Murder on the Minnesota

by Conrad Allen

  “What was all that about, Mike?” he asked.

  “Complaints about the food. Mrs. Atticus doesn’t like meat.”

  “Then why does she eat it?”

  “She likes the alternatives even less.”

  “What does she live on—fresh air?”

  “It’s nothing to do with the taste of the food, George,” said the purser. “When I worked that out, I was able to suggest an individual menu for her that avoided her embarrassing problem.”

  “Problem?”

  “False teeth. Badly fitted by her dentist. When she tried to bite her way into the beef that was served at luncheon, her top set all but popped out.” He gave a chuckle. “I smoothed her feathers and assured her it would never happen again.”

  “You’re as much of a diplomat as Mr. Blaine.”

  Roebuck frowned. “He’s my real headache,” he admitted. “Mrs. Atticus is only in danger of losing her teeth. Mr. Blaine’s life is at risk.”

  “Not if we catch the man who’s trying to take it.”

  “That’s proving difficult so far, George. We’ve already got a dead priest and a wounded bodyguard. How many other casualties will there be?”

  “None, if I can help it,” said Dillman. “By the way, I managed to find Tommy Gault. That ear of his could only have been collected in a boxing ring. I wanted to weigh him up in case he might be our mystery assassin.”

  “Well?”

  “He’s strong enough and lithe enough.”

  “And short. Mr. Poole said his attacker was short and compact.”

  “I had an unexpected bonus.”

  “Did you?”

  “While I was there,” said Dillman, “Rance Gilpatrick came in search of Gault, so I exchanged a few friendly words to see if I could draw him out. Tommy Gault may be the boxer, but it’s Gilpatrick who oozes power. When you stand close to him, you can feel it.”

  “I’m not sure that I’d want to stand close to Gilpatrick. Or downwind of him.”

  “Why has he brought someone like Gault with him?”

  “Not for his scintillating conversation, that’s for sure.”

  “Exactly, Mike.”

  “So what is Tommy here for?”

  “It’ll be interesting to find out. Is everything set up for this evening?”

  “Of course,” said Roebuck. “Pete Carroll will see that Mr. Blaine gets safely to the dining saloon, then someone else will walk him back to his cabin. They’ve been told to make it look natural.”

  “Where have you put him?”

  “Right next door to the master-at-arms. There’s a small arsenal in his cabin. At the first sign of trouble, he’ll rush to Blaine’s aid with two guns blazing. I’m much more concerned about the cabin that Blaine used to occupy,” said the purser. “Do you really think you ought to sleep in there tonight, George?”

  “I insist on it.”

  “Suppose the assassin comes calling? As far as he knows, Blaine is still there.”

  “That’s the idea, Mike. We lure him in.”

  “I’d hate you to end up on a bed of ice next to Father Slattery.”

  “I won’t be caught off-guard like him. I’m a light sleeper.”

  “Let me put a man in there with you.”

  “No,” said Dillman. “I have a personal score to settle with the killer. I’ll tackle him alone. There is one favor I’d ask, though. Don’t say anything about this to Genevieve. She’d only worry.”

  “What about me? You’re a good friend. I’m scared stiff for you.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mike.”

  Roebuck heaved a sigh. “The problem is we don’t know where to look. When we wanted someone with a motive to kill Father Slattery, we found a handful of them. Now we know that Mr. Blaine was the target, we’re in the dark.”

  “Not entirely,” argued Dillman. “Whoever is responsible for the attack is very well connected if he has access to government secrets. That narrows the field somewhat. We’re looking for a political animal, Mike. Someone committed to derailing the talks that Mr. Blaine is due to have in Japan.”

  “How could the information leak out in the first place?”

  “Spying is the oldest profession in the world,” said Dillman.

  “The second oldest,” corrected the purser. “We’ve got a couple of members of the oldest profession in steerage, apparently. The chief steward tipped me off.” There was a knock on the door. “That may be him now. Come in!”

