Murder on the Minnesota

by Conrad Allen

  Captain Piercey had endless responsibilities aboard ship, but he was quite prepared to take on another one. When the meal was over and his guests slowly dispersed, he chatted with Rutherford Blaine before accompanying him out of the room, providing him with cover in the event that someone was watching. When the two of them were well clear of the dining saloon, the purser was on hand to escort Blaine back to his cabin and to ensure that they were not followed. Dillman had approved of the plan but he was not concerned with Blaine anymore. His thoughts were directed solely at Genevieve. While he knew that she had no serious interest in Kincaid, he was a little piqued to hear that she had been at the concert with the man and wanted to raise the matter with her, especially as the two of them were now dining at the same table. But there was no rush. He waited until Genevieve left the room, then checked the time. Only Li Chang and his wife remained at his table. Dillman fished for information.

  “What do you know about silk, Mr. Chang?” he asked.

  “Only that the best kind comes from China,” replied Chang.

  “The Japanese might disagree.”

  Chang grinned. “They always disagree with us.”

  “Silk must be very difficult to transport.”

  “It is, Mr. Dillman. Last time I sail, I watched them loading bales of silk in Yokohama. Japanese silk, of course,” he said, nodding at his wife. “Inferior quality. You are a seafaring man, Mr. Dillman. You must have seen liners being coaled.”

  “Many times,” said Dillman.

  “You’ve seen nothing like what happens in Yokohama.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s women who do the work,” explained Chang. “I not like to say this in front of Mrs. Brinkley in case it made her angry, but she will find out the truth when we reach Japan. Coal barges pull up alongside the ship and the women form chains on a series of ladders. They pass the coal to each other in heavy bags. It is hard, dirty work. They get filthy.” He squeezed his wife’s hand affectionately. “I not let my wife do anything like that. Women are good enough to load the coal, but men bring the silk bales in special containers.”

  “What happens when the silk gets back to America?”

  “It’s checked by customs and railways officials, then put on trains. I know about these cars, Mr. Dillman. I help to design them. They are lined with varnished wood and sheathed in paper so that they are airtight. No dirt or moisture can get into the cars to damage the merchandise. Silk is very costly.”

  “I know. They obviously take care of it.”

  “It is strange,” commented Chang. “Women will wear most of that silk when it is made into clothing, yet they are not allowed to touch it in the ports. Only men work as stokers, yet it’s Japanese women who give them their coal. Something is not right.”

  Chang was well versed in the movement of silk. After pressing him for more details, Dillman thanked him, then excused himself from the table. Genevieve would have had plenty of time to reach her cabin. He left the dining saloon and strolled toward the promenade deck. Eager to speak with her, he was not as vigilant as he should have been. Though nobody followed him, someone was lurking around a corner near Genevieve’s cabin. When she admitted Dillman, the man stepped out of hiding.

  * * *

  Rance Gilpatrick pulled on his cigar and chatted amiably with Joseph McDade. Adjourning to the smoking room after dinner, they had left their respective wives in the Ladies’ Boudoir. Gilpatrick was about to start on another anecdote when he saw Tommy Gault come into the room. He listened to the message whispered in his ear.

  “Are you sure it was him, Tommy?” he asked in surprise.

  “I should be. He threw a punch at me this afternoon.”

  Gilpatrick pondered. “What on earth is Mr. Dillman doing in her cabin?”

  “You’ll have to be quick, I’m afraid,” said Genevieve, taking off her jewelry. “I’ve got another rehearsal with Maxine in a while and I need to change. I can’t play the piano in this dress.” She felt the intensity of his gaze. “What’s wrong, George?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you staring at me?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said, relaxing. “How was the concert this afternoon?”

  “I wasn’t really in a position to enjoy it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you went with Mr. Kincaid?”

  “But I didn’t,” she retorted.

  “The Legges claim they saw the pair of you in a back row.”

