by Conrad Allen
“None.”
“So why did you pull out?”
“I just wasn’t up to it,” said Genevieve sadly. “Maxine Gilpatrick is a seasoned professional while I’m just someone who can play the piano fairly well.”
“I think you’re being modest.”
“No, Fay, I’m being a realist.”
“Mrs. Gilpatrick is a very interesting lady,” observed Fay. “I wish I’d been able to get to know her better. Etta Langmead says that she trained to sing opera.”
“That’s right, but Maxine took a wrong turning somewhere.”
“She did that when she married her husband.”
“You disliked him, didn’t you?”
“That’s an understatement,” said Fay bitterly. “Anyway, I was in here having a late breakfast when Gilpatrick came stamping in. He treated the waiter appallingly. I can’t bear it when people bully servants like that. The waiter did nothing wrong, but Gilpatrick was taking his anger out on the poor man. Anyone who marries him is in for trouble. Gilpatrick is violent and uncouth. What’s your opinion?”
“Pretty much the same as yours, Fay.”
“You know him better than I do.”
Genevieve nodded. “It wasn’t exactly a salutary experience.”
“What about his wife?”
“Maxine is a lovely woman. She’s had a tough life but has come through it well. I like her very much. That’s how I got drawn into this song recital.”
“Will the event still go ahead without you?”
“It’s in the balance,” said Genevieve tactfully. “But what about you, Fay? I haven’t seen you for a while. What have you been up to?”
“All sorts of things. The most important one occurred last night.” Her eyes sparkled at the memory. “I had what you might call a little adventure.”
“Did you?”
“Yes,” said Fay, making sure that nobody else was listening. “I went for a walk on the upper deck and who should I bump into but George Dillman? I told you about him. That handsome man I met in here one day. When I saw Mr. Dillman there, I couldn’t believe my luck. The setting was so romantic.”
“What happened?”
“We talked and talked and got steadily closer. It was wonderful.”
“Did he ask to see you again?”
“Oh, no. Mr. Dillman would never do that. He’s in no hurry, Genevieve. It will take a few more sessions on deck at night before we get to that stage. But I’ll ease him gently along. It will come to fruition in time.”
“I see,” said Genevieve, giving nothing away. “What else have you been doing?”
“Upsetting Mrs. Van Bergen whenever I can. Oh, and I was able to vent my spleen on Joseph McDade as well. Do you remember him?”
“Yes. He launched that terrible attack on President Roosevelt.”
“He caught me in the lounge when I was enjoying a coffee,” said Fay, slicing her salmon. “For some reason, Mr. McDade thought I needed the benefit of his ignorance, so he started to lecture me on the defects of our president. I saw red, Genevieve. I told him that if he hated the way the country was being run, he should do every American a favor by emigrating. You should have heard him rant and rave. That pallid wife of his was so embarrassed by it all.”
“I do feel sorry for her.”
“Yet the funny thing was this,” continued Fay. “Later on, she came looking for me on her own to apologize for the way that her husband had lost his temper and to thank me for what I said. Nobody has stood up to the old walrus before.”
“I don’t think Blanche McDade ever will.”
“She’s terrified of him, Genevieve. When he found that he couldn’t browbeat me, McDade went back to his cabin, swearing that he’d get his own back somehow. He was in such a rage, according to his wife, that he even took a gun out of his case at one point. I didn’t like the sound of that, I must admit,” said Fay worriedly. “What’s he doing with a gun in the first place? Intelligent people are supposed to win arguments with reason, not with a loaded weapon.”
“Did his wife know that he had a gun?” asked Genevieve with interest.
“No, she was as shocked as I was.”
“Don’t get too upset about it, Fay. I don’t think it was a serious threat.”
“That’s what Blanche McDade said. When her husband calmed down a bit, he told her that there was no real danger. He had no ammunition. I thought that was so peculiar,” said Fay. “Why should a man carry a gun when it has no bullets?”
