Murder on the Mauretania (26 page)

“That’s not much of an advertisement for the joys of marriage.”

“Theo is very tired. She needs a good long sleep.”

“About forty years,” said Ruth with a wicked smile. “By the time she wakes up, you might have rowed yourself off to the Great Boat Race in the sky.”

“I thought you’d appreciate my company at breakfast, Ruth.”

“We do, Donald. It spices things up no end.”

The waiter brought two meals, then took Belfrage’s order before going back to the kitchen.

“Where’s Susan?” asked Belfrage.

“She’ll be here directly,” said Denning.

“She seemed a little off color last night.”

“Only because she sat opposite you. Susan was in great form afterward when she and I had another night of triumph playing bridge.”

“What about Genevieve? Doesn’t she usually join you?” asked Belfrage.

“No sign of her at all, unfortunately. Maybe I should go and tap on her door.”

“I could do that,” volunteered the other hastily. “I know which cabin she’s in.”

“Leave her be,” said Ruth, restraining him with a hand. “Genevieve will come in her own sweet time. We mustn’t crowd her too much. Or hold her back.”

“From what?”

“Her other admirers.”

“Admirers?” said Belfrage enviously. “What admirers? They don’t include that frightful American, do they?”

“Mr. Delaney is only one of a number. Genevieve turns heads,” Ruth told him.

“Well, that’s understandable, I suppose. She’s such a wonderful creature.”

Denning laughed. “You make her sound like a thoroughbred mare.”

“She certainly is a thoroughbred.”

“Just like your wife,” Ruth reminded him.

“Theo is in a class by herself,” said Belfrage dutifully.

“Then why does she have to take sleeping pills?”

“I won’t hear any criticism of her, Ruth. My wife is unique.”

“So is this lady,” remarked Denning, watching the couple about to
enter the dining saloon. “Most men would think she gave both Genevieve and Theodora a run for their money, though quite how thorougbred a mare she is remains to be seen. Smile, Donald,” he warned, digging an amiable elbow into his friend’s ribs. “You’re about to meet two of those Americans you love so much.”

“Oh, Lord! Must I?”

Belfrage summoned up a resemblance of a smile as Walter and Katherine Wymark came strolling toward them, arm in arm. Wymark had a proprietorial air about him as he sailed past, acknowledging them with a curt nod. His wife bestowed a gracious smile on the trio before joining her husband at a table nearby. Belfrage stared after her with mingled curiosity and distaste.

“Now if you were married to Mrs. Wymark,” said Denning with soft lechery, “I don’t think you’d allow
her
to forgo the delights of the marital couch by taking a sleeping pill.”

“That isn’t why Theo took one,” retorted Belfrage. “I must say, Harvey, some of your comments are exceedingly personal at times, and I resent that. As for the American lady, she has a certain flashy charm, I grant you, but could you honestly see someone with my background lowering myself to her level?”

“And what level is that?” asked Ruth.

“Well, look at her. There’s a touch of vulgarity about the lady.”

“I like vulgar women,” said Denning. “And any other kind, for that matter.”

“Donald is being unkind,” said Ruth. “I think the lady has real style.”

“She doesn’t compare with Theo,” argued Belfrage. “Nor, for that matter, with Genevieve. They’re two English roses, while Mrs. Wymark is an American cactus.”

Denning seized on the metaphor. “I’m sure she has plenty of prickles, if that’s what you mean. But she also has a natural splendor. Look at the way she holds herself, positively bristling with pride.”

The waiter returned with the other breakfast, and both men began to eat with relish. Conversation soon turned to politics, and Denning undertook to bait his friend in the usual way. Ruth nicked at her food and studied Katherine Wymark. The latter was seated at a table with four men, including her husband, indulging in meaningless chatter, yet
managing to hold her companions enthralled. Wymark was in an appreciative mood, patting his wife on the arm and laughing at her remarks as if he were hearing them for the first time. Ruth watched the faces of the other three men and noticed their expressions slowly change from interest to fascination.

Dillman borrowed a spare third-class cabin for the interview. Deciding to talk to them both at the same time, he led the two Welshmen in and closed the door behind them.

“You’ll have to sit on the edge of a bunk,” he said. “These cabins don’t run to plush armchairs, I’m afraid.”

