by Conrad Allen
It was odd. Crowds of friends and well-wishers lined the quayside, but Genevieve felt no sense of occasion. She had been spoiled. Having sailed on the maiden voyages of both the Lusitania and the Mauretania, she knew what it was like to leave port in a blaze of glory. As she reflected on those early experiences, she could still hear the celebratory roar of the thousands who had gathered in Liverpool to send them off, and the symphony of sirens from the flotilla of vessels on the River Mersey. Fireworks had lit the night sky. History was in the making. Nothing like that was happening now. Genevieve was not traveling on one of the acknowledged greyhounds of the seas. She was on a routine voyage of a ship whose average speed was a modest fourteen knots. Dillman had warned her that there might well be danger aboard. She gave an involuntary shiver. Something told her that the trip would not be as enjoyable as she had first imagined. Genevieve was on a vessel full of total strangers, making a journey into the unknown.
The sound of commotion brought her out of her reverie. She looked down to see a violent altercation taking place at the foot of the gangway. Two members of the crew and a porter seemed to be involved, but the central figure in the argument was a tall man in a black suit and hat. His voice rose effortlessly above the hubbub. Gesticulating angrily, he finally cowed the others into submission. It was only when the man removed his hat to look up at the ship that Genevieve caught sight of his telltale white collar. The truculent passenger with the booming voice was a clergyman.
Dillman wasted no time in unpacking his luggage. No sooner had he been shown to his cabin on the upper deck than he set off on a preliminary reconnaissance of the ship. The Minnesota had a luxury and elegance that were necessary to attract passengers on lengthy voyages to the Orient. Considerable money had evidently been spent on the fixtures and fittings. He was particularly impressed by the covered promenade on the upper deck, allowing him to circle the superstructure in its entirety. Windows existed on all three sides, an unusual feature in a liner of that type. A large saloon was decorated with style and furnished with care. Aft of the saloon was a grand staircase with paneled walls. Ascending the steps until he reached the promenade deck, Dillman came out into a corridor that led to the library. Chords on a piano reached his ears and, through an open door, he saw that someone was playing the instrument in what was called the Ladies’ Boudoir. He smiled when he read the name. The place was out of bounds to him, but Genevieve Masefield could enter at will and might gather some useful gossip in the female sanctuary. He wondered if she could also play the piano.
After a brief visit to the boat deck and the bridge deck, he worked his way back down through the vessel until he reached the orlop deck. Given over to freight and food stores, it was inaccessible to unauthorized personnel. Dillman resolved to explore the area at the earliest opportunity. In order to do his job properly, he was determined to see every inch of the Minnesota. As he made his way back up the stairs, there was a long blast on the siren to signal departure. Lines were cast off, cheers went up from the onlookers, then tugs pulled her clear of land and out into Puget Sound. Dillman was too seasoned a sailor to feel the need to be on deck at the critical moment. He decided to return to his cabin to unpack. When he reached the upper deck, however, he was met by a strange sight. Two stewards were in animated discussion farther down the passageway. One of them, with a cabin trunk on a trolley, seemed to be reprimanding the other, keeping his voice low and relying on graphic gestures to reinforce his argument. The second steward, a Mexican, eventually conceded defeat and went into the cabin. Moments later, two passengers came out through the door. The first was an elderly man of middle height with gray hair slicked back neatly over his head. His companion was a tall, stringy clergyman in his forties with rimless eyeglasses balanced on a hooked nose. Their conversation was altogether more civilized. When the older man offered an apology, the clergyman waved it away and beamed tolerantly. The Mexican steward emerged from the cabin with various items of baggage. After shooting him a look of disgust, the other steward wheeled the trunk into the room, followed by the clergyman.
The elderly passenger strode toward Dillman with a quiet smile.
“Age before religion,” he said. “I guess I’m in luck.”
“What was the problem?” asked Dillman.
“Oh, some confusion over the cabins. I asked specifically for one with a private bath, but the steward put me in there by mistake.” He glanced over his shoulder. “His English is a little shaky. He didn’t understand when I complained.”
“His colleague was giving him quite a roasting.”
“It’s all sorted out now, thanks to Father Slattery.”
“I’m surprised to see a priest in first class,” observed Dillman. “The Church is always preaching poverty. How can our friend afford a cabin on this deck?”
“He can’t,” explained the other. “But he obviously had a loyal congregation. Father Slattery is a Catholic priest, off to do missionary work in China. Anticipating the hardship he might face when he gets there, his congregation decided that he would at least travel in comfort. They clubbed together and bought him a first-class ticket.”
“That was very kind of them.”
“Yes, they must be sorry to lose him.” He used a key to unlock a door, then stood back so that the Mexican steward could take his luggage in. “Unfortunately, my Spanish is no better than his English. Do you think I should give him a tip?”
“If it was an honest mistake.”
“It was,” said the other, taking a dollar from his pocket. “Actually, I think it was the chief steward’s fault for assigning me to the wrong cabin in the first place.” When the steward came out, he slipped the money into his palm and sent him off. He extended a friendly hand toward Dillman. “I’m Rutherford Blaine, by the way. It looks as if we’re going to be neighbors.”
