by Conrad Allen
“You sound like a reluctant passenger, Miss Constantine.”
“I never expect to enjoy myself.”
“What a pity! I always do.”
“I can see that, Mr. Delaney.”
He gave her a cordial smile and she returned it. “Coming back to Miss Masefield,” he said casually. “What exactly does she do?”
“Do?”
“What profession or line of work is she in?”
“Really!” she said with mock scorn. “That’s not the sort of thing you should ask about a lady. It’s so vulgar. All I can tell you is what Genevieve is doing on this ship.”
“And what’s that?”
“What every unattached young lady is doing, Mr. Delaney. Keeping clear of the elegant male predators who always come out panting at a time like this.”
“Is that what you do, Miss Constantine?” he asked with amusement. “Keep clear of panting predators?”
Ruth was brusque. “I don’t need to,” she said. Her manner softened as she picked up the newspaper again. “But there was something in here that might interest you.”
“Old news is dead news.”
“This was a report of the Carlsbad Tournament.”
“Why should that have any appeal for me?”
“Because it involves the finest chess players in the world. The grandmasters of the game. You told me that you play chess yourself.”
“From time to time.”
“Rubinstein was in the lead when this was published,” she said, finding the appropriate page. “He’d won eight games out of ten. Maroczy was hot on his heels, though. How would you rate your chances against men of that caliber?”
“I wouldn’t, Miss Constantine.”
“Why not? Do they make you feel intimidated?”
“No,” he replied easily. “They make me feel grateful that I don’t approach the game in the spirit they do. I’m a practical man. While they play for pride, I only play for money. It’s far more exciting.”
“Not if you lose, surely?”
“I do my best to ensure that I don’t.”
“And how do you do that?”
“That’s a trade secret.” He gave her a quiet smile and offered his hand. “May I escort you into the dining saloon, Miss Constantine?”
“Thank you,” she said, putting the newspaper down once more and letting him help her up. “You’re a gentleman, Mr. Delaney.”
“That sounds better than being an elegant male predator.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive.”
He laughed, then conducted her toward the dining saloon. Ruth was pleased to be seen with him. It would raise eyebrows among her friends and provide a good talking point. She liked Orvill Delaney, and he seemed to appreciate her idiosyncrasies. It prompted her to give him some friendly advice.
“Don’t become too curious about Genevieve Masefield,” she warned.
“Why not?”
“You can see how beautiful she is.”
“Are you telling me that I’d have lots of younger rivals?”
“Put it this way,” she said. “If you went to tap on her cabin door tonight, you might find yourself at the back of a very long queue.”
He laughed again. “They must’ve heard about that magazine with the story by O. Henry in it,” he said amiably. “I’ve read it, so I don’t need to join the queue.”
Until he sat down in the second-class dining saloon, Dillman did not realize just how hungry he was. It was suddenly borne in on him that he had eaten almost nothing since breakfast. Sharing a table with the Jarvis family and a few other friends they had acquired, he addressed his food with a zeal that was matched only by Lily Pomeroy, though he consumed his meal at a slower pace and without any of the weird gurgling noises the old woman managed to produce. Alexandra was very subdued and he deduced that Bobo still had not been found. What made the girl’s suffering more acute was the fact that she could not confide in him during the meal because her father was listening and would be furious if he learned about the way she had coaxed her grandmother into taking her off in search of the ship’s mascot. Dillman gave her a friendly wink, but even that did not revive her.
“What’s the weather apt to be like in New York, Mr. Dillman?” asked Oliver Jarvis.
“Much the same as in London, I expect.”
“Cold, dull, and dreary.”
“But there’ll be so much to see,” said Vanessa Jarvis. “My sister was quite overwhelmed when she first went to America. She said the buildings were so tall that she felt like a tiny ant crawling along the street. Ernestine never thought she’d actually end up living in New York.”
“Then your sister shouldn’t have made the mistake of marrying a handsome American,” said Dillman pleasantly. “He must have swept her off her feet if she was willing to leave her own country.”
