by Conrad Allen
A careful perusal of the address book had taught Dillman a great deal about the character of the man whose murder he was investigating. It also provided a name for the daughter whose photograph he had seen in the billfold. Anna Dugdale, who lived in New York City, was in for a profound shock. Dillman hoped that by the time she was informed of the circumstances of her father’s death, the killer might be in custody. Feeling that the book contained clues that he had not yet deciphered, he set it aside for a second look at a later date.
There was a tap on the door and he opened it to see Martin Grandage outside.
“Thank you,” the deputy purser said as he was invited in. “I just wanted a quick word with you, Mr. Dillman. You’ll recall that I asked you and Miss Masefield to keep an eye on the royal party.”
Dillman shut the door. “It may be rather difficult now, I fear.”
“That’s why I’ve asked two members of the crew to take over. Being in uniform, they’ll be more conspicuous, of course, but it can’t be helped. The Duke and Duchess need protection for themselves and their daughters.”
“It looked to me as if Mr. Jellings was providing that,” said Dillman. “I watched him yesterday, dealing with a photographer who tried to take pictures without permission. Mr. Jellings was polite but forceful.”
“I still think that we need additional cover. Especially now.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have a killer aboard,” said Grandage. “I didn’t actually see his handiwork myself but I talked to Dr. Quaid about it. He told me this man is very dangerous.”
“There’s no question about that.”
“Then it behooves us to mount a special guard on our royal passengers.”
“I don’t believe they’re at risk,” said Dillman. “It was a vicious crime, I grant you, but Walter Dugdale was murdered for a specific reason. I think it’s highly unlikely that the killer will strike again.”
“We can’t take any chances, Mr. Dillman.”
“I agree. Safety precautions are always wise. And I’m grateful that we’ve been freed to devote all our attention to the hunt for the murderer.”
“Do you have anything to go on?”
“Not yet, Mr. Grandage. We’re looking into various possibilities. By the way,” he said, “the purser asked me to report directly to him on this.”
“That’s fine with me. Brian will keep me abreast of any developments.”
“As long as neither of you expects immediate results.”
“Take your time, Mr. Dillman. We want you to get the right man.”
“Or men,” corrected the other. “More than one person may be involved.”
Grandage blinked. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I never thought of that. Listen,” he said, taking a step nearer, “there’s something else you need to know. I’m sure Miss Masefield has told you about the second theft that occurred.”
“From a German passenger. Frau Zumpe.”
“Not the most amenable lady.”
“I understand that she lost a sizable amount of money.”
“She did, Mr. Dillman. That’s what I wanted to mention to you. There’s been an odd coincidence. At least, I think so. It could be something a little more sinister.”
“ ‘Sinister?’ ”
“Well, most passengers deposit money and valuables with us at the very start of the voyage then take them out of the safe, as and when they need them. At dinner, for instance, when ladies tend to reclaim pearl necklaces or diamond tiaras.”
“Or when gentlemen need a supply of money for cards.”
“Exactly,” said Grandage. “It’s not often that anyone comes to us two or three times in a row to have some cash locked away. Particularly when they leave hundreds of pounds with us on each occasion.”
“When was the most recent deposit?”
“First thing this morning. That’s what made me sit up and think.”
“Why?”
“Because yesterday, the same man gave us three hundred pounds to look after.”
“I see,” said Dillman. “You’re bound to wonder if it might have come from Frau Zumpe’s cabin. It is an odd coincidence, Mr. Grandage. What was the passenger’s name?”
“Mr. Roland Pountney.”
The photographs were excellent. Nigel and Araminta Wilmshurst had nothing but praise for them as they leafed through the collection in their cabin. There were a dozen of them altogether. The composition of each photograph was striking, and the definition remarkable. Karl-Jurgen Lenz was clearly a professional.
“These are first-rate, Herr Lenz,” said Wilmshurst. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” replied the German. “I know my trade.”
“I’ve never seen such lovely portraits,” said Araminta, holding a photograph of an elderly lady, seated in a garden. “Could we expect to get the same quality?”
“Of course. All my work is of this standard.”
“Where do you do the developing?” asked Wilmshurst.
“In my cabin,” said Lenz. “I always travel with my equipment.”
“It’s just as well, then, because I think that you have two more customers.”
“Yes,” Araminta agreed eagerly. “We’d love you to photograph us, Herr Lenz.”
Lenz inclined his head in a token bow then collected up the examples he had brought of his work. Wilmshurst had a strong distaste for foreigners of all kinds and he was irked by the curt formality of Lenz’s matter. But there was no denying the man’s talent, and the bridegroom was keen to please his bride.
“How much do you charge, Herr Lenz?” he asked.
“That depends on how many photographs you want, sir. Would you like them taken indoors or on deck? I think maybe we have better light outside.”
“Araminta?” said Wilmshurst, inviting her opinion.
“It might be better in private, Nigel,” she said. “I don’t want to be watched by a crowd of people on deck. They’ll guess that we’re on honeymoon.”
“That little secret was given away the moment you walked into the dining room.”
