by Conrad Allen
“I’m just hungry,” she said with a laugh, reaching for the menu.
Captain Piercey shared an anecdote with the whole table and they joined in the laughter. Blaine got involved in a conversation with his other neighbor, a Russian aristocrat with a monocle that he had not yet mastered. It was minutes before Fay was able to talk to Blaine again. She made an effort to subdue the curiosity in her voice.
“What’s your opinion of George Dillman?” she asked.
“I think he’s a splendid fellow, Mrs. Brinkley.”
“You and he clearly have an affinity.”
“He’s a civilized man,” said Blaine. “He also has the most extraordinary knowledge of ships. It’s an education to sit next to him.”
“Yes,” she agreed readily, “that’s what I found.”
“His appearance is so striking. I can see why he was drawn to the theater.”
“What do you see him as—Hamlet?”
“Oh, no. I think I’d cast him in a much more romantic role,” he decided. “Something like the Count of Monte Cristo.”
“You could be right.”
“I’m surprised that his theatrical career was such a failure.”
“So am I,” said Fay. “It makes you wonder how he can afford to travel first class on such a long voyage. Does he have a private income?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“He must have given you some sort of hint.”
“Mr. Dillman didn’t give it and I didn’t seek it. The matter never arose.”
“What would your guess be?”
“I’m not given to that kind of guesswork, Mrs. Brinkley,” he said evasively. “Mr. Dillman is charming company, and that’s enough for me. Not everyone aboard this vessel is so personable,” he went on, thinking about the murder of Father Slattery. “But that’s inevitable, I suppose. In a barrel as large as the Minnesota, we’re bound to have a few bad apples.”
“You sound as if you’ve bitten into one or two.”
“No, no,” he affirmed. “I’ve been blessed in my table companions.”
“Even though they included Mrs. Van Bergen?”
“I didn’t find her quite as unpleasant as you did, Mrs. Brinkley.”
“She wasn’t unpleasant,” said Fay sharply. “Just stubbornly ignorant.” Her eye caught sight of someone entering the room. “Talk of the devil! Here she is. Right on cue. All we need now is George Dillman,” she observed, searching for him in vain. “I took him to be such a punctual man. Where is he?”
Dillman did not make his move until he was given the signal. It was only when the purser sent word that the Gilpatrick party had taken their seats in the dining saloon that the detective moved into action. Dressed as a steward, he had changed his appearance by wetting his hair and slicking it straight back. A false mustache, saved from his days as an actor, also came into use. Dillman moved swiftly. He knocked hard on the door of a cabin on the boat deck to make certain there was nobody inside. Satisfied that it was empty, he used the master key to let himself in. The suite was palatial. It was the character of Maxine Gilpatrick that had been stamped most clearly upon it. The air was charged with her perfume and her possessions were scattered everywhere. Over three-quarters of the wardrobe space was devoted to her. Dillman’s search was quick but thorough. Gilpatrick was a careful man. Nothing incriminating was on view.
Taking care to leave everything as he found it, Dillman searched on. He was particularly careful in the bedroom, moving stealthily over the patterned carpet and opening cupboards and drawers with excessive care. It was a fruitless exercise. He was about to abandon it when he thought of the mattresses. Lifting the first, he found nothing at all underneath, but the second mattress yielded its secret. As he raised it up with one hand, he reached inside to pull out a catalog that contained a number of designs.
Dillman was thrilled with the find.
“We’ve got him!” he murmured.
ELEVEN
The Langmeads had cast their net much wider that evening. Genevieve Masefield was the only person to have dined with them before. Among the newcomers at a table for eight was a young couple from Seattle, patently on their honeymoon. Genevieve liked the Newtons from the moment she met them. They were friendly, kind, fresh-faced, and unashamedly in love with each other. She warmed to Monsieur and Madame Houlier even more. Cultured Europeans who spoke almost flawless English, they had been married long enough to have blended closely together. Subtle signals passed between them all the time. Yves Houlier was a silver-haired man whose handsome features had defeated most of the ravages of time. His attractive wife, Jeanne, ten years younger and wearing an example of the latest Paris fashion, seemed to enjoy it when her husband flirted outrageously with the other women at the table. Myrtle Newton giggled at his flattering remarks but Etta Langmead encouraged him. Genevieve attracted most of the Frenchman’s attention. It was pleasant because it was completely harmless. She could not feel the same toward David Seymour-Jones, whose latest portrait of her had caused her more disquiet. Genevieve was grateful that he was not sitting at her table again.
