Murder on the Lusitania (12 page)

“Barcroft really went too far this time,” said the purser. “Apparently, he cornered Itzak Weiss and his wife on deck today. They thought they were just exchanging a few pleasant words with a fellow passenger. Mr. Weiss was mortified when Barcroft had the gall to go to his cabin later to show him the text of an article he’d written. ‘Music on the Lucy’, I think it was called, or something equally abhorrent to Mr. Weiss. He’s notorious for
not
giving interviews. You can imagine what his reaction was.”

“Did he slam the cabin door in Barcroft’s face?”

“He’s far too civilized to do that. He came to me instead. I was in the middle of another chat with Fergus Rourke so it wasn’t the best time to hear a complaint from Itzak Weiss. It would be such a pleasant change if someone actually brought me good news for once instead of endless protests and whinges.”

“I’ll bring you good news soon,” vowed Dillman.

“Can I hold you to that?”

“It’s only a question of time, Mr. Halliday.”

“Coming back to Barcroft …”

“Have you rapped him over the knuckles yet?”

“I was going to but he’s been a bit elusive this evening. Besides, I’m not quite sure that I’m the ideal person to wag a finger at him. It makes it too official and that might be used against us. Journalists always have more ink than we do. I can’t have him traducing Cunard in print to get his own back because a purser gave him a roasting.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“You can have a word with him.”

“In what capacity? I don’t want to lose my cover.”

“You won’t have to, Mr. Dillman. Make it sound casual. Say that you met Itzak Weiss in the dining saloon and heard him complaining about an inquisitive British journalist. Give Barcroft a friendly warning,” he urged. “A nod is as good as a wink.”

“Not where Henry Barcroft is concerned.”

“I just think it might be better coming from you. After all, you know the rogue. You can get in under his guard.”

Dillman thought it over. “Very well, sir. If that’s what you want.” He checked his watch. “It’s not too late to find him now. My guess is that Barcroft will be in the lounge bar, crowing over the other journalists. I might just take a stroll along there.”

“Do that. And thanks.”

“As it happens, I have another reason to see him,” said Dillman, patting the pocket containing the article. “I can kill two birds with one stone. I’ll report back to you first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll be there. As for that good news you promised …”

“Be patient, Mr. Halliday.”

“Make it sooner rather than later, old chap. It’s no fun having the chief engineer breathing fire down my neck. Anyone would think that
I
stole those things from his cabin.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Dillman nodded a farewell, then headed for the second-class lounge. It was still quite full, but there was no sign of Henry Barcroft. Other members of the press were enjoying complimentary drinks from the bar, but none of them could tell him where their colleague was. Barcroft had left the second-class dining saloon fairly early and had not been seen since. Someone suggested that he might be unwell and that produced a spontaneous cheer from the others.

A tour of the other public rooms yielded nothing, so Dillman began to explore the various decks, working upward until he reached the boat deck. A blustery wind was raking the ship and making the tarpaulins flap on the lifeboats. Only a couple of people braved the elements and they were swaddled in greatcoats, hats, and scarves. Dillman gave a shiver and went below again, venturing this time into the third-class areas and feeling rather conspicuous in his evening dress. Those who lolled on wooden benches in the public rooms looked up with a mixture of curiosity and resentment. Once again the search was fruitless.

Only one possibility now remained. Dillman consulted his watch again and saw that it was getting late, but he could not believe that the journalist would have gone to bed. The likelihood was that the man was in his cabin, drafting one of his articles,
pulling together comments gleaned from the dozens of interviews he had done among passengers and crew. The press had been assigned to a block of cabins in second class but Dillman did not have to guess which one belonged to Barcroft. When he took out the article given to him by Genevieve Masefield, he saw that the number of the cabin was written in large numerals at the top of the first sheet. That was obviously for her benefit. He was not surprised that Genevieve had felt able to resist the covert invitation.

The cabin was on the shelter deck at the end of a long corridor. Dillman moved silently over the thick carpet and glanced at the series of nautical paintings adorning the walls. Though it lacked the unstinting luxury of first class, there was still an appreciable degree of comfort and taste. Dillman reached the door, then paused to rehearse what he would say. It was not only Itzak Weiss who found the journalist so objectionable. Genevieve Masefield’s complaint could also be passed on and that would probably carry more weight even than the protests of a celebrated violinist. All Barcroft wanted from the latter was an unauthorized interview. Having seen them together, Dillman sensed that he had more serious designs on Genevieve.