“He did,” recalled Mrs. Pomeroy. “Ernestine was always the impetuous one, Mr. Dillman. She fell head over heels in love with him. I think she’d have followed him to the North Pole if he’d asked her. Ernestine is not like my other daughter.” She lowered her voice. “Vanessa is the cautious one. That’s why she chose a banker.”
“Mr. Dillman doesn’t want to hear tittle-tattle,” said Jarvis, frowning.
“It’s the truth, Oliver.”
“Be that as it may.”
“The strange thing is,” she continued, ignoring him, “that Wesley is not handsome at all. To be honest, he’s rather ugly in some ways, but Ernestine loves him and that’s all that matters. Wesley has been very good to her, Mr. Dillman. According to my daughter, they live in a wonderful house. I’ve always wanted to see it.” She loaded her fork with another cargo of food. “That’s why we’re making the effort to visit them for their silver wedding anniversary.”
Dillman had heard the details before, but he nevertheless showed interest. After the trials of his day, it was a relief to spend time with the Jarvis family and experience a return to normality There were no daring thefts and missing passengers in their world. The most dramatic thing to touch one of them was the disappearance of a cat, and that, he felt, was only a temporary problem. Catching her eye again, he gave Alexandra another wink. She responded with a grin this time, then pretended to stroke a cat before hunching her shoulders to indicate bafflement. Dillman nodded to show that he understood.
“What are you doing, Alexandra?” asked the watchful Jarvis.
“Nothing, Daddy.”
“Don’t bother Mr. Dillman. Let him eat his food.”
It was an order that the detective obeyed with alacrity.
Kept up beyond their usual bedtime, both Alexandra and her brother began to tire. Their parents finished their meal, made their excuses, and whisked the weary children off to their cabin, leaving Mrs. Pomeroy to attack her dessert and dispense more wheezing reminiscences about her American son-in-law. Other tables were beginning to shed their diners and Dillman watched them go, garnering smiles of gratitude from the people whose stolen property he had recovered. He waited until Mrs. Pomeroy and his other companions had finished their coffee, then he quit the table himself.
An elderly couple waylaid him as he left the dining saloon. “We didn’t want to interrupt you during your meal. Mr. Dillman.” said Stanley Rosenwald, “but we just had to thank you.”
“Yes,” said his wife earnestly. “To be frank, I never thought we’d get our things back. Then Mr. Buxton handed them over to us. He was full of praise for you.”
“I did have some help, Mrs. Rosenwald,” admitted Dillman. He turned to her husband. “I noticed you took a pill out of your snuffbox during the meal.”
“Just like old times,” said Rosenwald, patting his waistcoat pocket. “It’s back where it belongs and it’s going to stay there. As a matter of interest,” he asked, moving in closer, “who was the thief?”
“He’s not in custody yet, Mr. Rosenwald.”
“But you know who he is?”
“We think so.”
�
�Good. You deserve our congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Another elderly couple passed, and Miriam Rosenwald broke away to exchange a few words with them. Her husband took the opportunity to express a concern.
“We haven’t seen Mr. Hirsch all day,” he said.
“No?”
“It’s a great pity. He did enliven the table so much. We were supposed to have dinner with him last night, but he didn’t turn up then either. Have you any idea of why not?”
“None at all,” said Dillman.
“Miriam has grown quite fond of him. And so, of course, has Mrs. Cameron.”
“Yes, I did notice a friendship developing there.”
“It may be more than a friendship,” said Rosenwald with a sly grin. “Perhaps that’s where he is—dining in private with Mrs. Cameron. She’s a fine-looking woman. Mr. Hirsch was so kind to her when that bad weather was brewing yesterday. He escorted her to her cabin even though he felt queasy himself.” He scowled as he remembered something. “Though he didn’t look at all queasy when I saw him later on.”
“Oh?” said Dillman, his interest quickening. “When was that?”
“Yesterday afternoon. During the bad weather.”
“Could you put a time on it, Mr. Rosenwald?”
“Three o’clock. Three-thirty at the latest.”