  “That’s true, but I went there with Maxine. I told you that. At the very last moment, Mr. Kincaid slipped in and took the seat beside me. I could do nothing about it.”

  “Oh, I see. I misunderstood.”

  “You certainly did, George. I loathe the man. I was horrified when I saw that the Langmeads had invited him to join our table. Kincaid was insufferable.”

  “I think I owe you an apology.”

  “So do I.”

  “I’m sorry, Genevieve.”

  “What on earth did you think was going on?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “The simple fact is that I didn’t have the chance to explain when I met you in the purser’s cabin. Kincaid wasn’t on my mind. But while we’re on the subject of things we might have told each other,” she said with a note of amusement, “why didn’t you mention that Fay Brinkley tried to flirt with you?”

  “I wasn’t sure that she did.”

  “Come on, George. You’re not that naive.”

  “Mrs. Brinkley and I had a long chat, that’s all.”

  “It’s the looks in between the words that count.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “That she found you very tempting. Coming from Fay, that’s a real compliment. She doesn’t hold men in the highest esteem as a rule. And you liked her,” she noted. “I could tell that. It’s true, isn’t it?” He gave a nod of assent. “What would you have done if I hadn’t been on the ship?”

  “Exactly what I did do, Genevieve. Concentrate on my job.”

  “You’re not on duty twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Yes, I am. So are you.” He gave her a light kiss on the lips. “We ought to spend less time watching each other and more time looking for the killer. I trust you implicitly.”

  “I thought I trusted you until I saw that light in Fay’s eye.”

  “Genevieve!”

  “I was only joking.” She became serious. “How did you get on?”

  “I may have struck gold.”

  “Did you find those catalogs?”

  “Yes,” he said. “They were hidden under Gilpatrick’s mattress. At least we know what game he’s involved in now. He and his associates are gun runners. My guess is that McDade is his supplier and Gilpatrick is responsible for smuggling the stuff across the Pacific. Those catalogs contained a number of new weapons that are not on the market yet. Some of them had been ticked by Gilpatrick. I think that he means to buy a consignment in the future.”

  “Does he have a load of guns aboard?”

  “I hope so. It’s the only way we can nail him.”

  “How on earth did he get them past customs?”

  “People like Gilpatrick always get around the rules. But I didn’t only search his cabin, Genevieve. While I was on the boat deck, I had a sudden impulse to pop into Mr. Hayashi’s cabin. I’m glad I surrendered to it.”

  “Why?”

  “Hayashi is not as scrupulous as Gilpatrick. He left some interesting things hanging around,” he reported, “including a letter from Gilpatrick about this voyage. They’re in cahoots together. There’s a mention of merchandise from Seattle being exchanged for goods in Shanghai.”

  “Why there?” she wondered. “Mr. Hayashi is Japanese.”

  “According to the manifest, he has an office in Shanghai as well. Some of the stuff with his name on it is destined for China. That could be a valuable clue. So could this,” he said, taking a slip of paper from his pocket. “What do you make of thi
s?”

  Genevieve looked at it. “Is this some kind of hoax, George?”

  “No,” he assured her. “That’s an address of some sort. I took it from a letter heading in Hayashi’s cabin. They may not look like it but those are Japanese characters. I copied them down as carefully as I could.”

  “What use are they? Neither of us reads Japanese.”

  “We don’t, perhaps,” he said, “but your friend Mr. Natsuki does.”

  Back in the safety of his cabin, Rutherford Blaine was able to let his exasperation show.

  “How long will this have to go on, Mr. Roebuck?” he asked.

  “Until we catch the man who’s trying to kill you.”

  “Supposing he’s not alone?”

  “Then we’ll round up his confederates as well. They’ll all stand trial for the murder of Father Slattery.” The purser bit his lip. “He, of course, is another problem. We can’t keep the body indefinitely. As soon as this matter is cleared up, Captain Piercey will have to think about a burial at sea.”

