by Conrad Allen
“No, but I’m fascinated nevertheless.”
“The crux of the plan,” said Dillman, “was to make sure the theft was not discovered until you were off the vessel and driving away fast. When you took out the bars, therefore, you put house bricks into the boxes instead, and added a lead lining to bring them up to the exact weight required.”
Delaney grinned. “House bricks? Lead lining? Really, Mr. Dillman. Do I look like the sort of man who carries things like that around in his pocket?”
“The materials were brought on board in the box beneath your automobile so that they could be retrieved when needed. A trolley was stolen from the first-class galley to facilitate the movement of the bricks and then of the bullion.”
“You have a remarkable imagination for a detective.”
“It doesn’t quite match yours, Mr. Delaney.”
“I still haven’t heard any evidence that I am the man who committed the crime. All you’ve offered me so far is this incredible story of how you think it was done.”
“How I know it was done, sir.”
“By whom?”
“You and your accomplices.”
“Oh, I see,” mocked the other. “I have a gang of desperadoes, do I?”
“You had a contact at the Bank of England who provided you with details about the size and weight of those boxes in the security room. And you had someone on board who could steal keys and make duplicates.”
“And who might that be?”
“A possible name is that of Max Hirsch.”
“Who?”
“A passenger from second class who inexplicably went missing during the storm on Monday afternoon. My guess is that Hirsch was mixed up in this business somehow.”
“But I’ve never even heard of the man.”
“So you say.”
“Nor have I any idea of how that gold bullion came to be found under my vehicle. Somebody must have known I was shipping my new automobile to the States and decided to use it for his own purposes. That’s the only conclusion I can reach.”
Dillman was brusque. “The only one that I can reach, Mr. Delaney, is that you’re a barefaced liar. I’d better warn you now that no judge will be taken in by your denials either. It’s my duty to place you under arrest,” he said, taking a firm hold of the man’s arm, “before I start to round up your accomplices.”
“And who are they?” asked the other coolly.
“I propose to begin with Mr. Patrick Skelton.”
Genevieve Masefield was in a state of exhilaration. After being told by Dillman of the discovery in the cargo hold, she was able to link Delaney’s name with that of Skelton’s and to provide other information that sealed the culprits’ fate. Everything was now clear. Orvill Delaney was a criminal with well-developed cultural interests. Genevieve was also certain that he had preceded Edgar Fenby into the arms of Katherine Wymark, using the mention of a game of chess with her putative husband as a euphemism. The woman had warned him that Genevieve was no mere fellow passenger, and Delaney had passed on that intelligence to Patrick Skelton. It explained the subtle alteration in Delaney’s manner toward her, and it also relieved her of one anxiety. Skelton was not the man who had pushed the notes under her door.
When he had paused outside her cabin, he was not issuing a covert warning; he was taunting her. Skelton was supremely confident that he had helped to commit the perfect crime. He believed it would not come to light until long after he and Delaney had disembarked, and even then there would be nothing to incriminate them. During their brush on the boat deck, Skelton was simply indicating that he knew all he needed to know about Genevieve Masefield. He knew where she slept and what her official position was on the Mauretania. Delaney’s cabin was also on the boat deck, so Skelton had a legitimate reason to be there. That is where he must have been heading when he encountered her.
Skelton was not there now. He was chatting to a steward in the first-class lounge. When she saw him, Genevieve was even more exhilarated. Dillman had gone to confront Delaney, but she did not wish to be left out of the action. Since she still had the list of first-class passengers, she could easily identify Skelton’s cabin. One of the master keys that Dillman had given her was bound to let her into it. Reassured that the man himself was occupied in the lounge, she checked her list, then hurried off to the cabins on the promenade deck. She had to try three keys before she found one that fit. Once inside, she felt a surge of fear and excitement, worried that he might catch her there, yet fired by the thought that she might find some damning evidence against him.
Her search was swift but thorough. This time she did not have the disapproving presence of Agnes Cameron to hamper her. She went through every drawer and examined all the garments in the wardrobe. She also searched the bedroom and the bathroom, but none of them yielded what she hoped to find. It was only when she looked under the bunk that she saw the briefcase. Pulling it out, she took it through into the main area to place it on the table and open it. A briefcase was a normal accessory for an accountant, and she expected to see it filled with documents and business papers. Instead, Genevieve saw something wrapped in a scarf. When she unwound the scarf, she was looking in wonderment at solid silver cutlery. Amid the knives was a silver-and-ivory eyeglass case with tissue paper around it.
“What are you doing in here, Miss Masefield?” said a menacing voice.
The key had been inserted so silently in the lock that Genevieve had not even heard it. Patrick Skelton stepped into the cabin, closed the door and kept his back to it. He looked down at the briefcase on the table. Shocked at his sudden arrival, Genevieve stood there with her heart pounding.
“That was very silly of you,” he warned. “I had a feeling that you were up to something when I caught a glimpse of you in the lounge. You were checking to see where I was.”
“With good reason, Mr. Skelton.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve got stolen property here.”
“From where I stand, you look more like the thief than I.”
