Murder on the Mauretania

by Conrad Allen

  When the tap came on her door, she sat up with a cry of surprise, wondering at first if Hirsch had come back to her. How should she react? With pleasure or disgust? Was it conceivable that he might not, after all, be the villain that she imagined?

  A second tap brought her to her feet, but she could move no farther.

  “Mrs. Cameron?” said a female voice. “Are you in there?”

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “A stewardess, madam. I have something for you.”

  “Wait a moment.”

  Mrs. Cameron looked in the mirror while she tidied her hair, then straightened her dressing gown. Wondering what her visitor had brought, she crossed to the door and opened it a few inches. A pert young stewardess was standing there with a tray of food covered by a linen cloth. The visitor gave her a kind smile.

  “With the compliments of Mr. Dillman,” she said.

  “Mr. Dillman?”

  “He thought you might be hungry.”

  “Oh … well, yes.”

  “Would you open the door a little wider, please?”

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Cameron opened the door and stepped back so the stewardess could bring the tray into the cabin and set it on the table. Mrs. Cameron was touched. As the stewardess was leaving, she called after her.

  “Thank Mr. Dillman for me, will you?”

  The pleasures of discovering his new kingdom were starting to wane after twenty-four hours. Bobo was both lonely and famished. Several circuits of the cargo hold had shown him that he would get neither company nor food down there. He yearned for release. Most of the time was spent sleeping near the door, through which he first came, but one ear was always cocked for the approach of any rescuers. Eventually his patience was rewarded. He heard footsteps coming and dropped at once to the floor. Something was inserted into the keyhole. There was a scraping sound as the blade of a knife tried to coax the lock into obedience. After some delay, there was a click that made the cat tense himself in readiness. He did not linger for any introductions. When the door swung open, he sped through it as if his tail were on fire.

  Glyn Bowen gave a yelp as the animal brushed past his leg again. “There!” he said. “I told you it was a cat.”

  “A black cat,” noted Price, recovering from his own surprise. “You know what that means, Glyn. It’s a sign of good luck.”

  “But it was running away from us.”

  “So?”

  “Doesn’t that mean the opposite?”

  “No,” said the other, bending down to grope behind the box. “Of course not.”

  “I don’t like it, Mansell. That cat was a warning.”

  Price gathered up the bundle of tools and handed them over to his friend. “Carry these,” he ordered, “and stop worrying.”

  “I’m bound to worry. Look, I’m shivering.”

  “Get a grip on yourself.”

  “I’m scared of what might happen, Mansell.”

  Price was grinning with sheer excitement. He gave Bowen an encouraging push. “Trust me,” he said. “Nothing can possibly go wrong.”

  The population of the first-class lounge was steadily thinning as people drifted off to bed or to private parties in their cabins. Genevieve had been so absorbed in her conversation with Ruth Constantine that she did not notice the passage of time. It was only when she glanced around that she saw how few people were still left.

  “Heavens!” she said. “We’re almost the last ones here.”

  “Not quite, Genevieve. The urbane Mr. Delaney is still over there in the corner with his friends, and I think there’s another group behind those potted palms.”

  Genevieve surveyed the room. Orvill Delaney was reclining in a chair, talking to two elderly men and their wives. He seemed almost youthful in their company. Though she could not see the people who were screened by the potted palms, she could hear Katherine Wymark’s voice as she held court among an admiring circle. The one member of the group who was visible was Edgar Fenby, holding a pose in his chair and looking as relaxed as a dummy in a menswear department.

  “I must let you get to bed, Genevieve,” said Ruth.

  “But I’m not tired.”

  “I am. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

  “I’d like that. And thank you, Ruth.”

  “For what?”

  “Giving me a few insights.”

  “Fair exchange,” said the other. “You provided me with a few of your own.”

  As they were rising from their chairs, they heard a succession of farewells from behind the potted palms. Katherine Wymark then swept into view on her husband’s arm. They were a striking couple. She had chosen an evening gown of white satin with elaborate patterns sewn into it with gold thread. Her diamond necklace and earrings shimmered as she glided across the lounge. Walter Wymark was mocked rather than flattered by his apparel, but that did not concern him. He looked smug and happy as he escorted his wife along. Genevieve waited to introduce Ruth to them.

  “I believe I saw you at the captain’s table yesterday,” said Ruth.

  “That’s right,” said Wymark easily. “It was an honor.”

  “Captain Pritchard is such a darling man,” added Katherine. “It’s so reassuring to have someone of his vast experience at the helm.”

  “Especially during that terrible storm,” said Genevieve. “Let’s hope there’s calmer weather ahead. We haven’t been out on deck all day.”

  “Nor have we, Miss Masefield. But then, there’s so much to do indoors.”

  “Yes,” agreed Wymark. “It’s a swell boat, honey.”

  “Ship, Walter,” she corrected gently. “Remember what the captain told us. The Mauretania is a ship and we refer to her as ‘she.’ I’m not quite sure why, though. Do you know, Miss Constantine?” she asked, turning to Ruth. “Why should an enormous ship like this be designated a female?”

