Murder on the Mauretania

by Conrad Allen

  “When did he take them?”

  “On Monday,” said Bowen, keeping his voice down for fear his friend would overhear him from the adjoining cell. “The problem was that we couldn’t keep them in the cabin, see? There was nowhere to hide them. If those blokes from Huddersfield didn’t spot them, the steward would when he changed the bed.”

  “So where did you hide them?”

  “In the cargo hold.”

  Dillman was astonished. “The cargo hold?”

  “Seemed like the safest place. Mansell opened the lock with his penknife. He’s good at things like that. We stuffed the tools inside.” He shivered: “It was so creepy.”

  “Why was that, Mr. Bowen?”

  “This cat ran past me in the dark. Made me jump.” He grimaced at the memory. “Then he did it again when we opened the door to get our tools. He shot out like he was in some race. Even Mansell was surprised by that.”

  Dillman’s mind was alight. The team of men who had worked their way through each deck of the vessel had finished up in the cargo hold, but they had been looking for a missing passenger. Since the theft from the security room was undiscovered at that point, they would have had no reason to look for hidden gold bullion, yet where better to conceal it than among the luggage, which would not be moved until they disembarked? Hester Littlejohn’s advice was sound; the second conversation with Glyn Bowen had supplied a new and important detail.

  At a signal from Dillman, the master-at-arms eased Bowen back into his cell in order to lock the door again. The Welshman reached out a pleading hand.

  “Mr. Dillman!” he called.

  “Yes?”

  “What will happen to us, sir?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Bowen. It’s not up to me.”

  “But you’ll have to give evidence against us, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Dillman, hearing what he was being asked, “and I’ll point out that you were very cooperative. Unlike Mr. Price. That may well be taken as a mitigating factor.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It should help you.”

  When she was admitted to the cabin, Genevieve saw that Walter Wymark was also there. He gave her a hostile glare but she held her ground. Katherine Wymark took control of the situation and ushered him out. Unperturbed, she offered her visitor a chair, then sat down opposite her with a bland smile.

  “I had a feeling you’d call on me sooner or later, Miss Masefield.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes,” said Katherine. “You had to take off your mask eventually.”

  Genevieve was brisk. “I won’t beat about the bush. You’ve met Mr. Dillman, a colleague of mine. Not long ago, he came to visit you.”

  “I wasn’t here when he called.”

  “But you were, Mrs. Wymark. He took the precaution of stationing me where I could watch your cabin in case there was a problem. Mr. Dillman was diverted by your husband, who took him into the cabin opposite. I saw you peer out, and I couldn’t help but notice that you weren’t wearing what you have on now,” she said, glancing at the other’s fashionable green dress. “I also couldn’t help observing the furtive way in which Mr. Fenby had to break off negotiations with you.”

  Katherine laughed. “Negotiations!”

  “I was trying to use a polite word.”

  “Use the one that fits the situation, Miss Masefield. Or do you think it will stain that pure English tongue of yours? Go on—say it.”

  “Is it necessary?”

  “I want to see if you have the nerve to speak it.”

  “It’s not a question of nerve,” said Genevieve sharply, “and you know it. The Cunard Line does not condone the use of its vessels for prostitution.”

  “Well done!” said Katherine, clapping her hands. “You made it at last.”

  “Mr. Fenby came here for an assignation.”

  “How do you know, when you weren’t in the cabin at the time?”

  “Why deny it, Mrs. Wymark? I saw your husband give Mr. Fenby a key in the lounge. When I followed Mr. Fenby, I also watched him let himself into this cabin. So please don’t insult my intelligence by telling me that you put on a dressing gown simply in order to make Mr. Fenby feel at home.”

  “But he’s not at home, Miss Masefield. That’s the whole point.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course.” A long sigh. “You’re not as worldly as I thought you were.”

  Genevieve was blunt. “I think we’ve each disappointed the other.”

  “What was that word again?” teased Katherine.