Genevieve faced him boldly. “The game is up, Mr. Skelton. The gold bullion that you stole has been found in its hiding place in the cargo hold. My colleague is arresting Mr. Delaney at this very moment.”
“But that’s impossible,” said the other, stunned by the news.
“We may also wish to ask you about the disappearance of Max Hirsch.”
“Who?”
“Another passenger,” she explained, pointing to the briefcase. “The man who in all probability stole these things from their rightful owners.”
“Hirsch, eh?” said the other, taking a step toward her. “So that was his name.”
“You did meet him, then?”
“Oh, yes. He made the mistake of stumbling on us when we were testing the keys to the security room. It was in the middle of that gale, when the ship was rolling heavily. We thought that nobody would be about at that time.”
“Mr. Hirsch was.”
He smirked. “Not anymore.”
Genevieve hid her apprehension. Skelton was too strong for her to overpower, and there was a vengeful glint in his eye as he moved even closer. All she could do was to keep him talking until Dillman arrived.
“Who made the duplicate keys?” she asked.
“I did.”
“But I thought you were an accountant.”
“I am, Miss Masefield,” he explained. “But my father was a locksmith and I learned the rudiments of the trade at his knee. Making a duplicate is not too difficult. All you need is a blank key, the right tools, and lots of patience. The tools fell over the side of the ship on Monday night. That’s why you didn’t find them in your search.”
“But I found this briefcase, Mr. Skelton.”
“You’re going to regret that, I’m afraid.”
“Am I?”
“I can’t have you telling people what happened to Mr. Hirsch, can I?”
“You killed him, didn’t you?”
“Why not ask him whe
n you meet him?” he said, grabbing her quickly and clapping a hand over her mouth to stop her from calling out. “Because you’re going to make the same journey he did—over the side of the ship!”
Genevieve struggled hard, but his grip was too powerful. She was finding it difficult to breathe with his hand over her face. When she tried to bite it, he rammed her against the wall by way of punishment. Slightly dazed, heart thumping and body sagging, she began to fear the worst. She was trapped by a man who had already committed one murder and would not hesitate to commit a second. Genevieve made one last effort to squirm free, but Skelton tightened his hold.
It was then that Dillman knocked on the cabin door. “Mr. Skelton?” he called. “Are you there, sir?”
Standing behind her, Skelton put an arm around Genevieve’s neck. “Quiet!” he whispered. “Make a noise and I’ll break your neck.”
Another knock. “Mr. Skelton? Are you in there?”
It was Genevieve’s only chance. If Dillman believed that the cabin was unoccupied, he would go away and leave her to Skelton’s mercy. The briefcase still lay open on the table, projecting over the edge. She kicked at it with all her might. There was a clatter as sixty-four pieces of cutlery and an eyeglass case were tipped out of the falling briefcase. Skelton went berserk, hurling her against a wall, then using both hands to try to strangle her. The attempt was short-lived. Dillman’s impetus was much too strong for the cabin door. The force of his shoulder broke the lock and he came hurtling in. He was on Genevieve’s attacker in a flash, tearing him clear of her and hitting him with a relay of punches that sent Skelton to the floor. Dillman sat astride him, raining blows to his face and body until the man’s spirited resistance eventually stopped. Gasping for breath, Skelton was now covered with blood.
Orvill Delaney, held by two of the crew, watched through the open doorway.
“I told you to get rid of that stuff,” he said with disgust. “What’s wrong with you, Patrick? Wasn’t your share of the gold enough for you?”
Dillman was on his feet, comforting Genevieve. She rubbed her neck gingerly. “They threw Mr. Hirsch over the side of the ship, George. He admitted it.”
“What do you say to that, Mr. Delaney?” asked Dillman.
“You’ll have to return my magazine, Miss Masefield,” he said politely. “It looks as if I may have plenty of time to read O. Henry’s stories now.”
The ordeal in the cabin had shaken Genevieve badly, but Dillman’s consoling arms made her feel much better. He pointed out the grave danger of having acted on her own in such a situation, though he admitted that she had obtained a confession of murder that could not have otherwise been had. The whole episode was now over. The gold bullion was back in its boxes, the cutlery and the eyeglass case returned to their owners, and the mystery of Max Hirsch’s disappearance solved. Held in custody, Orvill Delaney and Patrick Skelton would face charges of murder and robbery when they reached New York.
Genevieve’s recovery was further helped by the praise showered on her by the purser, followed by an invitation to dine at the captain’s table that evening. Lying in her bath, she mused on the crucial role played by a black cat and a little girl. Dillman had explained how the pursuit of the ship’s mascot had led to the discovery of the gold. In her own way, Alexandra Jarvis deserved her share of the thanks, but that was impossible without telling her the whole story and at the purser’s insistence, a blanket of silence had to be thrown around the various crimes. The ship had been through enough turbulence already, and Maurice Buxton did not want to undergo another interrogation at the hands of Hester Littlejohn. As far as the other passengers were concerned, everything was going smoothly. Genevieve felt happy, relaxed, and fulfilled. On her first outing as a detective, she had helped to solve serious crimes. She could now start to enjoy the voyage properly.
