Murder on the Minnesota

by Conrad Allen

  “I suppose that he is.”

  “Bruce and I bumped into him on the promenade deck today. He kept us enthralled for ages with his tales. Mr. Kincaid has been all over the world.”

  “Has he?”

  “We’re not exactly stay-at-homes, but he made us feel desperately provincial. And he’s such a handsome man, isn’t he? I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else,” she said with another giggle, “but there was a moment when I wished that I was there on my own. Not that I don’t love my husband, of course,” she added hurriedly, “but it does no harm to a woman of my age to enjoy a little attention. Your friend is a positive delight.”

  “He’s not exactly a friend, Mrs. Legge.”

  “Then I hope that he soon will be. He’d make such a perfect escort for you.”

  “Indeed?” said Genevieve, wishing that she would leave.

  “We English must stick together,” said Moira, lowering her voice and casting a glance at the German ladies, who had now dozed quietly off to sleep. “That’s the only thing wrong with the Minnesota, isn’t it? Too many foreigners aboard. It was so refreshing to meet someone like Mr. Kincaid.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Did you know that he was an expert shot?”

  “No,” replied Genevieve, showing interest at last.

  “He’s hunted big game in Africa and India. Lions, tigers, that sort of thing. He must be very brave to do that. Mr. Kincaid shot an elephant once. He’s fearless.” She looked across at the old ladies again. “Play them a few verses of ‘God Save the King,’” she suggested. “That’ll wake them up.”

  “You proved your point, George,” said the purser. “Pete Carroll wasn’t pleased when he heard that you’d be impersonating him, but it seems to have worked.”

  “Only because I knew that Mr. Hayashi was one of Gilpatrick’s associates,” noted Dillman. “We have Genevieve to thank for that. She gave me Hayashi’s name.”

  “I’ve been doing a little homework on him myself.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s a businessman from Kobe. Some of the freight belongs to him.”

  “What is he importing?”

  “Flour, principally,” said Roebuck, “but it’s not all going to Japan. It seems that Hayashi has an office in Shanghai as well. Some of the stuff will be unloaded there.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Put that uniform on again, then you can go and ask him.”

  “No, thanks. Your deputy’s waist is inches slimmer than mine.”

  The purser grinned. “Serves you right. By the way, what happens if Hayashi comes here in search of the real Pete Carroll? Do you play the part again?”

  “No, Mike. And the chances of that happening are remote.”

  “Supposing that Hayashi recognizes you?”

  “He won’t,” said Dillman confidently. “People tend to look at the uniform, not at the man inside it. I learned that during my brief and inglorious time as an actor. Besides, there is a resemblance between me and your deputy. If Hayashi stumbles on the real Peter Carroll, I don’t think he’ll know the difference.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  They were back in the purser’s office. Dressed for dinner, Dillman had popped in for a chat before going on to the dining saloon. Roebuck looked slightly less harassed. The irate passengers who had found water coming through their ceiling had been moved to another cabin, the missing Borzoi had been reunited with its owner, and the alleged theft of jewelry had turned out to be a ruse. The purser was able to concentrate on the major crisis. He had news to report.

  “Dr. Ramirez has been able to examine the body properly now,” he said.

  “What did he find?”

  “All the signs consistent with death by strangulation. There were no other wounds on the body, though there was a large bruise in the middle of Father Slattery’s back.”

  “The killer must have put his knee there to gain leverage.”

  “That’s what Dr. Ramirez thought.”

  “Did he give you a more exact time of death?”

  “Eight to ten hours before the body was found.”

  “Is that a guess?”

  “An educated one. Ramirez is a good man. I trust his judgment. We’ve had deaths aboard before,” said Roebuck, “though they’ve always been natural ones in the past, of course. The doctor wants to help all he can, George. He has a personal reason for wanting Slattery’s killer brought to justice.”

  “A personal reason?”

