Murder on the Marmora

by Conrad Allen

  “A case of too many cooks, eh?”

  “It’s more a case of France versus Italy, and it’s all Monsieur Vivet’s fault. Apparently, he’s been pouring scorn on the quality of the food served on board. That really offended our chefs. They don’t want him near them.”

  “Monsieur Vivet is not a man to hide his light under a bushel.”

  “I know; I’ve met him. He lets it blaze forth like the beam of a lighthouse.” Grandage sat back with a grin. “This job will be the death of me. Thank goodness we’re getting rid of that little Frenchman in Port Said!”

  “Well,” said Dillman, “at least you’ve had a little action. That’s more than I can say. My work largely involves stealth. I stay in the shadows.”

  “Yet you managed to impress Brian Kilhendry.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes,” said Grandage. “He told me about the visit you made to Mr. Dugdale’s cabin. Brian went there to sneer and came away thinking he’d underestimated you.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “It was only qualified approval, however. He still has reservations about you. But he liked your suggestion about instituting patrols.”

  “Obvious thing to do,” said Dillman. “The thief strikes when he knows that his victims are distracted. Meals are the ideal time for him. When we have so many stewards on board, the sensible thing is to use them as auxiliary guards. Let them keep their eyes peeled during breakfast, luncheon, and dinner.”

  “The order went out to the chief steward,” said Grandage. “He can’t put his staff on sentry duty but he’s promised to make sure that they’re out and about during those critical times. Did you manage to speak to our photographer?”

  “Yes, we had a chat on deck yesterday afternoon.”

  “Surly-looking individual.”

  “Herr Lenz is not a man who seeks popularity,” said Dillman. “Except in one quarter, that is. He and Walter Dugdale vied for the affections of the same lady. Having met Lenz, I can see why Mrs. Cathcart preferred Mr. Dugdale, and it’s reassuring to know that someone on this ship likes Americans.”

  Grandage laughed. “You’ll win the heart of the purser yet,” he said. “Brian is not as inflexible as he might look. But coming back to our jolly German, would you say that he’s a man who’s capable of murder?”

  “More than capable. He had motive and means.”

  “It might take more than jealousy toward Mr. Dugdale over this lady.”

  “I think that Mr. Dugdale may have supplied it. He taunted Herr Lenz with the threat that he’d hurl his camera into the sea. Can you imagine how that must have rankled?” asked Dillman. “That camera is the most precious thing in the world to Lenz.”

  “What about that money he deposited with us?”

  “I still haven’t established where that came from, Mr. Grandage. I don’t suppose you sniffed it before you put it away in the safe did you?”

  “Sniffed it?”

  “Yes,” said Dillman. “If it came from the cabin belonging to the Misses Braddock, it might have smelled of lavender. According to Genevieve Masefield, the two old ladies use it by the bucketful. I doubt if the money would bear the scent, though. That’s a pity,” he decided. “If we could prove that Herr Lenz stole that cash—and that he battered Walter Dugdale to death—then my guess may be right.”

  “ ‘Guess?’ ”

  “That the thief and the killer are one and the same person.”

  “How could that be?” asked Grandage with a look of disbelief. “Nothing was taken from Mr. Dugdale’s cabin. You found his billfold still in his pocket.”

  “True,” said Dillman, “and there was no visible sign that anything was missing. But, then, we don’t know what he might have had that was worth stealing—and worth killing for in order to steal. Do you see what I’m driving at, Mr. Grandage? If we can link the murder with the thefts, then we’ll have taken a big step forward.”

  “You said it was only a guess.”

  “It is at this stage. I may be wrong, of course, but it’s a theory I’d like to pursue.”

  “You’re the detective, Mr. Dillman. What does your partner say?”

  “I haven’t really had the chance to discuss it with her yet. We’ve been too busy gathering intelligence from various sources. But I’ve a feeling that she might agree.”