He tapped on the door and waited. No sound came from within. He knocked again with more force but there was still no response. Dillman was about to move away when it occurred to him to try the door. It was unlocked. He opened it cautiously and peered into the darkness.

“Mr. Barcroft?” he called. “Are you there?”

There was no answer yet he had a strong feeling that someone was in the cabin. Light from the corridor was spilling into the room, enabling him to see the ornate pattern on the carpet. Dillman stiffened. He saw a figure in shadowy outline. An ugly stain disfigured the carpet. Reaching for the switch, he turned on the light. The cabin was, after all, occupied by the guest assigned to it, but he would not be able to enjoy its facilities again. Henry Barcroft lay facedown on the floor with a gaping wound in the back of his head. Blood had seeped onto the carpet. It took Dillman a matter of seconds to establish that the journalist was dead.

NINE

H
e was shocked. Dillman had seen murder victims before, but none in such a gory condition. Closing the cabin door, he stood with his back to it while he studied the body and tried to come to terms with what he had found. Henry Barcroft was stretched out on the floor beside the built-in table. He still wore the white tie and tails he had put on to fraternize with the diners in first-class. When Dillman knelt beside the corpse again, he winced at the sight of the hideous wound. It seemed as if Barcroft had been struck viciously and repeatedly from behind. Though he had never liked the man, Dillman felt a profound sympathy for him now. It had been a most brutal attack. Henry Barcroft had not stood a chance.

Dillman stood up and looked for clues. Taking care not to walk on the bloodstained patch, he moved slowly around the cabin and took a mental inventory of its contents. Writing materials lay on the desk beside a small pile of books, a bottle of Champagne standing unopened in an ice bucket, and two glasses. A pair of slippers poked out from beneath the bed. The wardrobe was half-open, displaying a couple of suits and the striped blazer that Barcroft had worn earlier. Nothing appeared to be out of place.
Whoever killed the man had carefully removed all traces of his visit before he left. Dillman was dealing with a professional.

Eager to begin a more detailed search of the room, he knew that he must report the murder first. Everything had to be left exactly as he found it. As he gazed down at the prone figure, the words of Jeremiah Erskine echoed in his ears. The bearded prophet of doom had warned that disaster was at hand. His premonition seemed to have come true. Dillman crouched beside the body for the last time and offered up a silent prayer for the soul of the dead man. He was about to rise to his feet when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Attached in some way to the underside of the desk was a large brown envelope. It was so cunningly placed that it eluded his scrutiny when he was standing up and, he suspected, evaded those who searched the cabin earlier on. Only someone at floor level would possibly find it.

Dillman reached under the desk and slowly detached the drawing pins holding the envelope in place. It was not sealed. Guessing what it contained, he needed the merest glance to confirm his theory. The key was still in the lock. Dillman removed it, switched off the light, then let himself out and locked the cabin door. The scene of the crime was secured. Nobody else would stumble in on the horror that had confronted him.

Charles Halliday climbed into bed and reached for his book. At the end of a long day, he liked to read himself asleep, escaping into a fictional world far removed from his onerous round of duties. The purser had only reached the end of the first paragraph when there was a firm knock on his door. He put the book aside and sat up.

“Who is it?” he said.

“George Dillman,” came the reply.

Hopping out of bed, the purser crossed swiftly to the door and unlocked it to admit his visitor. Dillman handed him the envelope.

“What’s this?” said the other.

“That good news you wanted.”

“Good news?”

“One crime has been solved,” said Dillman. “We’ve recovered the missing items from the chief engineer’s cabin.”

“Wonderful!”

“Let me finish, Mr. Halliday. One crime may have been accounted for, but a far more serious one has been committed. I’m afraid that I must ask you to get dressed again. Henry Barcroft has been murdered.”

The purser gaped. “Are you serious, man?”

“Never more so. We’ll need the surgeon. Who’s on duty?”

“It doesn’t matter. Lionel Osborne is the man we need, even if he’s fast asleep. Barcroft murdered? How? When? Where?”

Dillman gave him the details as the other man scrambled into his uniform then the two of them went off to rouse Lionel Osborne from his slumbers. When the surgeon had put on his clothes, all three of them repaired at speed to Barcroft’s cabin, grateful that they met nobody else on the way. Dillman used the key to let them in, then locked the door once again. Even though they had been forewarned, both Halliday and Osborne were badly shaken by what they saw. The surgeon was the first to recover, kneeling beside the body to examine it for vital signs but soon emitting a long sigh of regret.