  “Ramirez is a Catholic. That raises another point.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes. We’re dealing with a priest here. It’s a bit unseemly to smuggle his body out of his cabin and hide him in that compartment. I’m wondering whether we ought to let the ship’s chaplain in on this. He might add some—I don’t know—decorum.”

  “My advice is to keep him out of it, Mike. The more people we tell, the more likely it is to leak out. I’m sure that the chaplain is a discreet man, but why take chances? Besides,” he went on, “I don’t think that Father Slattery would want an Anglican priest to start chanting prayers for his soul. He hated Anglicans as much as Baptists.”

  “What are you?”

  “An occasional Episcopalian.”

  “How did Slattery feel about them?”

  “He thought I was ripe for conversion,” recalled Dillman with a smile. “Anyway, Mike, for the time being, don’t involve the chaplain. Agreed?”

  “Sure,” said Roebuck. “Any leads in that diary you found?”

  “Plenty, if I can dig them out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Father Slattery’s handwriting is not easy to read,” explained Dillman, “and he used some abbreviations I haven’t deciphered yet. Also, he had a private code.”

  “Code?”

  “Yes, Mike. He put circles around some names—mine was one of them, as a matter of fact. He drew lines under other names, two or three in some cases. And for some people, he resorted to exclamation marks. In fact, there was one name that had four angry exclamation marks after it.”

  “Can you remember who it was?”

  “A Japanese passenger,” said Dillman. “Mr. Natsuki.”

  The first-class dining saloon was ablaze with color and throbbing with noise. It was difficult for the orchestra to make itself heard above the tumult. Attired in their smart uniforms, waiters guided people to their tables and held chairs back for them. The printed menus gained praise for their design as much as for their contents. Earnest discussions were provoked as diners considered the many tempting choices on offer. Affability was the norm in such a heady atmosphere. New acquaintances were welcomed, established friendships deepened. In the center of it all was the captain’s table, where guests of note and distinction were preening themselves. Serene and benevolent, Captain Piercey was the perfect host, talking to everyone at his table in turn and putting them at their ease. The elite members of the vessel were dining in superb style.

  Viewing the scene from the comfort of his chair, Dillman wondered how relaxed they would all be if they knew that a ruthless murder had taken place. The knowledge that a priest had been killed in a violent manner would silence much of the shrill laughter and curtail most of the lighthearted banter. Dillman was impressed by the composure of the captain. Though he knew the grim facts, he did not give the slightest hint that anything was amiss aboard his ship. It was only when he caught the detective’s eye that Captain Piercey showed that he had not forgotten what had happened in cabin number twenty-five. Dillman read the message in a flash. The captain was asking him how long they could sustain the pretense before the truth leaked out. It was an open question.

  When he turned his attention to Rance Gilpatrick’s table, Dillman saw that a change had taken place. Genevieve was still an honored guest, but Hayashi and his wife had given way to a couple whom he recognized as the Langmeads. The detective remembered that, like Gilpatrick, they had a cabin on the boat deck. It was only a
matter of time before the gregarious Langmeads got to know their immediate neighbors. Genevieve was as poised as ever, though Dillman noticed that she cast an occasional glance across the room to a table on the far side. Following her gaze, he picked out the man at whom it was directed. David Seymour-Jones looked reasonably smart for once. Though everyone else at his table seemed to be chatting away, he remained aloof, his eyes fixed on Genevieve.

  Her other would-be suitor was paying no attention to Genevieve. Having somehow engineered a place at a table close to hers, Willoughby Kincaid had his back to her and was holding his companions in thrall with tales of his travels. Kincaid’s move had an effect on Dillman’s own dining arrangements. He was sharing a table for six once again with Rutherford Blaine and the Changs. Angela Van Bergen was also there, but the absence of her bridge partner had discountenanced her. Hoping to dine with Kincaid, she felt betrayed when she saw that he had deserted her. She lapsed into a brooding silence and offered no welcome when the waiter escorted a new guest to the table.

  “I hope that you don’t mind my joining you,” said Fay Brinkley, taking a seat beside Dillman and looking around the table. “I did want to sit in a smaller gathering.”