  Grandage scratched his head. “I’m not sure that I do,” he said. “There’s a big difference between robbing female passengers and committing a murder. What could Mr. Dugdale possibly have that would attract a thief who was prepared to stop at nothing? And how would the thief know it was there in the first place?”

  “Good questions. I’ll try to find the answers.”

  “I’ll be interested to hear them, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll attempt to impress the purser again.”

  “There’s only one way to do that, I fear,” said Grandage, with a chuckle. “You’ll have to become a British citizen.”

  Brian Kilhendry understood the importance of visibility. He knew the sight of his uniform reassured passengers that everything was under control and his confident smile reinforced that message. Accordingly, he liked to stand outside the first-class dining room as the passengers filed in for their evening meal to exchange a few friendly words with them. He had mastered even more of their names by now and that always pleased the diners. It made them feel part of one large and privileged family. The purser waited until everyone was seated at the appropriate table then, when nobody was looking, he slipped quietly away.

  He was doing it again. Nigel Wilmshurst was more careful this time but his wife still noticed. Every so often, he would toss a glance in the direction of a table on the other side of the room. Araminta pretended she had seen nothing. She was among friends and the conversation was lively. Like her husband, she tried to play a full part in it. When she had the opportunity between courses, however, she took a vanity mirror from her purse and held it up so that she could rearrange her hair in the reflection. By angling the mirror in the right direction, she at last discovered who had been causing the distraction.

  Araminta delayed the interrogation until they returned to their cabin. After an excess of champagne, Wilmshurst was in an amorous mood. When he tried to slip his arm around his wife, however, she pushed him away.

  “Who is she, Nigel?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling.”

  “You were staring at her the other night and you did the same again tonight. Now don’t lie to me. I saw you do it time and again.”

  “I was just looking around the room, that’s all,” said Wilmshurst.

  “But your eyes always strayed to the same table—and I know why.”

  He lunged forward. “Araminta—”

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, fending him off. “I mean to have this out with you. I saw her in my mirror, Nigel. I know how beautiful she was. Now, tell me her name.”

  “I don’t know her name.”

  “But you intend to find out. Is that it?”

  “No,” he said vehemently. “You’re my wife, Araminta. We’re on honeymoon. You’re the only woman in the world that I have eyes for at the moment.”

  “Apart from the lady in the blue silk dress. Who was she, Nigel?”

  “Somebody who looked vaguely familiar. Somebody I thought I knew. But I was mistaken,” he lied. “When we walked past her table on the way out, and I got a proper look, I realized that I’d never seen her before.”

  “Tell the truth,” she insisted.

  “That is the truth. I swear it.”

  “When we sat at the captain’s table the other night, you couldn’t stop looking at her. Why didn’t you decide then whether you knew her or not?” She stared into his eyes. “So what is she, Nigel? Someone from your past or someone you’d like to get to know?”

  “Neither, Araminta. This is ridiculous.”

  “I know what I saw in that dining room.”

 
; “And I know what I drank,” he said, trying to end the marital inquisition. “Far too much. I can hardly stay on my feet. Look, why don’t we talk about this in the morning when I can concentrate?”

  She shook him with both hands. “Because I want to talk about it now.”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Oh, yes there is,” she said. “We’ve still got a lot of time on this ship before we reach Port Said. How can I enjoy any of it when I know that my husband’s mind is on someone else?”

  “But it’s not, darling. I’ve devoted every waking hour to you.”

  “Until we had that meal at the captain’s table.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Don’t keep on about it. Are you going to jump down my throat every time I so much as glance at another woman? I can’t walk around wearing a pair of blinkers.”

  “A minute ago, you said that you only had eyes for me.”

  “You’re starting to make me angry,” he warned.

  “We’re married, Nigel. That gives me certain rights.”

  “It doesn’t give you the right to cross-examine me like this, especially when I’ve done nothing wrong. Now, let’s go to bed and try to forget the whole thing.”