“George Dillman,” said the other, noting the firmness of his handshake.
“How far are you going, Mr. Dillman?”
“All the way. It’s a round trip.”
“I wish I had your stamina.”
“What about you?”
“Tokyo,” said Blaine. “When I’m done there, I head straight back home on another vessel. Marie doesn’t like me to stay away for too long.”
“Marie?”
“My wife.”
“She’s not traveling with you?”
“Not on this trip.”
Dillman was about to ask his new neighbor if he had been to Japan before when the clergyman stepped out of his cabin. A disgruntled steward came after him and stalked off down the passageway. Blaine was amused.
“I think the congregation forgot to provide their priest with a tip.”
Slattery walked toward them. “I feel as if I’m on the brink of a great adventure,” he declared. “Don’t you, Mr. Blaine? It’s exhilarating.” He thrust a bony hand at Dillman. “Liam Slattery.”
“This is Mr. Dillman,” said Blaine.
“Welcome aboard, Father,” said Dillman as they shook hands. “I understand that you’re a missionary.”
“Wherever God calls me, I must go.”
“He obviously wants you to travel in style.”
“I always find luxury a little embarrassing.”
“It never embarrasses me,” said Blaine. “I revel in it.”
“You have a hedonistic streak, sir,” chided Slattery.
“No, Father. I have a touch of arthritis, that’s all. It appreciates a soft chair and a comfortable bed. Luxury somehow keeps the twinges under control.”
“Prayer might do the same for you, Mr. Blaine.”
“I’ve never found that.”
“Are you a practicing Christian?”
“Of course, Father.”
“Roman Catholic, I hope?”
“Baptist.”
Slattery was appalled. “What a pity!”
“Each man follows God in his own way,” said Blaine, pushing open the door of his cabin. “Do excuse me, gentlemen. I have to unpack my ca
ses.”
Father Slattery watched him go, then switched his attention to Dillman. Eyes glinting under bushy eyebrows, he appraised him shrewdly. There was a fearlessness in his gaze that the detective had to admire.
“You’re a brave man, Father Slattery,” he commented.
“Am I?”
“Catholic missionaries have suffered badly in China. I remember reading the reports of the Boxer Rebellion. Some terrible outrages were inflicted on your colleagues.”
“We’re used to persecution, Mr. Dillman.”
“Do you have no qualms?”
“None whatsoever,” said Slattery boldly. “The situation in China has improved markedly in the past couple of years. Even if it hadn’t, I’d still answer the call.”
“Have you been abroad before?”
“No, Mr. Dillman. My life so far has been spent in America. In San Francisco, for the most part. It’s a beautiful city with a rich Catholic heritage.”
“So I understand.”
“I leave with great regret, but my future is elsewhere.”
“Good luck with your missionary work,” said Dillman, putting his key into the lock of his cabin. “I wish you every success in China.”
“Oh, I’m not waiting until I get there, Mr. Dillman.”
“What do you mean?”
“My work starts right here.”
Dillman was surprised. “Onboard the Minnesota?”
“Of course,” said Slattery with a broad grin. “There are over fifteen hundred passengers on this ship, including a large number of Chinese. Why wait for weeks until I reach China when I can begin the search for converts here?”
“No reason at all, I suppose.”
“My first move will be to take services aboard.”
“But the ship already has a chaplain.”
Slattery was disdainful. “An Anglican,” he said with unconcealed disapproval. “I see to the needs of those who follow the true religion. Tell me, Mr. Dillman,” he went on, moving in closer. “Are you, by any chance, a Catholic?”
“No, Father.”
“May I ask why not?”
“I don’t have time to explain at the moment.”
“Later, then,” said Slattery firmly. “We’ll discuss the matter at length.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Oh, yes there is. Your spiritual salvation.”
“That’s been taken care of, Father Slattery.”
“I doubt that, my friend. We need a proper debate.”
“But it’s quite unnecessary.”
“I insist, Mr. Dillman,” said the priest, squeezing his arm. “I insist.”
Turning on his heel, Slattery went back to his cabin and disappeared inside. Dillman was slightly dazed, wondering why an invitation to a theological debate sounded so much like a threat.
THREE
It’s great to see you again, George,” he said, pumping Dillman’s arm. “I wasn’t sure that you could make it in time. It’s a heck of a train ride from New York.”
“I survived, Mike.”
“What about your partner?”
“Genevieve is as tough as they come,” said Dillman with an affectionate smile. “Don’t worry about her. She took the journey in her stride without complaint.”
“I look forward to meeting the lady.”
Mike Roebuck was the purser on the Minnesota. Still in his thirties, he was a cheerful man of medium build with rugged features and a roguish grin. He and Dillman were old friends who had not seen each other for a number of years. It was a happy reunion. After exchanging banter for a few minutes, Roebuck spread his arms.
“What’s the verdict, George?” he asked.
“That purser’s uniform lends you real distinction.”
“I wasn’t talking about myself, you idiot. What do you think of the Minnesota?”
“I like what I’ve seen of her, Mike.”
“She’s a tidy ship,” said Roebuck proudly. “Best I’ve ever sailed on.”