  “Small but eminently civilized,” said Blaine.

  “Oh, I took that for granted.”

  Introductions were made and Fay settled down with her new dinner companions. Having heard so much about the woman, Dillman was glad to meet her at last and knew that he could count on her for more interesting conversation than any supplied by Mrs. Van Bergen or by Willoughby Kincaid. Since she was traveling to China, she was very pleased to have Li Chang and his wife at hand to give her advice. Mrs. Van Bergen was polite to her but unusually taciturn. Fay struck up an instant rapport with Rutherford Blaine.

  “So you’re from Washington, D.C., as well, Mr. Blaine?” she observed.

  “Frederick, Maryland, to be exact,” he replied. “A little town not far away.”

  “We’re practically neighbors. I live in Georgetown.”

  “I’ve been there. It’s an attractive part of the city.”

  “Is your wife not traveling with you?” she asked, noting his wedding ring.

  “No, Mrs. Brinkley. She hates trailing along after me when I make a business trip. Marie is a poor traveler, I’m afraid. She’d rather stay at home with the grandchildren.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Six.”

  “Heavens!”

  “Do you have any children?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, no,” said Fay, pursing her lips. “It just never happened.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “We’ve got three grandchildren,” announced Mrs. Van Bergen, entering the conversation at last. “Alexander, Waldo, and Louise. There may be more to come.”

  “You have such small families in America,” said Li Chang with a grin. “I had five brothers and four sisters. My father bring us up on little money.”

  “All credit to him,” said Dillman.

  “You have brothers and sisters, Mr. Dillman?”

  “One sister, that’s all, Mr. Chang. That’s what disappointed my father the most. His only son was not prepared to carry on the family business.”

  Fay turned to him. “What sort of business was that, Mr. Dillman?”

  Conversation ebbed and flowed pleasantly throughout the meal. Though she was keen to hear everything the Changs could tell her about China, her main interest was patently in Dillman. She wanted to know where he was going, when he would return, and what he would do when he got back to America. He gave plausible answers to all of her questions and quizzed her in return. When Fay mentioned her work on behalf of the women’s suffrage movement, Mrs. Van Bergen erupted into life like an extinct volcano.

  “What nonsense!” she said. “Why on earth should women want a vote?”

  “It’s a basic human right,” countered Fay.

  “Then how have we managed so long without it?”

  “We haven’t, Mrs. Van Bergen. That’s the point.”

  “Politics is a man’s world. We should leave it to them.”

  “And let them get us into even worse messes?”

  “Women have no place in government,” asserted the other, reddening visibly. “Who would bring up the children?”

  “Who brought up yours, Mrs. Van Bergen?”

  “I did, Mrs. Brinkley.”

  “With the help of a governess, I daresay.”

  “Well, naturally. We do things properly in our household.”

  “In other words, most of the work was taken off your hands.”

  Mrs. Van Bergen spluttered. “What else are servants for?” she demanded.

  “Most American women can’t afford servants,” said Fay calmly. “People like you do untold damage to our cause, Mrs. Van Bergen. You collude with those who want to keep us disenfranchised. I don’t think that women are a lesser order of creation. I’m sorry that you do.”

  “Women can have power in China,” said Chang softly. “We have a dowager empress and everyone respects her.”

  “Quite rightly,” added Blaine. “Look at England. Queen Victoria ruled over a vast empire for more than sixty years. I know that she was only a figurehead, but she did exert considerable personal influence.”

  “We’re not talking about China or England,” said Mrs. Van Bergen obstinately. “We’re talking about America, and I’d hate to see an American woman given the vote. We have no experience in such matters.” She rounded on Dillman. “You agree with me, Mr. Dillman, surely?”

  “I’m afraid that I don’t, Mrs. Van Bergen,” he replied.

  “Why not?”

  “I happen to believe in the principle of equality.”

  She was aghast. “You actually support this ridiculous idea?”