  “Because she’ll spend her entire life carrying men around,” suggested Ruth.

  Genevieve laughed at the rejoinder, but Wymark merely scowled.

  “I never thought of that,” said Katherine with a studied smile. “You’re a perceptive woman, Miss Constantine. We must stick together. There aren’t many of us about.”

  “Time to go, honey,” said Wymark.

  “There’s no hurry, Walter,” she replied before looking across at Genevieve. “My husband is always trying to move me along. Like a tugboat pulling an ocean liner. Or are tugboats female as well?”

  “You’ll have to ask the captain, Mrs. Wymark.”

  “But I had the feeling that you were a veteran sailor.”

  “No, I’m still a relative novice,” said Genevieve.

  “Katherine,” murmured her husband.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, squeezing his arm, “I’ll be there in a moment. Have you ever been married, Miss Constantine?”

  “I can’t remember,” said Ruth lazily. “If I have been, it wasn’t a success.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t work hard enough at it.”

  “She’s teasing you, honey,” warned Wymark.

  “I can see that, Walter. I like a woman with a sense of humor.”

  “I prefer mine plain and simple.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have chosen me.”

  “But I had the feeling that you chose your husband,” said Ruth.

  Wymark scowled again, but Katherine gave a serene smile. She raised a hand in farewell as they moved off to the door. Genevieve watched them go.

  “I take back what I said about Donald,” commented Ruth. “Compared to someone like Walter Wymark, our Mr. Belfrage looks like a perfect husband.”

  “Not for a woman like that, I suspect,” said Genevieve.

  “Oh, no!”

  “He’s not used to that degree of potency in a wife.”

  “Mrs. Wymark would terrify him.”

  “I fancy that her husband would terrify me,” admitted Genevieve, suppressing a yawn. “Oh, dear. I’m more tired than I thought.”


  “Being among so many inferior men is very taxing.”

  They strolled to the door, chatted for a few minutes, then went their separate ways. Since Ruth’s cabin was on the deck below, she descended the stairs, but Genevieve merely had to walk along a couple of passageways on the boat deck. Nevertheless, she hesitated, worried that she might return to her cabin to find another note waiting for her. What she really feared was being intercepted before she even got there. It was not fear of attack; she was certain that would not happen. It was fear of being the target for someone else’s emotional needs, fear of somehow being taken for granted by a man. When she was with Ruth, she was safe, but she was on her own now. She realized how much she missed Dillman at that moment.

  Gritting her teeth, she set off briskly along the passageway. She had gone only a dozen yards when she had the feeling that she was being followed. Not daring to look back, she maintained her pace, came to a junction and turned to the right. Then she darted into an alcove, pressing herself against the wall so she was out of sight. She heard heavy footsteps reach the junction and she braced herself, but they did not attempt to follow her. Instead, the man turned to the left and walked off. Genevieve emerged from her hiding place and looked to see who it was. Alarmed that Patrick Skelton might be in pursuit of her, she was astonished to see instead that the man was Edgar Fenby, moving furtively along the passageway as he checked the numbers on the cabin doors.

  It was late when he made his way to the third-class kitchens, and most of the staff had already retired to their quarters. All that remained were a few people washing the last of the dinner plates and a lackluster youth mopping the floor as if it were a punishment rather than a duty. Dillman introduced himself and took the youth aside.

  “I understand that you had some tools taken,” he said.

  “That’s right, sir,” replied the youth, leaning on his mop. “Crowbars and a few others.”

  “Where were they kept?”

  “In the cupboard with the brooms and mops.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Just outside, sir.”

  “So someone could rummage in the cupboard without being seen from here?”

  “Yes,” said the youth. “Nobody in here would be looking, anyway. We’re rushed off our feet. We got thousands of meals a day to prepare and serve. There’s so much steam in here, it’s like being in a thick fog.” He indicated his companions. “Then there’s all the washing up to do. They can build a ship that’ll carry over three thousand people, but they can’t invent a machine that washes dishes. Nor one that mops the floor.”

  “They’re not such high priorities, I’m afraid.”

  “They are to me.”

  “Is the broom cupboard locked?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re in and out of it all the time. Be a nuisance if we had to use a key. Anyway, who’d want to steal anything from there?”

  “Someone did.”

  “They might just have borrowed those tools, sir.”

  “Were the other galleys checked?”

  “I think so. Our stuff wasn’t there.”

  “Then where else could it be?”

  “No idea, sir,” said the youth, biting a fingernail. “But things do sort of come and go aboard ship. When I sailed on the Lucania, some frying pans went missing from the third-class galley. They turned up two days later. One of the laundry stewards told me that somebody walked off with six pillows during the night, but they came back as well. That kind of thing happens all the time. You get used to it.”

  “A trolley disappeared from the first-class galley, but that showed up again.”

  “There you are then.”