  “That would suit you, wouldn’t it?”

  “Araminta—”

  “I want to get to the bottom of this, Nigel.”

  “Then you can do it on your own,” he barked at her, turning his back and starting to take off his things. “The matter’s closed. Do you understand? It’s closed.”

  Araminta Wilmshurst watched him with growing alarm. The days they had spent on the Marmora had been the happiest days of her life but that happiness was suddenly threatened. She was torn between love and suspicion, wanting desperately to be reconciled with him yet fearing she was being cruelly deceived. As he continued to keep his back to her, a dreadful thought took root in her mind. She put a hand on his shoulder to spin him round.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” she said, voice icily calm. “It’s that other woman.”

  Wilmshurst shook his head in denial but his eyes betrayed him yet again.

  She was bitter. “And you told me that you’d run a mile if you saw her!”

  There was a vulnerable side to Frau Zumpe. As she watched the woman in the lounge, Genevieve Masefield was astonished. The termagant who had chastised her that morning was now in a maudlin state, sitting alone in a corner with a glass in her hand, staring unseeing in front of her. Frau Zumpe looked lonely and morose. Genevieve felt sorry for her. Seated with Myra and Lilian Cathcart, she chatted inconsequentially until they decided it was time for bed. Myra was recovering slowly from the loss of Walter Dugdale, and it was largely because of the support and understanding that Lilian was offering. It was almost as if mother and daughter had exchanged their roles.

  As soon as they had gone, Genevieve noticed that Frau Zumpe was trying to get to her feet. She obviously had been drinking heavily, and was unsteady. Genevieve went to her assistance at once.

  “Let me help you,” she said, taking her by the arm.

  “I can manage.” Frau Zumpe almost lost her footing. “Mein Gott!”

  Genevieve held her tight and, in spite of the woman’s protestations, insisted on helping her back to her cabin. Frau Zumpe soon had to admit that she might never have got there alone. She was very grateful. When they reached her cabin, she asked Genevieve to go in with her.

  “I think that you’re too tired for visitors,” said Genevieve.

  “Please come in. I want to say sorry to you.”

  “For what?”

  “I tell you inside.”

  Genevieve helped her to a chair then shut the door behind them. She glanced around the cabin. On the table was a small bottle of gin and an empty glass. Frau Zumpe had been drinking before she even got to the dining room.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” asked Genevieve.

  “Sit down, please. I want to speak.”

  Genevieve took the other chair.

  “I am sorry,” said Frau Zumpe. “This morning, I was too harsh.”

  “It’s understandable. You were upset about the theft.”

  “That was not the only reason, Miss Masefield. I have other worries.”

  “What sort of worries?”

  “Nothing that you could help me with. It’s too late now.”

  Frau Zumpe went off into a reverie that lasted minutes. Genevieve sat there patiently and waited. The other woman suddenly blinked, as if waking up. She subjected Genevieve to a long and searching stare. Genevieve thought that she might have to suffer another bout of vituperation but Frau Zumpe was only trying to decide if she could confide in her.

  “I did not tell you everything,” she said at length.

  “About that night when you talked to Mr. Dugdale?”

  “Yes, Miss Masefield. We keep talking as the others leave us. For a long time, we talk. The lounge was almost empty. We like each other.”

  “There’s no law against that.”

  “Walter—Mr. Dugdale—think that I am friends with Karl-Jurgen Lenz because we are both German. But it is not so. Herr Lenz is not a nice man. We do not live in the same part of our country. He is from Bavaria and I am from Schleswig-Holstein. They are a long way apart. Herr Lenz has no interest in me. He like the English lady.”

  “Myra Cathcart. Yes, I know.”

  “We talk about our lives,” said Frau Zumpe, a wistful expression upon her face. “Mr. Dugdale wonder what happen to my husband. I tell him. It is painful for me but I was able to tell him because he is a kind man.” She swallowed hard. “I marry young, Miss Masefield,” she explained. “We were happy together for six years, then Max, my husband, was killed at sea. He was sailing with a friend when they are caught in bad weather. The boat collapse and they are both drowned. The bodies, they did not find them for days.”