“And where exactly did you see him?”
“Walking along the corridor as jauntily as if he were strolling down Fifth Avenue on a sunny day. It was almost as if he enjoyed the rolling of the ship.”
“Did he see you, Mr. Rosenwald?” asked Dillman.
“Oh, no. I was on my way to the dispensary to get some tablets for Miriam, so I was going in the opposite direction. I would have called out,” he explained, “but he vanished up those stairs and I was too law-abiding to follow.”
“Law-abiding?”
“I always obey printed warnings, Mr. Dillman.”
“What did this one say?”
“ ‘Only First-Class Passengers Allowed Beyond This Point.’ ”
“That didn’t deter Mr. Hirsch?”
“I don’t think anything could do that,” said the other with affection. “He’s his own man, Mr. Dillman. He goes wherever he likes. That was the other surprise.”
“What was, Mr. Rosenwald?”
“He was carrying a briefcase. With the ship heaving violently, he was walking along without a care in the world, holding this briefcase in his hand.” He bared a set of yellowing false teeth. “It was almost as if he were going off to an important meeting.”
Dillman was glad he had restored the silver snuffbox to Stanley Rosenwald. In return, and without even knowing it, the man had just given him some valuable evidence.
Dinner in the first-class saloon that evening was a heady mixture of high fashion, sophistication, wealth, decorum, arrogance, and blatant glamour. The orchestra wrapped the whole occasion in a cocoon of light music. Rich men brought their gorgeous wives into the room like champion sportsmen displaying their trophies. New friendships took on more substance around noisy tables. Romances were blossoming between couples who had never met until they stepped aboard. Wit and repartee dominated. The tone was set by the captain and his entourage, occupying pride of place and acting as the hub around which the glittering wheel spun with dizzying speed. A veritable banquet was served, each course surpassing its predecessor, each glass of wine coinciding with the right food to produce a sense of consummate wholeness. It was difficult not to be caught up in the atmosphere of privileged joy, and Genevieve Masefield had to remind herself to hold out against its seductive effect.
Seated with her friends at a table for six in the lower half of the saloon, she noticed the glances that Patrick Skelton was sending her, a worrying blend of hostility and lust. He was situated at a large table some distance away, but his interest in her still managed to be oppressive. Genevieve wondered why he took so little part in the conversation of those around him. Orvill Delaney, by contrast, was completely at ease with his dinner companions. His table was much closer to Genevieve’s and she could hear his laugh clearly and catch an occasional comment. Apart from the warm greeting he had exchanged with her, Delaney took no notice of her. Genevieve was nonplussed.
As the evening wore on, the shortcomings of tying herself to one table became increasingly apparent. Genevieve felt restricted. The badinage was as amusing as always, but she wanted to share in the hilarity at Delaney’s table, or hear the captain’s anecdotes, or try to cheer up the Goldblatts, or sit beside the ramrod figure of Edgar Fenby in a bid to make him relax, or compete with Katherine Wymark at the table of which she was the acknowledged queen, or even listen to sad Clifford Tavistock talking about his beloved eyeglass case. Genevieve was simultaneously urged to leave her table, and denied the opportunity. She was also beginning to miss Dillman more painfully than ever.
“Be serious, Ruth,” said Donald Belfrage. “You can’t really admire the man.”
“Yes I can,” said Ruth Constantine.
“Mr. Delaney is almost twice your age.”
“So? Don’t be so conventional, Donald.”
“He’s being realistic, darling,” said Theodora with a giggle. “Do I need to spell it out? Some things just don’t improve with the passage of time.”
“Do you speak from direct experience?” challenged Denning.
“Of course I don’t.”
“No wild affairs with ancient suitors?”
“Harvey!”
“Then don’t make disparaging remarks about virility and the older man,” he warned. “Look at the king, for instance. Well over sixty and still in his prime. You can hardly call Edward the Seventh a martyr to impotence or half the women in England would shout you down.”
“That’s a very tasteless remark, Harvey,” chided Belfrage.
“Why else do you think I made it?”