She giggled. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes,” said her husband, “but it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I daresay that we’re not the only newly married couple on the ship. We don’t need to hide away any longer. Now, be honest, darling,” he urged. “If you could be photographed anywhere on the Marmora, where would it be?”
“Anywhere at all?”
“Anywhere. Standing on the bridge beside the captain, if need be.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “That’s not what I’d choose, Nigel. I’d like a photograph of the two of us in here, of course, but there’s something I might want even more. And that’s one taken with the Duke and Duchess of Fife.”
Lenz was alert. “You know them, perhaps?”
“Yes,” Wilmshurst said airily. “We had drinks with them only yesterday.”
“And you wish me to take a photograph of them with you?”
“It would be such a thrill for me if that happened,” Araminta said excitedly.
“Then so it will,” her husband assured her. “Now, Herr Lenz. What about cost?”
“There is none,” said the other.
“None at all?”
No,” replied Lenz, smiling for the first time. “If I take photograph of you with the Duke and Duchess, there is no charge.”
Claude Vivet was playing the piano in the music room when Genevieve finally tracked him down. He was a dapper man in his forties with a pencil-thin moustache and dark hair that was combed neatly away from a center parting. His complexion was swarthy and, undeniably, in his younger days, he had been handsome. Vivet played well, and did so with dramatic movements, swaying to and fro over the keyboard and tossing his head back from time to time. The few people who were in the room were clearly enjoying his performance. Genevieve waited until he had finished before she came up behind him.
“Debussy,” she noted. “One of his ‘Images.’ ”
“You played that piece beautifully.”
“Merci.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle.”
Genevieve introduced herself and he jumped off his piano stool at once. Taking a card from his inside pocket, he handed it to her with a flourish. She was impressed with what she read.
“You are the head chef at Le Grand Hotel in Paris?” she asked.
“I was,” he replied, inflating his chest. “I make their restaurant the most famous in the city. You know the hotel?”
“Only by reputation.”
“I help to make the reputation.”
She offered him the card back, but he waved it away.
“No, no. You keep in case you forget my name. I think we will be friends, yes?”
“I’m not likely to forget you or your name, Monsieur Vivet,” Genevieve said as she slipped the card into her purse. “Nor will I forget how well you played Debussy.”
“You are a pianist as well?”
“Of a kind. But I’m nowhere near as good as you.”
“It is a rule in life with me,” he explained. “If I do something, I do it properly. Making the food, playing Debussy, or …” He broke off with a laugh. “I am a man of many talents, you see. Do you have time to hear about them?”
“Of course. Shall we go into the lounge? They’re serving coffee.”
“You are English, no? You prefer the tea.”
“Not at this time of the morning, Monsieur.”
He took her off to the first-class lounge, unworried by the fact that Genevieve was a few inches taller. Claude Vivet strutted across the room then stood behind her chair as she lowered herself into it. He came round to sit opposite her, appraising Genevieve with interest. A waiter glided up to them and coffee was ordered. The man departed.
“You are traveling alone?” he asked in surprise.
“Yes,” she replied. “I’m very independent.”
“I can see that. How far do you go?”
“All the way to Australia.”
“Mon dieu! Such a long way. You think, maybe, I persuade you to stay in Egypt with me instead?” he said with a grin. “I go there for les vacances. Is very beautiful country. You like it there.”
“I’m sure that I would, but I have other plans.”
“That is a pity.” He looked around. “What you think of the Marmora?”
“She’s a very comfortable ship. I have no complaints.”
“I do,” he said, letting his eyebrows shoot up expressively. “The food is so bad I do not touch most of it. I would never dare to put such dishes in front of a customer.”
“I think that the meals on board are very good,” she said.
“Is because you are English. You are not used to good food there.”
“That’s a matter of opinion, Monsieur Vivet. We have some very fine chefs in London and they can compete with anyone. Why don’t you like the fare on board?”
It was a foolish question because it unleashed a diatribe that went on for the best part of ten minutes. Even the arrival of the coffee did not halt Vivet’s flow; indeed, it provoked further disdain as he explained why it was so tasteless. Genevieve let him rant on, observing how quickly he worked himself up into a state of outrage. In the end, he gave a gesture of dismissal.
“The chefs aboard are Italian,” he said. “That explains it.”
“I’m sorry they don’t meet your high standards.”
“I show how a meal should be prepared,” he boasted, tapping his chest. “One evening, I cook for the Duke and Duchess. They will see why French cuisine is the best.”
“Oh?” she said, impressed by his claim. “Have they agreed to let you prepare dinner for them?”
“Not yet, but they will. They see my card. How can they refuse?”
His vanity made him look ridiculous but Genevieve did not mock him. She had sought him out for a reason and worked her way around to the subject of Walter Dugdale.
“I understand that you dined with some friends of mine yesterday,” she said.
“The mother and daughter?”
“That’s right. Myra and Lilian Cathcart.”
“Nice English ladies. The daughter, too shy. She say nothing.”
“I think that she took exception to what you were saying, Monsieur Vivet.”