  “It could well have been mine.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Ironic, really,” said Blaine. “I hate water and never learned to swim. The last place in the world where I want my bones to rest is at the bottom of the Pacific.”

  “It won’t come to that, Mr. Blaine.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I have every confidence in George Dillman.”

  “Does he have any suspects in mind?”

  “Yes and no, sir.”

  Blaine grinned. “You sound like a politician, Mr. Roebuck. The nation’s capital is full of them. They’re men who can face in seven directions at the same time without ever committing themselves. I call them the yes-no-maybe men.”

  “Very well,” said the purser. “If you want a more specific answer, it’s this. We do have someone aboard whom we’re watching very carefully. He certainly wouldn’t stop at murder, and he has an associate who’s strong enough to have killed Father Slattery in the way that occurred. George Dillman is searching for evidence to arrest these men.”

  “That’s the ‘yes’ part of the equation. Where does the ‘no’ part come in?”

  “The main suspect has been under surveillance since we set sail. We’re convinced that he’s been using this vessel for the purposes of smuggling. That’s the reason we hired Mr. Dillman,” he explained. “We know this man is involved in one crime. Whether he committed the more serious one of murder is open to doubt.”

  “What’s his background?”

  “He owns a chain of saloons on the West Coast and has been implicated in all manner of illegal activities from prostitution to handling contraband.”

  “Why haven’t the police put him behind bars?” said Blaine.

  “He always slips out of their grasp somehow,” replied Roebuck. “He’s a wealthy man. He can afford large bribes. We know for a fact that he has a number of crooked politicians in his pocket.”

  The older man tensed. “Do you happen to know the names of those politicians?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “But there could be a link with Washington, D.C.?”

  “Conceivably.”

  “What’s this man’s name?”

  “Rance Gilpatrick.”

  “Means nothing to me,” said Blaine, shaking his head. “Thank you, Mr. Roebuck. You’ve been very honest with me, but I can’t say that I feel reassured. Mr. Gilpatrick may or may not be involved in the plot against me. Yet he’s your only suspect. The killer may turn out to be someone else entirely.”

  “We accept that, sir.”

  “And he may be part of a small gang.”

  “That, too, is possible.”

  “Is Mr. Dillman up against them on his own?”

  “Don’t underestimate him, Mr. Blaine. He’s a remarkable man.”

  “I appreciate that, but I do think that he’ll need some help.”

  “He already has it,” said the purser. “George Dillman is supported by a partner.”

  Maxine Gilpatrick had been working on her program in private. Her singing was more assured, her performance more studied. For the first time since they had teamed up, Genevieve Masefield had the feeling that their concert could be a success. She played the piano with more confidence, and marveled at the sheer professionalism of her partner. Though none of the songs would have been suitable for her customary venue in a saloon, Maxine sang them as if they were standard numbers in her repertoire. She put controlled emotion into her work. Her version of “The Old Folks at Home” was so affecting that it brought her accompanist close to tears. They were alone in the Ladies’ Boudoir at the end of the day and made excellent progress.

  “We’re almost there, Jenny,” said Maxine, slapping the lid of the piano.

  “And we still have two days to go.”

  “All we need to do now is add some polish.”

  “You’ve been doing that, Maxine,” said Genevieve with admiration. “I’m amazed at the improvement since the last rehearsal.”

  “I had a long soak in the tub,” admitted Maxine. “That’s where I rehearse best.”

  “Do you want to finish?”

  “Let’s have one more go at ‘Greensleeves.’”

  “I’m ready when you are,” said Genevieve, playing the introduction.

  Maxine took her stance, then launched herself into the song. Genevieve knew the tune well enough to play it without having to follow the music. As she looked up at her friend, she was impressed with the incredible poise that Maxine was showing. The latter was composed, dignified yet totally relaxed. The words seem to come out effortlessly. Maxine sang with the air of a woman who was making one last bold attempt to prove that she should be taken seriously as a singer. Gone were the vocal tricks and movements that she had used during her earlier career. She looked and sounded like a concert artiste at the height of her powers. When she came to the end of the song, it earned warm applause.

