Murder on the Minnesota

by Conrad Allen

  “There’s over two hundred and fifty of them.”

  “Give me the name of everyone aboard—including the ship’s mascot.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  “One more thing,” said Dillman. “Who’s the assistant purser?”

  “Pete Carroll.”

  “How tall is he?”

  Roebuck was baffled. “About your height, I guess. Similar build.”

  “Good. Does he have a spare uniform?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I may need to borrow it,” said Dillman.

  On the first evening at sea, dinner was a relatively informal affair. First-class passengers converged on the dining saloon on the upper deck. Lined with mahogany and lit by an array of glittering chandeliers, it had a grandeur worthy of a luxury hotel. Genevieve Masefield was glad that she had made the acquaintance of the Langmeads. They not only invited her to join their table, they introduced her to five other passengers they had managed to befriend since coming aboard. It soon became clear that Horace and Etta Langmead were compulsively gregarious. They collected people.

  One of them was a red-faced old man with a walrus mustache that concealed his upper lip and a bald head that positively gleamed. Joseph McDade had strong opinions.

  “Teddy Roosevelt is a disaster!” he declared, smacking the table for emphasis. “We don’t want that damned cowboy as our president.”

  “The American electors disagree with you, Mr. McDade,” said Horace Langmead.

  “Only because he pulled the wool over their eyes.”

  “I think Mr. Roosevelt has his virtues.”

  “Well, they’re outweighed by his vices, Mr. Langmead. And, boy, does he have enough of those!” He turned to Genevieve, seated beside him. “What do you think, Miss Masefield? How do you rate our so-called president?”

  “I can’t make a fair judgment, Mr. McDade,” she replied tactfully. “I know too little about him.”

  “We have the opposite problem. We know too much about the guy.”

  “Joe, dear,” said the pale Blanche McDade, sitting meekly on the other side of her husband. “Maybe this is not the best time to talk politics.”

  McDade ignored her. “Have you heard about his latest act of madness?”

  “No,” said Genevieve.

  “He’s sent our entire fleet—sixteen battleships in all—on a trip around the world. It’s lunatic!” insisted McDade. “The chairman of the senate committee on naval affairs condemned the notion. His colleagues disliked it. Every sane mind in Congress was against it. But does that stop Teddy Roosevelt? Oh no! He trampled over the opposition as if he were leading his Rough Riders in a cavalry charge in Cuba. It was shameful.”

  “President Roosevelt is his own man,” said Langmead reasonably. “You have to give him that, Mr. McDade. Nobody tells him what to do.”

  “Well, I wish that someone would,” retorted the other. “It’s all very well adopting a big-stick policy, sending the U.S. fleet on a journey of almost fifty thousand miles so that we can impress everyone with our naval power. But what happens while they’re away?” he demanded, plucking at his mustache. “We could be invaded by Japan or Russia or, worse still, by China. Has our imbecile president never heard of the Yellow Peril?”

  “This conversation belongs in the smoking room,” suggested Henrik Olsen with a diplomatic smile. “We don’t want to bore the ladies, Mr. McDade.”

  McDade bristled. “I wasn’t boring anyone.”

  The waiter arrived to pour wine into their glasses and provide a welcome pause. Genevieve looked around the table. With the exception of Joseph McDade, she had a set of amenable companions. The Langmeads were turning out to be a delightful couple, generous and extroverted, and Blanche McDade, albeit subdued by her forthright husband, exuded a quiet intelligence. Genevieve hoped to talk to her on her own at some stage. The other woman at the table, Fay Brinkley, was even more interesting. She was an attractive woman in her thirties with a poise that indicated a high social position. Traveling alone from Washington, D.C., Fay Brinkley was on her way to Shanghai to visit a brother in the colonial service. Seated next to her was the diminutive figure of Henrik Olsen, a white-haired Norwegian banker who was celebrating his retirement by making extended visits to America, Japan, and China. Olsen was there to enjoy himself and did not want his evening marred by a tirade from McDade against the incumbent president.