  “Mrs. Wymark …”

  “Please. Just once more. I like the prim way you say it.”

  “Prostitution,” said Genevieve firmly. “Engaging in sexual intercourse with a man for monetary reward. In your husband’s case, there is the associated charge of procuring and living off immoral earnings.” Katherine laughed again. “I’m glad you find it so amusing, Mrs. Wymark.”

  “I just wish you’d hear what you actually said. Engaging in sexual intercourse with a man for monetary reward? That sounds like a pretty good definition of marriage to my ear. The man gets the pleasure, the woman gets the financial security. And as for Walter living off my immoral earnings,” she continued, “why should he do that? He already has a very lucrative business.”

  “Buying and selling. I think we both know what you sell, Mrs. Wymark.”

  “Did you see any money change hands?” challenged the other.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “How do you know that a sale of any kind was involved? I trade, Miss Masefield. I barter. I give some of this for some of that. Who are you to say that I didn’t invite Mr. Fenby in here out of the kindness of my heart?”

  Genevieve looked her in the eye. “I’ve met him, remember.”

  “A fair point,” conceded the other, amused.

  “Also remember that I saw your husband give him the key to this cabin. Mr. Wymark not only condoned what took place, he actively promoted it.”

  Katherine was scathing. “Nothing took place, believe me! Mr. Fenby is an English gentleman. He needs fifteen minutes just to undo a shoelace, and that colleague of yours, the dashing Mr. Dillman, didn’t give him enough time for anything else.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “When he banged on the door like that, he put the fear of death into my visitor.”

  “You’re getting away from the point, Mrs. Wymark.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The Cunard Line has a strict policy.”

  “No whores in first class,” said Katherine sourly. “Well, that’s what you’re calling me, isn’t it? I’m the whore and Walter is my pimp. So what do you propose to do, Miss Masefield? Tar and feather us? Feed us to the sharks?”

  “I’ll report the matter to the purser and he’ll take the necessary steps. My job is simply to confront you with the evidence. I’m sorry you’ve been so obstructive.”

  “Obstructive? What am I supposed to do when you’re about to ruin my reputation? Lie back and let you do it? I’m obstructive, okay,” she warned. “I’ll obstruct you, the purser, and the interfering Mr. Dillman as much as I damn well can.”

  “None of this is helping you, Mrs. Wymark.”

  “Who says I want to be helped?”

  “You’ve done wrong. You’ve been caught.”

  “No,” snapped the other. “I live my life the way I choose: I resent you coming in here with your moral certainties and calling me a scarlet woman. I’m not a prostitute, Miss Masefield!” she said emphatically. “I’m not a common hooker. If I were, why did Captain Pritchard have me at his table in the dining saloon? Why have the most respectable people on this ship been glad to spend time with me?” She pointed a finger. “The only name I may just answer to is ‘courtesan.’ That’s a woman with real class who consorts only with selected courtiers. Highly selected at that. They don’t choose me, Miss Masefield. I choose them.”

  “I’m glad we agree on the ba
sic point.”

  “Have you never taken a man for the sheer pleasure of it?”

  The directness of the question made Genevieve pause. She did her best to conceal her discomfort. The conversation was not taking the course she had hoped for. When she was put on the defensive, she could hear the self-righteous tone in her voice, and the last thing she wanted to do was to appear a prig. She made an effort to relax.

  “Look, Mrs. Wymark,” she said reasonably, “I’m not enjoying this any more than you are. I’m sorry if I offended you or if I appear to be handing down moral judgments from up on high. That’s not the case at all. What I want to say is this: We have certain rules on board. In our view, you’ve broken those rules. How, when, and to what degree is, frankly, your business.” Her voice hardened slightly. “But we can’t ignore them I’m afraid.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Miss Masefield.”

  “We’re not talking about me.”

  “But we are, don’t you see? We’re talking about every woman.”

