Dangerous Sea (21 page)

‘All very well,’ Verity said belligerently, folding her hands over her chest, ‘but you know as well as I do that, until industry is state-owned, we will always be at the mercy of the money-men and the profiteers.’

Keeping his temper, Benyon replied, ‘I agree with you that the state should have a role in industry. It should ensure our coal mines and our steel works are properly managed and the workers properly rewarded for their work. It should see that profits are fairly distributed but government has neither the expertise nor the personnel to run industry. You may not know it but, in Russia, state-owned industry is proving a catastrophe. Bureaucracy and corruption are ruining it.’

‘Why corruption?’

‘Because the desire to make money is universal and, if the state tries to stifle that urge, it will find another outlet – corruption, back-street profit, fiddles and bribes.’

‘I don’t believe you. Show me your evidence.’

‘And the collective farms are leading the Soviet Union towards a famine of unimaginable horror.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Verity repeated. ‘At least Stalin has given his country full employment.’ It was all she could manage before stumping off in a worse temper than before.

‘Miss Browne seems upset,’ Marcus Fern said, as the two men resumed their work. ‘I am almost sad that the young are so serious. In my day, they would be interested only in dancing and the pleasures of flirtation.’

‘Marcus! I wouldn’t have believed you were ever flirtatious.’

‘Stop it, Benyon! Now, what were we saying . . .’

Benyon took up his pen and, poised to return to his notes, said with a smile, ‘In any case, I think Miss Browne’s bad temper is derived from exactly that – love or disappointment in love. Have you not noticed? Mr Forrest looks almost as down in the dumps as Miss Browne. I would surmise a lovers’ tiff.’

Edward, too, had noticed that Sam and Verity were no longer on speaking terms and he rebuked himself for being pleased. He was curious as to what had happened to make them quarrel but too wise to make any direct inquiries. He was leaning over the rail, smoking a gasper and resting his bad leg, when he became aware of some sort of commotion further down the deck. Being one of those people constitutionally unable to ignore a rumpus, he hobbled towards it, leaning on a crutch the doctor had lent him. He saw that it was Doris Zinkeisen and she was screaming at the Purser.

As she saw Edward approaching, she turned her attention to him. ‘My picture . . . the mural . . . it’s been attacked . . . vandalized.’

She was weeping and her mascara had smudged her eyes so she looked both absurd and pathetic. Edward took her by the arm and said, ‘Someone has damaged your picture? How frightful. Who would do such a thing? Show me . . . please.’

To the Purser’s relief, Edward’s obvious concern calmed her and the three of them made their way to the Verandah Grill. They were joined by Verity and Bernard Hunt who, when they heard what had happened, were as outraged as Edward and this, too, seemed to comfort the artist.

Standing in front of the mural, Verity expressed Edward’s own thought. ‘If Senator Day wasn’t dead, I might have thought this was his work.’

Someone had thrown black paint over the mural, obscuring much of the carnival scene. The lion tamer had disappeared and so had the dancing girls. As he peered at the damage Edward let out a cry. The bare-breasted black girl cavorting behind the lion had been cut with some sort of knife. It was a savage attack and all of them standing in front of the picture were shocked into silence.

‘How disgusting!’ Bernard Hunt exclaimed, clutching one of Doris’s hands. ‘I am so sorry, my dear. It’s too horrible but . . .’ he went close to the mural to examine the damage, ‘it’s mostly superficial. I have a friend in New York who restores pictures for the National Gallery in Washington. I will get him to look at this as soon as we dock. My poor darling, this is an attack on all of us who love art.’

Doris’s sobbing began to abate.

‘This is the work of an unbalanced mind. I’m sorry, Miss Zinkeisen, but there can be no doubt about it: the attack on your picture is a sort of mad censorship. Someone among us feels threatened by bare female flesh and this black girl in particular. It’s quite horrible, as Hunt says, but let’s hope he’s right and it can be repaired. What we have to hope is that whoever did it doesn’t attack the real thing.’

‘What do you mean, Edward?’ Verity said. ‘There are no black women on board, as far as I know.’

‘No, but there is a black man and there are plenty of women. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.’

The Purser had gone off to report this latest disaster to Captain Peel. As Edward continued to examine the painting, he arrived and, pushing Edward to one side almost rudely, he stared at it uncomprehendingly.

