Murder on the Minnesota

by Conrad Allen

  “We need some privacy, Maxine. I never discuss business in public.”

  “There you go again,” she protested. “I’m always in second place. You take me on our honeymoon, then tell me I can’t even get into my own cabin. It’s maddening. If Joe McDade is so keen to talk to you, why don’t you go to his cabin?”

  “His wife always takes a nap in the afternoons.”

  “What about me? Aren’t I allowed to take a nap?”

  “Not while I’m around.” He squeezed her hand fondly. “I’ll make it up to you, honey. I promise. But tell me some more about Genevieve. Did you break it to her that there might not be room at our table today?”

  “I didn’t need to, Rance. Jenny had already agreed to eat with someone else.”

  “Not that English guy with the mustache?”

  “No,” said Maxine. “Mr. Kincaid won’t be allowed anywhere near her. All that stuff about meeting her at a party was a pack of lies. He never clapped eyes on her until this voyage. Kincaid was chancing his arm.”

  “So who is the lucky man?”

  “It’s a woman friend. Fay Brinkley.”

  “That smart-ass!” he said with disgust. “Genevieve can keep her.”

  “They get on so well together.”

  “That’s what worries me, Maxine. I think they’re two of a kind, only Genevieve knows how to hide it better. Underneath, I reckon she’s just like Fay Brinkley.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Calculating.”

  “No, Rance,” she said defensively. “That’s not true. Jenny is sweet.”

  “Oh, she can be very sweet when she wants to be. But I think it’s an act.”

  “It’s not. I’ve spent time alone with her—you haven’t.”

  “All right,” he said, “what does she talk about when you’re together?”

  “Music. We’ve got all those songs to work on.”

  “She must talk about something else as well. Does she ever mention men?”

  “One in particular. Mr. Kincaid. He’s been pestering her.”

  “My guess is that she can handle that. What else does she talk about?”

  Maxine shrugged. “You, sometimes.”

  He became wary. “Me?”

  “Yes, she thinks it’s wonderful the way you can fix things. Like the concert, for instance. Jenny is interested in what you do. She’s asked me about your business dealings more than once. And today,” she recalled, “she was talking about Mr. Hayashi.”

  “Hayashi? Why?”

  “She liked him.”

  “Not in that way, surely?”

  Maxine laughed. “Of course not. He’s far too old for her.”

  “So what did she want to know about him?” he pressed. “Come on, Maxine. This is important. Try to remember her exact words. What did she say?”

  Genevieve Masefield met him in the purser’s office. Dillman was alone. He gave her a kiss of welcome, then offered her a chair. Still mystified, she sat down.

  “Thanks for your note,” she said. “I came as quickly as I could, though we didn’t arrange to meet again until tonight.”

  “Something came up, Genevieve.”

  “That’s what I assumed.”

  “I didn’t want you to come to my cabin. There are too many people about. You might have been seen. Mike gave us the use of his office. We’ll be safe here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’ll explain that in a moment,” he said. “Do you remember the incident that occurred when I first came aboard? That business with the cabins on the upper deck?”

  “Yes, George. You told me about it. Father Slattery was involved.”

  “To his cost, Genevieve.”

  “In what way?”

  “If he’d taken the cabin originally assigned to him, he’d still be alive.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the assassin was not supposed to kill a Catholic priest,” said Dillman. “The real target was the man I’ve talked about before, Rutherford Blaine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely sure. Let me tell you what happened.”

  Dillman described his meeting with the injured man and his discovery of the revolver. She listened wide-eyed to his account of the visit to Blaine’s cabin.

  “But why should anyone want to kill him?” she asked.

  “For political reasons, Genevieve.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Mr. Blaine is a diplomat. He’s on his way to Tokyo to hold secret talks.”

  “About what?”

  “He wasn’t at liberty to tell us that, but there’s no question about his authenticity. He showed us his credentials. I’m not sure how much you know about the situation in Japan,” he said, “but it’s not entirely stable. There are certain people there who resent America bitterly. They didn’t like the way our president acted as mediator when Japan went to war with Russia, and they’ve got lots of other reasons to hate us. According to Mr. Blaine, they’ve stirred up trouble and organized anti-American riots. He’s on a highly sensitive mission, Genevieve. It’s not difficult to guess one of its objects.”

  “Closer ties between America and Japan?”

  “In all probability. The details don’t matter. Mr. Blaine does.”

  “Is he still in danger?”

  “Serious danger,” said Dillman gravely. “When he was seen alive yesterday, it must have dawned on the assassin that he’s killed the wrong man. He tried to stalk Mr. Blaine last night. Fortunately, the bodyguard got in the way.”

  “Where is this Mr. Poole now?”

  “Recovering in bed. He can’t do his job properly while he’s there.”

  “So what’s going to happen?”

  “We have to take over,” explained Dillman. “It’s our job to guard Mr. Blaine now. The first thing was to move him from his existing cabin. That’s where Mike Roebuck is now. Sorting out the transfer and making sure that nobody else knows about it but the chief steward. Mr. Blaine needs protection. The assassin will strike again.”

