall complain to the purser.” She sat down again. “You should be out there right now searching for Max, not bothering me with irrelevant questions about his briefcase.”
“Unfortunately,” he said, “they’re not irrelevant.”
There was no easy way to secure her cooperation. It was time to let Genevieve take over once more. Moving a step back, Dillman gave her a nod and watched Mrs. Cameron closely. Her anger was natural and her denials genuine. If she had been Hirsch’s accomplice, she obviously knew nothing about it.
“Mrs. Cameron,” began Genevieve, “there are certain things that you don’t know about Mr. Hirsch. He may have been everything that you describe, and I can understand your affection for him. By the same token,” she said, slipping in a soothing compliment, “I can see why he was drawn to you. Mr. Hirsch was a fortunate man.”
“What is it that I’m not supposed to know about him?”
“It may come as something of a shock.”
“I won’t listen to any slander about Max!” cautioned the other.
“It’s not slander, Mrs. Cameron. Do you recall what you told me about Saturday evening? Over dinner, Mr. Hirsch invited you to take a stroll on deck.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Except that he postponed the walk until later on.”
“Max said that he had some business to attend to. I went back to my cabin to wrap up warmly and he stayed in the dining saloon.”
“The business he had to attend to was witnessed by Mr. Dillman.”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “I saw him steal some items from the table.”
“Never!” protested Mrs. Cameron.
“I have sharp eyes. There was no doubt about it.”
“Max isn’t a thief! He’s the most honest man I’ve ever met.”
“He didn’t show much of that honesty when I challenged him,” said Dillman. “After the usual bluster that I get on these occasions, he admitted the theft and told me he’d acted on impulse. What he’d taken were a silver saltcellar and a pepper pot. He claimed that he wanted them as souvenirs for his wife.”
“But he doesn’t have a wife.”
“Who knows? At the time, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. It was a grave mistake,” said Dillman, sighing heavily with regret. “I let him go with a stern warning. If I’d had the sense to arrest him and report the theft, none of the other robberies would have occurred, because I’d bet my bottom dollar that he’s behind them.”
Mrs. Cameron could not take it all in. The disappearance of a dear friend was a hard enough blow to bear. To hear that the man she revered was actually a thief was unendurable. She could only cope by disbelieving the charge. Swaying to and fro, she beat her fists on her knees.
“No, no, no!” she exclaimed. “It’s not true! It can’t be true!”
“He was caught,” whispered Genevieve. “Mr. Hirsch admitted the theft.”
“But he had no reason to steal. He was comfortably off.”
“On the proceeds of other robberies.”
“Max was a good man, Miss Masefield.”
“He was a thief, Mrs. Cameron,” she said, “and we believe that he might have disappeared as a result of his criminal activities. That’s why we need your help.” She held the other woman’s hands to stop the drumming fists. “You loved him, didn’t you?” she went on. “In his own way, I’m sure that Mr. Hirsch loved you.”
“He did,” murmured Mrs. Cameron. “He said so.”
Genevieve left a long pause. “When I spoke to you earlier,” she said at length, “there was something you held back from me. I don’t want to pry, but I have to ask you a very personal question. I think you can guess what it is, Mrs. Cameron, can’t you?”
The other woman nodded, then glanced up with embarrassment at Dillman.
“During the time that Mr. Hirsch stayed here on Sunday night—or on any of the other occasions when he was here, for that matter—was he alone for any length of time?”
“I had to visit the bathroom, if that’s what you mean.”
“What about Monday morning?”
“Really, Miss Masefield!” said the other, flushing visibly.
“I assume that Mr. Hirsch returned to his cabin?”
“Quite early in fact. He didn’t want to compromise me in any way.”
“Nor do we, Mrs. Cameron,” said Genevieve. “I can promise you that none of this will be heard outside these four walls. You’ve told us what we needed to know.”
Genevieve looked over at Dillman, convinced that their theory had substance to it. Mrs. Cameron was still trying to come to terms with what she had heard, shifting between disbelief and despondency, refusing to accept the charges they were making against her friend, yet sensing in her heart that the accusations might have some foundation. Her febrile mind replayed some of the conversations she’d had with Max Hirsch. Touching moments now came to seem like cruel charades. She turned to Dillman.
“Did he really tell you that he had a wife?” she asked.
“He said her name was Rachel,” he replied, “but there’s no reason to think that she ever existed. Mr. Hirsch may well have invented her on the spot.”
“Then again …”
“Forget about that,” said Genevieve, patting her wrist. “There’s no point in torturing yourself about whether or not he was married. The only way to learn the full truth about Mr. Hirsch is to find him. That brings us back to his briefcase.” She took a deep breath. “Mrs. Cameron, we’re going to ask you a very big favor.”
“Well?”
“We need your permission to search the cabin.”
“Whatever for?” retorted the other, coloring again.
“Evidence.”
“But there’s nothing here. I can’t let you go through my things, Miss Masefield. That would be a terrible invasion of my privacy.”