Choosing a white-satin gown for the occasion, she dressed with care and raided her jewelry box for a diamond brooch and matching earrings. When she saw the effect in the mirror, she was satisfied. Genevieve Masefield would be the center of attention that evening, and deservedly so. Katherine Wymark would have withdrawn discreetly from the field. Delaney and Skelton would also be unavailable, as no doubt would the embarrassed Edgar Fenby, but there would be male admirers enough for Genevieve. That thought was a timely reminder. She was forgetting her mystery correspondent. While most of the men merely looked at her with pleasure, one had clear designs on her. He would make his move that very night.
Genevieve’s pleasure slowly ebbed, replaced by a nagging fear. Would the man be Donald Belfrage or Harvey Denning? Or would it turn out to be someone else? Though Delaney and Skelton could be firmly discounted, that still left plenty of possible contenders. Genevieve was vexed. She could always turn to Dillman for protection, but she felt that this was a problem she should face and resolve on her own. It was not as if she was unused to dealing with unwanted suitors. The knock on the door made her gasp with surprise. It sounded threatening. She sensed that it might be the author of the two unsettling notes and needed a moment before she could speak.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Me,” replied Harvey Denning. “Your faithful escort.”
“I’m not ready yet.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“No, you go on ahead, Harvey,” she said, trying to get rid of him. “I’m dining at the captain’s table tonight.”
“We are going up in the world!” he teased. “But I need to speak to you before you go, Genevieve. It’s important. It’s about that unsolicited mail you’ve been receiving.”
Genevieve winced. It was Harvey Denning, after all. From the tone of his voice, she could not determine whether he had come to apologize or to pay his attentions. At least the truth would finally come out. She steeled herself to open the door. After letting him in, she stood waiting with her arms folded.
“You look absolutely gorgeous!” he said without irony.
“Thank you, Harvey.”
“That, of course, is part of the problem. Look, Genevieve,” he said seriously. “I have an apology to make. Two notes were put under your door. They probably upset you. I know they were meant to do that.”
“Then why did you leave them there?” she demanded.
“But I didn’t. I’m here on behalf of the person who did.”
“Donald Belfrage?”
“No,” he said. “Susan Faulconbridge. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman who thinks she’s being scorned.’ Susan and I had a long chat this afternoon and she admitted what she’d done. She seemed to think that you and I were …” He flicked a hand in the air. “I gave her my word that nothing of that sort had or, unfortunately, would occur, and out it all came. Susan is terrified that you won’t ever speak to her again.”
“Nonsense!” said Genevieve with relief. “Tell her that I hold no grudge.”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
“To be honest, I thought that you might have sent the notes, Harvey.”
“Me?”
“Or Donald.”
“No, Genevieve. I’m too circumspect to even commit myself to paper where a lady is concerned, and Donald would never dream of such a thing. He’s a hand-on-the-knee merchant.” He grinned broadly. “You should be quite safe from his wandering digits at the captain’s table.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for coming to tell me all this.”
“Does that mean I can carry you off to the dining saloon?”
Genevieve smiled sweetly. “I already have an escort.”
George Porter Dillman was delighted with the opportunity to dine with the first-class passengers for a change. Five of them were missing that evening, but nobody seemed to notice or to mind. Dillman was pleased. He felt that he had cleansed the room of its seamier elements. Genuine passengers could now breathe a purer air. The room was awash with beautiful dresses and expensive jewelry. Soft violins lent a romantic air to the scene. Delicious fare was served on silver trays. Happy conversation bub
bled on all sides.
Dillman had no doubt that he was sitting beside the most attractive woman in the whole room, and Genevieve had already told him how dashing he looked in his white tie and tails. Both of them collected admiring glances from Captain Pritchard that had nothing to do with their appearance. The captain was the most contented man in the room, and he was signaling his congratulations to them. Dillman and Genevieve felt able to bask in their success for once.
Over the dessert course, he leaned across to whisper to her. “That woman is still staring at me, Genevieve.”
“They all are, George,” she replied.
“This lady is at the table in the corner,” he said, nudging her to look in the right direction. “The one in the plain dress.”
“Where?”
“Next to that large young man with the curly hair.”
“Oh, that’s Ruth Constantine,” she said, seeing her friend. “Next to the famous Donald Belfrage. I’m not surprised that Ruth is so interested in you, George. She’s just picked you out of the identity parade.”
“What identity parade?”
“The one she’s held since we set sail.”
“Ah,” he recalled. “You told me about Ruth. She’s very intuitive, you said. Ruth is convinced that you have someone special tucked away in the comer of your life.”
“That’s why she’s been lining up the suspects.”
Mock indignation. “Is that all I am—a suspect?”
“A prime suspect.”
“That’s something, I suppose.”
“You’re now under arrest.”
“Does that mean a sentence will be imposed on me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“By whom?”
“I think I might take over the judicial role myself, actually.”
“And where will the verdict be given?”
Genevieve made him wait for a long minute before she made her decision. “In my cabin.”
He grinned. “I thought we agreed to stay well apart during the voyage.”
“Yes, we did.”
“So?”