Unfortunately, he had been replaced by her other suitor. Willoughby Kincaid had somehow inveigled his way into the affections of Horace and Etta Langmead. The Englishman was at his most attentive. As soon as wine was poured, he raised a glass.
“I wish to propose a toast!” he announced.
“To whom?” asked Etta Langmead.
“To the four beautiful ladies at this table, Mrs. Langmead. But I’d like to single out, if I may, Miss Genevieve Masefield. I heard the most delicious rumor earlier this evening,” he said, gazing at Genevieve. “You not only have the cream of English womanhood siting at your table, my friends. You have a concert pianist. Miss Masefield is to accompany Mrs. Gilpatrick in a song recital.” His glass was lifted higher. “Let’s drink to their joint success.”
Everyone did so with enthusiasm, then plied Genevieve with endless questions. When she finally escaped the interrogation, she found herself wishing that she had never sat down at the piano in the Ladies’ Boudoir. The consequences were proving too embarrassing. Horace Langmead leaned across to impart a quiet word in her ear.
“As soon as I met Mrs. Gilpatrick, I knew that she was a performer of some kind.”
“Her voice is good enough to sing grand opera.”
“Have you seen the dress she’s wearing this evening?”
“Yes, Mr. Langmead,” she said. “I turned green with envy.”
“So did Etta. However,” he went on, “her husband was more interested in you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Miss Masefield. The four of us came down to dinner together. When the ladies were walking in front of us, I have to confess that I couldn’t take my eyes off Mrs. Gilpatrick, but her husband simply wanted to talk about you.”
“Why?”
“Oh, he just asked me what I thought about you. Naturally,” said Langmead, “I told him that we were both entranced with you.”
“What did Mr. Gilpatrick say to that?”
“He agreed that you were utterly charming. What he couldn’t understand was why you were traveling alone.” He chuckled merrily. “I did point out that a certain artist was captivated by you but I didn’t see much future in that relationship.”
“There isn’t any, Mr. Langmead,” she said quietly.
“Poor fellow! Etta wanted to invite him to our table again.”
“To be honest, I’m glad that you didn’t.”
He probed gently. “Is there any single gentleman you would like us to invite?”
“No, thank you,” she said firmly. “I don’t need anyone to act as my pander.”
“That’s what I told Etta. It’s one of the reasons I suggested that we omit Mr. Seymour-Jones this evening. Though I did see you come in with him earlier on.”
“That was purely accidental, Mr. Langmead.”
“We would have included Fay Brinkley, but she seems to have been elevated.”
; “Yes,” noted Genevieve, looking at the captain’s table.
“Etta has been hoping for an invitation on our behalf,” he confided. “I must say, I was a little embarrassed when she raised the matter with the Gilpatricks.”
“Oh?”
“Mrs. Gilpatrick immediately declared that her husband would arrange it for us. I hate to be beholden to people for things like that, Miss Masefield. I’d much rather be invited to the captain’s table on our own account. It would give me no pleasure if I was sitting there merely because I was acquainted with Mr. Gilpatrick.”
“I can understand how you feel.”
“Not that I don’t like the man,” he said defensively. “I do. But that’s the kind of favor that I’d never have asked from him. Am I being silly?”
“No, Mr. Langmead.”
“It’s a question of self-respect.”
“I agree.”
Willoughby Kincaid’s suddenly became the dominant voice at the table.
