Murder on the Mauretania (11 page)

“We’re in for a real treat tonight, Mr. Dillman,” she said.

“Are we, Mrs. Pomeroy?” he replied.

“Wait until you see the menu. It’s mouth-watering.”

“Granny loves her food,” explained Alexandra.

“One of the few pleasures left to me at my age,” she said with a cackle, pinching the girl’s cheek affectionately. “That and being with my grandchildren. Aren’t they lovely creatures, Mr. Dillman?”

“Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy,” he agreed.

“I’m blessed with my family.”

She let out another throaty laugh. Vanessa Jarvis gave a warm smile, Noel contrived a nod of gratitude and Alexandra giggled, but Oliver Jarvis could manage nothing more than a look of suppressed exasperation as he took a sidelong glance at his mother-in-law’s extraordinary outfit. Accepting that he had a cross to bear in life, the bank manager would have preferred it to be wearing more muted colors.

“I saw Bobo again today,” said Alexandra.

“Bobo?” echoed Dillman.

“The black cat. I told you about him over lunch.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Mr. Reynolds—he’s the officer who looks after Bobo—said that I could watch him being fed. Bobo, that is,” she added with a laugh. “Not Mr. Reynolds.”

“You obviously like cats, Ally.”

“I’ve always wanted one myself, but Daddy won’t hear of it. He says they do too much damage to the furniture with their claws. Anyway, I went to Mr. Reynolds’ cabin to watch Bobo finishing his meal and do you know what he said to me?”

“Who?” he teased. “Bobo or Mr. Reynolds?”

“Mr. Reynolds, silly!” she replied with another laugh. “He told me that I had an affinity with cats. Yes, that’s the right word. Affinity. Do you know why?”

“Tell me, Ally.”

“Bobo let me pick him up. He’s never let anyone do that before. Mr. Reynolds told me something else as well,” she continued. “Do you remember saying that a black cat was a symbol of good luck when we stepped aboard and saw Bobo?”

“Yes.”

“According to Mr. Reynolds, sailors have a lot of … oh!” She sighed, bringing her hands up to her cheeks. “I’ve forgotten the word.”

“Supersititions?” he prompted.

“Yes, that was it, Mr. Dillman. Superstitions. Mr. Reynolds told me that there were some sailors’ wives who kept a black cat when their husbands went off on a long voyage. In a sailing ship, that is.”

“There are still plenty of those putting to sea, Ally,” he remarked. “Not everyone can afford to travel on an ocean liner by means of steam turbines. Though even here, as we’ve found out, a black cat stills comes in useful.”

“Bobo is a lot more than useful.”

“I’m sure.”

“He’s my friend. I’m going to feed him myself tomorrow.”

“Think about feeding yourself now, Alexandra,” said her mother kindly. “And give Mr. Dillman a chance to read the menu.”

“I’m having the soup,” announced Lily Pomeroy. “Then the duck. Vanessa?”

“I may as well have the same,” said the other.

“What about you, Oliver?” pressed the old woman.

“I still haven’t decided,” he answered, burying his head in the menu.

“You can tell that my son-in-law is a banker, can’t you?” she said, leaning across to Dillman and giving off a further whiff of mothballs. “Oliver is so cautious. He has to study everything carefully before he reaches a decision. With me, it’s quite different. I know at once what I want to eat.”

“As much as possible!” said Alexandra.

Noel sniggered, Oliver Jarvis frowned, and his wife administered a
swift rebuke, but Lily Pomeroy was neither hurt nor offended. Throwing her head back, she let out a merry laugh, then turned to pinch both her granddaughter’s cheeks simultaneously. Dillman chose that moment to examine the menu, marveling at its richness and variety. Second-class passengers were being offered fare of the highest quality. A waiter came up to the table. While the members of the Jarvis family took turns placing their orders, the detective sneaked a look around the saloon. Familiar faces were seen on all sides. Stanley and Miriam Rosenwald were at a nearby table, and Mrs. Dobrowski, another victim of robbery, was seated in a corner. Dillman also noticed the other two people whose property had been stolen and whom he had earlier interviewed. Both appeared to be enjoying themselves at their respective tables, putting their losses out of mind to share in the communal pleasure.