Genevieve kept the answer to herself. Fay Brinkley had unwittingly given her another piece of evidence. Yves Houlier began to talk about a holiday that he and his wife had spent in England, and Genevieve was called in to pass comments. Half an hour slipped by in the most pleasurable manner. Everyone at the table seemed to be having an enjoyable time except Horace Langmead. With a fixed smile on his face, he spent most of the time listening rather than contributing. For an extrovert like Langmead, it was highly uncharacteristic behavior. When he excused himself early from the table, Genevieve was concerned about him. She turned to Etta Langmead.
“Is your husband unwell?” she asked.
“Horry? No,” said Etta, “he’s never unwell.”
“He seemed rather distracted.”
“It was that row he had earlier on.”
“Row?” said Genevieve.
“Yes, Miss Masefield. Don’t ask me what it was about because I don’t know, but it really shook Horry. I’ve never seen him so angry.”
“He’s so even-tempered as a rule.”
“I know. Horry is a dear.”
“Did he tell you why he was upset?”
“All he’d say was that the man was never to be invited to our table ever again.”
“What man?”
“The one he had the row with,” said Etta. “David Seymour-Jones.”
Rance Gilpatrick did not stand on ceremony. Grabbing him by the throat, he pushed Tommy Gault against the wall. Gault’s eyes widened in alarm.
“What’s the matter, boss?” he asked.
“Did you tell my wife that you searched that cabin?”
“Mrs. Gilpatrick already knew.”
“Of course she didn’t,” snarled Gilpatrick. “But she does now—thanks to you.”
“She asked me what I found, that’s all.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth,” said Gault. “Nothing.”
“Did you say why I sent you into that cabin in the first place?”
“No, boss. I’m not that stupid.”
“Oh, yes, you are. You’ve ruined everything.”
Gilpatrick started to belabor him and Gault immediately went into the defensive posture he used in the ring. Not daring to strike back, he took most of the punishment on his arms. Gilpatrick soon tired. Breathing heavily, he stepped back.
Gault lowered his guard. “I’m sorry, boss.”
“It’s too late to say that.”
“I don’t see what I’ve done wrong.”
“Because of you, my wife has left me.”
“On a ship? How can she do that?”
“By moving to another cabin,” said Gilpatrick, taking another swipe at him. “Why did you have to open your big mouth, Tommy? I warned you to tell nobody.”
“I didn’t think that included Mrs. Gilpatrick.”
“Maxine was at the top of the list.”
“Has she really left you, boss?”
“Yes. Genevieve Masefield is a friend of hers. She was also going to play the piano for Maxine in the concert. That blew apart when I told Miss Masefield that George Dillman was seen sneaking into her cabin at night.” He ran a desperate hand through his hair. “How was I to know that she simply wanted to ask the guy to offer her some protection? I thought they were working together somehow.”
“They are,” said Gault.
“What do you mean?”
“They came looking for me earlier on the boat deck. Mr. Dillman decided he wanted to th
row another punch at me. I’ll tell you this, boss, he hit me much harder this time. I didn’t show it, of course, but he hurt.”
Gilpatrick needed a moment to absorb the information. “They came together?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Dillman and Miss Masefield?”
“I think he wanted to show off in front of her,” said Gault. “He made me take my coat off so that he could have a proper look at the target. Then he took off his own coat. Miss Masefield held them for us.”
“She held your coat?” Gilpatrick’s mind was racing. “Where do you keep the key, Tommy?”
“The one to my cabin? In the pocket of my trousers.”
“The other key, you imbecile! To the orlop deck.”
“Oh, that’s in here,” said Gault, patting his coat pocket. “You told me to keep it on me at all times. I even have it tucked into the top of my boots when I do my skipping.”
“Is it still there?”
“Of course, boss.”
“Let me see it.”
“Why?”
“Let me see it, Tommy. Now!”
“Sure,” said Gault, taking the key from his pocket to hand it over. “Here it is.”
