by Conrad Allen
Mansell Price had no fears about the task that lay ahead. Far from robbing him of his appetite, the idea of breaking into the security room only served to sharpen it. Sitting opposite his friend, he chewed happily through his food.
“Eat up, Glyn,” he urged. There was no response. “Glyn!”
The kick against his shin brought Bowen out of his morose introspection. “What’s wrong?” he said, blinking.
“You haven’t touched your grub.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s good stuff, mun. Get it down you.”
Bowen picked up his fork and pronged a potato. He ate without enthusiasm, then took a drink of water. Setting the fork down, he pushed the plate away.
“Don’t you want it?” asked Price.
“No, Mansell.”
“Well, it won’t be wasted,” said the other, grabbing the plate and using a knife to scrape its contents onto his own. “Cheer up!” he said, putting Bowen’s plate aside. “It’s a big night for us. A nice meal would set you up.”
Bowen shook his head. With other passengers all around them, it was impossible to discuss the projected crime with his friend. He knew, in any case, that it would be futile to protest. Even when they were boys, Price had been the unchallenged leader of the local gang. He was big, strong, and decisive. Nobody dared argue with him. As they grew older and the other boys fell away, Bowen remained at his side like a faithful hound. Price’s friendship had its advantages; it gave Bowen protection in a boisterous community, and a feeling of being needed. There was another bonus. Price had a knack of making girls like him. He not only found girlfriends for himself, he provided the more tongue-tied Bowen with an occasional girlfriend as well. It never troubled the latter that Mansell Price always had first choice.
“Remember that girl from Porth?” asked Price.
“What?” Bowen was jerked out of his reverie again.
“That girl, mun.”
“Which one?”
“From Porth. What was her name again?”
“Catrin.”
“That’s it. Catrin.”
“Catrin Thomas,” said the other bleakly.
“She liked you.”
“Nice girl.”
“How nice?” asked his friend with a grin.
“Nice, Mansell. Easy to be with.”
“But you took her out for weeks.”
“Yes,” said Bowen sadly. “Then I told her about going to America.”
It was one of the many things he had left behind him. The burgeoning friendship with the girl had been scotched instantly when she learned of his plan to emigrate. Bowen winced as he recalled their last meeting. He had grown very fond of Catrin Thomas and she had been drawn to him. The girl had been stunned by the news of his imminent departure. His mumbled promises to send for her once he was settled in America were met with scorn and disbelief. He could still see the pain on her face.
“I bet you wish she was here now,” said Price.
“Who?”
“Catrin. At least she wouldn’t play the mouth organ in our cabin.”
“No.”
“Might even enjoy this voyage myself if I had Catrin Thomas on board. I know one thing. She’d be livelier company than you.” He kicked the other shin. “Wake up, mun. You’re still asleep. I need you with your eyes open.”
The reminder sent a mild shudder through Bowen. He felt ill. What he really wanted to do was to get up from the table and go back to the cabin to lie down, but he was afraid to move. Price would not accept sickness as an excuse. There was no way out of the predicament. Bowen would simply have to go through with the plan.
“What’s wrong with you?” demanded Price.
“Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“I’m fine, Mansell,” he muttered.
While his friend ate heartily on, Bowen continued to suffer in silence.
When the festivities were over in the first-class dining saloon, most of the passengers began to gravitate toward the lounge or the smoking room. Genevieve Masefield’s own party began to disintegrate. Harvey Denning and Susan Faulconbridge were partnering each other in a game of bridge and went off immediately to find their opponents. Donald and Theodora Belfrage adjourned to the lounge for drinks but soon peeled off to have an early night. Genevieve was left alone again with Ruth Constantine.
“Susan was in a peculiar mood this evening,” she observed.
“Peculiar?” said Ruth.
“She was as jolly as ever at the start of the meal but it didn’t seem to last. I had the feeling that she was on edge.”
“In her shoes, you might be the same, Genevieve.”
“What do you mean?”
