by Conrad Allen
“Perfect. You should go on the stage.”
“I already am on it,” said Roebuck. “This job is largely a performance. Unfortunately, I never seem to get any applause at the end of it.”
“You’ll get applause from Mr. Blaine, if everything goes well. And I daresay you might even get a mention in government dispatches.”
“I just want to get him to Japan in one piece.” He stood up. “Any developments?”
“A few. Genevieve has been very industrious.”
“What has she found out?”
“A number of interesting things, Mike. Including the name of one of Gilpatrick’s henchmen. I’ve checked him out on my copy of the passenger list and he seems to have a cabin on the promenade deck.”
“Who is he?”
“Mr. Gault. Thomas Gault.”
Roebuck was surprised. “I didn’t realize that Tommy Gault was aboard.”
“You know him?”
“Of course. He was a useful middleweight in his day. I saw him fight in Seattle once. Tommy was very light on his feet. He packed a good punch as well. He was up against a much taller boxer, but that didn’t seem to hamper him.” He looked down at his own list. “Yes, there he is,” he said, pointing. “Mr. Thomas Gault. I didn’t spot that. When you’ve got over fifteen hundred passengers on the list, you can’t make a note of them all. Especially the Chinese. We must have dozens called Chang. Don’t they have any other names over there?”
“I’ll ask my friend, Mr. Chang,” said Dillman with a grin. “Tell me about Gault.”
“All I know is what I saw in the ring that night and what I read in the sports pages. Tommy Gault had real promise at one time, but I suspect that he may have taken a punch too many. They usually do in the end.”
“What does he look like?”
“Short, thickset, plug-ugly.”
“He’d be easy to pick out, then?”
“Dead easy,” said Roebuck. “Look for his cauliflower ear and his fighter’s strut. He stands out a mile. Oh, and be careful, George.”
“Why? Is he dangerous?”
“Lethal.”
* * *
The concert began late in the afternoon. When Genevieve arrived, there was no sign of Maxine Gilpatrick, so she took a seat in an empty row near the back. Maxine was still in a temper when she finally appeared.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Jenny,” she said, sitting down, “but I couldn’t get into the cabin to change. Rance was in there with Joe McDade. He knew that I wanted to come to this concert. The worst of it was that I was stuck with Joe’s wife for half an hour. Blanche is a nice enough woman, but she has so little to say for herself. I was glad when she went off to have her afternoon nap. Anyway,” she concluded with a sniff, “when I was finally allowed into the cabin, I had the most terrible rush.”
“You’re here now, that’s the main thing.”
“No thanks to my husband.”
“They’ve got a good audience,” said Genevieve, looking round. “There must be well over a hundred in here.”
“We’ll have twice as many as that,” boasted Maxine. “We’re going to put up posters to advertise it. Maxine Montgomery sings—that’s my stage name, by the way. Piano accompanist—Genevieve Masefield.”
“Where will you get posters from at such short notice?”
“Rance has fixed it. I told you he was good at arranging things.”
“But who’s going to do them?”
“He found this artist, making sketches of people on the deck,” said Maxine airily. “An English guy with one of those fancy double-barreled names.”
Genevieve bridled. “David Seymour-Jones?”
“That’s him. He knows you, apparently.”
“Yes, Maxine.”
“When Rance first asked him, he wasn’t interested at all. He got on his high horse a bit and said that he didn’t do that kind of work. But Rance talked him around,” she said. “When he mentioned your name, this guy suddenly showed an interest.”
“That’s odd,” said Genevieve. “Mr. Seymour-Jones was at my table earlier. He didn’t breathe a word about this.”
“Maybe he wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I’ve had enough surprises from him already.”
Maxine grinned. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” she said with amusement.
“No, Maxine.”
“This artist is sweet on you. No wonder he was so keen to do some posters. Hey!” she said with mock aggression. “If he puts your name above mine, there’ll be big trouble. I expect top billing.”
