Murder on the Marmora

by Conrad Allen

  Genevieve Masefield was still undecided about whether or not to press charges. Though she had been frightened at the time by the assault, she had recovered quickly and no longer felt as vengeful as she did at first. If she had been dealing with Nigel Wilmshurst in isolation, she would have had no qualms about demanding formal action against him, but there was his wife to consider. Even though Araminta had made some scathing comments about her, Genevieve felt sympathy for the woman. Araminta would have been mortified to hear of her husband’s arrest. Wilmshurst himself would have been thoroughly chastened. When she gave her statement to the purser, therefore, Genevieve said that she needed more time for reflection before she reached a decision. During the course of the morning, she devoted a lot of thought to the problem but no easy solution presented itself.

  Hoping to speak to Frau Zumpe, she was unable to find the woman until luncheon and by then it was too late. Dillman had assigned her another task. Genevieve was to sit beside Roland Pountney throughout the meal and keep him distracted while her partner searched the man’s cabin. Both detectives agreed that Pountney had to be considered a major suspect. When she sat opposite him, Genevieve knew that she might be looking into the eyes of a killer.

  “How nice to see you again, Miss Masefield,” he began. “I had the feeling you were dodging me.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” she asked.

  “Oh, this and that. One senses things.”

  “I’ve no reason to keep out of your way, Mr. Pountney. As you see, here I am.”

  “And very welcome, at that!”

  They shared a table with the Cheritons and the Braddock sisters. Genevieve was happy to be part of a wholly British contingent though she was disconcerted by the hopeful smiles that Elizabeth Braddock kept shooting in her direction. She was desperate to give the two sisters some good news about the theft from their cabin but she was not yet in a position to do so. Genevieve concentrated on her main purpose.

  “How did you get into the business world, Mr. Pountney?” she asked.

  “By accident, I suppose,” he replied. “When I left Oxford, I suddenly found myself without any immediate means of supporting myself. I was sent down, you see,” he confided with a grin. “Expelled from Harrow, sent down from university. Not the most promising start to a career, is it? But we Pountneys are made of stern stuff.”

  “What happened?”

  “An uncle of mine came to the rescue. He had a thriving business, selling antiques in London, and took me under his wing. That was it, really,” he said. “I turned out to have a flair for the work. He taught me about how and when to invest, how to set profit margins, and how to recognize a situation where you can make a real killing. After a couple of years, I felt able to branch out on my own.”

  “Into antiques?”

  “No, I moved into another field. If you can sell one thing, you can sell them all.”

  “You’ve done remarkably well for someone of your age.”

  “I had plenty of incentive,” he said. “My father despaired of me when I was kicked out of university. He’d funded me for so long, I felt that I owed him a reward of some kind so I turned over a new leaf. And here I am,” he announced, spreading his arms. “No blotches on the family escutcheon for a decade. I’m proud of that.”

  “When did you first start traveling abroad?”

  “Ah, that was the real stroke of fortune, Miss Masefield.”

  “Why was that?” asked Genevieve.

  “Because it taught me that I was being too parochial in my outlook.”

  “You’re one of the least parochial people I’ve ever met.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I take that as a compliment. And now, I suppose, you’d like to hear exactly how that stroke of luck came about.”

  “Only if you wish to tell me, Mr. Pountney.”

  He laughed. “I’m afraid that you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

  ______

  Dillman forsook his own meal in order to search the cabin. Worried that Genevieve was uncertain about pressing charges against Nigel Wilmshurst, he tried to put the whole matter out of his mind while he concentrated on the task at hand. Instead of asking the purser for a master key, he had gone straight to the chief steward, who, aware that Dillman was investigating a murder, gave him the key without hesitation. The detective was grateful. Kilhendry would have been far less cooperative and, since the purser was now under suspicion himself, Dillman wanted to keep clear of him.

  He did not waste any time. After making sure that Pountney was in the dining room, he went to the man’s cabin and let himself in with the master key. The place was impeccably tidy. Whenever Dillman touched anything, therefore, he took care to replace it exactly as he had found it. Pountney was an enigma. Though the latter had a plausible explanation for the money he had deposited in the purser’s safe, Dillman was not entirely sure he should believe him. What would not have been handed over to Kilhendry was any of the jewelry that had been stolen, not to mention the Egyptian relics and the silver flute. If Pountney was the thief, the booty would be hidden in the cabin.

  The search was swift and methodical. He went through the closet, the bedside cabinet and the drawers in the dresser. He even lifted up the mattress to see if anything was concealed beneath it. Dillman found nothing incriminating. Pountney’s briefcase also yielded no proof of actual wrongdoing. The documents relating to the New Imperial Hotel appeared to be in order and there was the map of Cairo with the exact location marked on it. Dillman put it all back in the briefcase before replacing it on the spot from where he had taken it. He was coming to accept that his instinct had let him down for once, when he stepped into the bathroom. He opened the cabinet then checked every item arrayed on a shelf above the washbasin. None of it was in any way suspicious.

  As a last resort, Dillman lay flat on the floor and peered under the bathtub. His hopes soared. Something had been wrapped in a piece of waterproof material and stuffed into the far corner. He had to extend his arm fully in order to retrieve it. When he unrolled the package, the first thing he saw was a passport.