“Dead as a dodo,” he said, standing up. “I think Mr. Dillman was right in his estimate of the time of death. I’ll need to give it a more thorough examination, of course, but my guess would be recently, perhaps even less than an hour ago.” He pointed to the wounds. “Blunt instrument. Used repeatedly, by the look of it. Dreadful way to die.”

Halliday was less concerned about the nature of the death than its implications. His already gaunt features acquired new crevices of anxiety.

“The captain will have to be told at once,” he said ruefully. “He’s not going to like this. He so wanted the maiden voyage to go off without a hitch. This is a calamity. It’ll ruin everything.”

“Only if it gets out,” argued Dillman.

“What do you mean?”

“Just this, Mr. Halliday. At the moment, only four of us actually
know that this murder has taken place. The three of us in here—and the killer himself, of course. Obviously the captain must be informed, but I’m sure he’ll agree that the fewer people who learn about this, the better.”

“I’d go along with that,” said Osborne.

“So would I,” decided the purser, mulling it over. “Broadcast this news and we’ll spread terror throughout the whole ship. How could anyone enjoy a voyage when they know there’s a savage murderer on the loose? On the other hand, it won’t be easy to keep this under wraps.” He gazed down at the body. “Mr. Barcroft was highly conspicuous. If he vanishes completely from sight, people are bound to ask what happened to him. His colleagues in the press, most of all.”

“They’re the last ones who must find out,” insisted Dillman. “Or the story will be all over the newspapers in London and New York. We must avoid that at all costs. Besides, Henry Barcroft didn’t run with the pack. That’s what they resented about him. He was a lone wolf, always trotting off in search of fresh meat and keeping it to himself when he found it. I fancy that some of the other journalists will be glad if he’s not around. It’ll be a bonus for them. They’ll assume he’s on the ship somewhere, which—technically—he still is.”

“That raises another problem,” said Halliday with a grimace. “Where do we keep him in the meantime?”

“Certainly not in here,” declared Osborne.

“You must have had fatalities aboard Cunard ships before,” said Dillman.

“Yes, but not like this. Most of our passengers have the decency to pass away by natural means. Apart from anything else, it absolves us of any blame from grieving relatives. Mr. Barcroft is our first murder victim.” The surgeon glanced down at him. “He needs to be put in cold storage.”

“Do you have refrigerator space?”

“Ask Charles.”

“It can be arranged,” said the purser.

“Do it discreetly, old chap,” said Osborne chirpily. “We don’t
want him hanging among the sides of beef or the chefs will have the shock of their lives. Before we wrap him up and put him on ice, of course, I’ll want to do a proper autopsy. That means bringing Roland in.” He turned to Dillman. “Roland Tomkins is my assistant. Bright spark. Worked for a coroner at one point, so he knows his stuff.”

“Roland also knows how to keep his mouth shut,” said Halliday. “And we could hardly keep a thing like this from the assistant surgeon. Will the two of you take responsibility for moving of the body?”

“Yes, Charles.”

“Count on me, if you need help,” volunteered Dillman.

“Thanks—and we probably will. What about the cabin?”

“I’ll have it cleaned up and sealed off,” said the purser, blanching as he studied the ugly stain on the carpet. “When we’ve had a thorough search in here, that is. Have you moved anything, Mr. Dillman?”

“No. What you see is exactly what I saw.”

“Except that we had some idea what to expect.”

“There is that,” said Dillman softly.

“Poor devil! Nobody deserves to die like that.”

“No, sir. With your permission, I’d like to search the body.”

“Fine by me. Lionel?”

“Go ahead,” encouraged the surgeon. “I’ll slope off to fetch Roland. He’s got a stronger stomach for this kind of thing than I do. And I’ll leave you to break the bad tidings to the captain, shall I, Charles?”

The purser nodded, let his colleague out, and locked the door again. Dillman was already feeling gently in the pockets of the dead man.

“Was there any sign of forced entry?” asked Halliday.

“No, the door was unlocked.”

“Do you think the killer had a key?”

“I think that he was probably invited in here,” said Dillman, slowly extracting a wallet. “Look at that bottle. Two glasses. My hunch is that Mr. Barcroft knew and trusted the man. He was
caught completely off guard. That’s why there are no signs of a struggle.”

“That eliminates Fergus Rourke, then.”

“Why? Did you suspect him?”

“His name did cross my mind,” confessed the other. “When you told me that Barcroft had been battered to death, I wondered if Fergus had come after him, thirsting for blood. Our chief engineer has a violent temper at times. I was relieved to see that it couldn’t have been him.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The Champagne. Fergus would certainly have taken it with him. Show me an Irishman who’d walk away from a free drink.”

