The Pleasure Cruise Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “Did your sister-in-law wear her necklace last night at dinner? If so it must have gone astray after that.”

  “She dressed for dinner and put on her necklace, but didn’t go to the dining saloon. Altered her mind suddenly and had dinner brought to her in her cabin.”

  “Did Mrs. Mesado always carry her key about with her, say even to dinner?”

  “Oh, yes, in one of those tiny little evening bags.”

  “Who has the key now?”

  “I have it here,” replied Colvin, producing a small key from his waistcoat pocket and handing it to Vereker. The latter examined the key casually and returned it to Colvin without comment.

  “I found it in her evening bag, which she had tucked under the pillow of her bed before she went up on deck last night.”

  “Mrs. Mesado apparently had more than one very valuable necklace with her?” asked Vereker quietly, and looked up at Colvin’s face to see the effect of his words. He was wondering if Colvin and his wife had compared notes since his interview with the latter. Colvin’s face, which was always unusually red, now went white, and the muscles of his cheek twitched nervously.

  “Yes, she had two very valuable necklaces,” he said, and his voice was hoarse with suppressed agitation.

  “I don’t want to pry too deeply into your personal affairs, Colvin, but there seems to be some misapprehension about the necklace that’s missing. Your wife and you say it is composed of alternate cinnamon and white diamonds, and Mrs. Mesado’s maid says it’s a magnificent one of white diamonds that her mistress wore last night which cannot be found. If I’m going to help you I must be clear on this point.”

  “On looking into Beryl’s jewel-case before I handed it over to the purser about midday I found, to my horror, that the one of white diamonds was also missing,” replied Colvin.

  “You didn’t notice that when you went through her jewel-case early this morning in my presence?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Rather a bad oversight,” remarked Vereker pointedly.

  “I was too upset to think clearly or remember,” replied Colvin weakly. “You see, I was searching for the cinnamon and white diamond necklace at the time, and it occupied my mind to the exclusion of everything else.”

  “I can quite understand. Anyone might do likewise in similar circumstances. Your wife must have made a mistake about the actual necklace that was missing when she told Gautier about the loss.”

  “It seems so,” replied Colvin guardedly and poured himself out another stiff glass of whisky.

  “Well, I’ve had one bit of luck in my quest, Colvin,” remarked Vereker with a mysterious smile.

  “And what’s that?” asked Colvin, looking up quickly.

  “I’ve recovered the necklace of white diamonds,” replied Vereker and, drawing the jewel from his trousers’ pocket, held it out to Colvin.

  “My God! How did you manage to get it?” asked Colvin as he hesitatingly took the necklace from Vereker’s outstretched hand. His face was ludicrous in its look of blank astonishment.

  “I can’t answer that question, Colvin. You remember our pact. I was to get the necklace back without fuss or trouble, and I’ve done so. You mustn’t be too inquisitive at present.”

  “Well, Vereker, all I can say is that you’re marvellous!” exclaimed Colvin.

  “Not quite as marvellous as you think, Colvin. Still, I’m not going to divulge my secret at this juncture. I’ve got to try and recover the other necklace now, and I’m afraid the job’s going to be a much tougher one.”

  A curiously uneasy look stole into Colvin’s eyes. He glanced nervously up at Vereker, who was apparently lost in thought, and then stared with amazement at the necklace he held in his hand. Some anxious train of thought was evidently passing through his mind.

  “By the way, did Gautier possess a key to Mrs. Mesado’s large Saratoga trunk?” asked Vereker, waking suddenly from his reverie.

  “Not to my knowledge, but why?” asked Colvin, starting with surprise.

  “I was thinking Mrs. Mesado, in her careless way, might have left her cinnamon and white diamond necklace in it.”

  “Oh, no, she couldn’t possibly have done that,” said Colvin with over-hasty assurance. “Beryl always carried the key of that trunk about with her also. I have it here with the key to her jewel-case. I’m sure she only kept her clothes, shoes and odds and ends in that trunk.”

  “You have a similar trunk, haven’t you?” asked Vereker, as if he was aware of some obscure reason for this coincidence.

  “Yes. We bought them together at Martin’s, in Bond Street.”

  “Didn’t they give you two keys to each trunk?”

  “They usually do,” remarked Vereker.

  “That’s true; I have two on my chain.”