  Genevieve found the eighth person at the table the most difficult to assess. David Seymour-Jones was a tall, rather gangly man in his early forties with a full beard and a shock of red hair. Though his jacket was expensive, it was too large and badly creased, giving him a slovenly air. Seymour-Jones was an enigma. His face was impassive and his eyes gave nothing away. Genevieve could not make out if he was shy or simply cowed by the bluster of Joseph McDade. As conversation broke out again around the table, she turned to the silent Englishman.

  “I understand that you’re an artist,” she began.

  “Of sorts, Miss Masefield.”

  “What do you paint?”

  “Anything and everything,” he said softly. “I have a particular passion for the fauna and flora of Japan. But don’t confuse me with a real artist,” he went on with a self-deprecating smile. “You won’t ever find my work hanging in the National Gallery or the Tate. All that I do is to record what I see. I keep a sort of pictorial diary.”

  “Purely for private use?”

  He shook his head sadly. “Even we bohemians have to eat occasionally, Miss Masefield. My earlier work in Japan was published last year and they want to bring out a second book in due course.”

  “That’s wonderful!” she said with sincere approval.

  “It does enable me to soldier on. Along with my other little enterprise.”

  “You have another iron in the fire?”

  “Of necessity,” he explained. “I collect curios and artefacts to sell to museums back in England. The problem is that I hate parting with some of them. Have you ever felt the sheer joy of possessing something beautiful?”

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Seymour-Jones.”

  “Well, I have. It gives me the most indescribable pleasure. I’ve hung on to certain items until the very last moment.” He looked at her quizzically. “What do you know of Japan, Miss Masefield?”

  “Precious little,” she admitted. “Though I did see The Mikado at the Savoy.”

  He managed a first grin. “That’s a travesty of the real thing, I’m afraid. Gilbert and Sullivan have no understanding at all of Japanese culture. Besides, wherever they’re set, their operas are essentially about England.”

  “I’d have to agree with you there.”

  “What’s your interest in Japan?”

  “Oh, I’m a tourist, Mr. Seymour-Jones. A wide-eyed traveler.”

  “I knew that you two would get along,” said Etta Langmead, easing herself into the conversation. “Have you discovered any mutual acquaintances back in England?”

  “Not yet,” replied Seymour-Jones.

  “You will, I’m sure. Where are you from, Miss Masefield?”

  “London,” said Genevieve.

  “And what about our artist?”

  “I was born in Cambridge, Mrs. Langmead,” said Seymour-Jones, reaching for his wineglass. “But I’ve spent a lot of my life abroad.”

  “Seeking inspiration, I daresay.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re a restless spirit.”

  “I suppose that I am, Mrs. Langmead.”

  “What’s your favorite country?”

  “The one that I’m in at any given moment.” He sipped his wine and turned away to escape her amiable interrogation.

  It was a delicious meal. The more time passed, the more pleasure Genevieve took from her companions. After his earlier outburst, Joseph McDade was more restrained, saving his energies for the rich food and fine wine that were set in front of him. When he did contribute, he entertained the whole table with anecdotes abo
ut the problems of running a copper mine. Blanche McDade came out of her shell to toss in a supportive comment from time to time, and Fay Brinkley turned out to have an uncle who was involved with the copper industry in Arizona. Connections were gradually made between all eight of them. Even Henrik Olsen, the natural outsider, found points of contact with the others. By the end of the meal, they were confirmed friends. Only David Seymour-Jones held aloof from the pervading togetherness. While the other men adjourned to the smoking room for a cigar, he mumbled an excuse and went off to his cabin. Blanche McDade also felt the need of an early night. When she withdrew from the table, the other three women were left alone.

  As the self-appointed hostess, Etta Langmead thought an apology was in order.

  “I’m sorry about that, Miss Masefield,” she said. “I hoped that you might be able to bring him out a little. Mr. Seymour-Jones seems so detached.”

  “English reserve, Mrs. Langmead.”

  “You don’t suffer from it.”

  “Is that a compliment or a criticism?”