“You deserve it,” said Genevieve, anxious to get off the subject. “But I’m sorry that you found Blanche McDade a little disappointing.”
“She was so dull, Jenny. She’s an intelligent woman, I could see that, but she’s never really lived. Oh, you know what I mean,” she said with a nudge. “The woman has no passion in her life.”
“Married to Mr. McDade, I doubt if I would.”
“Nor me,” said Maxine, shaking with laughter. “He’s a human walrus.”
The arrival of the orchestra was greeted by a burst of applause. Maxine controlled her mirth and watched them take their seats. Genevieve was looking forward to the concert until someone suddenly dropped down beside her.
“I knew that you’d share my love of music, Miss Masefield,” he said. “Schubert is my favorite composer. I couldn’t possibly miss this afternoon.” He looked across her and waved a hand. “Hello, Mrs. Gilpatrick. It’s lovely to see you again.”
“What are you doing here?” demanded Maxine.
“The same as you, of course, dear lady. I came to enjoy myself.”
Arms folded, Willoughby Kincaid sat back in his chair and purred contentedly.
George Porter Dillman was in luck. When he tracked down Tommy Gault, the man was on the promenade deck, holding his jacket open so that a small boy could pummel away at his stomach. Two other boys were watching the demonstration.
“Go on,” urged Gault, grinning broadly. “Hit me harder.”
“I’m trying,” said the boy.
“Can’t feel a thing.”
The children were taking turns to test their strength against him and he was enjoying every moment of it. Coming down the steps toward him was the ample frame of Rance Gilpatrick. Dillman sidled over to him and nodded toward the others.
“That’s Tommy Gault, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, my friend,” said Gilpatrick pleasantly. “Are you a boxing fan?”
“I used to be. I once saw him fighting in Seattle,” lied Dillman, repeating what the purser had told him. “A middleweight contest. He was so quick on his feet, I remember that, and he had a mean punch.”
“Fourteen knockouts all told.”
“He still looks pretty fit.”
“Tommy is just showing off for the benefit of the kids,” said Gilpatrick. “They watched him skipping earlier on. He knows how to please a crowd.”
“Does he still fight?”
“No, my friend. He retired from the ring a few years ago.”
“Too much punishment?”
“Too much whiskey,” explained Gilpatrick, “and that can be as punishing as anything. It finished his career.”
“You seem to know a lot about him, sir,” said Dillman, turning to him. “Were you his manager or something?”
“No, just a friend.” He stuck out a hand. “Rance Gilpatrick.”
“George Dillman,” said the other, feeling a firm handshake.
“Where are you heading, Mr. Dillman?”
“I’m on vacation to see as much of Japan and China as I can. What about you?”
“It’s a sort of vacation, but I hope to fit in some business along the way.”
“How do you find the ship, Mr. Gilpatrick?”
“I like it. I’ve sailed on the Minnesota before.”
“Really?” said Dillman, feigning surprise. “Then you have an advantage over me. Mind you, I was there when it was launched. They had a few prob
lems that day.”
“So I heard,” said Gilpatrick.
“But not so many as its sister ship, the Dakota. That fell foul of a group of women reformers from North and South Dakota. They were part of a temperance campaign,” he explained, “and objected very strongly to the alcohol that was going to be served at the launch. After all, the ship bore their name. They kicked up a real fuss.”
“I seem to recall reading about that, Mr. Dillman.”
“It caused a lot of bad publicity.”
“People are entitled to a drink.”
“That’s what Jim Hill thought, and he owned the vessel. He decided to ignore their protest. That really set the cat among the pigeons,” said Dillman with a smile. “The women got together and passed a series of resolutions, stating that they hoped bad luck would attend the ship. I guess that you know the rest.”
Gilpatrick nodded. “The Dakota sank off the Japanese coast.”
“I think it was pure coincidence myself, but I daresay some of those women jumped for joy when they heard the news. One paper even talked about witchcraft. Hell hath no fury like a temperance movement scorned.”
“It’s a pity they weren’t aboard the vessel when it sank!”