“I’ll enjoy finding my way around.”
“Let me give you some help.”
The two men were in the purser’s office, a neat, rectangular cabin with a large desk at its center. Charts and framed photographs covered the walls. A faint whiff of polish hung in the air. Roebuck indicated the drawing that was laid out on the desk. It was a detailed plan of the vessel.
“This is just what I need,” said Dillman, poring over it with interest.
“There’s another one underneath, giving you a cross-section.”
“Excellent. Can I borrow these, Mike?”
“Be my guest.”
“What’s this?” asked Dillman in surprise, spotting a name on the drawing. “Am I seeing things or does it actually say Opium Den?”
Roebuck grinned. “We don’t call it that, George, but that’s what it amounts to. Let’s face it. You sail to and from China, you’re going to carry a lot of Chinese passengers. The guy who designed the ship reckoned that they ought to have a space set aside for them.” He jabbed a stubby finger at the drawing. “There it is.”
“I’ll enjoy studying this,” said Dillman, straightening up.
“What else do you need?”
“A look at the manifest.”
“I had a rough copy made for you,” said Roebuck, opening a drawer to extract a small sheaf of papers. “As you’ll see, we’ve got a mixed cargo. There’s a full passenger list as well and various other bits of information. Here you are, George,” he said, handing the papers to Dillman. “You’ll find everything here except the shoe size of the captain. Oh, by the way, he wants to meet you.”
“What sort of man is Captain Piercey?”
“A veteran sailor. Runs a tight ship. I think he’s a first-rate skipper.”
“Does he mind having us onboard?”
“Heck, no!” exclaimed Roebuck, clapping him good-humoredly on the shoulder. “Captain Piercey is delighted to see you. So am I, George. And not simply because we go back a long way together.”
“How did you get on to me in the first place?”
“Your reputation went before you.”
Dillman was astonished. “All the way to Seattle?”
“Word travels,” said Roebuck. “One of our officers served on the Mauretania for a while. We were talking about security with him when your name suddenly popped up. Tom Colmore gave us glowing reports of what you did during the maiden voyage.”
“I had a lot of help,” said Dillman modestly.
“From what I hear, you and your partner saved the day. And it wasn’t an isolated case. According to Tom, you’re their number-one man. You’ve had a string of successes on Cunard ships. That’s why we were so keen to poach you.”
“Borrow us, Mike,” corrected Dillman. “We’re only on loan. When this voyage is over, we go back to the transatlantic service.”
“What if you fall in love with the magic of the Orient?”
“I never allow distractions.”
Roebuck laughed. “You always were a single-minded son of a gun.” His face slowly hardened. “Okay,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk, “let’s get down to serious business. We’ve got problems, George. We have strong reason to believe that somebody is smuggling right under our noses. We can smell the stink, but we can’t quite work out where it comes from.”
“What alerted you?”
“A name that kept appearing on our passenger list. Mr. Rance Gilpatrick. He’s a real menace. The cops have a file inches thick on him but he’s far too clever to be caught. His sidekicks always take the rap.”
“Is he aboard now?”
“Oh, yes. Gilpatrick has one of the premier suites on the boat deck.”
“Does he travel alone?”
“No, George,” said Roebuck with a roll of his eyes. “He always brings his wife. Except that the lady who’s sharing his cabin today is not the same one we had a few months ago. The time before that, there was a different one again. He seems to have an endles
s supply of Mrs. Gilpatricks. The guy must breed them.”
“Maybe he’s a bigamist.”
“I don’t think any of these unions have been blessed in the sight of the Lord.”
“Like that, is it?”
“Judge for yourself, George. The last ‘wife’ was thirty years younger than him.”
“No law against that.”
“But there is a law against falsifying passports.”
“So why hasn’t he been picked up?”
“His documents always seem genuine,” admitted Roebuck. “He gets through customs without a hitch and we never challenge him. We prefer to have Rance Gilpatrick where we can keep an eye on him.”
“What do you think he’s smuggling?” asked Dillman. “Narcotics?”
“Possibly, but that’s not his main interest. We think he’s into another highly lucrative market—silk. Last time we docked in Yokohama,” he explained, “we had Gilpatrick trailed by a detective. He followed him to a dealer who specializes in silk. There was only one drawback, George.”
“Drawback?”
“Before he returned to the ship, our man was beaten up in an alleyway by a couple of Japanese thugs. He was half-dead by the time they found him.”
“I get the message, Mike.”
“Pass it on to your partner. Things may get rough. Needless to say,” Roebuck went on, “we couldn’t link the assault to Gilpatrick in any way. And since the current wife rejoined the ship with a couple of silk kimonos, he appeared to have made a legitimate purchase from the dealer.”
“In other words,” concluded Dillman, “he knows that you’re on to him.”
“He revels in the fact, George. That’s what makes it so galling. Gilpatrick is taunting us. It’s simply a game to him, and he always seems to win.”
Dillman pondered. “I’ll change the rules slightly,” he said at length, flicking through the sheaf of papers. “But there’s something you forgot to give me, Mike. I need a list of crew members.”