“We found that out, Mr. Dillman,” said Price warily. “Now, what’s all this about? Why have you brought us here?”

“To have a nice quiet chat. I’ve explained my position on this vessel.”

“I’d guessed it already. I know a copper when I see one.”

“I’m a private detective employed by the Cunard Line, Mr. Price.”

“Comes to the same thing.”

“Is that what you think, Mr. Bowen?” asked Dillman, turning to the other man.

“I don’t know,” he grunted.

“Make yourselves comfortable, anyway.”

“We’ll stand,” asserted Price, shooting a look at his friend.

“This may take some time.”

“We got things to do, Mr. Dillman.”

“Not until you’ve spoken to me.” He extracted pad and pencil from his inside pocket in order to take notes. “I wonder if you’d care to tell me where the pair of you were just after midnight.”

“Fast asleep,” said Price firmly.

“Is that true, Mr. Bowen?”

“Yes, yes,” murmured the other. “It’s like Mansell says.”

“Did you leave the cabin at any time in the night?”

“Why should we?” asked Price.

“You don’t have a bathroom. If you wanted to use one in the middle of the night, you’d have to go out. Did you?”

“No, Mr. Dillman. Neither did Glyn.”

Bowen nodded in agreement, glad to be spared the task of speaking again.

“Do either of you know a man named Arnold Higgs?” They looked blank. “You ought to. Mr. Higgs has been sharing a cabin with you since Saturday night. He and his nephew, Benjamin Higgs.”

“We don’t have anything to do with them,” said Price. “The old man plays his mouth organ all the time and the other one sits there and grins. We never caught their names proper. The young one calls the old man ‘Uncle Arnie.’ That’s all we know.”

“I’ve met them both. Nice people. From Yorkshire.”

“That’s why they have those funny accents.”

“I didn’t think there was anything funny about them, Mr. Price. They were very helpful. So was Eamonn Casey. Do you recognize that name?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He remembers you. He’s one of the stewards in steerage.”

“What about him?”

“You quizzed him about the whereabouts of the gold bullion we’re carrying.”

Bowen started, but Price looked unruffled. He put his hands on his hips. “What if I did?” he said airily. “Everyone was talking about it. I mean, it’s not often you’re sitting on a gold mine, is it? I just wanted to know where it was being kept. Not in steerage, that’s for sure. We’re at the bottom of the heap down here.”

“Let’s go back to Mr. Higgs. Uncle Arnie, that is. The older of the two men whose names you couldn’t be bothered to find out. Do you know what he used to do for a living, Mr. Price?”

“It certainly wasn’t playing the mouth organ!”

“He was a timekeeper in a textile factory for the best part of forty years. Can you hear what I’m saying?” asked Dillman, looking from one to the other. “The man you share a cabin with was tied to the clock all his working life. You might say he has an ingrained sense of time.”

“So what?”

“According to him—and his nephew says the same—you and Mr. Bowen were out of the cabin last night from about eleven o’clock until
well past one this morning.” He saw the shifty look in Bowen’s eye and picked on him. “Is that correct?”

“No,” said Price with vehemence. “They’re bloody liars!”

“I was asking Mr. Bowen.”

“He’ll tell you the same as me.”

“Then let him have a chance to do so,” said Dillman, giving him a hard stare. “I’ve never liked ventriloquism, Mr. Price. Especially when the pair of you haven’t rehearsed your act very well.” He looked back at Bowen. “Two witnesses tell me that you were out of the cabin for over two hours last night, yet Mr. Price insists that you were both fast asleep in your bunks. Who’s telling the truth?”

“Mansell,” said Bowen, glancing nervously at his friend.

“There!” said Price. “Told you.”

“I’m inclined to believe Mr. Higgs and his nephew.”

“It’s their word against ours.”

“No,” said Dillman levelly. “Their word is backed up by Eamonn Casey’s evidence and by the fact that I caught you wandering around the other night in a restricted area of the ship.”

“We got lost.”

“Is that what happened last night? Did you get lost again, then find yourselves—quite by accident of course—outside the security room?” He saw Price’s eyes blaze. “Is that what you were doing when you weren’t in your cabin?”