  “So we’re not looking for suspects with a motive to kill Father Slattery?”

  “Not anymore. We were completely misled there.”

  “I’m rather relieved,” she confessed.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, George. I suppose I felt rather ashamed of my suspicions about Mr. Natsuki. He was such a pleasant man. I never really believed that he was a potential killer. I know that he had that blistering argument with Father Slattery,” she said, “but I fancy it was more to do with Mrs. Natsuki than her husband. She was cut to the quick by some of Father Slattery’s remarks. Mr. Natsuki wouldn’t allow that. He went after the priest to confront him.”

  “He sounds like a good husband.”

  “He is, George. So polite and decent.”

  “How discreet do you think he would be?”

  “Why?”

  “We may need someone in due course who speaks Japanese. That was Mr. Blaine’s view, anyway. The man who attacked his bodyguard was not an American.”

  “Japanese?”

  “Jake Poole didn’t get a proper look at him because he was wearing a mask, but he was certain that the man was Asiatic. He was short, quick, and skilled in jujitsu. That’s how he got the better of him,” noted Dillman. “Mr. Poole is a tough man. He wouldn’t be easy to overpower.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked. “Check all the Japanese passengers?”

  “We already have, Genevieve.”

  “There must be dozens in first class.”

  “There are,” he confirmed, “And well over a hundred in steerage. We haven’t got time to work our way through that lot. There’s a much simpler method.”

  “Is there?”

  “We wait until he comes to us.”

  “How?”

  “Mr. Blaine is a brave man,” he said admiringly. “He refuses to be shut up with an armed guard outside the door. As long as he’s in public, he’s fa
irly safe. Especially if he has company, and one of us will always have an eye on him.”

  “In other words, you’re using him to bait the hook?”

  “It was his idea, Genevieve.”

  “Will it work?”

  “I hope so.”

  “What about me?” she wondered.

  “Carry on with what you’re doing,” he advised. “Just because we’re after some political hothead, it doesn’t mean that we forget Rance Gilpatrick. I’d like to know more about his business dealings with Mr. Hiyashi.”

  “I asked Maxine about that. She knew no details. But she and Gilpatrick will be staying with the Hiyashis in Kobe,” she said. “So they must be close.”

  “What else have you learned?”

  “The identity of another of Gilpatrick’s associates. Joseph McDade.”

  Dillman wrinkled his brow. “Where have I heard that name before?”

  “From me,” she reminded him. “Mr. McDade and his wife dined at my table on the first evening, He was the loudmouthed man who sprayed his opinions all over us.”

  “I remember now. What’s his connection with Gilpatrick?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Any other progress?”

  “Yes,” she said, keen to pass on the information. “We knew that Gilpatrick would have henchmen. I discovered who one of them is.”

  “Well done! How did you manage that?” ?

  “I mentioned to Maxine that Mr. Kincaid had been hassling me.”

  Dillman tensed. “When was this?”

  “Last night, after the rehearsal. He intercepted me on my way back to the cabin.”

  “You never told me about it.”

  “We had rather a lot of other things to discuss, George. In any case,” she said with a dismissive gesture, “I dealt with it in my own way. But Maxine wanted to bring her husband in on it. She offered to get one of his men to frighten Kincaid off.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it. I fight my own battles.”

  “Or call in me as your heavy artillery,” he said fondly, “though I don’t think that I’d be needed somehow. Did you ask who might be brought in to warn Kincaid off?”

  “I did.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Mr. Gault,” she said. “Tommy Gault.”

  Most people on the boat deck wore coats and hats, but one of them braved the cold wind in a singlet, a pair of shorts, and some boxing boots. Dancing nimbly on his toes, he swished the skipping rope over his head with increasing speed until he built up a steady rhythm. A small crowd, most of them children, gathered to watch him. They had never before seen anyone skip so well or for such a long time. In spite of the wind, the man was soon sweating freely. His face was glistening by the time that Rance Gilpatrick strolled past with his wife on his arm. Gilpatrick waved to his friend.

  “That’s it, Tommy,” he said. “Keep in shape. I may have work for you to do.”

  When Genevieve spotted her going into the library, she seized her opportunity. Blanche McDade was a rather forlorn figure. She stood in front of the shelves of books as if bewildered by the range of choice. Genevieve came into the room.

  “Oh, good morning, Mrs. McDade,” she said. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you,” said Blanche, turning to see her. “Are you looking for a book?”

  “Yes,” replied Genevieve, pretending to scan the shelves. “I was wondering if they had any English authors.”

  “I like something with romance in it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, Miss Masefield. Joe always sneers at me for reading such books, but I adore them. And I have so much time to read these days.”

  “Do you know Thomas Hardy’s novels?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “They’re not exactly romances,” said Genevieve, “but I think you’d enjoy them. He draws the female characters so well, though some of them do suffer.”

  “I don’t want anything sad.”

  “Then you’re better off choosing your own.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m rather fond of historical novels, Mrs. McDade. People always seem to have had so much more fun in the old days. At least, that’s the impression one gets from the books. The reality, I suspect, was very different.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it was, Miss Masefield. Life was very harsh. I remember the tales my grandmother used to tell us. They made our hair curl.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “In Nebraska.”