  “Now, then,” he said, picking it up, “what do we have here?”

  Genevieve was forced to wait in order to speak to Frau Zumpe. For some time after luncheon was over, Sir Alistair Longton monopolized the German woman, talking to her in the corner of the lounge and showing her some paperwork. As soon as he departed, Genevieve went across to Frau Zumpe. The latter was blunt.

  “You have found my money yet?” she asked.

  “No,” admitted Genevieve, “but we are very close to retrieving it, along with other things that were stolen. All that we need are a few more tiny pieces of evidence. I’m hoping that you can provide one of them.”

  “Me?”

  “I want to ask you something about Mr. Dugdale.”

  “Oh,” said Frau Zumpe, her face softening into a smile. “You were good to me, Miss Masefield. You let me talk about him. Thank you.”

  “I’d like you to talk a little more, please.”

  “Is very painful.”

  “I understand that, Frau Zumpe, but this is very important.”

  The other woman glanced around the lounge. It was too full of people to allow a really private conversation. Frau Zumpe suggested that they go back to her cabin, where there was no danger of being overheard. They set off together.

  “You put me in the difficult position, Miss Masefield,” she said.

  “Did I?”

  “Yes, I talk to Sir Alistair Longton. He tells me that he has invested a lot of money in this new hotel in Cairo. He calls it a golden opportunity. I would like to buy some shares myself,” explained Frau Zumpe, “but how can I when I have no money to pay for them?”

  “Is that what you told Sir Alistair?”

  “No, I remember what you say. I do not mention the theft.”

  “Thank you, Frau Zumpe. I appreciate that.”

  “But I will not go on lying about it forever.”

  �
��I don’t think that you’ll need to,” said Genevieve.

  They reached the cabin and Frau Zumpe let her in. The last time Genevieve had been there, the other woman had been in a sentimental and confiding mood. She might not be quite so forthcoming now. Genevieve resolved to proceed with care.

  “Do you still miss him?” she said.

  “Yes, I do. I think of Walter every day.”

  “At least you had some time together, Frau Zumpe.”

  “It was too short,” the other said resentfully. “He was snatched away from me.”

  “I know.”

  “We understand each other, you see. Lots of men, they have no interest in a woman like me, but he was different. Walter was my friend. I never meet him before, yet I feel I know him a long time.”

  “That was the effect he had on me as well,” said Genevieve.

  “So what you wish to ask about him?”

  “Did he discuss his business with you at all?”

  “Not really,” said Frau Zumpe. “He wanted to talk about me.”

  “Yes, but earlier that night, Mr. Pountney was talking to both of you about his venture in Egypt. Mr. Dugdale was a businessman. He must have offered an opinion on the scheme,” said Genevieve. “Did he encourage you to invest?”

  “He said that I should find out a lot more details first.”

  “Did he have any reservations?”

  “Walter tell me that he has doubts about Mr. Pountney, that is all. When we were alone, we did not give him or his hotel a second thought. We had too much to talk about.”

  “In his cabin?”

  “Yes, Miss Masefield.”

  “Did you notice anything when you were there?”

  Frau Zumpe was baffled. “What you mean?”

  “Was there anything unusual in the cabin?” asked Genevieve. “Anything that was very special and worth a lot of money? Think hard, please. I need to know.”

  “I was not there to search his cabin.”

  “I understand that.”

  “We just wanted to be alone,” said Frau Zumpe. “Walter is very dear to me. He make me feel like a woman for the first time in years. Do not laugh at me for that.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “He liked me. He trusted me.”

  “I can see that, Frau Zumpe.”

  “Walter proved it,” the other said proudly. “I am the only person on the ship who knows about it. He did not show it to anyone else but me.”

  “What did he show you?”

  “His album, Miss Masefield. He collected stamps. He tells me that he has one of the finest collections in the world. That was what I see,” she said. “His stamp album.”

  Though they took care to leave the lounge separately, Sir Alistair Longton and Roland Pountney met up on the staircase to the main deck. Longton was cheerfully optimistic.

  “Brought her to water,” he said. “All she has to do now is drink.”

  “Don’t waste too much time on Frau Zumpe. I think she has cold feet.”

  “Have to warm them up for her, Roland.”

  “What about Mr. Goss?”

  “Oh, I think we can forget about him. Not interested in money.”

  “Silly man!” said Pountney, as they reached the deck and walked along the passageway. “By the way, had George Dillman been in touch with you?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “He could be a possible. I told him to sound you out.”

  Longton smiled. “He’s an American. They all have money.”

  “Mr. Dillman may be good for a couple of hundred, at least.” They stopped outside a door. “I could see that he was interested so I gave him the full treatment.”

  “Even I would fall for that, Roland.” Longton chuckled merrily as he inserted his key into the lock. “Just imagine the look on their faces when they find out the truth!”

  He opened the door and they stepped into the cabin. Both of them came to a halt when they saw that someone was already there, lounging nonchalantly in a chair.

