by Conrad Allen
“That’ll give my food time to go down. Evenings are best for me, Jenny,” she said. “Rance will smoke those damn cigars in our cabin. When I wake up in the morning, I croak like a frog. You should hear me.”
“There’s a concert on tomorrow afternoon,” said Genevieve. “It might be an idea to go along to get some idea of the acoustics.”
“They’ll hear me, honey,” boasted Maxine, “don’t worry. If you can make yourself heard in a rowdy saloon, you can handle anything. But you’re right. We ought to take a look at the competition. Let’s go together.”
“We will, Maxine.”
“Listen, I don’t want to monopolize you. It’s lovely having you around, but you mustn’t feel that we have to live in each other’s pockets. Apart from anything else, it cuts down your opportunities.”
“For what?”
“Tempting offers from handsome gentlemen.”
Genevieve smiled. “I’m happy to forego some of those.”
“Has that wily Mr. Kincaid been on your tail again?”
“Not yet, Maxine. I think he’s biding his time.”
“He can’t touch you in the Ladies’ Boudoir. And if he does get to be a nuisance, just let me know. Rance will take care of him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He has friends aboard who can be very persuasive. They’ll get rid of Kincaid.”
“I think I’d rather handle it myself,” said Genevieve firmly. She looked up as Gilpatrick burst into laughter and slapped his thigh in appreciation. “I’m so glad your husband is getting on with the Langmeads.”
“They’re nice people.”
“They’ve been very kind to me.”
“I like them both,” said Maxine tolerantly, “but, then, I like most people. If he wasn’t such a liar, I could even like Kincaid. Then there was Fay Brinkley That woman has such a sharp mind. Rance couldn’t stand her, but I admire someone like that.”
“So do I. Fay is a good friend. In fact,” she said artlessly, “everyone I’ve met onboard has been very friendly. There’s only been one exception.”
“Who was that?”
“A Catholic priest called Father Slattery.”
Maxine bridled. “Not that guy!”
“You’ve met him?”
“It was difficult not to, Jenny. He was wandering around the boat deck yesterday, giving out tracts. He had the gall to ask Rance if he was saved.” She gave a cackle. “I don’t think his reverend ears had ever heard language like that before. My husband is not the religious type.”
“What exactly happened?”
“They yelled at each other for a bit, then the priest gave up. Just as well,” she added meaningfully. “If Rance had lost his temper, things could have got out of control.”
Li Chang and his wife left the table after coffee was served, but Dillman and Blaine lingered over a brandy. Though she refused the offer of a drink, Fay Brinkley stayed with the two men, supremely at ease in their company. Dillman felt that he had known her for weeks, rather than hours. Blaine, too, was enjoying her conversation. His pleasure was soon curtailed. A waiter delivered a small envelope to him. When he read the message inside, a flicker of dismay appeared on his face, but he swiftly banished it behind an apologetic smile. Finishing his brandy in one gulp, he rose from his seat and excused himself. Fay was surprised at his sudden departure.
“Who can be sending him notes at this time of night?”
“I have no idea, Mrs. Brinkley.”
“You don’t suppose that it was a billet-doux?” she asked teasingly.
“I doubt that very much. Mr. Blaine is married.”
“Mrs. Blaine is thousands of miles away.”
“He’s a decent man,” said Dillman. “I’ve got to know him quite well. I don’t think that he’d dream of being unfaithful. In any case, it’s none of our business.”
“Quite so.” She studied him for a moment. “You’re a real enigma, you know.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman. I haven’t quite worked you out yet.”
“What is there to work out?”
“All sorts of things. The obvious question to ask is why a handsome young man like you is sitting with a Chinese couple, a staid American, and that rather disagreeable woman called Mrs. Van Bergen.”
“Where would you expect me to sit?”
“With a lady of your choice.”
“I’m doing that right now, Mrs. Brinkley,” he said gallantly.
She grinned. “Touché!”