  “My private life is my own,” said Genevieve quietly, “but you’re perceptive enough to deduce certain things about me, so you can make your own judgment. After all, you saw through my disguise as if it were a thin veil. I should’ve realized then that you were seasoned in the art of spotting detectives in order that you could steer clear of them.”

  “In your case, that’s not what I did,” said the other. “I rather enjoyed taunting you with the fact that I knew your little secret.” She gave a shrug. “Now you know mine. A part of it, anyway.”

  “I won’t press for details.”

  “You wouldn’t get any, Miss Masefield.”

  “There is just one thing I’d like to ask.”

  “Let me save you the trouble. No,” she said, eyes smoldering. “Walter is not my husband. Do you think I’d let a man like that anywhere near me? I do have standards. He’s a useful bodyguard, that’s all. We trade. Both of us profit.”

  “I won’t pretend that I understand.”

  “Yours is one world, mine is another.”

  “I accept that,” said Genevieve, “but the purser will still have to know.”

  “Tell him,” replied Katherine airily. “I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done, and I fancy that Mr. Buxton might be more amenable to reason than you are. You surprise me, Miss Masefield. I need hardly tell you that I don’t like detectives or policemen of any kind, but you were the exception. Until now, that is.”

  “I’m sorry it had to end this way. I enjoyed our earlier conversations.”

  Genevieve got up from her chair and moved to the door. Katherine followed her.

  “By the way,” she said casually, “I’m pleased that Mrs. Dalkeith got her gold watch back. It was very foolish of her to walk out of the ladies’ room and leave it lying there on the basin. In a sense, she almost deserved to lose it, didn’t she? I wonder how it made its way back to you, Miss Masefield.”

  “I wonder.”

  “It’s just as well we have detectives working on the ship, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Wymark.” Grateful that the mystery of the watch had been solved, Genevieve gave her an appreciative smile.

  “Good-bye, Miss Masefield. I hope that we won’t have to speak again.”

  “No,” said Genevieve, “I’m afraid that we won’t.”

  Bobo was relishing the game, staying close enough to Alexandra to remain in sight but too far ahead of her to be caught. The girl was in her element, giggling merrily as she chased him and oblivious to the passage of time. As she followed his twists and turns and plunges down companionways, she was quite unaware of the fact that she was now completely lost. Eventually he paused outside an open door to lick at a paw. Alexandra stopped to catch her breath, then crept forward very slowly. He let her get within a foot of him before taking off through the door. She went after him and found herself in the cargo hold. The girl was not alone.

  “Ally!” said Dillman in amazement. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was chasing Bobo.”

  “Is the cat here as well? Bobo got locked in here once before. We don’t want that happening again. Let’s find him quick.”

  Dillman was leading a search party of four men who were working their way through everything in the hold. The girl stared at them in bafflement.

  “What’s going on, Mr. Dillman?”

  “Oh, I found I needed some of my luggage and these gentlemen are very kindly helping me find it. But let’s get Bobo out of here first. We can’t lose the ship’s mascot again. He is definitely ‘Wanted On Voyage.’ ”

  Eager to get rid of the girl, Dillman joined her in the hunt for the cat. Bobo was not going to be caught easily. He jumped on crates, hopped down between trunks, dodged between boxes, and crawled into places where they could not reach him without shifting several items. Dillman tried to remain patient. Searching for a cache of gold bullion, the last thing he wanted to do was to waste time chasing a black cat, but it had to be done. Bobo was eventually cornered, but he had one more hiding place. As Dillman and the girl closed in on him, he spun around and dived underneath the impressive new Lanchester automobile that was gleaming in the light.

  “Get out of there, Bobo,” ordered the girl with a laugh.

  “Come on,” coaxed Dillman. “Come on, Bobo.”

  But the animal was deaf to any blandishments. Instead of leaving his refuge, he simply curled up in a ball as if about to go to sleep. Dillman moved with caution. Lowering himself to the floor, he crawled under the vehicle until he could reach out a long arm. His hand fell on Bobo.

  “Give him to me, Mr. Dillman,” pleaded the girl.