  “You can’t say where the duplicate key to Mrs. Mesado’s trunk is?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t know what she did with it. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s possible that Gautier has the duplicate in her possession,” said Colvin excitedly, and a look of genuine surprise crossed his features.

  “I’m almost certain she has,” continued Vereker, “but we’ll find out eventually. You say your sister-in-law was very fond of Gautier?”

  “Yes, I think she was genuinely fond of her; she treated her more as a companion than a maid.”

  “Did Mrs. Mesado ever make a will?”

  “Quite recently. About two months ago to be precise.”

  “Was Gautier a beneficiary?”

  “Yes, I think she was to get about five hundred pounds. Beryl left all her property, real and personal, to my wife, Constance.”

  “She would leave a considerable amount, I presume?”

  “About £100,000 altogether in personalty, and there’s Firle House and effects at Jevington.”

  “Did she leave a duplicate of the will with her solicitor?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  “It’s not very relevant, but I should like to know.”

  “Of course it has nothing to do with the missing necklace?” asked Colvin in a bewildered tone.

  “Apparently not, but in my investigation a certain matter cropped up and I became interested in the question of a will. You see, Colvin, when I consulted Captain Partridge about this missing necklace affair a suspicion at once arose in his mind that there might be something not quite above board with regard to your sister-in-law’s sudden death,” said Vereker, putting as bold a front as he could on the falsehood.

  “Good Lord!” gasped Colvin with acute distress, “how on earth could he think that?”

  “People are naturally suspicious when they hear of missing valuables in connection with a sudden death. Of course, we know there’s nothing in it, but we’ve got to convince them that there isn’t. The doctor too now seems to have some doubt about Mrs. Mesado’s heart failure. He didn’t actually say so, but I inferred from his remarks that he too was beginning to be influenced by the skipper’s attitude. They’re in a bit of a stew about it and may raise some difficulties about a burial at sea.”

  “This is damnable,” exclaimed Colvin, wringing his hands in anguish, “utterly damnable!” Beads of perspiration had suddenly burst out on his brow.

  “I’m afraid I took the matter into my own hands to save you and your wife from a nasty ordeal. I said you had changed your mind about a burial at sea and had decided to take the body ashore at Lisbon.”

  “Oh, thank God, Vereker, that was splendid of you!” exclaimed Colvin with heartfelt relief, and extended a hand which Vereker shook mechanically. “You’ve saved us from a heap of trouble. We must either bury Beryl at Lisbon or take her home to England.”

  “I think it’d be wise, Colvin. I’m afraid I acted rather rashly without consulting you, but I’m glad you agree with the course I adopted. I thought I’d put my foot in it immediately after I’d spoken.”

  “No, no, I’m glad you took a chance. After what we’ve gone through, Constance and I c
ouldn’t stand anything so beastly as an inquiry. I wish I’d said nothing about the missing jewellery.”

  “All’s well that ends well, Colvin. The thing now is to disembark at Lisbon and carry out whatever programme you decide on with regard to the burial of Mrs. Mesado. I’ve recovered half the missing valuables, I may be able to lay hands on the other half. In the meantime don’t discuss the matter with anyone. If you can trust me, I’ll see things through for you.”

  “Do anything you think advisable,” said Colvin readily; “I leave it entirely in your hands.”

  With these words he left Vereker’s cabin and hurried into No. 90. On his departure Vereker poured himself out another whisky from the bottle which Colvin had left behind and lit a cigarette. He was laughing quietly to himself and there was a suspicion of triumph in his attitude. He was conscious that he had carried through a risky and difficult plan with complete success. So far things were going smoothly in the way he desired them to go.

  “Very strange!” he soliloquised some minutes later. He was thinking of Fuller’s statement that Colvin had carried his sister-in-law up on to D deck at one-thirty. It was palpable that Colvin had lied flagrantly about seeing Mrs. Mesado for the last time at ten o’clock. It was not difficult at times to discover falsehood, thought Vereker, but to a detective the motive behind a falsehood was of cardinal importance. What could be the motive, he asked himself, behind Colvin’s persistent and unblushing mendacity?

  III

  Half an hour before dinner Ricardo entered Vereker’s cabin. He was already dressed and held in his hand by their edges two or three photographic prints.

  “Ah, you managed to get them!” exclaimed Vereker, turning round from the mirror in front of which he stood brushing his hair.