“Would you agree to conduct a search yourself?”
“There’s no point.”
“I’m afraid there is, Mrs. Cameron,” said Dillman, applying gentle pressure. “We’re making a polite request at the moment. If the purser is summoned, he’ll point out to you that we can insist on searching this cabin. We’d rather spare you any coercion.”
“Please,” coaxed Genevieve. “It won’t take long.”
“It would be a complete waste of time.”
“In that case, we’ll apologize and leave you alone.”
“You won’t find a thing, I tell you,” said Mrs. Cameron, getting up suddenly to pull open every drawer in the cabin. “See for yourself, Miss Masefield. Go on. And look in here while you’re at it,” she continued, flinging open the doors of the wardrobe. “I have no idea of what you’re after, but I’m certain it couldn’t possibly be here.”
Genevieve carried out a quick but fruitless search of the drawers before moving to the wardrobe. She pushed all the garments aside so she could peer into every corner. Nothing was hidden away. Moving from indignation to open anger, Mrs. Cameron stood over her with her arms folded.
“Now are you satisfied?” she demanded.
“What’s in that box?” asked Dillman, indicating the upper shelf in the wardrobe.
“A new hat I bought in London.”
“Have you worn it on board?”
“No, Mr. Dillman. Max preferred me in one of my other hats.”
“So he would know that the new one would stay in its box?”
“May I?” said Genevieve, taking down the box. She put the lid aside. “What a pretty hat, Mrs. Cameron!” she added, lif
ting it out to admire it. “Where did you buy it?”
“On Oxford Street.”
Genevieve held the hatbox in front of her so she could look down into it. “Did you buy all these other items on Oxford Street as well?”
Mrs. Cameron blanched. “They’re not mine!” she gasped.
Moving in swiftly, Dillman extracted the silver snuffbox. “No, Mrs. Cameron,” he confirmed. “This belongs to Stanley Rosenwald.”
Maurice Buxton completed his tour with a smile of satisfaction. The last of the property stolen from second class had now been restored to its grateful owner. The purser was content. Crimes had been solved and the good name of the Cunard Line had been vindicated. He felt a weight being lifted from his back. Two major problems still existed, however, and they brought the chevrons back to his brow. Though Max Hirsch’s haul had been found, the whereabouts of the thief himself were unknown. Also missing, and presumably hidden in the man’s briefcase, were the eyeglass case and the cutlery taken from first-class passengers. Ralph Goldblatt and Clifford Tavistock would continue to bang on the purser’s door to demand action. When Buxton reached that door, he found another unwelcome visitor loitering outside it.
Hester Littlejohn was consulting the notes in her pad. She looked up. “Ah, here he is!” she said, beaming at him. “Your assistant told me that you’d be back at your post very soon.”
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Littlejohn?”
“Confirm those rumors, for a start.”
“All I can say is what I told you earlier. Don’t listen to idle speculation.”
“But a trolley was stolen from the first-class kitchens.”
“If you care to go back there now, I think you’ll find that it’s been returned. It was probably only taken by way of a practical joke.”
“What about those tools from third class?”
“Mrs. Littlejohn—”
“And that box of silverware that went astray. Was that a practical joke as well?”
“If anything goes missing,” he said with controlled politeness, “the normal procedure is that the incident is reported to me before being handed over to the trained detectives we have on board. They are very efficient, Mrs. Littlejohn, as I have good reason to know, but they can do their job more effectively if they’re not tripping over inquisitive passengers.”
“But I’m not an inquisitive passenger,” she said. “I’m a nosy journalist.”
“That’s even worse.”
“So you don’t deny that those tools were stolen? And that cutlery.”
“Some people eat with crowbars. Others prefer knives and forks.”
Hester Littlejohn burst out laughing. “I like your sense of humor, Mr. Buxton,” she said. “I may even quote you. One last question, if I may.”
“Only if you promise to give me some breathing space afterward.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Right. Ask your question, Mrs. Littlejohn.”
“Who or what are they after?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Buxton. You understand everything that goes on aboard the Mauretania. Nobody clears his throat without you having a report of it. So tell me. What is the search looking for? And don’t try to fob me off. I’ve seen a team of men working their way along various decks today. Why?” she pressed. “I’m no sailor, but I’ve got a nasty feeling that they weren’t looking for leaks.”
“And I have a nasty feeling that you are.”
“What are they trying to find?”
“Something that I’ve been missing ever since we met, Mrs. Littlejohn,” he said with a friendly grin. “Something that’s very precious to me.”
“And what’s that?” she asked.
“My peace of mind.”
He went into his office and closed the door firmly behind him.
“You were right, Genevieve,” he said with a congratulatory smile. “Wonderful intuition.”
“I was getting rather worried when we seemed to have drawn a blank.”
“So was I.”
“But I was convinced the loot was in there somewhere.”
“Tucked away in a hatbox.”
“Unkown to Mrs. Cameron.”