“Susan was sitting opposite Donald. How would you like to watch the man you love being pampered by his wife? And what a wife!” sighed Ruth. “Theodora is like some little bird, twittering away and flying here, there, and everywhere. Susan must want to throttle the woman. Then, of course, there’s the problem of Harvey.”
“Problem?”
“Will he or won’t he?”
“I got the impression that he—and they—already had.”
“Not on this voyage, Genevieve. I can tell from the look in her eyes. What’s the point of sitting up late in your cabin if your beau forgets to call? Or what’s far worse, if you suspect he’s paying a visit elsewhere.” Ruth lowered her voice. “That’s why Susan gave you those envious glances.”
“I didn’t notice her doing that.”
“You wouldn’t. She’s very discreet about it.”
“Why should Susan be envious of me?”
“Since her bridge partner is not showing interest in her, she’s bound to wonder if he’s transferred his affections to you.”
“Not in the sense you mean,” said Genevieve firmly.
“We know that. Susan doesn’t.”
“I’d hate for her to get the wrong idea.”
Ruth grinned. “I’d do everything I could to encourage it.”
Genevieve had never met anyone so unashamedly candid as Ruth Constantine. In the woman’s honest, fearless, sardonic way, she said things that others only dared to think. It was a little startling at times, but Genevieve found it refreshing also. She was sorry to hear that Susan was feeling vague pangs of jealousy because of her, and she hoped to find a way to disperse them. Harvey Denning was not the suitor who had courted her at the table. The hand on her thigh had belonged to someone else.
“You don’t like Donald, do you?” she asked.
“Don’t I?”
“I think you despise him for marrying someone like Theodora.”
“Not at all,” said Ruth. “I’m more likely to despise her for having married him without realizing exactly what she was letting herself in for. Theodora’s pillow will be soaked with tears before too long. As for Donald … well, it’s impossible not to like someone who gives me so many opportunities to fire my arrows at him.”
“Why does he put up with it?”
“Because it keeps me around.”
“You mean it’s a price he has to pay?”
“Something like that,” said Ruth, smiling to herself. “The truth is that I fascinate Donald Belfrage. I’m unattainable. I’m the one woman he can’t have at his feet. Susan worships him, Theodora dotes on him, and there are dozens of others who think he’s a Greek god in the shape of an English aristocrat. But I’m not drawn by that combination of money, pomposity, imbecility, and good looks.”
“Don’t you find Donald attractive?”
“Of course,” confessed Ruth. “He has a wonderful body and great stamina, but I doubt that he’d bring any finesse to an intimate moment. Subtlety is not Donald’s forte. He’s more likely to grab a woman as if she’s an oar in a rowing eight. Then,” she added with a roll of the eyes, “there’s his other fatal shortcoming.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve heard him talk.”
Genevieve laughed. “I take your point.”
“Can you imagine what Donald would say to you afterward?”
“I’d rather not, Ruth!”
“Harvey has his drawbacks,” sighed the other, “but at least he’d be relaxed and amusing in those circumstances. He’d know the right words to say to a woman. But not Donald Belfrage. Oh, heavens! You’d get his views on the British Empire or his memoirs of the Boat Race. He has no lightness of touch.”
“How did you meet him?”
“When he was playing polo down in Sussex. He looks quite splendid astride a polo pony. Let me be honest—I was struck by him. It was only later that I discovered I might have got more intelligent conversation from the pony.”
“Yet he has a degree from Oxford.”
“A fourth in Greats. He barely scraped through.”
“I got the idea that he’d had a dazzling university career.”
“Oh, yes,” said Ruth. “Donald likes to dazzle.”
Genevieve felt much better about the incident at the dinner table. In cutting Donald Belfrage down to size, Ruth had made him seem less threatening. The hand on the thigh was no longer a menacing prelude; it should be dismissed as an improper gesture and quietly forgotten. She was grateful that Susan Faulconbridge had not been aware of what was going on beneath the table or her jealousy would have been fueled even more. Theodora Belfrage, she suspected, would have been far more than jealous. The maiden voyage was like an extended honeymoon to her. It saddened Genevieve that the woman’s husband was already taking a first look outside the marriage.