Gilpatrick examined it. “You were duped,” he said angrily. “This is not the same key at all. They must have switched it with the other one.”
“It looks like the same key to me.”
“Oh, it’s similar, I grant you. But it’s not engraved like the other one. I paid a lot of money to get hold of that key, Tommy. And you let them take it off you.”
“But what would they want it for, boss?”
“I’ve got a nasty suspicion about that.”
“Mr. Dillman and Miss Masefield are only passengers,” argued Gault, scratching his head. “Why should they steal a key to the orlop deck?”
Dillman inserted the key and unlocked the door. He turned to the purser with a smile.
“See? I told you it fit.”
“It was the one thing that persuaded the skipper,” said Roebuck. “I just hope that we find what we’re looking for down here or we could end up with red faces.”
Dillman was confident. “We’ll find it.”
“How do you know?”
“Why would Rance Gilpatrick and Joseph McDade sail over four thousand miles if they didn’t have some merchandise aboard?”
“I can’t speak for McDade,” said the purser, “but Gilpatrick has a good reason to book a passage on the Minnesota. He’s on his honeymoon.”
“Not anymore, Mike.”
The purser had a torch and a copy of the ship’s manifest while Dillman was carrying a crowbar. They made their way to the hold where the goods being imported by Mr. Hayashi were kept. Some were destined for Japan, but most were going on to Shanghai. Lighting in the hold was patchy. Roebuck shone the torch on labels affixed to the sides of the various boxes and barrels.
“Where do we start, George?” he asked.
“With something relatively small.”
The purser tapped a box. “What about this one?” he suggested. “It’s supposed to contain copperware.”
“Then it probably does,” said Dillman. “Look at the label. It’s being unloaded at Yokohama. Hayashi has legitimate imports for Japan down here. We need something that’s going on to China.” He searched among the boxes. “Shine your torch over here.”
Roebuck obliged and they saw that the label indicated Shanghai as the destination. According to the manifest, the box contained only leatherwear. Dillman waited for a nod from the purser, then went into action, using the crowbar to pry open the wooden lid of the box. Roebuck thrust his hand through a layer of straw and pulled out some decorated leather belts with silver buckles on them. He looked disappointed.
“Dig deeper, Mike,” advised Dillman.
“I can feel the bottom of the box,” replied the other, thrusting his arm into the consignment. He held up another handful of belts. “We’ve drawn a blank.”
“Let’s open another.”
“Hold on, George. I’m starting to have second thoughts.”
“Why?”
“We could be making a mistake.”
“How many times have you been to China?”
“Dozens of times.”
“And how many Chinese have you seen with belts like these? Most of them wear those pajamas, Mike. You don’t need expensive leather belts with them. What’s the point of importing this lot?”
“There are plenty of foreigners in the treaty ports.”
“I know,” said Dillman, studying a large box, “but there’s a limit to how many belts they’d buy. Look, here’s another load. Hayashi Imports. I’ll bet my bottom dollar that it doesn’t contain what it says on the label.”
Before the purser could stop him, he used the crowbar again and the wood splintered. The nails groaned in protest as they were levered out. Dillman put the lid on the ground and gestured to his friend.
“Be my guest.”
“I hope we strike oil this time, George.”
“Start drilling.”
Putting his torch down, Roebuck used both hands to lift the straw insulation out of the box. Leather belts were coiled up and neatly packed in rows. The purser reached in to pull some out. With a baleful expression, he showed them to Dillman.
“I think we’re out of luck,” he said.
“Not necessarily,” said Dillman. “Let me have a go.”
Thrusting his hands into the box, he got no farther than the top layer. He grinned.
“What have you found?” asked Roebuck.
“A false bottom.” Getting his fingers under the edges, he lifted out a piece of wood that fitted into slots near the top of the box. “Hold that, Mike,” he said, giving him the tray of leather belts. Additional straw was used to cover the rest of the contents. He felt through it and pretended to be disappointed. “Oh, no! I just don’t believe it.”