  “Three. The glossy surfaces are simply engraved with Renée’s finger prints. She had just been rubbing her hands with glycerine and lemon juice. I can see them with my naked eye. Nearly as beautiful as a bird’s footprints in snow!”

  “You’re invaluable, Ricky,” said Vereker, taking the photographs from Ricardo’s hand and placing them very carefully in an empty collar box on his dressing table.

  “I felt a priceless Judas at the moment she gave them to me,” said Ricardo, “but I’m getting hardened in criminology. Some day I shall commit one murder to unravel another. You think those snaps’ll do?”

  “Admirably. I’m glad Gautier is used to doing a little hard work with her hands.”

  “Why?”

  “The ridges are more pronounced in a manual worker’s fingers.”

  “That’s unfortunate; criminals generally fight shy of hard labour in more senses than one. Will those finger-prints last until you can get them photographed and developed?”

  “I shall see to them as soon as I reach Lisbon. I know Mascarenhas, one of the Portuguese chiefs of police, and he’ll get them done for me. As a matter of fact it’s possible to develop a finger-print that’s two or three years old. What arrangements have you made for tonight, Ricky?”

  “A very pleasant programme. I asked Renée if she was going to see the cinema show at nine-fifteen, but she was non-committal, so I managed to fade out mistily. I had tea with Rosaura and simulated jealousy of Miguel Dias with excellent results. To salve my wounded feelings she has consented to have a special dinner with me and accompany me to the cinema show. Criminal investigation seems to be as expensive as keeping a fashionable mistress, Algernon.”

  “But it has the advantage of being exciting,” remarked Vereker, smiling. “Did you learn anything of Maureen?”

  “Not yet. I shall bombard that position tonight. I find that the Penteados don’t know the Mesados very well. Both derive their wealth from cold meat. Mesado is a bit of an expert in refrigeration. What he doesn’t know about freezing the devil couldn’t utilise for his own comfort.”

  “Have the Penteados and Dias viewed the body yet? It’s going ashore at Lisbon tomorrow.”

  “Certainly not; this is a pleasure cruise, not a coroner’s inquest. They’ve just heard the sad news, and offered tactful condolences to the Colvins.”

  “I see,” remarked Vereker thoughtfully, and asked: “Did you keep your eyes skinned while you were in Gautier’s cabin?”

  “You bet, and the gods helped me. Just as I was about to enter the lady’s bower a stewardess came out carrying a note in her hand. She was repeating the name ‘Dias’ audibly as she passed me, probably to prevent herself from forgetting it. I inferred that the note was for Dias. This interested me, because Renée had already told me that she was only slightly acquainted with Dias. I said nothing, however, and once in Renée’s cabin I was promptly handed a photograph album and a score of loose prints to look at.”

  “With your usual charm, Ricky, I suppose you simulated great interest in Buenos Aires and district?”

  “As if the place belonged to me, Algernon. I even called it B.A. after the manner born. Renée lounged and smoked languorously in a wicker chair, and I’m afraid a perfectly moulded leg in a silk stocking was an overwhelming counter-attraction to the beauties of B.A. The latter weakened sadly: it was an unequal contest. One of these days I shall write a profound article for a stodgy monthly on the significance of legs in human courtship.”

  “Never mind your leg theories, Ricky. What else did you see?”

  “Very little until Renée was suddenly called away. Mrs. Colvin wanted to see her for a few minutes, and she asked me to wait until she returned.”

  “You promptly nosed round, I hope.”

  “I spotted a writing pad of bank paper—you know the thin stuff it is—on her table. Beside it was one of those silverpoint stylos I’ve seen you use for sketching at times.”

  “That’s interesting, but a silverpoint has to be used on a specially prepared chalk paper. It’s useless on ordinary paper.”

  “I know, and that’s what intrigued me. I was about to try the silverpoint out on her pad when I noticed that the business end was still wet with a colourless fluid.”

  “Secret writing. Did you root about for the liquid?”

  “Like a pig after truffles. I couldn’t find any trace of a bottle anywhere.”

  “Disappointing! She may have used ordinary saliva. It works fairly well and can be made visible by washing the paper with a thin wash of ink and water when the writing’s dry.”