  Etta giggled. “Oh, a compliment. That’s why I put you next to him.”

  “He was pleasant enough company.”

  “But he hardly said anything.”

  “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying himself,” remarked Fay Brinkley rising from her seat. “Mr. Seymour-Jones may have been on the quiet side but I fancy that there was a lot going on beneath the surface.”

  “That was my impression,” said Genevieve, getting up.

  “Oh, well,” decided Etta, joining them as they headed for the exit. “Perhaps he’ll improve on acquaintance. We met him on deck when we were about to sail. He was doing the most brilliant sketch of the harbor. I saw it over his shoulder. I just had to tell him how wonderful it was. He seemed so lonely and neglected. That’s why I invited him to join us. Artists are usually such intriguing people. Oh!” she exclaimed, coming to a halt as she remembered something. “Silly me! I’ve left my purse at the table. Do go on, ladies. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  While Etta Langmead scurried back into the dining room, Genevieve fell in beside Fay Brinkley. She was glad of a moment alone with the older woman.

  “I do admire your self-control,” she told her.

  “Self-control?”

  “I could see how much you disagreed with Mr. McDade when he was making those disparaging comments about President Roosevelt. But you never once lost your composure and started an argument.”

  “What was the point?” said Fay. “Prejudice of that kind is impervious to reason.”

  “Mr. McDade does tend to rant.”

  “His poor wife was squirming with embarrassment.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Yet she’s very loyal,” noted Fay. “Blanche McDade must have heard those stories about the copper mine a hundred times, yet she still pretended to be interested.”

  “What did you make of the others?”

  “Mr. Olsen was sweet, and the Langmeads are a charming couple. They work as a team. I liked that about them.” She lowered her voice. “Though I do think that Mrs. Langmead is wrong about our artist. He wasn’t as detached from it all as he looked.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was sitting opposite him. I had a perfect view of Mr. Seymour-Jones.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Only this,” confided Fay. “There was a more important item on his agenda than good food and conversation. I could see it clearly in his manner, and in the way he kept shooting those sly glances.”

  “I saw no sly glances.”

  “You weren’t supposed to, Miss Masefield. They were aimed at you.”

  Genevieve was startled. “At me?”

  “Of course. Who else? In my opinion, David Seymour-Jones doesn’t have an ounce of English reserve. The reason he was so silent is that he was considering what to do about it.”

  “About what?”

  “You, Miss Masefield. He’s smitten.” She arched an eyebrow. “Surely, you realized that? You’ve made a conquest.”

  ______

  George Porter Dillman dined at a table for four that was set in a quiet corner. He was grateful to be well clear of Father Slattery, who was dominating his dinner companions on the other side of the room as if occupying a pulpit. Even from that distance, he could hear the priest’s voice in hortatory vein. Dillman preferred the company of Rutherford Blaine, a relaxed, urbane man with a dry sense of humor. Also at the table were the Changs, a Chinese-American couple who were returning to their native country for a vacation. Small, neat, and unfailingly polite, they wore Western dress and spoke faultless English. Li Chang was very proud to be an American citizen, but he had risen from humble origins.

  “Do you know what my father did?” he asked.

  “No,” said Blaine pleasantly, “though I guess he was an immigrant.”

  “He was, sir. Over forty years ago now.”

  “What did your father do, Mr. Chang?”

  “He worked on the Central Pacific Railroad.” Chang looked from one man to the other. “Have you heard about how it was built?”

  “With great difficulty, I should imagine,” said Dillman.

  “That’s an understatement,” added Blaine smoothly. “The Central Pacific was engaged in a fierce battle with the Union Pacific. They were both determined to be the first to offer a transcontinental service. Correct, Mr. Chang?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Chang. “But it wasn’t a fair fight. The Union Pacific went over land that was largely flat and had a supply chain back to the east. My father’s company, the Central Pacific, was coming from the west, so it had to bring most of its materials and its locomotives around Cape Horn. Have you any idea how many miles that is?”