“The prohibition call is very loud in North and South Dakota.”
“Well, I’ll never listen to it,” said Gilpatrick rancorously. “I’m in the liquor business myself, among other things. Last thing I need is a group of harpies telling me how I should live!” He relaxed as Gault strode across to them. “Well done, Tommy. You gave those kids a lot of harmless fun. Oh, this is Mr. Dillman, by the way. He saw you fight back in the old days.”
“Did you?” said Gault, squeezing his hand. “Who did I beat?”
“I can’t remember his name,” said Dillman. “He didn’t stay upright long enough for me to catch it.” The others laughed. “That was quite a demonstration you put on.”
“Like to take a shot at me yourself?” invited Gault, opening his coat.
“No, no. I’m a bit stronger than those kids. It would be unfair.”
“Come on. I can take it.”
“Throw a punch, Mr. Dillman,” said Gilpatrick, sizing him up. “You look as if you take care of yourself. Test yourself on Tommy. You won’t hurt him.”
“What if I do?”
“You’ll be the first man who did since Whitey Thompson,” replied Gault proudly. “He was a champ. Nobody ever had the power in his fists that Whitey did.”
The two men continued to encourage him and the children came over to add their exhortations. Having barked their knuckles on the former boxer’s stomach, they wanted to see someone get revenge on their behalf. Dillman eventually agreed and slipped off his coat. Tempted to put full power into his punch, he instead pulled it at the last moment. His fist bounced off and Gault laughed derisively. While Dillman pretended to rub his knuckles, the children drifted away in disappointment.
“I did warn you, Mr. Dillman,” said the chuckling Gilpatrick.
“What have you got down there?” asked Dillman, indicating Gault’s stomach. “It felt like solid steel.”
“That’s what all the ladies tell me,” replied the other.
And he went off into a peal of raucous laughter.
______
In view of the circumstances, Genevieve found it very difficult to concentrate on the music. She was wedged in between the wife of a known criminal and an amorous Englishman with designs on her. Her discomfort was intensified when the pianist took over to play a Beethoven sonata. The sight of a professional musician, sitting at the instrument with such dignity and authority, made her shudder slightly. She could never coax the notes out so smoothly or so crisply. Doubts about the wisdom of agreeing to accompany Maxine Gilpatrick changed into apprehension. There was one source of relief. Willoughby Kincaid made no attempt to touch, fondle, or hassle her. He led the applause at the end of each item and restricted himself to a few knowledgeable comments about the various composers. Franz Schubert was featured most prominently, but work by four others was also included. Kincaid was so well informed that she wondered if he had been doing some research in order to impress her. When she had been in the library, she had noticed a copy of Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians on the shelf. Kincaid, she decided, might well have resorted to it for factual detail when he saw what the program was that afternoon.
At the end of the concert, he dispelled her suspicions with a polite explanation.
“I’m so sorry if I bored you with my comments,” he said to them, “but I grew up in a musical family. My father was a conductor. He gave me my first piano lesson when I was three. I spent years in the school orchestra at Eton. I’d moved on to violin by then. Music is one of the many things I miss, keeping on the move so much. There are not many concerts in the sort of places that I visit.”
“I suppose not.”
“Anyway, thank you for your company, ladies.”
He rose from his seat and led the way to the aisle. The audience was dispersing in a hubbub of satisfaction. The three of them joined the queue for the exit. Genevieve felt less irritated by Kincaid than before. It allowed her curiosity to take over.
“I’m told that you’ve done some big-game hunting, Mr. Kincaid.”
“He’s still at it, honey,” warned Maxine in her ear.
“Is it true?” asked Genevieve.
“Of course it is,” he replied. “Why shouldn’t it be?”
“Not everything you tell us has the ring of honesty about it.”
He laughed gaily. “You put that so elegantly.”
“It was Mrs. Legge who told me about your hunting exploits. Were they real or were you just trying make an impression on her?”
“I’m always keen to make an impression on ladies, Miss Masefield.”