  “By Jove, fancy getting one’s information straight from the mare’s mouth so to speak. The process explains the phrase ‘spitting it out’ and makes x’s a fair approximation to kisses. Anyhow, finding no bottle of fluid, I picked up the stylo to see if the paper was in any way prepared. I was at once surprised to find that the pressure of the stylo had gone through and left a perfectly legible impression on the leaf underneath.”

  “Ricky, that’s splendid. Did you detach the leaf?”

  “Thought it was too risky, but I read the note after painful hesitation. Posterity will always be able to say of me: He was a detective and a gentleman.”

  “Never mind posterity. What did the note say?”

  “Very little. Simply: Dearest. Sit next me at cinema performance. Renée.”

  “She used the word dearest?”

  “Legitimately, I should say. The superlative implies a host of comparatives and positives.”

  “You must have got a cold douche, Ricky!”

  “Positively, but it didn’t deter me from another scratch round. I saw nothing more of importance, unless a phial labelled ‘Nembutal’ fits into our scheme of things.”

  “You’ve surpassed yourself, Ricky. I must inquire into nembutal; it’s a drug I’ve never heard of before.”

  “The phial was empty.”

  “Where was it, Ricky?”

  “In an attaché case from which Renée had taken the album of photographs. On her return to the cabin after her interview with Mrs. Colvin she happened to notice the phial as she was putting back the photographs. She looked startled, picked it up and hastily threw it out of the porthole.”

&
nbsp; “It may be vital and it may mean nothing at all. This is one of the most complicated cases I’ve ever dealt with. I’m simply enmeshed in a tangle of clues,” said Vereker wearily.

  “After further polite conversation Renée wriggled out of her half-promise to accompany me to the cinema performance and, knowing the reason for her withdrawal, I didn’t press the matter. I promptly retaliated by inviting Rosaura to take her place at dinner and the show. ’Pon my soul, Algernon, flirtation’s nearly as spiteful a game as croquet.”

  Ricardo, having glanced at the clock on the cabin mantelpiece, suddenly jumped from his chair.

  “Hell’s bells, but I’m late! So long, Algernon. See you before I turn in,” he shouted as he vanished through the door.

  “Good hunting, Ricky!”

  Chapter Eight

  I

  The dining saloon of the “Mars” had been rapidly converted into a temporary cinema theatre, and the orchestra, seated in a gallery, were playing Strauss’s march, “Radetzky”. The audience were slowly filtering into their seats, and were composed for the major part of elderly passengers; the youthful section evidently preferring to spend their time in more exciting forms of recreation. Even the title, Passion’s Dupe, failed to appeal to the general company, the more modern of whom probably thought that passion precluded duping and was its own reward. Perhaps the very thought of “pictures” made them anxious to avoid the stale routine of their lives ashore. The attendance was surprisingly low, and here and there half a row of seats was unoccupied. Vereker was one of the first to enter the theatre, and took up his position in a secluded corner by the door in order to have a good view of the arriving audience. He had not been seated long when Renée Gautier entered alone and took a seat in the third row from the back. Shortly afterwards Manuel Ricardo appeared with Miss Penteado, the latter every now and then laughing gaily at some bright flippancy flung off by her vivacious companion. They took their seats in the centre row of the auditorium, and as they edged their way between the closely arranged rows of chairs Vereker noticed that Ricardo had observed Miss Gautier and given her an exaggerated bow. She had returned the salutation with a bright nod and smile and, seeing that Miss Penteado was exchanging greetings with a gentleman in front of her, had pursed her lips in a moue which was doubtless intended to be coquettish rather than impertinent. Close on their heels followed Ferguson, Vereker’s Scots acquaintance with a penchant for theological discussion, and his appearance caused Algernon to make himself momentarily less obtrusive behind one of the support stanchions close to his own chair. Ferguson had hardly attached himself to another of his fellow passengers when Miguel Dias descended the steps into the dining saloon and posed statuesquely as he surveyed the room with his dark, flashing eyes. Renée Gautier’s glance met his without a hint of recognition, and at that moment the lights were extinguished for the commencement of the performance. Vereker waited till Dias had vanished in the dusk. Then, rising from his seat, he silently and unobtrusively made his way to the rear of the auditorium, where he slipped into a chair just behind and to the right of Miss Gautier and Dias. From this coign he could easily overhear their conversation even if whispered, and was fairly safe from recognition by Miss Gautier until the close of the film and the switching on of the lights for the interval.