  “That was terrific, honey,” said Gilpatrick, clapping his hands.

  “Rance!” she exclaimed, swinging around. “I didn’t see you there.”

  He gave her a kiss of congratulation. “I sneaked in.” He turned to Genevieve. “You play that thing well, Miss Masefield. If you ever want a job as a pianist in one of my saloons, just let me know.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Jenny,” said Maxine. “He’s only teasing. But you shouldn’t be in here, Rance,” she went on, giving him a playful push. “This is reserved for ladies.”

  “I always did like to break the rules,” he said cheerily.

  “Well,” said Genevieve, getting up and collecting the sheets of music, “if that’s it, I’ll wish you both good night and slip away.”

  Gilpatrick blocked her way. “Not just yet, Miss Masefield,” he said coolly. “Much as I like to listen to my wife’s singing, it was you I came in here to see.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Gilpatrick?”

  “I wanted to ask you about a mutual acquaintance of ours.”

  “Who are you talking about?” asked Maxine.

  “Mr. George Dillman.”

  “I’ve never heard of the guy.”

  “Well, I’m sure that Miss Masefield has.” He smiled at her. “Haven’t you?”

  Mention of Dillman’s name gave Genevieve a fright, but she concealed it well. Wondering how Gilpatrick had connected her with her partner, she tried to make their friendship sound more fleeting.

  “I did meet Mr. Dillman briefly,” she admitted.

  “Since you came onboard?” he pressed.

  “Of course.”

  “How did you get acquainted?”

  “We sat next to each other in the lounge one morning.”

  “So you wouldn’t describe yourselves as close friends?”

  “What are you getting at, Rance?” complained his wife. “You’ve got no right to question Jenny about her private life. Who is this Mr. Dillman, anyway?”

  “That’s what I’m trying
to find out, honey,” he replied. “Earlier today, Tommy Gault was showing off in front of a couple of kids, getting them to punch him in the stomach. This guy just happened to be watching, so we started to talk. He gave his name as George Dillman. What I want to know is whether or not it was sheer coincidence that he was there at the time.”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” suggested Genevieve.

  “Can’t you help me out, Miss Masefield?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “He hasn’t discussed the incident with you?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Gilpatrick. Why should he?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I hardly know Mr. Dillman.”

  “Then what were you doing, letting him into your cabin earlier on?”

  Genevieve could not hide her blush. Maxine spared her the necessity of an immediate reply. Torn between annoyance at her husband for putting Genevieve under such pressure and simple curiosity, she veered toward the latter.

  “Are you sure about this, Rance?”

  “Dead sure.”

  “How?”

  “My informant was very reliable.”

  Maxine was shocked. “You had someone snooping on Jenny?”

  “No, honey. He was just walking past at the time. Keep out of this, will you?”

  “Jenny is my friend.”

  “I’m more interested in another friend of hers. Well,” he said, switching his gaze to Genevieve. “Is it true?”

  The exchange between husband and wife had given her time to concoct her story. Genevieve met his gaze without wavering and put indignation into her voice.

  “I don’t have to answer that question, Mr. Gilpatrick,” she said, chin held high, “but I will. First of all, however, let me say how disgusted I am at the thought that you felt the need to spy on me. My private life is my own. I can invite anyone I wish into my cabin without seeking your permission.”

  “Hear that, Rance?” said Maxine. “I endorse every word of it.”

  “Mr. Dillman is not a close friend of mine,” continued Genevieve, “but he did strike me as a very discreet man when I met him. I invited him to my cabin to ask him a favor—and it was not the kind that you imagine,” she said acidly. “I don’t know who was lurking outside my door but, if he had stayed there, he would have seen how soon my visitor departed.”