  “If I do, hold him tight.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  “When I pass him back,” said Dillman, “take him from me.”

  Still full-length under the vehicle, he handed the cat to her. Alexandra cradled the animal in her arms, alternately stroking and scolding it. Bobo was content. He’d had his fun and wanted to be cosseted now. Dillman, meanwhile, was trying to wriggle back out from under the car. When he made the mistake of lifting his head too high, it collided with something solid. He rubbed his scalp and looked up ruefully. Then he saw what he had struck and the pain vanished miraculously.

  “Quick!” he shouted. “Someone bring a light over here!”

  Orvill Delaney pored over the chessboard for several minutes before he moved a white bishop. He then turned the board around so that he was now in charge of the black pieces. Playing chess against himself was, he found, a stimulating way to pass an hour or two. It tested his mettle and kept him in readiness for any opponent he might take on. Delaney was about to use the black queen to swoop on another pawn when there was a sharp tap on the door. He opened it to be confronted by Dillman. When he had introduced himself, the detective was invited into the cabin. His host was relaxed and hospitable.

  “Do take a seat, Mr. Dillman,” he said, indicating a chair. “I suppose I can’t tempt you to a game of chess?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. And I’d rather stay on my feet, if you don’t mind.”

  “That means it’s a short visit.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “In that case, you won’t mind if I sit down, will you?”

  Delaney lowered himself into the chair beside the table. He was impeccably dressed and seemed both unsurprised and unworried by the visit from the detective. Dillman appraised him carefully before speaking.

  “I understand that you own an automobile, sir,” he began.

  “I own three actually, Mr. Dillman. The Cadillac and the Great Chadwick Six are back home in the States. The Lanchester 12 H.P. is down in the cargo hold.”

  “I know, sir. I’ve just been examining it.”

  “Wonderful vehicle! Four-liter engine with fully automatic lubrication and a three-speed epicyclic gearbox. I hope you were impressed.”

  “I didn’t have time to admire it, Mr. Delaney.”

  “A pity,” said
the other. “You’d have seen some real craftsmanship.”

  “The only feature that interested me was the one that was out of sight,” said Dillman, watching him shrewdly. “A steel box has been welded onto the vehicle just in front of the rear axle.”

  Delaney chuckled. “What on earth were you doing under my Lanchester?”

  “That doesn’t matter, sir. The point is that I found the steel box and when we unscrewed the front panel, I saw what it contained.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I think you already know, Mr. Delaney.”

  “But I don’t. Surprise me.”

  “Gold bullion.”

  “You’re joking!” said the other, getting up. “That’s a design feature that wasn’t mentioned in the specifications. Gold bullion? Do I get to keep it?”

  “No, Mr. Delaney. It’s already been put back into the boxes from which it was stolen. There’s a twenty-four-hour guard on the security room now so that nobody will be able to break in there again. It was a very clever plan,” he said, looking over at the chessboard. “Worthy of someone with a sharp mind that he keeps in trim.”

  Delaney spread his hands. “Do I hear you properly, Mr. Dillman?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “You’re suggesting that I actually knew about that gold bullion?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Delaney,” warned the detective.

  “I could say the same to you,” returned the other. “I don’t find it at all amusing to be accused of something I didn’t do. Is this some new game that Cunard has devised? What do you call it, Mr. Dillman—‘Insult the Passengers’?”

  “I call it making an arrest, sir.”

  “On what evidence?”

  “On that of my own eyes,” said Dillman smoothly. “So it’s no use wearing that expression of injured innocence, sir. If you want me to tell you exactly how the gold bullion was taken, I will.”

  “Please do. I’d love to hear.”

  “You planned the whole thing well in advance. Knowing that the difficult part of the operation was to get the gold bars safely off the vessel, you bought the car and had the metal box welded underneath it. Then you stole the security-room keys from the purser’s office and took an imprint to make duplicates. That enabled you to let yourself into the security room on Monday night. Am I right so far, sir?”