Murder on the Mauretania (19 page)

“Where can he be?” she asked softly.

“We’ll soon have the answer, I’m sure.”

“I couldn’t bear it if anything nasty had happened to Max.”

“Then let’s hope it hasn’t, Mrs. Cameron.”

“You don’t think …” The woman’s voice trailed away. Then she made an effort to ask a question that clearly caused her pain. “You don’t think he may have found someone else, do you?”

“There’s no chance of that,” said Genevieve, quick to reassure her. “You and Mr. Hirsch obviously had a deep and trusting relationship, even though you’ve known each other for such a short time. From what you tell me, he was a very loyal man.”

“He was, Miss Masefield. He doted on me.”

“Then rule out any fears on that score.” Genevieve looked down at her notes. “You and Mr. Hirsch were in each other’s company so much that he wouldn’t have had time to meet anyone else. Besides,” she said, glancing up, “why would he look elsewhere when he had the friendship of someone like you?”

“It’s kind of you to say so.”

“You and he were effectively a couple.”

“We were, Miss Masefield. That’s exactly what Max called us. A couple.”

“And is this a complete list of the times you spent together?” asked Genevieve, tapping her notebook with the pencil. “You haven’t left anything out, have you?”

“No,” replied the other quickly. “I haven’t.”

But they both knew she was lying.

Still continuing his search, Dillman elected to forgo luncheon, but he did make a point of stepping into the first-class kitchens. He found the steward who was responsible for bringing up supplies from the storage areas and the refrigeration units. Dillman took the man aside and explained his position on the vessel.

“I understand you had a trolley stolen?” he began.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you report the theft to the purser?”

“Because I wasn’t completely sure it was stolen,” said the steward. “I thought someone might just have borrowed it. That sort of thing often happens.”

“When did the trolley go missing?”

“Yesterday evening.”

“Did you go in search of it?”

“Of course, sir. But there was no sign of it until this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“It turned up again.”

“Where?”

“In the place where I normally keep it,” explained the steward. “The little room at the back. So I was right. It wasn’t stolen at all. I knew it would turn up eventually.”

“Who could have taken it?”

“Somebody from one of the other galleys, probably. Or even some joker from around here. Working in a kitchen all day can get a bit boring. There’re a couple of stewards who’re always trying to liven things up by playing tricks on the rest of us. One of them may have hidden the trolley on purpose.”

“That’s one explanation, I suppose.”

“The most likely, sir,” said the other. “I mean, it has to be a member of the crew. What use would any of the passengers have for a trolley like that?”

Dillman smiled inwardly as he remembered Hester Littlejohn’s theory about the theft of the cutlery. Even the industrious Max Hirsch, pillaging on a regular basis, could not have stolen enough property to justify the use of a trolley. The steward’s suggestion was the most convincing, and it gave Dillman a degree of comfort; one allegedly stolen item could be crossed off his list. Like Mrs. Dalkeith’s watch, the trolley seemed to have come back of its own accord.

After thanking the steward, he made his way to the second-class lounge, hoping for a brief word with Alexandra Jarvis. Seated beside her grandmother, the girl was reading a book. She looked up with a grin as her friend bore down on her.

“Hello, Mr. Dillman,” she said.

“Hello, Ally,” he replied. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Pomeroy.”

“Thank you,” said the old woman. “We didn’t notice you in the dining saloon.”

“No, I wasn’t hungry.”

Alexandra spoke up eagerly. “Is there any sign of Bobo yet, Mr. Dillman?”

“Yes, Ally,” he told her. “That’s why I came over to see you.”

“Where is he?”

“I can’t say for sure, but he’s definitely about. I spoke to someone earlier who’d seen him lots of times in the past twenty-four hours.”

“Has he been back to Mr. Reynolds’ cabin for his food?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’d be ever so grateful if you could find out for me. Daddy won’t let me go anywhere near Bobo, and I think that’s cruel. Isn’t it, Granny?” she asked, stroking the old woman’s arm. “You’d let me feed the cat, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” agreed the other, “as long as you didn’t take food off my plate.”

She let out a cackle. Dillman was fond of Lily Pomeroy. She took an almost childlike glee in flouting convention and in expressing herself freely. Her gaudy attire was an act of senile rebellion in itself. Alexandra was much happier in the company of her grandmother than she was under the more repressive regime of her parents.