“In any case, you’re wrong about Mr. Blaine. He’s not staid at all. He’s a highly educated man with a wicked sense of humor. As for the Changs, I couldn’t meet a more pleasant couple. And Mrs. Van Bergen was far less disagreeable than on the first occasion we shared a table.” Dillman spread his arms. “I’m where I want to be.”
“You’re evading my question.”
“Am I?”
“I’ve been on voyages before, Mr. Dillman. Unattached young people tend to seek each other out. It’s perfectly natural, after all. And there’s something about oceanic travel that does lend itself to that kind of thing.”
“You’re assuming that I’m unattached.”
“Well, you’re clearly not married.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been sitting next to you for the past three hours,” she said wryly. “Married men behave like Mr. Chang. Or, if their wives are not there, like Mr. Blaine. Did you hear how many times he worked Mrs. Blaine into the conversation?”
“I thought that rather touching.”
“It was. I’m a great champion of happy marriages. I’m the victim of an unhappy one, but I don’t feel at all bitter about the institution itself. I envy people like the Changs and the Blaines.” She put her head to one side as she watched him. “What about you?”
“I envy them as well.”
“Yet you’ve never married.”
“No, Mrs. Brinkley.”
“Then you must have someone in prospect.”
“Not at the moment,” he said. “I’m too fond of my freedom.”
“Freedom can be very lonely at times, Mr. Dillman,” she said quietly. “Even you must feel the need for company now and then. There are some beautiful young ladies on this voyage. Are you going to neglect them?”
“We shall see.”
Their eyes locked for a moment, and Dillman saw something that had not been there before. It was a mixture of curiosity and invitation. He felt he was being challenged. At the same time, there was a hint of vulnerability in her gaze. Fay Brinkley was not making any crude bid for his affection. She was lowering her mask slightly. It was done with great subtlety. Dillman was fascinated. Genevieve had not warned him about this aspect of her friend. He held her gaze.
“I don’t think it was an accident that you sat at this table, was it?”
“No, Mr. Dillman,” she said. “I never do anything by accident.”
It was not the best time for a rehearsal. They had to wait for almost an hour before the room cleared. When they finally started, Maxine Gilpatrick was feeling jaded, and Genevieve Masefield was worried that she would be late for her meeting with Dillman. She had so much to tell him that she was anxious to get away, but the commitment had to be honored. They stumbled their way through a couple of songs before Maxine found her timing. Genevieve, too, improved with practice. Schooled by the vocalist, she learned how to set the pace without forcing it and how to accommodate Maxine’s various idiosyncrasies. Doubts still assailed her. She did not feel equal to the task, but she received no criticism from her partner. Maxine was very supportive. When they achieved a passable version of “Jeanie With the Light Brown Hair,” they decided to break off the rehearsal. It was well past eleven when they parted.
Genevieve was hurrying up the stairs to the promenade deck, eager to get to Dillman. A man appeared at the top with a smile of greeting. Willoughby Kincaid leaned nonchalantly against the wall as she climbed toward h
im. Genevieve’s heart sank.
“So there you are, Miss Masefield!” he said. “Where have you been hiding?”
“Nowhere.”
“I searched for you all over the place.”
“I was with friends,” she said pointedly.
“Aren’t I included in your circle of friends? We did, after all, meet in England.”
“Did we, Mr. Kincaid?”
“Of course. That party at Lord Wilmshurst’s?”
“Which Lord Wilmshurst would that be?” she asked, confronting him. “The one you think lives in Mayfair, or the one I’m certain has a house in Chelsea?”
He laughed merrily. “You’ve been checking up on me.”
“No, Mr. Kincaid. It’s the other way around, and I object very strongly.”
“What have I done?” he asked, miming innocence.
“You know quite well. I don’t believe you ever met Lord Wilmshurst.”
“Then how do I know his name?”
“My guess is that you got it from Mr. Legge,” she accused. “According to his wife, you met him at the bridge table. Earlier in the day, I shared a table with Mr. and Mrs. Legge, as you well know. You pumped them for information about me.”