  “On the other hand,” said Dillman reflectively, “nobody would take a crowbar unless he meant to use it on something.”

  The youth sniggered. “Maybe he lost the key to his cabin, sir.”

  The detective forced a smile. “Thanks for your help,” he said, moving away. “I’ll leave you to your work. I can see that you enjoy it so much.”

  “I love it!”

  While the youth dipped his mop disconsolately in the bucket once more, Dillman let himself out and walked around the public rooms in steerage. They were virtually empty at that time of night, though a few stragglers were dotted around the lounge, playing cards or talking idly to keep themselves awake. He walked on past the long rows of cabins, noting that the passageways were much gloomier than elsewhere on the ship. It was not the kind of area that would have the slightest temptation for Max Hirsch. He was unlikely to find much expensive silverware among the meager belongings of the immigrants or the luggage of the other third-class passengers. Hirsch enjoyed the luxuries of life, preferably at someone else’s expense. If the man had been the victim of foul play, Dillman decided, then a passenger from first or second class was involved.

  As he headed back to his own cabin, his feet took him past the security room, and something made him pause outside it for second. There was nobody in sight, and yet he sensed a presence of some kind. He gave the door a cursory inspection. It was thick, strong, and equipped with a battery of locks. Dillman relaxed. It was a relief to know that the gold bullion was beyond the reach of any thieves. Beside that cargo, Hirsch’s little haul had been almost negligible.

  Moving away, Dillman suddenly remembered Mrs. Dalkeith. The old lady’s gold watch had vanished, then reappeared mysteriously in a brown envelope. Though he now had proof that Hirsch did venture into first class, Dillman did not believe he had stolen the watch, still less responded to an altruistic impulse to return it. The purser had been delighted when the object reappeared and he’d had the satisfaction of restoring it to its owner. Having been savagely berated by Mrs. Dalkeith, he felt entitled to bask in her praise. To the purser’s mind, the incident was closed, but Dillman was less inclined to write it off. The problem of who returned the watch and why was a mystery that he hoped would eventually be solved.

  Someone else aboard was committed to solving mysteries. When he walked up the grand staircase, he saw her coming down toward him. Hester Littlejohn’s face lit up with a smile. Still in her evening gown, she held a purse in one hand and a pad and pencil in the other. Dillman recalled the warning about her from Maurice Buxton.

  “What are you doing up at this hour, Mrs. Littlejohn?” he asked.

  “I might ask you the same thing, Mr. Dillman.”

  “I was just taking a stroll.”

  “Counting the rivets in the hull, no doubt,” she teased. “Or calculating how many square yards of carpet the Mauretania has.”

  “Actually, I was trying to work out how much corticine was used.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The material out of which the decks are made.”

  “But that’s wood, surely?”

  “Look again, Mrs. Littlejohn,” he advised. “There’s a whole forest of timber used throughout the interior of the vessel, but the decks are constructed of corticine because it’s lighter in weight. Corticine is made from ground cork mixed with India rubber.”

  She narrowed an eye. “Are you pulling my leg, Mr. Dillman?”

  “Not about the corticine. That was in the specifications. But,” he confessed with a smile, “perhaps I haven’t been out there with a ruler to measure it.”

  “So where have you been?”

  “Getting the feel of the ship when there aren’t so many people about.”

  “I have another word for it.”

  “Sleepwalking?”

  “Snooping, Mr. Dillman.”

  “I would have thought you’d be tucked up in bed by now.”

  “Not when there’s an exclusive story beckoning. In my experience, some of the most interesting things tend to happen at night.”

  “Yes, but they usually involve two people and some privacy.”

  She laughed. “I’m no Peeping Tom. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this mystery,” she explained. “Something important has g
one missing and the purser has organized a detailed search. I’ve seen the men at it. Unfortunately, Mr. Buxton won’t tell me what they’re looking for. Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”

  “Not really, Mrs. Littlejohn.”

  “I think he’s hiding something.”

  “Such as?”

  “The disappearance of a passenger!” she exclaimed.

  “Nothing evades you,” he said with admiration, seeing the chance to shake her off the scent. “As it happens, I’m in a position to tell you that you’re perfectly right. I had it from one of the crew earlier. They were searching for a missing passenger. A very important passenger.”

  “I knew it!” she said, grabbing his arm. “What’s the passenger’s name?”

  “Bobo.”

  “Who?”

  “Bobo,” he repeated. “The ship’s mascot.”

  “All that fuss over a black cat?”

  “As far as the crew is concerned, no passenger is more important than Bobo. Sailors are very superstitious, Mrs. Littlejohn. The cat has vanished and that worries them deeply. They see it as a portent of evil.”

  The woman was deflated. “Is that what all this is about?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he said impassively. “I’d like to be able to tell you that ten first-class passengers are missing, presumed drowned, but they were all hale and hearty at the last count. So will you be,” he counseled, “if you have a good night’s sleep.”

  “There’s still the other business,” she argued, rallying slightly.

  “What business?”

  “The theft from the galley.”