“We noticed,” said Maxine cynically.
“Mrs. Legge said that you’d hunted in Africa and India,” recalled Genevieve.
“Wherever I can,” he said airily. “Lions and tigers are my preference, but I’ve tackled a rhino on occasion. They take some stopping. Mind you, I don’t expect to shoot anything larger than duck or quail in China. I can use the Purdy for that kind of thing.”
“The what?” asked Maxine.
“A Purdy is the finest sporting rifle in existence, Mrs. Gilpatrick. English craftsmanship at its best. I never travel without it. I’ve also brought my big hunting rifle with me, but I doubt if I’ll ever take it out of its case on this trip. It’s the truth, I assure you,” he said, stopping as they went out into the passageway. “I do know something about music and I am a dead shot. Those are two things I’d never dare to lie about. I don’t need to, you see.” He gave a little bow. “I bid you farewell, ladies.”
They wished him good-bye, then turned to face each other. Maxine was skeptical.
“I still think he’s making it up.”
“We could always call his bluff about the violin,” said Genevieve. “We could borrow one from the orchestra and put him to the test. My guess is that he’ll come through it with flying colors.”
Maxine grinned. “I think he’d prefer you to put him to a different kind of test.”
“No, thank you!”
“I have to admit it. The guy was almost bearable today.”
“He’s clearly had a musical education.”
“I’d be more worried about his claim to be a hunter, if I were you.”
“Why?”
“He may settle for duck and quail in China,” she said, “but he’s after something much bigger at the moment. Her name is Genevieve Masefield, and I reckon that he was just stalking her.”
“That’s the strange thing,” said Genevieve. “I didn’t feel stalked.”
“Neither do the lions and tigers, honey. Until it’s too late.”
The remark gave Genevieve food for thought as she headed back alone to her cabin. It was not long before she sensed that someone was following her. Kincaid was trying to get her on her own, she fear
ed, separating her from the herd. Her first instinct was to increase her speed, get to her cabin, and shut the door in his face. But that would only give her a temporary respite. It was time to confront him and issue a more forceful rejection. She waited until she had almost reached her cabin, then swung around angrily. Certain that she had been trailed by Willoughby Kincaid, she was astonished to see David Seymour-Jones. A sketch pad under one arm, he gestured apologetically with the other.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Masefield, but I understand that you’ll be taking part in a song recital. Mr. Gilpatrick has asked me to do some posters for the event. They’ll be in color, of course,” he said earnestly. “I have my paints with me. The trouble is that I know nothing about it.” He smiled nervously. “I wondered if you could possibly give me some details, please?”
“You should speak to Mrs. Gilpatrick,” she replied. “The event is her idea and she’s the real star of it, as I’m sure her husband told you.”
“I’d prefer to deal with you.”
Genevieve was torn. The request was double-edged. Though she was willing to give him the information he needed, she knew that he was only seeking it as an excuse to be alone with her. Seymour-Jones was gentle and unthreatening, but his infatuation with her was causing her some distress. She was unsure whether to provide him with the relevant details or to take the opportunity to distance herself from him.
“This is an inconvenient time,” she said at length. “Why don’t we meet for ten minutes before dinner this evening? I can tell you everything then.”
His face lit up with gratitude. When they had arranged a time, Seymour-Jones went off happily, relieved that he had not been spurned and looking forward to the rendezvous. Genevieve felt only a sense of relief that she had got rid of him. Letting herself into her cabin, she closed the door and put her back against it. Relief soon faded. As she looked around the room, she became aware that certain items had been moved slightly. Even her slippers had been shifted. It was unsettling. When she opened the wardrobe, she could see that her dresses had been rearranged, and there was the same evidence of tampering in the chest of drawers. Nothing had been stolen, but that did not reassure Genevieve. Her cabin had been searched.
George Porter Dillman had to wait for ten minutes while the purser placated an irate passenger. Mike Roebuck was patient and adroit. When the elderly woman left, she had calmed down completely. Dillman stepped into the office.