  “Come on in, gentlemen,” said Dillman. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Warmer latitudes not only brought passengers out on deck for longer periods, it enticed them to shed some of the winter garments with which they had set out. Heavy overcoats, fur hats, fur muffs, thick scarves, and woolen gloves gave way to lighter wear. With the coast of North Africa now visible from the starboard side of the Marmora, people had the idea that they were slowly closing in on their destination. Most of them had never been to this part of the Mediterranean before, so it had an exotic appeal for them. The royal party was also much more in evidence, moving freely around the deck and no longer the object of intense scrutiny by others. With a hot sun hanging in a cloudless sky, few passengers were troubled by nostalgia for the cold, damp, windswept British Isles that they had abandoned to spend Christmas in milder climes.

  Two of the passengers were unable to share in the pleasure of watching the distant coastline and feeling some warmth on their faces at last. They were seated in the deputy purser’s office with Dillman standing behind them. Unlike most apprehended criminals, Roland Pountney and Sir Alistair Longton did not seem at all disturbed. They were as relaxed and affable as if they were resting in the lounge. Martin Grandage could not understand their attitude.

  “Aren’t you ashamed of what you did?” he said.

  “Not in the least,” Pountney replied airily. “We have to make a living.”

  “But not by preying on innocent people. You sold shares in a company that doesn’t even exist. People trusted you.”

  “That was the beauty of it, Mr. Grandage. I knew that they’d need more than my word to convince them so I referred them to someone who had complete faith in the scheme. And so he should,” he said, smiling at his companion, “because he helped to dream it up.”

  “Confidence tricksters often work in pairs,” noted Dillman.

  “Yes,” said Grandage, looking at Sir Alistair, “but it’s rare to find that one of them is a member of the British peerage.”

  “He’s not. This is what put me on to him.” Dillman handed over a passport. “As you’ll see, Sir Alistair Longton’s real name is Alistair Pountney. He’s been traveling on a false passport so that’s another offense to take into account. In other words, Mr. Grandage, you have a father and son sitting in front of you.”

  Pountney grinned. “A family enterprise,” he explained.

  “Not any longer,” said Grandage.

  “We had a good run. It was bound to end sooner or later.”

  “Yes,” added his father. “In this business, you must always be prepared for the tap on the shoulder. I’m delighted that it was administered by Mr. Dillman. He’s a man with style. The last time we were caught it was by some heavy-handed London constables. It was a relief to be arrested by a gentleman.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t foolish enough to resist arrest,” said Dillman.

  “What would have been the point?” asked Pountney. “There was nowhere for Father and me to hide. Once you’d found our little cache, we were doomed.”

  Dillman’s search of his cabin had been a revelation. Apart from the passport, which had disclosed the older man’s true identity, Dillman had found documents relating to another bogus scheme, and clear evidence of complicity between the two men. Startled when they found him waiting for them, they had chortled happily when told that their run was over. The hundreds of pounds that had been charmed out of various billfolds could be returned to their rightful owners, who would realize that the paperwork issued by Pountney was utterly worthless. Dillman had exposed a clever fraud.

  “I had my doubts about Mr. Pountney from the start,” Dillman admitted, “but the name of his accomplice came as a surprise. Sir Alistair—Mr. Pountney Senior—had persuaded me that he really did see military service in India.”

  “And so I did,” the old man said proudly. “I spent three years on the North-West Frontier with the rank of m
ajor. What I omitted to tell you, however, is that I was cashiered.” He chuckled to himself. “They finally discovered why the funds from the officers’ mess were being drained. Arrest by the army. Not a pleasant experience. You were much more courteous, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Thank you,” said the detective.

  “We applaud you,” said Pountney. “You beat us at our own game. Neither of us suspected that the debonair George Dillman was actually a detective. Well done!” It was a sincere compliment. “Now you can see why I had to keep up the tradition,” he continued. “Father was booted out of the army for stealing. I was expelled from Harrow for selling things that did not actually belong to me, then sent down from Oxford over a betting coup that I devised during Eights Week.” He laughed at the memory. “The master of my college was rather upset when he realized that I’d tricked ten guineas out of him.”

  “You won’t be tricking money out of anyone else for a long time,” warned Grandage, “and I’m sorry that you treat the whole thing as a huge joke.”

  “We enjoy our work, old chap.”

  “Well, I enjoy mine as well. Especially when I can hand over two criminals to the master-at-arms.” Grandage opened the door and spoke to the burly sailor outside. “Take these gentlemen to the cells, please, Mr. Dyer,” he said. “They are expected.”

  Roland Pountney and his father rose from their seats and insisted on shaking Dillman’s hand before they left. Imprisonment seemed to hold no fears for them. They went off cheerfully. The deputy purser closed the door behind them.

  “What did you make of that, Mr. Dillman?”

  “I’ve never met anyone before who actually enjoyed being arrested.”

  “What was the idea?” asked Grandage. “Did they intend to pay for their holiday in Egypt by cheating our passengers out of a large amount of money?”

  “No,” said Dillman, handing him the package he had found under the bathtub, “when you have time to sift through this, you’ll find that they had return tickets to England on another P and O ship. On the way back, they’d intended to sell shares in a nonexistent British company.”