“What a suspicious mind you have!”
“I don’t like being spied on, Mr. Kincaid.”
“A little well-meant admiration never hurt any woman.”
“Please don’t bother me anymore.”
He looked shocked. “Have I been bothering you, Miss Masefield?” He put a hand to his heart. “I’m desperately sorry. It won’t happen again, I assure you.” He stood aside. “I won’t hold you up.” He made a gallant gesture. “I bid you good-night.”
“Be honest, Mr. Kincaid. You never set eyes on Lord Wilmshurst, did you?”
“Probably not,” he admitted with a laugh, “though I can’t be sure. I do like to enjoy myself at parties. Faces all start to look the same after a while. But I did elicit a certain amount of gossip out of the Legges, it’s true. I’m not ashamed of that. What else is a fellow to do if he wants an introduction?”
“Behave more honorably.”
“Honor has no part in a romance, Miss Masefield. It gets in the way.”
His laughter was so disarming that Genevieve found it difficult not to smile. She gave him a nod of farewell and moved off. Afraid that he might follow her, she waited when she turned a corner, but there was no pursuit. For that night at least, she had shaken off her incorrigible suitor. When she got to her cabin, she saw no sign of Dillman and feared that he had gone away. As soon as she let herself in, however, he was tapping on the door. He waved away her apologies for lateness and sat in the chair.
“How have you got on?” he asked.
“Better than I expected,” she said, sitting opposite him.
“Did you have a word with your artist?”
“Yes, George.”
“Well?”
“Mr. Seymour-Jones not only volunteered the information that he drew that portrait, he showed me another sketch of Father Slattery.”
Dillman was intrigued to hear what she had gleaned from the artist. The name of Tadu Natsuki provoked especial interest. Genevieve also told him about the comments she had overheard from Gilpatrick at the table and of his meeting with the priest. It was a remark of Maxine Gilpatrick’s that caught Dillman’s attention.
“So he has some of his thugs aboard, does he?”
“Maxine said that her husband would set them on to Mr. Kincaid, if necessary.”
“I’m wondering if one of them has already been in action, Genevieve.”
“Where?”
“In cabin number twenty-five.”
“Do you really think that Gilpatrick would have someone killed because he had an argument with him?”
“It sounds unlikely, perhaps,” he agreed, “but we have to put his name alongside that of Mr. Natsuki. Both of them crossed swords with Father Slattery. I’m not surprised that Gilpatrick has someone to do his dirty work. It would be helpful to know who it is.”
“I’ll see if I can find out.”
“Check up on Mr. Hayashi while you’re at it.”
“Hayashi?”
Dillman told her about the alleged theft of the jewelry. She was amused to hear that he had turned himself into the deputy purser for the occasion, but she was also alarmed. It showed how keen Gilpatrick was to identify the detectives on the ship. If he realized that she was one of them, she knew that he would be vengeful. Genevieve began to doubt the wisdom of her friendship with Maxine. She was playing a dangerous game. It was the news about Slattery’s diary that jerked her out of her fear.
“Mr. Natsuki’s name was in it?” she said.
“With four exclamation marks.”
“No other comment?”
“None, Genevieve,” he said. “Now that I know about his argument with Natsuki, I suspect the exclamation marks represent a conflict.”
“Was Gilpatrick mentioned in the diary?”
“No, but Father Slattery might not have known his name. If it was a chance encounter on the boat deck, introductions may not have been made. And from what you say, the meeting was nasty, brutish, and short.”
“That was the impression Maxine gave.”
“I need to do more work on that diary,” said Dillman. “I’ll have to interview the people he met since he came aboard—including Mr. Natsuki. The names are all in the diary. You concentrate on Gilpatrick and his wife. How did the rehearsal go?”
“Badly.”
“Why?”
“We were both tired.”
“What did Mrs. Gilpatrick say?”