“So,” said Yves Houlier, “you’ve been to China before, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Only to the treaty ports,” replied the other. “I intend to see rather more of the country this time. Shanghai is the place I know best. It’s extraordinary how many English friends I’ve met there. I must have bumped into at least four chaps who were at Eton with me, and there was a Wykehamist in the colonial service who reminded me that I was once engaged to his sister.”
“What’s a Wykehamist?”
“Someone who went to Winchester, Monsieur Houlier. It’s one of our less distinguished public schools,” said Kincaid with mock contempt. “William of Wykeham was a famous Bishop of Winchester who was educated there. He went on to found a college at Oxford. I’m sorry,” he continued, looking around the table. “I didn’t mean to get diverted into a lecture on English history.”
“Tell us about the young lady,” encouraged Etta Langmead.
“Which one?”
“The one to whom you were engaged.”
“Only briefly,” said Kincaid with a grin. “We attended a ball together in London and the excitement got the better of me. When I woke up next morning, I discovered that I was engaged to Cressida Petrie-Hay. It was all a ghastly mistake. Anyway, to get back to China, I’m sure that you’ll find it as fascinating as I do, Monsieur Houlier. I heard the call of the East a long time ago.”
“What about the call of Cressida Petrie-Hay?” asked Genevieve.
“It fell on deaf ears, I’m afraid. Besides, the engagement was never formally announced in The Times, so it was hardly set in stone. I wriggled out of it with as much grace as I could manage. Her brother tells me that Cressida is married to a distant relative of Lord Rosebury’s.”
“Your former foreign secretary?” noted Langmead.
“That’s right. The sixth Earl of Rosebury. Educated at Eton, of course.”
“So he was not a Wykehamist?” teased Houlier.
“He’d never have soiled his feet by walking into the place.”
“What about Japan?” asked Myrtle Newton. “Have you been there, Mr. Kincaid?”
“I’ve been everywhere, Mrs. Newton.”
“Which do you prefer? Japan or China?”
Kincaid flicked a hand. “Oh, give me China every time. It’s bigger, better, and much more mysterious. Its culture is fascinating. I’ve made quite a study of its philosophy. Yes, I prefer China and the Chinese.”
“So does my husband,” said Etta Langmead. “He finds the Japanese deceitful.”
“No, I don’t, honey,” he corrected. “I simply think they need watching. But that goes for every nation.” He beamed at Genevieve. “Even the English.”
“The English don’t have a deceitful bone in their body,” boasted Kincaid.
Houlier gave him a verbal nudge. “Not even if they’re Wykehamists?”
“We don’t count those.”
“We hope to go to Europe one day,” said Myrtle Newton. “What should we see?”
“London and Paris.”
“I’d add Rome and Venice,” said Yves Houlier. “But avoid Germany.”
“Where would you recommend, Miss Masefield?” asked Langmead.
But Genevieve was not listening. She had just seen Dillman come into the room.
Showering them with his apologies, Dillman took his seat at a table for six with the Legges, the Changs, and Angela Van Bergen. He knew about Blaine’s move to the captain’s table because he had suggested it, wanting to sit apart from the latter so that he would not be identified as a secondary bodyguard. He felt that it was important for them not to be seen together too often. Dillman was far too late for the first course.
“My watch must be slow,” he said. “I thought I had plenty of time.”
“Didn’t you hear that bell they ring to announce dinner?” asked Legge.
“That’s what got me out of the bath.”
“You must have got dressed very quickly. It would have taken Moira an hour.”
“That’s not true, Bruce!” she said.
“I’m the one who has to wait, darling.”
Having changed out of his steward’s uniform, Dillman was in his white tie and tails. His hair had been brushed forward into its usual style, and the false mustache had been removed. Remembering their last encounter, he made an effort to be considerate toward Mrs. Van Bergen. She was wearing a nondescript black evening gown.
“I do admire that dress, Mrs. Van Bergen,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Dillman. It’s my husband’s favorite.”
“Will he be at the harbor to greet you?”
“Of course,” she said complacently. “He’ll probably be there a day in advance.” She lowered her voice. “I’m glad that Mrs. Brinkley is not with us this evening.”