  The door opened and Genevieve Masefield stepped into the cabin. Glad to catch the purser there, she was pleasantly surprised to see Dillman as well. Her face was still flushed. They could see that she was agitated.

  “What’s the trouble?” asked Dillman with concern.

  “Someone’s been snooping in my cabin,” she replied. “Nothing seems to have been taken but it left a nasty feeling in my mouth. I felt invaded.”

  Roebuck was alarmed. “When did you discover this?”

  “Just now. When I got back from the concert.”

  “Was there anything that might have given you away?”

  “No,” she said. “I take great care to leave nothing that would indicate I’m working for the shipping line. That’s not the point, however. Somebody has been in there, rifling through my things.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t the stewardess?”

  “She came this morning and had no reason to return.”

  “How long were you at the concert, Genevieve?” asked Dillman.

  “The best part of two hours, I should say.”

  “Did you go on your own?”

  “No, Maxine Gilpatrick came with me.”

  Dillman nodded. “So her husband would know that you’d be out of your cabin.”

  “What reason would he have to search it?”

  “I’m not sure that he did,” confessed Dillman, “and he certainly wouldn’t do it in person. He’d send someone else. If Gilpatrick is behind this—and his is the obvious name that springs to mind—then he must be getting suspicious. I met him earlier. He’s a wily old bird. Guys like him tend to have a sixth sense.”

  “I’ve given him no cause for suspicion, George.”

  “You didn’t have to. He’s the sort of man who checks everyone out as a matter of course. Hopefully, his suspicions will have been quelled.”

  “Supposing somebody else searched the cabin?” wondered Roebuck. “A thief. Was there anything worth taking, Miss Masefield?”

  “I left no money or valuables hanging about,” she answered. “My jewelry is locked away in your safe. But there were some items that a thief would have taken. My carriage clock, for instance. That was quite expensive.”

  “Any sign of forced entry?”

  Genevieve shrugged. “None. He must have had a key.”

  “That’s worrying,” said the purser.

  “It shook me, I can tell you. I won’t feel safe in there again.”

  “Would you like the chief steward to find you another cabin?” said Dillman.

  “No, George. I’ll stay where I am. They’re not scaring me off.” She brightened. “I didn’t think I’d see you again before tonight. I’ve got some news. Earlier today, I met Blanche McDade in the library. Since her husband is a friend of Gilpatrick’s, I tried to find out just how close the two men are.”

  “And?”

  “They’ve had several business dealings in the past.”

  “Did she tell you their nature?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Genevieve. “Blanche McDade is one of those obedient wives who are kept on the outer fringe of their husbands’ lives. Joseph McDade made his money out of copper, but that’s not what he sells to Gilpatrick.”

  “Go on.”

  “The two men had a long discussion in private this afternoon. Maxine was seething about it. She couldn’t get into her own cabin. But it was a remark of Blanche McDade’s that really prompted my interest,” she said. “She talked about some catalogs that her husband had brought. He was going to sho
w them to Gilpatrick.”

  Dillman pondered. “I think this is our chance,” he said at length, turning to the purser. “I’m going to need your help, Mike.”

  “Don’t tell me you want to borrow Pete Carroll’s spare uniform again.”

  “No, I’m not posing as your deputy this time. I need you to speak to the chief steward on my behalf. I’m going to need a master key to the cabins on the boat deck and a steward’s uniform that will fit me without pinching my waist. Thanks, Genevieve,” he said, squeezing her arm. “This might turn out to be our breakthrough.”

  Marriage to Etta had taught Horace Langmead the virtue of patience. There was no point in trying to hurry his wife. She not only courted the mirror for an hour before dinner, she tried on various dresses and experimented with an array of costume jewelry. Langmead had learned that it was best to ignore the whole process. He buried his head in a magazine until he was called upon to issue his statutory approval.

  “How does this look, Horry?” she asked, twirling in front of him.

  “Perfect!”