“I want to hear about this romance between Ruth and Mr. Delaney,” said Susan Faulconbridge, draining her glass. “When I saw the two of them coming in here this evening, I couldn’t believe my eyes. As a rule, Ruth has so little time for men.”
“One day you’ll discover why, Susan,” said Ruth.
“What’s different about Mr. Delaney?”
“He knows himself.”
“That’s an absurd thing to say,” complained Belfrage. “We all know ourselves.”
“Not in the sense that Ruth means,” commented Genevieve. “Most of us have never really plumbed the full depths of our character. We’ve never had to battle against the odds, survive tragedies, and explore the extremities of life. Mr. Delaney gives the impression of having done all those things. He’s been through the flames and come out a better man as a result.”
“We are into high-flown rhetoric!” mocked Denning.
“Genevieve is right,” said Ruth. “Mr. Delaney has lived, while you merely exist.”
“I’ve lived,” asserted Belfrage.
“And I’ve survived tragedies,” said Theodora.
“Yes, darling,” prodded Denning. “You met Donald and married him.”
“I was talking about the operation to remove my wisdom teeth,” she said over the laughter. “It was touch and go. Then there was the time I had that strange disease.”
“He’s sitting beside you,” murmured Ruth with a glance at Belfrage.
“I’m not letting you off the hook, Ruth,” said Susan, wagging a finger. “I think there’s something between you and Mr. Delaney. What is it?”
“Three thousand miles of ocean and a cultural chasm.”
“You came into dinner with him.”
“So? That doesn’t mean the banns are being read, Susan. Look behind you,” she suggested, nodding toward Delaney. “I can count five attractive women at his table and they’re all salivating over him. He’s completely forgotten me.”
“I haven’t, Ruth,” said Denning, twitching his lips. “Name the time and place.”
“You never give up, Har
vey, do you?”
“Some things are worth the wait.”
“Come back in fifty years’ time,” she said curtly. “You might be civilized then.”
The chatter rolled on and Genevieve contributed her fair share. Because he had taken charge of the seating arrangements, Belfrage had put her at his side, but there was no contact with his foot this time. Genevieve was more disturbed by the ongoing surveillance by Patrick Skelton, a smart figure in his white tie and tails, yet uneasy in his surroundings. The more he stared, the more certain she became that he had slipped the message under her door. Harvey Denning was unlikely to resort to pen and ink; voice and appearance were his calling cards. He could be ruled out, along with Orvill Delaney. The American would be too gallant to resort to three words on a piece of paper. He would realize the distress they might cause her.
Having gone through a process of elimination, Genevieve was left with a man who had hardly exchanged a word with her on the one occasion when they met. Yet here he was now, looking up at regular intervals, watching her intently, conveying a desire of some sort, even rising to a cold smile at one point. Presentable as he was, the young accountant seemed faintly menacing to her. She wondered how she would cope with the situation if Patrick Skelton came to her cabin that night. He would have gone beyond the stage of pushing a note under her door; she had seen how much he had been drinking in the course of the evening. That might spur him on. Genevieve had never needed Dillman beside her as much before, but he was out of reach. She would have to deal with Skelton on her own and repulse the man she was now convinced had sent her the note. At that point, something happened to change her mind.
Donald Belfrage put his warm hand familiarly on her thigh.
FOURTEEN
Though the third-class dining saloon was crammed to capacity, Glyn Bowen heard nothing of its cacophony and smelled none of its pungent odors. As he sat at one of the long tables, he hardly touched the food that was set in front of him. Waiters moved swiftly up and down the rows of hungry diners in a continual stream, but they were just a blur before his eyes. Apprehension filled him. Thanks to his friend, he was committed to an enterprise that was foolish, dangerous, and potentially catastrophic. Bowen had little faith in the plan. All that he could see were the hazards. Instead of arriving in America to start the new life they had promised themselves, he and Mansell Price might find themselves held in custody before being handed over to the New York Police Department. He began to wish he had stayed in South Wales. There might be hardship, but there were also basic certainties there.