“I wonder where Bobo is now,” she said wistfully.

“Safe and sound, Ally.”

“Thank you so much for telling me that, Mr. Dillman.”

“I hope it’s put your mind at rest,” he said. “I never had the slightest worry about him myself. Cats have a knack of making the most of things. On a cold day like this, Bobo has probably sneaked off to the warmest place on the ship.”

“Where’s that?”

“The boiler rooms. I’ll bet he’s curled up in front of a furnace right now.”

Bobo liked his new domain. The cargo hold was quiet, spacious, and filled with interesting objects to sniff and explore. He spent hours simply pacing out his new territory, scrutinizing boxes, rubbing against wooden crates, picking his way through neatly stacked piles of luggage, and jumping up on the multifarious items that were stowed away in the bottom of the ship. There was even a new car on which he could leave the dusty signature of his paws. When his inventory was complete, he found some sacking and settled down to spend the night on his comfortable bed, untroubled by the weather and undisturbed
by any passengers. It was the happiest time he had spent so far on the ship.

Tuesday morning compelled him to revise his judgment slightly. While he still enjoyed the privacy that he had found, he noticed one alarming deficiency in the hold. It had no food supply. A careful tour around the perimeter of his empire showed him that it also lacked an exit. Bobo had no opportunity to slip back to the cabin for one of his regular meals or to forage in the kitchens for scraps. Since it was a problem he could not immediately solve, he decided to bide his time. Finding his way back to the door through which he had entered on the previous night, he hopped onto a box nearby and curled up into a ball. He was soon drifting off into a deep and restorative slumber.

“That’s what it was,” said Glyn Bowen after long deliberation. “It must have been a cat.”

“What are you going on about?” grumbled Mansell Price.

“That thing I felt brushing against my leg in the cargo hold last night. It was a cat.”

“Or a large rat.”

“No, Mansell,” said the other. “Rats dart over your feet. They don’t rub against you like this animal did. I’m certain it was a cat of some sort.”

“That must’ve been a disappointment for you.”

“Why?”

“Wouldn’t you rather have a woman rubbing up against you in the dark?” asked Price with a lecherous grin.

“Fat chance of that!”

The two men were in the third-class smoking room, seated in two of the revolving chairs. Price was trying to manufacture a cigarette out of a series of discarded butts that he had collected from the floor. Bowen was preoccupied with the second visit he would have to make to the cargo hold. He screwed up his courage to voice his protest.

“I still have my doubts about tonight,” he said. “I think we should call it off.”

“Too late, mun.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve set everything up. I didn’t go to all the trouble of borrowing those tools just to leave them in the cargo hold for a night. We’ve come too far to turn back now, Glyn. Don’t you see that?”

“Yes, Mansell.”

“Then what are you moaning about?”

“I got this feeling in my stomach.”

“Excitement,” diagnosed the other. “It’s the same feeling you get before a rugby match. You’re all worked up and raring to go.”

“But I’m not. It scares me stiff.”

“Rubbish!”

“It does, Mansell.”

Price finished rolling his cigarette, then got up to ask for a light from an old man with a clay pipe in his mouth. Returning to his seat, the Welshman inhaled deeply while staring at his friend. His eyelids narrowed to a thin slit.

“This is a two-man job, Glyn,” he warned. “I need you.”

“Too risky.”

“Is it? Been very easy so far. We got the tools, found a hiding place for them, and staked out the security room. Stewards only patrol it once an hour. We had to hang around even longer for one of them to turn up.”

“We may not be so lucky tonight.”

“Of course we will.”

Bowen writhed in discomfort. “Think what’ll happen if we’re caught,” he urged.

“I’d rather think about what’ll happen if we don’t take our chances,” retorted Price. “We’ll go on as we are, cadging drinks, scrounging smokes, and arriving in New York with barely enough money to last us for a week. Is that what you want?”

“You know it isn’t.”

“Then do something about it. Stick to my plan.”

“It worries me.”

“This time tomorrow, you’ll be thanking me,” said the other confidently. “We’ll have pocketed a tidy reward by then. You’ll see.”

“If only I could believe that, Mansell.”