“We never left it, Mr. Dillman.”

“I think you’re lying,” said the detective, pocketing his pad.

“Watch what you’re saying!” warned Price, squaring up to him.

“Go easy, Mansell,” said Bowen.

“Keep out of this.”

“Calm down, mun.”

“Listen to your friend,” advised Dillman. “You’ll get nowhere by threatening me or by continuing to lie your head off. I put it to you, Mr. Price, that you and Mr. Bowen were not asleep in your cabin at midnight because you were too busy trying to force open the door of the security room to get at the gold.”

Price’s anger flared. He clenched a fist to throw a punch, but he was far too slow. Seeing the danger, Dillman took swift action. The
first punch sank into Price’s midriff to take all the breath out of him, and the uppercut caught him flush on the chin. Gasping with pain and surprise, the Welshman staggered back. Dillman opened the door and beckoned in the two men standing outside.

“Mr. Price objects to being questioned,” he said calmly. “Please take him away and ask the master-at-arms to lock him up for the time being.”

Price howled with rage and lunged at Dillman, but the two men overpowered him and dragged him out. His yells echoed along the passageway. Bowen had gone white. He shifted his feet uneasily. Dillman had deliberately provoked Price, but his friend required a very different approach. The detective sat down on the edge of a bunk and indicated the one opposite. Bowen slowly lowered himself, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his hands knotted together. His face was a contour map of desperation.

“Now,” said Dillman gently, “suppose you tell me what
really
happened.”

* * *

After an exhaustive search of the cabin, Genevieve Masefield crossed another number off the list that Dillman had given her. Working her way through the unoccupied first-class cabins had taken her all morning, but it was a necessary exercise even though nothing had come to light. The theft of the gold bullion preoccupied her. If it was not recovered before they reached New York, it was not only the captain and the purser who would be held responsible. The unsolved crime would reflect badly on Dillman and herself. They had already traced one cache of stolen property; it was vital to locate another. Genevieve checked her list. There was one more empty cabin to search on the promenade deck.

Letting herself out, she pulled the door shut behind her and turned to walk along the passageway, only to see a familiar figure coming toward her. She froze. It was not the first time she had encountered Edgar Fenby unexpectedly. Was his arrival a coincidence, or had he been following her? She forced a smile. Fenby stopped to give a polite nod.

“Good morning Miss Masefield” he said.

“Good morning.”

“I thought your cabin was on the boat deck.”

“Yes,” she said. “I was just … visiting a friend.”

“I see. You didn’t appear for breakfast this morning. It was difficult not to notice,” he said with gallantry. “Someone as attractive as yourself is conspicuous by her absence.”

“There are plenty of other attractive ladies in the dining saloon.”

“That’s true, Miss Masefield.”

“I don’t believe I stand out that much.”

“These things are a matter of personal opinion.”

Fenby gave nothing away. The black beard concealed the expression on his face. Words came out smoothly, but they seemed at odds with the cold look in his eyes. He was dressed in business attire and might have been off to a day at the office. Genevieve could almost see the invisible bowler hat on his head. Fenby was appraising her quietly, but she fought off the sensation of unease. Recalling what Dillman had said earlier, she took the opportunity to probe for information.

“Mrs. Wymark told me that you’re a business associate of her husband’s.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“Have you known the Wymarks for long?”

“I’ve met him a couple of times before, but this is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of being introduced to his wife.”

“She’s very striking.”

“I’d certainly have to agree with that.”

“And highly intelligent into the bargain.”

“That’s also true. No disrespect to English ladies,” he said briskly, “but they’re a little less forthcoming than their American counterparts.”

“Blame that on the way we’re brought up, Mr. Fenby.”

“I don’t believe it’s a case for any blame, Miss Masefield. I merely indicated one of the differences between English and American ladies.”

“What are the others?”

“I’m hardly qualified to judge.”

“They seem a strange couple, don’t they?” she said artlessly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Wymark?”

“Yes. When I first met her, I had a very clear impression of the sort of man she would marry, but Mr. Wymark is not at all as I would have imagined.”

“They’re a well-matched couple,” he said defensively.

“I’m sure they are. They seem quite happy together.”

“Very happy.”

“What line of business is Mr. Wymark in?”