He looked surprised. “Me? I hope I not upset them.”
“They were a little disconcerted by some remarks you made about an American gentleman.” She saw his fists tighten. “His name was Mr. Dugdale.”
“I know his name,” he retorted, “and I meet him, too. This man is rude to me.”
“Really?”
“He insult my cooking. I not stand for that. I despise him.”
“Why?”
“Because of the bad things he say. The two ladies, they think him gentleman but they not understand what he call me in my own language. I not forgive that. You keep away from this Walter Dugdale,” he advised, his eyes blazing. “He not what he seem.”
Roland Pountney was sitting in the first-class smoke room, drawing nonchalantly on a cigarette as he talked to Morton Goss. The Egyptologist preferred a pipe and its tobacco had a pleasing aroma as the smoke curled upward. The room was paneled but its woodwork was less ornate than that in the dining room. Upholstered bench seating ran around the walls and beneath an overhanging balcony that was supported by pillars. A number of other men were enjoying a smoke, reclining on the benches or sitting at one of the tables in the middle of the room.
When Dillman arrived, he had to peer through a veil of smoke to pick out Roland Pountney. The man had been pointed out to him earlier by the deputy purser, and the detective had bided his time before moving in. The fact that Goss was there made the meeting with Pountney seem accidental. Lighting a cigarette, Dillman drifted casually across to the two men.
“I didn’t take you for a pipe man, Mr. Goss,” he observed. “Given your interests, I would have thought you’d opt for a hookah.”
“It wouldn’t fit into my top pocket so easily, Mr. Dillman,” said Goss, laughing.
He introduced the newcomer to Pountney and they shook hands. Invited to join them, he took a seat at their table and made polite conversation while he sized up the courteous Englishman. As he listened to the man’s distinctive accent, he remembered what Genevieve had told him.
“Excuse me,” said Dillman, “but did you, by any chance, go to Harrow?”
Pountney was taken aback. “How on earth did you know that, old chap?”
“It was a guess, really. Though I do flatter myself that I have a good ear for accents, and yours sounds remarkably like that of a friend of mine who went to Harrow.”
“What was his name? Perhaps we were there at the same time.”
“I doubt it. James Burdock is somewhat older than you,” said Dillman, borrowing a name from Masks and Faces, a play in which he had once appeared. “He always spoke so fondly of his old school.”
“It certainly leaves its mark upon us,” admitted Pountney. “Actually, I’m not the only Harrovian on board. I spotted a fellow called Wilmshurst who was a few years ahead of me. We’ve exchanged a nod or two in passing.”
“Don’t you want to get together to talk about old times?” asked Goss.
“Not really. To be honest, I never really liked him at school. Nigel Wilmshurst was just not my type, somehow. Besides, I’d be rather in the way at the moment.”
“In the way?”
“He’s on honeymoon, Mr. Goss. You only have to look at his wife to see that. Attractive filly she is, too. They’re clearly off to celebrate the first few weeks of marriage in the sun, so I don’t think Wilmshurst would be in the mood to discuss his schooldays.” Pountney gave a knowing smile. “He has far better things to do.”
“I spent my honeymoon in Niagara Falls,” said Goss. “I’d have preferred it to be
Cairo but my salary didn’t stretch to such luxuries in those days and my wife doesn’t have the same obsessive interest in ancient Egypt.”
“I’m more concerned with its future,” announced Pountney. “There are some exciting commercial developments taking place. Good opportunities for investors.”
“Is that what you are?” asked Dillman.
“Yes, I’m always looking for ways to spend money wisely, Mr. Dillman. Not just on my own account, either. I act as a broker for a number of other people. Patriotism is all very well,” he argued, “but it does tend to limit one’s horizons.”
“Does it?”
“Of course,” said Pountney. “Most chaps in my line wouldn’t dream of investing abroad. They’d rather plow their pennies into British industry and reap what profits they can from that. The real rewards are for investors with the courage to look farther afield.” He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “That’s why I’m heading for Egypt.”
“Will you be spending Christmas there?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman. I have close friends in Luxor.”
“Won’t you miss being at home with your family?”
“Home is where my latest financial commitment happens to be.”
“You’re obviously dedicated to your work,” said Dillman. “Just like our friend Mr. Goss here. Happy is the man who’s found his true métier.”
“Is that what you’ve done?” asked Pountney.
“I think so. Except that, in my case, it was found for me. I come from a family that makes its living from the sea, Mr. Pountney. We build yachts. Large ones.”
“Like father, like son, eh? What took you to England?”
“Curiosity.”
“That’s what got me involved in ancient history,” admitted Goss.
“Have you ever had cause to regret it?” said Dillman.
“Only when my wife and daughter complain that it takes up all my time. Oh”—he went on as his memory was jogged—“speaking of my daughter, she wants to arrange a time when you can listen to her playing the flute.”
“I’ll have to let her know,” replied Dillman, not wishing to commit himself.
“Polly is eager to show off. She’s taken a liking to you, Mr. Dillman.”