  “I want to make people stare at me.”

  “You still make me stare, honey,” he assured her, planting a kiss on her cheek, “and that’s an achievement after fifteen years together.”

  “Sixteen,” she said.

  “I stand corrected.”

  He put the magazine aside, offered his arm, then led her to the door. Langmead was not so eager to draw attention to himself. White tie and tails would make him merge into a collective picture of elegance with all the other men in the dining saloon. It was the ladies who would stand out. In spite of her age, Etta Langmead could still turn the occasional head, and she reveled in that power. As they left their cabin, they saw two men at the end of the passageway, deep in conversation. Rance Gilpatrick broke off as they approached and stepped back from Tommy Gault. Evening dress did not suit the latter. He looked like a demented penguin with an inflamed ear. Gilpatrick dismissed him with a nudge. After a wave of greeting to the Langmeads, the ex-boxer strutted off.

  “Maxine will be ready any second,” said Gilpatrick expansively. “We can all go down together. My!” he said, arms outstretched as he admired Etta’s dress. “You look wonderful, Mrs. Langmead!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gilpatrick,” she replied with a titter.

  “You’ll be the belle of the ball tonight.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I hold a candle to Mrs. Gilpatrick.”

  “You can compete with anyone, honey,” said her husband.

  “In the old days, perhaps,” she said wistfully. “But not anymore.” Maxine came out of her cabin in a beautiful silver evening gown that sparkled under the lights. “Oh, Mrs. Gilpatrick!” said Etta, fingers coming to her mouth. “That’s magnificent!”

  Maxine basked in her praise. “I wanted to make a special effort.”

  “You always do.”

  “Rance chose this dress for me.”

  “I wish that I could get away with something as daring as that.”

  “It’s not daring,” said Maxine. “It’s just me.”

  They laughed and headed for the stairs. The women walked side by side at the front while the men brought up the rear. Etta Langmead had a complaint.

  “Why haven’t we been invited to sit at the captain’s table yet?” she said.

  “You will be, I’m sure,” replied Maxine. “Otherwise, speak to Rance. He’ll fix it for you.” She tossed the question over her shoulder. “Won’t you, Rance?”

  “What’s that, honey?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Langmead would like to sit at the captain’s table.”

  “Hey, hold on,” said Langmead. “We’ll wait until we’re asked.”

  Maxine was persistent. “Rance has influence. Let him use it.”

  “If it’s no trouble,” said Etta, delighted at the offer.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” offered Gilpatrick in a manner that suggested the favor was bound to be granted. “I always dine at the captain’s table at some stage.”

  As they descended the stairs, other couples came into view. Maxine and Etta studied the women’s dresses with a sharp eye and exchanged comments. The men showed no interest. Gilpatrick’s mind was on someone else.

  “What do you make of Genevieve Masefield?” he said artlessly.

  “I think she’s delightful,” said Langmead with a chuckle. “English women don’t usually inspire me, but she’s the exception. We met her when we were boarding the ship. It’s that accent of hers that we love so much. I could listen to it all day.”

  “Or all night,” suggested Gilpatrick with a nudge.

  Langmead grinned. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

  “Someone is in for a treat there.”

  “Etta wondered if it might be Mr. Seymour-Jones.”

  “That artist guy in the scruffy clothes? I’ve met him.”

  “He was at our table today with Miss Masefield. He never took his eyes off her. Mt wife wanted to do a little matchmaking, but I think she’d be wasting her time.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s not Miss Masefield’s type,” he replied. “Mr. Seymour-Jones is too shabby and disordered. He’s a pleasant guy, maybe, but he seems to grope his way through life.”

  Gilpatrick was curious. “What sort of man is her type?”

  “A very lucky one.”

  David Seymour-Jones was there long before the appointed time. Though he had made considerable efforts with his appearance, he still looked unkempt. He sat in the library with his sketch pad across his knees. When Genevieve finally came in, he jumped up so quickly that he spilled the pad on the floor. He gathered it up with a shy grin. Genevieve was keen to keep the discussion to a minimum.