“More leather belts?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Dillman, “but these are a different kind, Mike. Look!”
He pulled one out with a flourish and held it up. Roebuck let out a cry of triumph. What the detective was holding was a cartridge belt filled with live ammunition. There were dozens of others just like it in the box. The purser was thrilled.
“Give me that crowbar, George,” he said. “I’ll open the rest.”
The meal had been an unqualified success. Genevieve Masefield had not only shared a delicious luncheon with a congenial group of people, she had learned something of great interest from her friend. Fay Brinkley’s argument with Joseph McDade had produced a startling consequence. So irate had McDade been after his defeat at the hands of Fay that he had rushed back to his cabin and pulled out a gun. Genevieve was not surprised to hear that it was not loaded. She suspected that it was not kept for protection at all but a new model that McDade had brought along to show to Rance Gilpatrick. If she and Dillman could somehow get hold of the revolver, it might help to link the two men even more closely. The other information gleaned at the table had left her in two minds. Fay’s account of the late night encounter with Dillman was very different from his. While she believed the detective, she still found Fay’s declared interest in him a little worrying. As she hurried back to her cabin after luncheon, she was not sure whether to be amused or piqued by the whole business. If Dillman was going to be on deck in the moonlight, Genevieve wanted to be the person who was with him.
Her mind was still grappling with the notion as she let herself into her cabin. An unexpected sight made her gasp with fear. Seated in the chair was the ample figure of Rance Gilpatrick, waiting patiently for her return.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I wanted a little chat, Miss Masefield,” he said with quiet menace.
She tried to escape but Tommy Gault had been waiting behind the door. Slamming it shut, he grabbed her with one arm and put the other hand over her mouth to stifle her scream. Gilpatrick got up from the chair so that Genev
ieve could be forced down into it. Standing behind her, Gault held her in a firm grip.
Gilpatrick took an object from his pocket and held it inches from her face.
“We brought your key back,” he said. “What have you done with ours?”
Rutherford Blaine enjoyed another meal with the Changs and the Legges. Angela Van Bergen was the sixth person at the table, but she was more reserved this time. When it was all over, Blaine found himself sweeping the room with a nervous gaze. The fact that he was the designated target of an assassin was starting to unnerve him. He wondered how much longer he could keep up the pretense of being unconcerned. Deprived of his bodyguard and indirectly responsible, in his view, for the murder of Father Slattery, he was feeling the cumulative effects of anxiety. Making his way to the exit, he did not have the usual measured confidence in his gait. The deputy purser was waiting to engage him in conversation. After a short while, as on a previous occasion, they strolled off together as if chatting casually. In fact, the deputy purser had been assigned to escort him safely to his cabin while making sure that nobody followed them.
They took a circuitous route, going up a flight of stairs to the promenade deck before descending down two flights to the main deck. After going along a bewildering series of passageways, they finally came to their destination. Walking toward them was a steward with a tray of food in his arms. They waited until he went past, then carried on until they reached Blaine’s cabin. The diplomat thanked his escort before letting himself into the cabin and locking the door behind him. The deputy purser continued on his way and turned a corner. From the other end of the passageway, the steward reappeared. He sidled back to Blaine’s cabin and made a mental note of the number. When he walked away, there was a smile of satisfaction on his face.
The first person to be arrested was Mr. Hayashi. Supported by armed men, George Dillman and Mike Roebuck went to Hayashi’s cabin and confronted him with the evidence that they had found in the cargo hold. The Japanese businessman was fervent in his denials, but he was hauled off nevertheless. Joseph McDade protested his innocence even more loudly when they found him and his wife in their cabin. Dillman waved a sheaf of papers in his face.
“How do you explain these, Mr. McDade?” he demanded. “They’re invoices bearing your name along with that of Mr. Gilpatrick. We found them hidden away inside boxes that turned out to contain rifles, revolvers, and an extensive supply of ammunition.”