“That we need more practice than she thought.”
“It could work to our advantage, Genevieve. I know it’s uncomfortable for you, being thrown together with her so much, but she’s the best lead we have.” He rose to his feet. “It’s late. Maybe we should get some sleep.”
“You haven’t told me about Fay Brinkley yet.”
“I was forgetting her.”
“The two of you seemed to be getting on well together.”
“We were,” said Dillman, resuming his seat. “She’s an interesting woman. I suspect that’s what really upset Mrs. Van Bergen. She was the other woman at our table. When the subject of women’s suffrage came up, Mrs. Van Bergen became aggressive. She believes that a woman’s place is in the home, even though she doesn’t seem to do very much in her own. Fay Brinkley cut her to pieces.”
“I can imagine. Fay has progressive views.”
“Mr. Blaine shared them. He and Fay had a real affinity. It was a pity he had to leave the table so abruptly. Heaven knows why he dashed off like that, but it must have been something important.”
“Are you complaining?” she teased. “It left the field clear for you.”
“In a sense. Fay and I certainly had a most intriguing conversation.”
“Intriguing?”
“Yes, Genevieve. I felt as if I was being expertly interrogated.”
“About what?”
“The life and times of George Porter Dillman.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Enough of the truth to satisfy her.”
“Fay is a very shrewd woman.”
“I discovered that.”
“She picks up nuances that most of us never even see. After all, it was Fay who first warned me about David Seymour-Jones. She was horribly right about him.”
“Yes,” said Dillman with a reflective smile. “Mrs. Brinkley does have a nose for the merest possibilities of romance.”
It was almost midnight when he left Genevieve. Instead of returning to his own cabin, Dillman went out on deck to clear his head and to enjoy some solitude. There was nobody about at that time. The night air was chill, but he found it refreshing. A crescent moon shed a dull amber light. Silhouetted against the sky, the massive single funnel belched out smoke as the ship steamed on across the Pacific. Dillman leaned against the rail and stared out
across the water. The murder investigation was at the forefront of his mind. Having assimilated all the information he had garnered from Genevieve, however, his thoughts drifted to Fay Brinkley. Their conversation alone had produced a mild frisson that he had been careful not to mention to Genevieve. He wondered why. He did not feel either threatened or tempted by Fay, and took her interest in him as a compliment. He liked her very much. She was not the first older woman to offer him affection, and she would not be the last. But Dillman was impervious to such offers, however discreetly they were made. Since he had met Genevieve Masefield, he had not looked seriously at anyone else. Beside her, even the self-possessed Fay Brinkley was invisible. That made it all the more puzzling that he had deliberately held something back from Genevieve. Was he afraid that she would be disappointed in her friend if he revealed a new side to Fay Brinkley? Or was there another reason?
The wind stiffened and he gave a shiver. It was time to abandon his speculation. Taking a last deep breath of fresh air, he headed for the stairs that would take him down to his own deck. He was still some ways from his cabin when he heard the noise. It seemed to come from a companionway that he had just passed. Dillman stopped to listen. When he heard clear sounds of a scuffle he went to investigate, but he did not get far. No sooner did he reach the companionway than someone came hurtling swiftly down it in a series of somersaults. Dillman jumped back as the man landed at his feet with a thud.
“Are you all right?” he said solicitously, bending over the man. “What happened?”
The victim groaned. He was stocky young man in a dark suit. Blood was oozing from a wound on the back of his head. Dillman pulled out a handkerchief and used it to stem the flow. He was in a quandary. Needing to help the man, he also wanted to pursue the person who had attacked him. He stared up the companionway.
“Who hit you?”
“Nobody,” said the man, wincing with pain.
“You were involved in a fight.”
“No.”
“I heard the noise.”
“I fell.” The man tried to move and groaned again, clutching his arm.
“Stay here,” said Dillman. “I’ll fetch the doctor.”
“No,” said the man. “Leave me alone.”
“But you were assaulted.”