“Are you?”
“I found her intolerable.”
“She’s a lady of strong convictions, that’s all.”
“They just happen to be the wrong ones.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” he said guardedly.
“There was so much bitterness in her.”
“I didn’t notice it.”
“Oh, it was there, believe me. Just under the surface. Mrs. Brinkley is a sour woman. Do you know what I attribute it to, Mr. Dillman?”
“What?”
“Her divorce. Because she made an unfortunate marriage herself, she can’t accept that some us have been more successful in our choice of husbands. It never occurs to her that we already have what we want. She presumes to speak for us.”
“I don’t think that she feels she’s representing you, Mrs. Van Bergen.”
“That’s just as well.”
“Even if you were given the vote,” he ventured, “you probably wouldn’t use it.”
“I’d throw it back where it came from, Mr. Dillman. What do I know of politics?”
“What do most men know? Yet it doesn’t stop them pontificating.”
“Men were born to pontificate. Women were not.”
“Moira pontificates from time to time,” teased Legge. “Don’t you, darling?”
“No, I don’t,” she denied.
“I should know. I’m on the receiving end.” Legge gave a high-pitched laugh. “One of Moira’s nieces is a suffragette,” he said. “Damn girl never stops pontificating.”
“Well, she doesn’t get any encouragement from me,” said his wife. “Daisy is going through a phase. I’ve warned her. If she doesn’t grow out of it soon, we’ll be forced to cut her dead. Do you know what the suffragettes do in England? They’re a disgrace to our sex. If she’s not careful, Daisy could end up in prison.”
“Best place for her,” said Legge.
“She had such a lovely disposition as a child.”
“I’m sure that Mrs. Brinkley did as well,” said Mrs. Van Bergen to Dillman.
Now that he had settled in, Dillman felt able to take stock of the situation at some of the other tables. Unaware of the waspish remarks being directed at her, Fay Brinkley was
involved in an intense discussion with Rutherford Blaine, but she somehow sensed that she was being watched. Glancing up, she gave Dillman a secret smile. His gaze shifted to Genevieve. Apart from Kincaid, the only people he recognized at her table were the Langmeads. Genevieve was less engaged than she normally was with her dinner companions, joining fitfully in the conversation but otherwise sitting in silence. There was no silence at Rance Gilpatrick’s table. Guffaws came from Joseph McDade as he listened to one of Gilpatrick’s stories. Blanche McDade was unmoved but Tommy Gault, promoted to his employer’s side for the first time, roared with laughter. Among the other guests, Dillman noted, were Mr. and Mrs. Hayashi.
“Did anyone go to the concert this afternoon?” asked Bruce Legge.
“We did,” volunteered Li Chang. “Very nice music.”
“First-rate entertainment. What about you, Mrs. Van Bergen?”
“Oh, I was there, Mr. Legge. I particularly liked the Beethoven sonata.”
Dillman shook his head. “I’m afraid that I missed it.”
“Then you missed a treat, old chap,” said Legge.
“You also missed the first signs of a romance, Mr. Dillman,” said Moira, closing the lids over her glass eye. “I knew that something would happen between them.”
“Between whom, Mrs. Legge?” asked Dillman.
“Have you met that beautiful English lady called Genevieve Masefield?”
“I don’t believe that I have.”
“You must know her by sight. Bruce and I were at her table recently.”
“Yes,” sighed Legge, “with that fearful windbag, Father Slattery.”
“Tell us about this romance,” said Mrs. Van Bergen, eager to snap up any gossip. “Who’s the man involved?”
“Who else but your old bridge partner?”
She was hurt. “Mr. Kincaid?”
“We knew that he was interested in her,” said Moira, taking over again. “He wanted to know everything we could tell him about Miss Masefield. He’s older than her, of course, but I don’t think that matters. There’s definitely something between them.”
“How do you know?” asked Dillman.
“They went to the concert together.”
“And sat in a back row,” added Legge. “It couldn’t be more obvious.”