“You’ve got to believe it,” snarled Price vehemently. “Lose your nerve and the whole thing falls to pieces. You can’t go soft on me now. You’re as much part of it as I am. You helped to hide those tools and you helped to keep watch on that security room. That makes you an accomplice, Glyn, like it or not.”

“I don’t like it,” confessed Bowen. A hand grabbed his wrist and squeezed hard. “But I’ll go through with it,” he said reluctantly. “I suppose I have to now.”

“Yes,” said his friend, relaxing his hold. “You do.”

* * *

Genevieve Masefield had a late luncheon in the company of her friends. The table for eight also included the couple with whom Susan Faulconbridge and Harvey Denning had played bridge. Donald Belfrage was at his most expansive, talking about his plans to improve the estate that he had inherited and promising that he would hold regular shooting parties there.

“Good,” said Ruth Constantine. “There are lots of people I’d like to shoot.”

“I hope I’m not on your list,” said Denning.

“No, Harvey. I don’t think your head would look very nice mounted on a wall.”

“It prefers to be mounted on my shoulders.”

“What about you, Genevieve?” said Belfrage solicitously. “You’ll join us at some of our weekends, won’t you?”

“If I’m invited,” she replied.

“You will be,” said Susan firmly. “I shan’t go without you, I know that. You’re part of our circle now. You’ve been initiated.”

“Not completely,” said Denning under his breath.

Belfrage’s glance seemed to convey a similar message. Genevieve responded with a bland smile. The anonymous note was still causing her concern, and she was never allowed to forget that she might be eating a meal in the company of its sender. Belfrage was more attentive to his wife today, as if trying to atone for some earlier neglect, but he still managed to let Genevieve know that he harbored certain feelings for her. She had been careful to choose a seat that put her well out of reach of even his long legs. Denning was directly opposite her but
attempted no clandestine maneuvers beneath the table with his foot. His technique consisted of suave compliments, gentle innuendos, and the raising of a loquacious eyebrow. Neither man confirmed or denied by his manner the authorship of the note.

Genevieve was relieved to see that one of her other suspects, Patrick Skelton, was not even in the dining saloon, but she could not decide if his absence ruled him out or if he was merely lurking in readiness to ambush her elsewhere. Orvill Delaney was at a table nearby, chatting happily with a group of people as if they were lifelong friends instead of acquaintances he had made on the voyage. Genevieve was interested to see that Edgar Fenby was in the party, pushing each topic of conversation around as if passing the salt with excessive care. Walter Wymark, his business associate, was at a table in an alcove with his wife. In an almost exclusively male party, Katherine Wymark was in no way abashed, and Genevieve admired the way in which she was palpably holding her own. Her husband seemed more animated and gregarious than hitherto.

“Where’ve you
been
all morning, Genevieve?” asked Susan.

“Here and there,” she replied.

“I looked for you all over the place.”

“I had someone to visit, Susan.”

“Donald and I had breakfast in bed,” announced Theodora.

“Is that what they call it these days?” said Denning archly. “There was a time when ‘connubial bliss’ was the accepted phrase. I always regretted that I never experienced it myself.”

“Not with a wife of your own, anyway,” observed Ruth.

Brittle laughter greeted the comment. Denning did not mind that it was at his expense. He blew a kiss across the table at Ruth and got a cool stare in return. The laughter was just dying away when Orvill Delaney came over to the table.

“I didn’t think that the menu was all that funny,” he said amiably. “How do you do, Miss Masefield? Oh, and I believe that we’ve met as well, Miss Constantine.”

“We have indeed, Mr. Delaney.”

Ruth took charge of the introductions, and the newcomer could soon put names to all the faces. He made a few neutral comments
about the weather, then started to move off. Genevieve put up a hand to catch his attention.

“I must let you have that magazine back, Mr. Delaney,” she said.

“Please keep it, Miss Masefield.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m always looking for converts to the joys of O. Henry.”

“Well, you’ve certainly found one in me.”

He gave her a gracious bow, then strode out of the room. Genevieve was puzzled. His manner toward her had undergone a subtle change. He was still very courteous, but there was a wariness that had not been there before. She wondered if he might be having second thoughts about an anonymous note he had dashed off. Her companions were uniformly impressed by Orvill Delaney.