“Whom would you choose, Genevieve?”
“Choose?”
“Yes,” said Ruth with cool directness. “You’ve been on the ship long enough to take stock of the possibilities. I’m sure you have the good sense to ignore both Donald and Harvey. So which man would you pick?”
“Do I have to pick any?”
“Not in reality. I’d just be interested in your taste.”
“Well, it’s difficult to make a decision,” said Genevieve, gazing around. “There’s something about a man in uniform that always impresses me. In the dining saloon, I might even have selected Captain Pritchard.”
“What about Mr. Delaney?”
“He wasn’t in uniform, Ruth.”
“Oh, yes he was. You didn’t recognize it, that’s all.”
“Tell me more.”
“In a moment,” said Ruth, nudging her. “We have company.”
Genevieve tensed slightly when she saw Patrick Skelton walking toward them. He was on his way to the exit and had to first pass them. There was a quiet determination in his manner as he paused beside them to exchange pleasantries.
“Have you enjoyed the evening, ladies?” he inquired.
“Very much,” said Ruth.
“And you, Miss Masefield?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“What about you, Mr. Skelton?” asked Ruth. “You’re not a good sailor, I hear.”
“I prefer solid ground beneath my feet.”
“Don’t we all?”
He switched his gaze to Genevieve. “I like to know where I stand,” he said.
“You’ll have to put up with it for a few more days,” she pointed out, “I hope you can find some consolations on the ship.”
“So do I, Miss Masefield.”
“What do accountants do when they want to cheer themselves up?” asked Ruth with a mocking smile. “Count money?”
“Something like that.” He gave a stiff bow. “Good night, ladies.”
They bade him farewell and watched his compact figure move on toward the exit. Skelton had been very polite, yet he left Genevieve feeling uneasy. She recalled those three words on the note that was put under her door and she bit her lip involuntarily. Ruth Constantine sensed her friend’s discomfort.
“I take it that Mr. Skelton is not your ideal man, Genevieve?”
“No,” said the other with feeling. “Now, tell me about Mr. Delaney’s uniform.”
Dillman kept on the move. The search for Max Hirsch had been abandoned for the day, but he was still involved in his own personal hunt, walking down passageways, opening storerooms, investigating the laundry area, peeping into larders, looking into cabins that were not being used on the voyage, wandering into the hairdressing salon, and racking his brains to think of anywhere else a missing man might be. When he made his way to the purser’s office, he found Maurice Buxton lighting up his pipe.
“You don’t smoke, Mr. Dillman, do you?” the purser asked.
“No, Mr. Buxton, and I never have.”
“I can recommend a pipe. Very soothing.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“The funny thing is that I smoke it only aboard ship. When I’m ashore, my garden is my consolation. An hour or two out there does wonders for my frayed nerves. Once we set sail again, however,” he said, raising his pipe, “I reach for my tobacco.”
“Are your nerves feeling that frayed?” asked Dillman.
“Yes, it’s been a long day. Not without its triumphs, mark you. But it’s still left me feeling in need of a restorative pipe. What about you? Resting on your laurels?”
“There’s no time for that, Mr. Buxton.”
“But you recovered that stolen property. You’ve earned a break.”
“I can’t take one while Max Hirsch is still missing. I want to know what happened to him. In any case,” he added, “Genevieve Masefield deserves as many plaudits as I do. Her interview with Mrs. Cameron was the turning point.”
“How is the lady?”
“Grief-stricken.”
“I can imagine.”
“Mrs. Cameron won’t even leave her cabin.”
“Was she that involved with Hirsch?”
“No doubt about it.”
“What would have happened if he’d still been around?”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Buxton,” said Dillman. “The chances are that Hirsch would have enjoyed his little romance until we reached New York, then dropped the poor woman like a stone. Either way, she was heading for disillusion.”