  “Is that where you met Mr. McDade?”

  “No, that was in Chicago,” she said with a rueful smile. “We were attending the wedding of a mutual friend. I’m Joe’s second wife, you know,” she explained. “We’ve only been together for ten years.”

  Genevieve was surprised. “You seem to have been together for longer than that.”

  “I know. It feels like an eternity sometimes.”

  “Is your husband a reader?”

  “He never has time, Miss Masefield. The only thing that Joe ever reads is the financial pages in the newspapers. He’s a businessman. He always will be. I accepted that when we married. But he’s a good husband,” she said loyally. “I want for nothing.”

  “Except his company, I should imagine.”

  “Joe is a busy man. Besides, I do like to be on my own sometimes.”

  “Are you enjoying the voyage?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Blanche, taking down a book to examine it. “It’s much more comfortable than I thought it would be. And we’ve met such interesting people.”

  “That’s the beauty of traveling by sea. You have time to develop friendships.” Selecting a book of her own, Genevieve flicked through it. “I understand that you know Mr. Gilpatrick,” she said casually.

  “Joe does. I’ve never met him before.”

  “He’s a fascinating man. I was lucky enough to be at Mr. Gilpatrick’s table last night. I’ve never met anyone who’s done so much and been so far.”

  “That’s what Joe says about him.”

  “Are they business acquaintances?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Blanche sadly. “My husband doesn’t have any other kind.”

  “What about you, Mrs. McDade?”

  “I have my books.” She replaced one volume and took out another. “You must have met Mrs. Gilpatrick, then.”

  “Yes,” said Genevieve, “she’s a delightful woman.”

  “Joe says I must be nice to her. He needs to talk business with Mr. Gilpatrick after lunch, so he wants me to keep Mrs. Gilpatrick occupied. I’m not very good at that sort of thing, Miss Masefield,” she said shyly. “I’m sure that you noticed.”

  “You’ll have no problems with Maxine Gilpatrick.”

  “Joe said that she used to sing professionally.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I wish that I could have done something like that,” said Blanche wistfully, “but I was brought up in a strict household. My father wouldn’t let any of us develop our interests. The only singing I was allowed to do was in church.”

  Genevieve exchanged her book for another. “What sort of business does your husband do with Mr. Gilpatrick?” she asked, reading the title page.

  “They export things together.”

  “Copper?”

  “Oh, no. Something quite different. Joe never talks about it to me, but I think it’s to do with those catalogs of his.”

  “Catalogs?”

  “Yes, he brought them with him to show to Mr. Gilpatrick.”

  “Do you know what’s in the catalogs?”

  “I haven’t a clue, Miss Masefield. To be honest, I daren’t look.”

  Annoyed with himself and in continual pain, Jake Poole was propped up on his bunk. His right arm was in a splint and supported by a sling. Heavy strapping had been put around his ribs. Dark bruises showed on his face and hands. Dillman was sympathetic.

  “How are you feeling now?” h
e asked.

  “Frustrated, Mr. Dillman. I want to be out there after that bastard.”

  “Not while you’re in that state.”

  “He caught me when I wasn’t looking.”

  “You’re young and fit,” Dillman pointed out. “If Mr. Blaine had been clubbed over the head and pushed down those stairs, he might not be here to tell the tale.”

  “That’s the one consolation. I protected Mr. Blaine.”

  “Any idea who the man was?”

  “None at all,” said Poole. “He came out of the blue.”

  “Were you expecting an attack?”

  “Not at the start, Mr. Dillman. I thought this would be a routine mission. It’s not the first time I’ve kept an eye on Mr. Blaine when he’s visited Japan. In the past, we had no problems at all.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Because nobody knew who we were and why we were traveling.”

  “How did they find out this time?” said Dillman.

  Poole was vengeful. “I wish I knew!”

  The talk with the bodyguard was revealing. Though he knew no details of the discussions that were to take place, he gave Dillman a clear indication of Blaine’s importance in diplomatic circles. For some years, Blaine had had ambassadorial duties. Close to the president, he was tried and trusted. Poole also stressed what an easy man he was to work beside. The two of them had been all over the Orient together.

  “Why didn’t you take advantage of onboard security?” asked Dillman. “If we’d known who Mr. Blaine was, we could have arranged additional protection.”

  “It’s never been needed before,” said Poole. “Besides, we were anxious not to draw attention to ourselves. The point about secret missions is that they’re supposed to be secret. We assumed that this one was.”

  “Until you had suspicions about Father Slattery.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dillman. It was so strange for him to disappear like that. And he was occupying the cabin that was originally assigned to Mr. Blaine. That worried us,” he admitted. “When he didn’t appear for dinner, I broke into the cabin to see for myself. It was then that I knew we had a real problem.”

  “Why not go straight to the purser?”

  “I thought I could take care of it myself.”

  “Well, you couldn’t,” said Dillman reasonably. “If you’d been a little less secret and a little more sensible, none of this would have happened.”