Edward asked the Purser who had discovered the damage.

‘The cleaners at six o’clock this morning. As you know, the Verandah turns itself into a nightclub after dinner. At one o’clock it closes and the waiters do some basic tidying up. Then the cleaners come very early to do all the public rooms before seven thirty.’

‘I see. Is the Verandah Grill locked at night?’

‘No. None of the public rooms are locked at night.’

In exasperation the Captain said, ‘There’s no question of shutting the Grill.’ He turned to the Purser. ‘You had better get the carpenters to board over the damage. Miss Zinkeisen,’ the Captain went on, ‘I am horrified by what has been done to your work and I promise you it will be repaired as soon as possible.’

‘Thank you, Captain.’ She was calmer now. ‘Bernard . . . Mr Hunt says he will arrange to have an expert restorer come on board at New York and, of course, I can repaint where I have to. But who could do such a thing?’

‘It seems there must be a madman among us,’ was all the Captain could say.

‘V, have you got a moment? I’d like to talk this over if you have time.’

Verity was pleased to have something to occupy her. She was determined, as far as possible, to keep out of Sam’s way and a confabulation with Edward was a legitimate excuse to absent herself a while. It was awkward Sam having the cabin next to hers. She would keep on bumping into him and, really, there was nothing she wanted to say to him. She had been a fool. She had believed that he was unattached – a carefree young man, very much to her taste, sharing many of her interests and concerns. Suddenly, he had revealed himself to be a cheat and a liar – just like all the other men she had ever slept with – all two of them. She smiled inwardly. She didn’t see why she should blame herself. She wasn’t promiscuous. There had been David Griffiths-Jones – her first lover – and Ben Belasco, the novelist, whom she had met in Spain. That was all. After all, she was twenty-six – soon to be twenty-seven. Damn it, she was almost a virgin. Now Edward, he had . . .

Her ruminations were interrupted by the sound of Edward’s voice. He sounded irritable.

‘Are you listening? I said, did you see, when we were looking at the mural, there’s a panel in it about three-foot square which can be taken out – an inspection hatch? Doris told me about it but I had forgotten. They had to be able to get at the clock on the next deck down or something. V! Oh, I give up.’

‘Sorry, I was miles away. What clock?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Come to my cabin in fifteen minutes. I want to get Frank. He was dancing with the Roosevelt girl in here last night. Perhaps he saw something. Ouch! Blast this leg.’

‘I’ll fetch Frank. You go and rest your leg. You oughtn’t to be hopping around on it, at least until the swelling subsides.’

They left Doris with Bernard Hunt. He was being unexpectedly sympathetic – perhaps because he cared more about art than about people, Edward thought unkindly. The Captain, with a shrug of his shoulders, had returned to the bridge and the Purser went off to find someone to board over the damage. He had, however, imparted one important piece of information before he left. Apparently, one of the engineers checking the heating system in the Turkish bath had discovered that his toolbox, which he had left near the control panel, was missing a hammer.

Verity found Frank still in bed, complaining of a hangover. When he heard what had occurred he said he would join them ‘in two ticks’. As Verity left his cabin she bumped into the Dolmens who had already heard about the attack on the mural.

‘This is not correct what is happening on this ship,’ the Professor said plaintively. ‘It would not be permitted on a German ship.
Es gefällt mir nicht
.’

Verity agreed, it certainly wasn’t right.

Before going to his cabin, Edward decided to check on his charge. He was satisfied to find Benyon on a long chair talking to Fern. He could hardly be safer. He greeted the two men and told them about the attack on Doris’s mural. Benyon was horrified.

‘Good Lord, that’s too bad. I’ll go and find out if there is anything I can do.’

‘Hunt has been very kind. He says he has a tame picture restorer in New York who he will get on board to repair the mural.’

‘Good. I have to admit I don’t like the mural but the whole thing is bizarre and sinister. I mean, one could argue it’s healthy art can still arouse such passion but the viciousness of it . . . With the artist here to see it. Poor Miss Zinkeisen! It’s clearly a personal attack on her. There is too much hatred on this ship. I will be very glad to be back on dry land.’