  “It was Mrs. Gilpatrick’s idea,” she said, taking a seat. “She heard me playing the piano in the Ladies’ Boudoir and couldn’t resist bursting into song. She has a trained voice. Mrs. Gilpatrick wanted to be an opera singer.”

  He sat beside her and made notes in his pad. “Her husband said that she’d be appearing under another name.”

  “That’s right. Maxine Montgomery.”

  “It’s where she was born, apparently. Montgomery, Alabama.”

  “You know more than I do, Mr. Seymour-Jones.”

  “Is it to be called a concert or a song recital?”

  “You’d better ask Mrs. Gilpatrick that. She has very firm ideas.”

  “What are your ideas, Miss Masefield?”

  “To stay very much in the background. I’m only the accompanist.”

  “That’s an important job.”

  “Mrs. Gilpatrick will take center stage. She has the most superb voice. It takes years to build up that kind of breath control.”

  “I’ll be there to enjoy every moment,” he said.

  But she knew that he would not be looking at Maxine Montgomery. His gaze would be confined exclusively to the pianist. Genevieve felt uncomfortable. Eager to terminate the interview, she gave him all the facts that he needed, then stood up.

  “That’s about it, Mr. Seymour-Jones,” she said.

  “Not quite,” he returned, rising to his feet. “I wanted to ask you how long you’d be staying in Japan.”

  “Why?”

  “I wondered if I might show you some of the sights.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but my schedule is already worked out.”

  “I’d take you to see the real Japan,” he promised. “Like the waterfall teahouse in Kobe where I spend my summers. Or the island of Toshi where they dive for pearls. Or bird-watching in the mountains. Have you ever seen a copper pheasant?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  “Their coloring is magnificent. And there are so many other gorgeous birds to look at. I’ve drawn many of them. Because they know I’m a collector, my friends bring me all sorts of curious things,” he said, desperate to engage her attention. “Sword-tailed green grasshoppers, singing toads, and the most amazing butterflies. Last year, one
of the fishermen brought me an octopus with fifteen legs.”

  “I thought that they only had eight.”

  “This one was a freak. I took it back to England and sold it to a London museum. You can see it on display when you go back. If you read the card beside the exhibit,” he said with nervous pride, “you’ll see my name mentioned.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “I think you’d love Japan, Miss Masefield.”

  “I’m sure that I shall,” she said politely, “but we ought to be going now. Dinner will be served very shortly.” Before she could turn away, he opened his sketch pad to take out a sheet of paper. He thrust it at her. “What’s this?” said Genevieve.

  “A first idea for the poster.”

  Genevieve looked down at a drawing of two figures on a stage. Standing beside the piano, Maxine Gilpatrick was easily recognizable, but it was the pianist who stood out. The full-length portrait of Genevieve was so exact in detail and drawn with such obvious affection that she was lost for words.

  “Well?” asked Seymour-Jones anxiously. “What do you think?”

  Fay Brinkley was delighted to accept the invitation to sit at the captain’s table. When she found herself next to Rutherford Blaine, she was even more pleased. She was glad to renew the acquaintance of a man whose intelligence she admired and whose company she found stimulating. As they took their seats, she cast a glance around the room.

  “No sign of Mrs. Van Bergen, I see.”

  “I think that you put her to flight, Mrs. Brinkley. Unless, of course,” he added, “you converted her to the cause. In that case, she might be down in steerage, preaching to the women about their rights.”

  “I doubt that, Mr. Blaine. Unlike anyone in steerage, she enjoys the rights that come with having a rich American husband. That rather blurs her vision of the sufferings of ordinary women.”

  “I’m afraid they suffer far more in Asia than they do in our country.”

  “Mrs. Van Bergen won’t even notice.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, I will. It’s one of the reasons I’m going there.”

  “You have fire in your belly, Mrs. Brinkley.”