It took Dillman a little time to pick out Agnes Cameron. Attired in a black-velvet gown trimmed with black lace, she had clearly made a supreme effort to look her best, wearing a diamond necklace and matching earrings in a slightly tentative way, as if the jewelry was very rarely put on view. Mrs. Cameron was sharing a table with the most animated group of people in the room. While her companions were bubbling with excitement, however, she was completely subdued. Detached from the proceedings .and feeling increasingly self-conscious, Agnes Cameron kept looking at the empty chair beside her with a wistfulness that soon shaded into pain.

Someone had let her down. Dillman could guess who the man was.

The atmosphere, facilities, and food in the third-class dining saloon were of a very different order from those in the saloons above. The area was more akin to a factory canteen than to a restaurant. Seated in serried ranks at the refectory tables, passengers had a much more restricted menu and far less attentive service. The level of noise was much higher, and it contained a far greater proportion of childlike pandemonium than elsewhere. While those in other sections of the vessel were dining in style, these passengers merely ate. That did not necessarily diminish their pleasure. Some people were wolfing their food with an enthusiasm that showed it was the best meal they had
consumed in ages. Others were behaving as if they were at a party. In spite of the large number crammed into the saloon, there was a prevailing spirit of camaraderie. The immigrants, in particular, were bonding together as they broke bread.

Glyn Bowen struck up a conversation with a couple of redundant steelworkers from Yorkshire, enduring the discomforts of steerage in the hope of finding employment on the other side of the Atlantic. While the three men compared their individual tales of hardship, Mansell Price stayed on the fringe of the conversation. The meal was almost over when a hitherto suppressed fact tumbled out.

“Why did you leave the pit?” one of the steelworkers asked Price.

“He had to,” said Bowen. “Mansell punched the foreman.”

“I’ll punch
you
in a minute!” warned Price. “It’s none of their business.”

“Sorry, Mansell.”

“What did you say that for, Glyn?”

“It just slipped out.”

“You need a padlock on that bloody gob,” said Price, getting up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. This noise is driving me mad.”

It was left to Bowen to bid farewell to the two Yorkshiremen. He followed his friend out of the saloon and as soon as they were alone, was given a severe shaking by Price. The bigger man did not mince his words.

“You do that again, Glyn, and I’ll kick seven barrels of shit out of you.”

“I didn’t mean to say it.”

“You never do.”

“Well, it’s the truth, Mansell. You knocked Dai Watkins out stone-cold. That’s why you got the sack and I decided to quit with you.”

“I didn’t
get
the sack,” corrected the other sharply. “I went in search of it. Nobody was keeping me down that pit after what happened to Dad. So when Dai Watkins tried to push me around, I let him have it between the eyes. It was my way of resigning. Got it?”

“Yes, yes,” agreed the other. “Anything you say.”

“Use your head for once, will you? If we get an interview for a job, one of the first things they’ll ask is why we left the pit. How much
chance have
I
got if you blurt out that I slugged the foreman? They wouldn’t touch me.”

“Never thought of it that way.”

“Try, Glyn. Bloody well try!” He took his friend by the arm and led him off down a passageway.

“Where are we going, Mansell?” Bowen asked.

“You’ll see.”

They followed a tortuous route through the bowels of the ship, pausing at corners to make sure they were not seen, then descending a companionway with lumbering stealth. Eventually they reached a large metal door that was heavily reinforced.

“There it is,” said Price expansively. “The security room.”

“How did you find it?”

“By following the directions that Irish steward gave us.”

Bowen stared at the door. “Is that where the gold bullion is kept?”

“Only yards from where we’re standing. Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mansell.”

“It’ll be even more exciting when we actually see it.”

“But that’s impossible!”

“Is it?” said the other. “Look at the door, mun.”

“It’s far too solid, and it’s got all those locks.”

“Locks can be broken, Glyn. Only a question of applying pressure at the right points. Call yourself a miner?” he sneered contemptuously. “We’ve dug our way through seams of coal a hundred times thicker than that door.”

“Only because we had a pick and shovel.”

“Exactly. Get the right tools and we can do anything.”

“We can’t dig our way in there,” said Bowen fearfully. “Think of the noise it would make. They’d be down on us like a ton of bricks.”