“Who but Hirsch would have thought of a place like that?” said Dillman. “When you opened that box, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he’d popped out of it like a white rabbit.” He became serious. “Except that he’s given us another trick from his extensive repertoire.”
“ ‘The Vanishing Act.’ ”
After handing over the recovered property to the purser, they had adjourned to Dillman’s cabin to review the situation. Delighted to have made some progress, they were both saddened that they’d had to do so at the expense of Agnes Cameron. She had been horrified at the discovery in her wardrobe, and heartbroken to learn that her romance with Max Hirsch had a mercenary side to it. Genevieve wanted to stay to comfort her, but the older woman insisted on being left alone. A woman of delicate sensibilities she was hurt by the way her private life had been exposed. All that Mrs. Cameron wanted now was to withdraw from sight in order to lick her wounds.
“I hope she has the courage to venture out for dinner,” said Dillman.
“I doubt it, George. In her position, I’d barricade myself in.”
“We’d better keep an eye on her. Have food sent to her cabin, if necessary. We don’t want Mrs. Cameron to die of starvation. She must feel rotten.”
“And so guilty. To realize that she’d been party to a series of thefts.”
“Only indirectly.”
“It still cut her to the quick. You could see that.”
“Max Hirsch has a lot to answer for, Genevieve—”
“We’ll never find him. He’s gone for good.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I don’t imagine that Hirsch dived off the boat deck just to prove that he could swim. Someone else was involved. We have to find out who it was.”
“How?”
“It means going back over Hirsch’s tracks, talking to all the people he met since he came aboard. The ones he befriended and, more important, the ones he may have upset.”
“They’ll all be in second class, won’t they?”
“For the most part,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “That’s my territory. But he may not be unknown in first class. My guess is that Hirsch sailed to and fro on a regular basis, taking advantage of gullible ladies like Mrs. Cameron and helping himself to anything that would fit into that briefcase of his. He could probably afford to travel in style but shifted between first and second class as a safety measure. Who knows?” He went on. “Perhaps one of his former victims recognized him when he was embarking and decided to get revenge. The man we’re after may be sleeping soundly in a first-class cabin tonight.”
I wish they all did that, she thought to herself, remembering the note pushed under her cabin door. “Well,” she said, “I’d better be off. Time to dress for dinner.”
“Keep your eyes peeled, Genevieve.”
“Oh, I will. For my own sake.”
“Why?” he asked, concerned. “Is someone pestering you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Would you like me to have a quiet word with him?”
“That’s very sweet of you, George,” she said, kissing him on the cheek, “but I can cope. Besides, you can’t have a quiet word with him when I don’t know who he is.”
“A mystery stalker, is he?”
“Only time will tell.” She was about to leave when something else popped into her mind. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd?”
“What?”
“The fact that Hirsch had that briefcase with him.”
“Not really, Genevieve.”
“Nobody walks around a ship with a briefcase.”
“I suppose it lent him a businesslike air.”
“That’s my point,” she said, puzzled. “It’s so odd. I mean, what sort of thief steals people’s property with a busi
nesslike air?”
“They’re called bank managers,” he explained.
Dressed for dinner, Ruth Constantine waited for her friends in the first-class lounge and whiled away the time by glancing through a newspaper. Her black evening gown was plain and unrelieved by jewelry, her one concession to style and color being the red rose pinned into her hair. When a shadow fell across her, she looked up to see Orvill Delaney, at his most debonair in white tie and tails.
“Good evening, Miss Constantine,” he said, inclining his head.
“Hello, Mr. Delaney.”
“May I say how attractive you look this evening?”
“Then I obviously failed in my mission,” she said crisply. “I don’t believe in striving to look attractive with a new hairstyle and an expensive gown. Why betray nature’s intentions? I let people take me as I am.”
“That’s an attitude I find very attractive in itself.”
“Even though it’s not one you share,” she observed, running an eye over his well-groomed appearance. “You cut a fine figure, Mr. Delaney.”
“Thank you. But I didn’t know that newspapers were delivered on board,” he said. “I would have thought it beyond even Cunard’s ingenuity .”
“This one is days old,” she explained, putting aside her copy of the Westminster Gazette. “I brought it with me but haven’t had time to read it until now. My friends don’t allow me room to do anything as normal as reading a newspaper.”
“So I’ve noticed. You make a lively party.”
“It can get tiresome on occasion.”
“Not with someone like Miss Masefield around, surely?” he said. “She seems a most interesting and charming young lady.”
“Genevieve is a delight.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Why do you ask?”
He gave a shrug. “No reason. Ignore the question if it’s offensive.”
“I find it rather unnecessary, that’s all,” she said tensely. “You’ve spoken to Genevieve on more than one occasion, so I’m sure you’ve figured out that she’s a very recent addition to our circle. In point of fact, we met on the boat train.”
“Yet she fits into your group so well.”
“It’s been one of the consolations of the voyage.”