  “How dreadful for you!” said Genevieve.

  “Max was a good sailor. He loved his boat.”

  “It must have been awful when you found out what happened, Frau Zumpe.”

  “It was,” said the other. “For a year, I do nothing but cry. Then I see that my life, it must go on. So I force myself to get out, meet friends. What help me most is to travel. It take my mind off it.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “It is strange. Max was killed at sea yet the place I like best is being on a ship. So I come on this voyage.”

  “I’m glad to know that it helped you in some way,” said Genevieve. “Until your cabin was robbed, that is. That was another blow for you.” Frau Zumpe nodded soulfully. “Go on telling me about Mr. Dugdale.”

  “He listened, he understood. He said I was very brave.”

  “I think that you are, Frau Zumpe.”

  “Not really. On the inside I am not brave at all.”

  “You told me that you talked with him until midnight.”

  “That was a lie,” admitted the other. “We talked for much longer. But we were not in the lounge, Miss Masefield.”

  Genevieve was amazed. “You invited Mr. Dugdale here?”

  “No, we go to his cabin.”

  A faraway look came into her eye. Whatever had happened between her and Walter Dugdale was a cherished memory. Genevieve waited until she was ready to go on.

  “They would not let me see him,” Frau Zumpe complained. “When he was taken ill, they would not let me visit him. That was cruel. The doctor, he say that he is in no condition to receive visitors, but I am no visitor. I am his friend.”

  “I can understand why you were so upset.”

  “They did not even warn me that he was being moved to hospital in Marseilles. Why?” she asked. “Walter would have made them tell me. He would have asked for me.”

  “He was obviously too poorly to do that, Frau Zumpe.”

  “One minute, we are close, and then—he is gone.”

  “I was shocked by that myself,” said Genevieve. “I had the pleasure of sitting at the same table with Mr. Dugdale. He was a ma
n who enjoyed life so much.”

  “There had been tragedies for him as well. He tell me about them. But they do not make him bitter. He carry on with a smile.” Frau Zumpe shook her head. “It make me feel ashamed.”

  “Of what?”

  “Being so weak. Giving up when my husband died.”

  “But you didn’t give up. You went through a period of mourning. That’s only right and proper. It’s only natural.”

  “That’s what Walter told me. He help me so much, Miss Masefield.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Yet now he is gone out of my life.”

  Genevieve said nothing. When speaking about Walter Dugdale, she had found it very uncomfortable to lie to Myra Cathcart, but she suffered even more qualms with Frau Zumpe. The German woman had been drawn to Dugdale in a way that made light of the difference in their ages. Though she was appalled at his violent death, Genevieve saw there was a consolation in his disappearance from the ship. It would save Myra Cathcart from being badly hurt. If she discovered that Dugdale’s friendship with Frau Zumpe had become close, she would be mortified. Genevieve wondered what further revelations there would be from her companion, but Frau Zumpe had said all that she could. Wearied by fatigue, befuddled by drink, and weighed down by unhappy memories, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep in the chair. The conversation was over.

  As the Marmora sailed across the Mediterranean, the weather improved and the amount of daylight slowly lengthened. There was always something new to see. Corsica and Sardinia had been left behind and it was the island of Sicily that brought passengers on board now. Two of them were chatting at the rail on the main deck when Dillman came upon them. Morton Goss was smoking his pipe while Roland Pountney was holding forth about the advantages of seeking investments abroad. They both gave Dillman a cordial welcome.

  “This is far more agreeable than sailing through the Bay of Biscay,” said Pountney. “Have you been to the Mediterranean before, Mr. Dillman?’ ”

  “No,” replied Dillman. “It’s a very pleasant experience.”

  “Mind you, they have their squalls and their gale-force winds here.”