  “Let me put it this way,” he said calmly. “I’ve had the pleasure of working alongside women, and that taught me a great deal. Women can do most jobs as well as men and some of them rather better.”

  “Fiddlesticks!”

  “I’m not sure that I’d go that far, Mr. Dillman,” said Blaine, “but I do agree with Mrs. Brinkley that women haven’t had a fair deal. Their time is yet to come. However,” he went on with a conciliatory smile, “this is rather an emotive topic for a dinner party. I suggest that we discuss a safer subject or our digestions will all suffer.” He turned to Fay. “How long has your brother been in the colonial service, Mrs. Brinkley?”

  “Four years.”

  “Does he enjoy his work?”

  Fay chatted easily about her brother. Her coolness during the argument had come in sharp contrast to the belligerence shown by Mrs. Van Bergen. Sullen and withdrawn, the latter said virtually nothing. When the main course was over, she spurned the dessert and excused herself from the table to retire. Dillman saw the hurt look that she shot Willoughby Kincaid as she walked past his table. Blaine hunched his shoulders.

  “We seem to have upset Mrs. Van Bergen,” he said regretfully.

  Fay was blunt. “She upset herself.”

  “She no need to get so angry,” said Chang. “We all friends here.”

  “What possessed her to explode like that?” asked Blaine, scratching his head. “It took me completely by surprise. She was almost as bellicose as Father Slattery.”

  “Father Slattery?” repeated Chang.

  “A Catholic priest that Mr. Dillman and I have encountered.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Fay. “I know the man you mean.”

  “Everyone on the ship must know him by now.”

  “He is rather memorable, Mr. Blaine.”

  “It’s that crusading zest of his, Mrs. Brinkley,” he said. “The odd thing is that I haven’t seen him around all day. Have you, Mr. Dillman?”

  “No,” said Dillman smoothly. “He must be indisposed.”

  After knocking hard on the door, the man knelt down to peer through the keyhole. He took out a knife, selected a narrow blade, and inserted it into the lock
. It was a full minute before he heard a telltale click. He entered the cabin swiftly and shut the door behind him. When he put on the light, he was puzzled by what he saw. The place had an abandoned air about it. He instituted a quick search. Sheets and pillowcases had been stripped from the bed. Towels had been removed from the bathroom. Nothing was on the table or the little desk. It was only in the wardrobe that he found signs of habitation. The meager supply of clothing had been neatly hung up. In the bottom of the wardrobe there was a pile of Catholic tracts beside a crucifix and a Bible.

  The man took out one item and held it up. He shook his head in bewilderment. After a last look around the cabin, he tossed Father Slattery’s clerical collar back into the wardrobe and closed the door. He had seen enough.

  The meal was less of an ordeal than Genevieve Masefield had feared. Some of the credit for this went to Horace and Etta Langmead. At their most genial, the couple befriended everyone around the table and kept the conversation sparkling. There was another bonus. In talking about his business dealings abroad, Langmead aroused Rance Gilpatrick’s interest, and the latter talked fondly of the Orient, saying how much he enjoyed trading with both Japan and China. Though he was careful to give no specific details, he did provide Genevieve with some information about his activities. While talking to Maxine, she kept one ear on what Gilpatrick was saying to the others.

  Spared any attention by Willoughby Kincaid, she was kept under surveillance by David Seymour-Jones, but his unwavering stare gradually ceased to disturb her. Indeed, once the meal was underway and the conversation bubbled, she forgot all about him. When she did look up, it was usually in the direction of Dillman’s table. Genevieve was pleased to note that he had finally met Fay Brinkley, and wanted to see how they were getting on together. However, she did not neglect one of her main duties that evening. Somehow she had to work the name of Father Slattery into the conversation.

  “I don’t know how I’ll be able to sing after this,” complained Maxine, finishing her dessert. “I’ve eaten far too much.”

  “We could always postpone the rehearsal,” suggested Genevieve.

  “No, honey. We stick to our schedule.”

  “It will be rather late before we have the place to ourselves.”