Not as glad as I will be! Edward thought ruefully. What ought to have been a pleasant four or five days in a floating luxury hotel had turned into a succession of highly unpleasant incidents, most horrible of all, of course, Tom Barrett’s murder. He couldn’t put it out of his mind: the corpse swinging naked among the carcasses and the thought that, if Benyon was right, there was a girl back home who loved him and whom he had planned to marry.

Benyon was speaking again. ‘Could it have anything to do with Professor Dolmen, I wonder? No, I don’t see how it could. It’s ironic that such a very German German should be exiled by those to whom he was so loyal.’

‘Whatever do you mean, Benyon?’

‘Didn’t I tell you? No, of course I didn’t because it was confidential but I don’t see it matters now that awful man Day is dead.’

He proceeded to tell Edward how Dolmen had asked him to intercede for him with the immigration authorities if Senator Day had carried out his threat and laid information against him.

‘A Jew and a Nazi!’ Edward exclaimed.

‘It’s not as odd as you might suppose,’ Fern said. ‘I know through my business contacts that a number of Jews joined the Nazi Party in the hope of influencing Hitler and ingratiating themselves with the Party. For a man like Dolmen, who feels himself to be a German first and a Jew a long way after, the idea of not being allowed to work would have seemed too awful to contemplate. While the Nazis needed him, they wouldn’t have bothered him but then, for some reason, they must have decided to use his race against him. He was probably lucky to be allowed to emigrate. Knowing what he does about the Luftwaffe and the development of the jet engine, I’m surprised they didn’t just shoot him.’

Back in his cabin, Edward lay down on his bed and lit a cigarette. He blew a smoke ring and watched it float lazily up to the ceiling. He needed to make sense of all that had happened on the
Queen Mary
since he had come on board three days ago. It was not very long but it seemed an age. He had a feeling he had missed some vital clue which would make what was opaline translucent.

There was a knock on the door and Verity arrived, with Frank hard on her heels. ‘What’s this?’ Frank asked. ‘A council of war?’

He perched himself on the end of the bed and Verity collapsed into the armchair. No one said anything about asking Sam Forrest to join them.

‘That’s right – we need to thrash things out. Fenton will be here in a second. Ah, here he is. Take a pew, will you, Fenton. We need your counsel. I feel I am floundering and if we don’t look sharp, someone will have a go at Benyon and perhaps we won’t be there to stop him, but I’m convinced, if we pool our knowledge, we might be able to make sense of all the beastly things which have been happening. Frank, have you heard? Poor Miss Zinkeisen’s mural was vandalized during the night. I suppose you didn’t notice anything or anyone acting suspiciously before you went to bed?’

‘Verity just told me. Was it badly damaged?’

‘It had black paint thrown on it and the figure of the black girl was cut with a knife. A vicious attack.’

‘How horrible! No, I’m afraid I noticed nothing. As far as I know, it was all right when I went to bed. I admit I didn’t look at it but I’m sure I would have noticed if it had been attacked.’

‘I didn’t expect you to have seen anything. It must have been done in the middle of the night or very early in the morning before the cleaners arrived. Now, to more serious matters. I am only interested in Day’s murder in so far as it relates to our job which is to deliver Benyon safe and well to FBI Agent Fawcett in New York and, which amounts to the same thing, establish who killed Tom Barrett. It sounds cold-hearted, I know, but if we don’t focus on Benyon we may miss something vital.’

‘But surely we can’t ignore Day’s murder?’ Verity put in.

‘No. I am not saying we should ignore it but we only need to know who murdered him to be sure he isn’t going to go on and kill Lord Benyon.’

Frank whistled. ‘I suppose you’re right. So what do we do?’

’Let’s begin with Tom Barrett. I think we have to assume that he was killed because he was guarding Benyon. Does anyone disagree?’

‘None of us really knew him,’ Frank pointed out, ‘but I can’t imagine there could be any other reason. That was why he was on board.’

‘Right,’ Verity said, ‘and I think that suggests whoever killed him knew about Benyon and what he is going to do in the States – not, of course, that Edward has told us what that is but we know it’s pretty important.’

‘Which means,’ Frank concluded, ‘that the killer is a passenger on the ship for that one reason.’

‘It’s a pity we can’t discover which passengers booked their tickets after Benyon made his reservation. That might narrow it down’. Verity lit another cigarette, contributing to the blue haze which hung over them. She coughed and waved her hand in front of her face. ‘Open a window or whatever you call it, will you, Frank?’