“Perhaps it’s better that it came sooner rather than later.”
“Hardly.”
“Why do you say that?”
“In spite of everything, Mrs. Cameron still cares for him. Deep in her heart, she believes that Hirsch is being maligned and that he could explain everything if only he were here. Yet he’s disappeared. That’s causing her more distress than the thought that he might have misled her.”
“The cunning devil used her. Can’t she see that?”
“It’ll take time for her to get it all into perspective.”
“Meanwhile,” said the purser, brightening, “the good news I have to report is that there’s been no bad news to report.”
“No more thefts?”
“Lose a thief and you lose his crime dossier.”
“There are still two victims to be appeased, Mr. Buxton,” said Dillman. “The items taken from first class were—if my guess is right—hidden in that briefcase, and that’s gone missing as well. I know that he had it with him. Mr. Rosenwald actually saw Hirsch sneaking into the first-class section on Monday afternoon.”
“What about the third-class galley?”
“Not much chance of solid silver being down there.”
“Those tools were stolen, Mr. Dillman. Let’s not forget them. What would Hirsch want with crowbars, a chisel, and a lump hammer?”
“We don’t know that he took them.”
“Somebody did. Where are they?”
“If we search hard enough, they’ll turn up.”
“I hope so,” said Buxton, exhaling smoke. “We don’t want another thief aboard. By the way, a word of warning. Somebody’s on to us.”
“What do you mean?”
“That busy little American journalist, Mrs. Littlejohn, has been hounding me. She’s spotted our men searching the vessel and wants to know what we’re after. I made no comment, naturally, but that only made her more inqui
sitive.”
“Yes,” said Dillman. “Mrs. Littlejohn is indefatigable.”
“Watch out for her. It was bad enough when she was trying to stir up the crew to mutiny, a real female Fletcher Christian. She seems to think that the Cunard Line is the twentieth century equivalent of Captain Bligh. Mrs. Littlejohn has been scouring the ship for underpaid malcontents. She’s looking for a nonexistent scandal to expose. Let her carry on,” he said wearily, “as long as she doesn’t discover what’s really been happening aboard.”
“The lady is very well intentioned, Mr. Buxton.”
“They’re always the worst kind.”
“She has the curiosity of a cat.”
“Don’t mention cats!” wailed the other with mock horror. “That’s another name on the Missing Persons’ list. Bobo, the ship’s mascot. It’s incredible. Since we set sail from Queenstown, we’ve somehow lost a passenger, an eyeglass case, a set of cutlery, a collection of tools, a trolley, since returned, several windows on the promenade deck, and a large black cat. What’s next in line?”
“Wait and see.”
“I daren’t look.”
“Then I’ll leave you to enjoy your pipe. Oh,” he said, checking himself, “I need to ask you a favor first. Where might I find an attractive young stewardess?”
Buxton was surprised. “Are you that desperate, Mr. Dillman?”
“Of course not.”
“The duties of a stewardess extend only so far, you know.”
“I understand that, Mr. Buxton. It’s not a personal request.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” said the other, grinning.
“I need a stewardess to perform a very special service for a jaded passenger. Somehow, I feel that the lady would appreciate it.”
“What lady?”
“A hungry one.”
Agnes Cameron spent the whole day in her cabin, regretting her decision to book a passage on the Mauretania. Setting out on a journey in memory of her husband, she had found herself embroiled in a situation that would have appalled him. She had been foolish, impulsive, and unguarded. What shocked her most was that she had not behaved like the respectable, middle-aged woman she took herself to be. Max Hirsch had unlocked something in her that she had not even known was there, and it was, in retrospect, quite frightening. Mrs. Cameron had been duped. She had to accept that, even though it was difficult to believe that a man who had been so tender could also be so devious. Yet she still had a vestigial fondness for him. Whatever he had done to her, she did not wish him to come to any harm. While agonizing about her own problems, she still found a moment to worry about Hirsch and to speculate anxiously about his whereabouts.