  “Twelve thousand,” answered Dillman promptly.

  Chang was surprised. “You’ve sailed around the Horn, sir?”

  “No, but I’ve met many people who have. Go on with your tale, Mr. Chang.”

  “The Eastern gangs were mostly Irish and defeated Southerners,” said the other, “but the Western crews came largely from China. There was an old joke that the Union Pacific was built on whiskey, while the Central Pacific was sustained by tea.” He shook with mirth and they smiled obligingly. Chang’s face darkened. “Whiskey and tea are different,” he continued sadly. “When the two crews finally passed each other, a war broke out. They fought with fists, pick handles, stones, even gunpowder. My father lost an eye in one battle.” His wife put a comforting hand on his arm. “That’s why I worked so hard to improve myself, you see. My father was only a coolie on the railroad, but I studied to become an engineer. I help to build railways on a drawing board.”

  “What with?” asked Dillman gently. “Whiskey or tea?”

  Chang laughed again and his wife grinned beside him. They were an amiable pair, and Dillman enjoyed talking to them. Blaine was more interested to hear about China, plying them with questions and asking them to speculate on the future of their homeland. The Changs had divided loyalties. Born in the East, they had both been brought up in America and saw that as their true home. Though he spoke lovingly about Peking, Li Chang readily admitted that he would not have prospered quite so well there.

  “Are you on vacation as well, Mr. Dillman?” said Chang.

  “Yes,” replied Dillman. “I’m fulfilling a lifetime’s dream.”

  “And you, Mr. Blaine?”

  “I’m going to Tokyo on business,” said the other. “I buy and sell.”

  “What will you buy in Japan?”

  “Whatever takes my fancy, Mr. Chang. No whiskey, perhaps, but plenty of tea.”

  The remark set the Changs off again and they laughed in unison. While taking a full part in the conversation, Dillman was also keeping an eye out for his prime suspect. The purser had given him a description of Rance Gilpatrick, but the detective saw nobody who fitted that description. He decided that Gilpatrick was either dining in his cabin with his current mistress or concealed somewhere in the mass of bodies.
From where he sat, he could pick out Genevieve and was reassured to see how easily she had won acceptance in her little circle. When he noticed her leaving the saloon, he checked his watch. They had arranged to meet later on to compare notes, but there was still an hour to go. The Changs were tiring visibly. Excusing themselves from the table, they shook hands with both men before slipping away. Blaine turned to Dillman.

  “Nice people,” he observed.

  “Delightful.”

  “Don’t let me hold you up if you want to go to the smoking room.”

  “That’s okay, Mr. Blaine,” said Dillman. “I don’t smoke.”

  “Sensible man. Neither do I. Nasty habit.” He sat back in his chair. “In that case,” he said affably, “would you care to join me in a brandy?”

  “Thank you.”

  “My one indulgence. Brandy at bedtime.”

  “As long as we agree on a plan of escape.”

  “Escape?”

  “Yes,” said Dillman, glancing across the room. “It looks as if Father Slattery is running out of parishioners. If he descends on us, we need to have an excuse ready.”

  Blaine smiled as he let his gaze drift across the room. Slattery was in his element, holding forth with a finger raised in admonition. Only two of nine guests at his table were still there, trapped by the glare of his eyes like rabbits caught in the light of strong lamps.

  “I can see why his congregation clubbed together on his behalf,” said Blaine. “I bet they couldn’t wait to get rid of him. You have to feel sorry for China, don’t you? They give us all that excellent tea, and we give them someone like Father Slattery.” He summoned a waiter and ordered two glasses of brandy. “So, Mr. Dillman,” he resumed easily, “we’ve heard Mr. Chang’s life story. What’s yours?”

  “Oh, it’s not nearly so interesting.”

  “No one-eyed father?”

  “And no pitched battles on the railroad.”

  “You said that you came from Boston.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Dillman. “I was groomed for the family business. We build ocean-going yachts for rich people who hear the call of the sea. It was very exciting at first and, of course, I had the opportunity to sail a great deal myself.”