“Then we make sure we do it quietly,” resolved Price, running a meditative hand over his chin as he studied the door. “A ship of this size is bound to have what we need. Hammers and chisels and so on. What about those boxes of food we saw being loaded? They must have crowbars to open them. All we have to do is to borrow the tools, muffle them with tags, and get to work.

Bowen was alarmed. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious.”

“Even though we’re bound to be caught?”

“There you go again. Always fearing the worst.”

“It’s lunacy!” wailed Bowen. “It’s not the same as taking a swing at Dai Watkins. All you got for that was the sack. This is a serious crime, Mansell. We could go to jail. Besides,” he said, indicating the door, “there’s no way you could get through there.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“And even if you did, what would happen then?”

“We’d make off with a couple of bars of gold bullion, Glyn.”

“Until the ship was searched and we were caught red-handed.” Bowen waved dismissively. “I want no part of this, Mansell. What’s the point of going to all that trouble when we’d never get off the boat with one ounce of gold?”

“We won’t even try,” explained Price slyly. “Why not hear me out before you decide? I got it all planned, see? With the right tools and a torch to help us, I reckon I can get through that door in an hour or so. You act as lookout. Even you can manage that, Glyn. Now,” he continued, licking his lips, “once we get inside, we open the first box and steal as many of the bars as we can carry.”

“And where do we take them?” asked Bowen in disbelief. “Back to our cabin?”

“No, you fool. Straight to the purser.”

“The purser!” exclaimed the other.

“Of course.”

“But that’s stupid.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, Mansell.”

“Listen, boyo. I thought this right through. We just have to put on an act.”

“What do you mean?”

“We tell the purser that we caught these two blokes making off with the gold, so we tackled them. They got away, but we managed to stop them from taking any of the loot. We won’t be criminals, Glyn,” he stressed, “we’ll be heroes. They’re bound to give us a big reward. Might even move us up to first class for the rest of the voyage. Whatever
happens, we’re far better off than we are now. And all for an hour with a jimmy or a crowbar. Well?” he said with a wild grin. “Interested?”

“It could just work,” agreed the other uncertainly.

“Only if you let me do the talking.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you telling the purser that I knocked out Dai Watkins, do I?”

Dillman’s meal was interrupted for the second time by a note from Maurice Buxton, but at least he had eaten the main course on this occasion. Excusing himself from the table, he strolled toward the door, gathering a smirk from Max Hirsch as he did so. He also got a nod of recognition from Agnes Cameron, mollified now that her beau was at her side and displaying her jewelry with a new confidence. Dillman had no time to speculate on why Hirsch had arrived so late for dinner. The purser had summoned him, and it would not be to pass on any good news.

Maurice Buxton was smoking his pipe again when the detective was admitted to his cabin. Scratching at his beard, the purser indicated the ledger on his desk.

“The phantom strikes again!” he moaned.

“How many times?”

“Twice. He got away with a fair amount of cash, a silver jewelry box, and two silver bracelets. Why people don’t let me lock away their valuables in our safe, I don’t know!” he sighed. “They will leave things lying around in their cabins.”

“That’s asking for trouble.”

“I know, Mr. Dillman. Yet strangely enough, most passengers get away with it. I’ve been on voyages when the only thing that got lost was someone’s virginity. Then you have something like this to deal with. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, is there?”

“Give me the details,” said Dillman, taking out pencil and pad.

The purser was succinct. Both thefts had occurred during the day from unoccupied second-class cabins. No sign of forced entry was found. The thief appeared to have come and gone at will, without leaving any clue behind as to his identity. Looking through his notes,
Dillman was almost certain that the same man was responsible for all the crimes in second class, but he had to admit that his inquiries had so far failed to lead to an arrest. He made no mention of his confrontation with Max Hirsch.

“He must be halted in his tracks, Mr. Dillman!” declared Buxton.

“I know.”

“We don’t want him running amok.”

“I’ll interview these latest victims immediately.”

“Let them finish their dinner first. It might help to calm them down.” He pulled on his pipe and relaxed slightly. “Anything else to report?”

“Only that you’ve got a rabble-rouser aboard, Mr. Buxton.”