“That bottle is a vital clue. If we find out when the steward brought it to the cabin, we can get a clearer idea of the time of death. As you can see, the ice in the bucket has melted. How long would that take?”

Dillman laid the contents of the wallet on the table for inspection. There was a small amount of money, a membership card of a London club, a sepia photograph of a young woman, and several visiting cards. The item that interested Dillman most was a letter folded twice in order to fit into the wallet. It was from a well-known publisher. Dillman read it, then handed it over to Halliday.

“Doesn’t tell us much, does it?” complained the other. “Two short sentences, that’s all. ‘Further to our recent meeting, we look forward to receiving the manuscript at the earliest opportunity. I trust that you will have a most interesting and productive voyage.’ What’s all that about?”

“We’ll find out in time.”

“Do you think this could be a coded message?”

“I don’t know,” said Dillman, taking it from him and setting it down beside the other things. “But it’s a valuable clue. I think it may lead us to the real reason that Henry Barcroft was aboard the
Lusitania
.”

“To steal those charts, obviously.”

“For whose benefit?”

“One of our rivals.”

“I wonder, Mr. Halliday.”

“But you found them hidden in his cabin.”

“True.”

“Someone paid him to get hold of them.”

“Not the publisher, surely? What use would technical diagrams be to George Newnes Limited? Don’t they specialize in fiction?” He pointed to the books. “These all seem to be published by Newnes. They’re novels.” A thought struck him. “Will you give the envelope to Mr. Rourke?”

“Of course. It’ll get him off my back.”

“What will you tell him?”

There was a pause. “Ah, I see what you mean.”

“Say as little as possible,” advised Dillman.

“I’ll have to tell him something.”

“We don’t want to bring the chief engineer in on this as well. Why not tell him that they came to light during our search? Say that we found them hidden away in one of the storerooms.”

“What if he presses for details?”

“Invent them, sir. You know Mr. Rourke better than I do, but my guess is that he’ll be so pleased to get his property returned that he won’t be too bothered about exactly how it came into our possession.”

“I’m not sure about that. He can be an awkward cuss.”

“Do you want to help me search the cabin?”

“No. I need to pay a call on the captain. He won’t thank me for being kept in the dark about this any longer than is necessary. Will you be all right in here on your own?”

Dillman smiled sadly. “I’m not on my own.”

“I wasn’t counting Barcroft,” he said. “Well, I suppose we’re in your hands now, Mr. Dillman. I thought your work would be confined to thieves, pickpockets, and the odd confidence trickster. I never envisaged anything like this. Do you really think you can solve a murder?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“Why?”

“To start with, I know exactly where the killer is. On this ship.
He can’t escape. It’s largely a question of eliminating suspects one by one.”

“But everyone on board is a suspect.”

“Oh, no,” corrected Dillman. “Look at the way that skull was cracked open. That’s the work of a strong man. No woman, child, or elderly person could inflict that kind of damage so we can remove over two-thirds of the people from the list of suspects. But we can narrow it down even further. Mr. Barcroft invited someone here for a late-night drink. I don’t think he’d have ordered Champagne for anyone traveling in third-class, do you? Look what he’s wearing. It suggests he was expecting someone in similar attire. An able-bodied man from first-class. It’s an expensive bottle. He must have liked his visitor, to have spent that much on him. Who was it? A special friend? Someone he wished to interview? Unless, of course, the killer got here before the invited guest. There’s no sign of a struggle. He must have attacked Mr. Barcroft while his back was turned. Yet it seems he was allowed into the cabin. You see, Mr. Halliday? That list gets smaller and smaller. By the time I’ve finished in here, it will have shrunk even further. Go and wake up the captain,” he said. “And assure him that we’ll have this problem sorted out long before we reach New York.”

“Do I have your word on that?”

“My solemn promise.”

“I admire your confidence. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Dillman remembered the article from Genevieve Masefield.

“I do,” he said.

Philip Garrow had bungled his opportunity. He saw that now. As he lay on his bed in the darkness, he reviewed the catalog of missed chances. Rosemary Hilliard was an attractive and desirable woman. She was his for the taking. After a long period of mourning, she was finally ready to allow some romance back into her life again, to replace sad memories of her dead husband with a new and exciting experience. Garrow had been tempted to supply
that experience, to enjoy the feel of a mature woman in his arms and, if he was persuasive enough, to bring her enforced celibacy to a joyful end. But he tried to rush her. Instead of taking more time over the preliminaries, he sought to hustle her off to his cabin in a way that made her hesitate.