Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  “You don’t expect this kind of thing on the White Star Line,” he said anxiously. “I’ve had deaths before but always from natural causes. A murder introduces all sorts of complications.”

  Hembrow gave a nod. “I shudder to think what they are.”

  “I’m not really qualified to perform an autopsy.”

  “I don’t think you’ll need to, Dr. Garfield,” said Dillman, getting up to stand beside him. “I think your initial diagnosis may be correct. Mr. Riedel was not the sort of man to be taken unawares. If he put up no resistance, he must have been drugged. There’s a smell of whiskey on him,” he added. “Is there a bottle in here anywhere?”

  “No,” said Hembrow, looking around the room.

  “Then it must be in his cabin.”

  “Oh no!”

  “You’d better get in there before Mr. Morgan takes a sip of it to steady himself.” The purser moved to the door. “And you might ask him to make a list of everything that was stolen.”

  “He’s already doing that.”

  Hembrow went out and Dillman gazed down at the body. He had disliked Howard Riedel but he was deeply sorry that the man had been murdered. It told him that they were dealing with a ruthless criminal. If Riedel had been drugged, there would have been no need to kill him. The thief could have taken what he wanted while J. P. Morgan’s bodyguard slept peacefully on the floor. It was a gratuitous act of violence.

  Dillman searched the room for any clues that might have been left behind. He noticed that three of the paintings had been removed from their frames. No murder weapon was found.

  “Have you been in this situation before?” asked Garfield.

  “Unfortunately, I have.”

  “What do we do next?”

  “Make sure as few people as possible know about this.”

  “We can hardly conceal it, Mr. Dillman.”

  “We’ll have to somehow,” said the detective. “If word of a murder gets out, it will spread panic throughout the ship. That will be bad for everyone and will only serve to hinder our investigation.”

  “News is bound to seep out somehow.”

  “Not if we’re careful. The first thing we must do is to move the body to a place of safety where it can be kept on ice. Apart from his employer, Mr. Riedel had no friends aboard so he’s not going to be missed.”

  “What about his steward?”

  “Leave him to me. I’ll find a way of hiding the truth from him.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Look for a place where we can keep the body.”

  “He obviously can’t stay here,” said Garfield. “Nor can Mr. Morgan, for that matter. You can’t expect any passenger to sleep in a cabin where a murder has taken place.”

  “I wonder.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “J. P. Morgan is a remarkable man,” said Dillman. “Don’t underestimate him. A lot of business rivals made that mistake and they paid a heavy price.”

  When he searched the adjoining cabin, the purser could see no sign of a bottle of whiskey or of any other spirits. J. P. Morgan had clearly drunk nothing since he had been in the room. He was seated at a small table, smoking a cigar and making notes on a piece of headed stationery. He looked tired but composed.

  “I wonder if I might ask you a question,” said Hembrow.

  “I guess you’ll be asking quite a lot.”

  “No, sir. I’ll leave that to the ship’s detective. He’s far more experienced at this kind of thing.”

  “You mean, he’s used to finding murder victims aboard ships?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Morgan, but this is not the first unnatural death he’s had to deal with. What I wanted to know was this — was Mr. Riedel a drinking man?”

  “Show me a policeman who isn’t.”

  “Good point.”

  “Howard spent most of his working life with the New York Police Department. It’s a tough job. You need something to keep you going.”

  Hembrow looked round. “I don’t see any alcohol.”

  “He usually kept a bottle of whiskey at hand.”

  “It’s not here now. Did he drink much over dinner?”

  “No,” said Morgan. “He wasn’t partial to wine and he didn’t touch the champagne when we had a party before dinner in my stateroom. What he did like was a glass or two of malt whiskey last thing at night. Nothing wrong in that. Why do you ask?”

  “The doctor thinks he may have been drugged.”

  Morgan blinked. “Someone spiked his whiskey?”

  “Or some other drink.”

  “They knocked the poor man out then killed him?”

  “It’s a strong possibility,” said Hembrow. “It also looks as if someone deliberately took the bottle away. There’s a glass beside the washbasin that smells of whiskey but that’s all.”

  “How did anyone get in here to do such a thing?”

  “That’s what we’ll have to find out, Mr. Morgan.”

  “I want answers and I want them quick.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve not only lost the services of a good man,” said Morgan, eyes blazing with anger, “I’ve also had some highly valuable items stolen from my quarters — items that are quite irreplaceable. What sort of a ship are you running here, Mr. Hembrow?”

  “I’m deeply sorry that this has happened.”

  “So you should be.”

  “I’m as upset as you are.”

  “I very much doubt that.”

  “We’ll do our utmost to retrieve everything you’ve lost.”

  Morgan was sardonic. “Does that include Howard Riedel?”

  There was a tap on the door and the purser opened it to admit Dillman. He was introduced as the ship’s detective to Morgan but the latter offered no handshake. Hembrow explained that he had been unable to find any whiskey in the cabin.

  “The killer was a tidy man,” said Dillman. “After he committed his crime, he cleaned up carefully and left us no obvious clues.”

  “Has the doctor finished in there?”

  “Yes. I impressed upon him the need to keep this as secret as we possibly can. If a murder becomes common report, everyone will spend the rest of the voyage looking nervously over their shoulders.” He glanced at the financier. “And I daresay that Mr. Morgan would prefer it if we kept the facts hidden for the time being.”

  “Yes,” agreed Morgan. “There are journalists aboard. If this leaks out, they’ll be after me like a pack of hounds. I’m all in favor of publicity but not this kind.”

  “The body needs to be moved,” said Dillman. “Dr. Garfield knows a place where we can store it safely but he’ll need a hand to get it there.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” volunteered Hembrow.

  “The chief steward will need to be informed — the captain, too, of course — but that’s as far as it goes. We’ll invent a cover story to explain Mr. Riedel’s absence to his steward.”

  “Thank you, George. I’ll go and help the doctor.”

  The purser went out and Dillman was able to look at J. P. Morgan properly for the first time. In spite of his age, and the fact that he was seated, he was a commanding presence in a small cabin. Wreathed in pungent cigar smoke, he glowered at the detective.

  “You’ve done this before, I hear.”

  “Yes, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Did you catch the killer?”

  “Eventually, sir — in every case.”

  Morgan was curious. “There’s been more than one murder?”

  “I had similar problems when I worked for Cunard and for P&O.”

  “In other words, murder follows you around.”

  “I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “So did Howard Riedel.”

  Dillman took out a notebook and pencil then sat on a chair. He checked the brief details he had already jotted down then looked across at Morgan, who stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. The older man took out a lar
ge white handkerchief and blew his nose. It looked more inflamed than ever.

  “I need to go over Mr. Riedel’s movements this evening,” said Dillman, pencil poised. “I gather that you had a champagne reception in your stateroom before dinner.”

  “True.”

  “At which, presumably, Mr. Riedel was present.”

  “True.”

  “I’ll need the names of all your guests, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Why?”

  “Because one of those people may be involved in some way,” reasoned Dillman. “My understanding is that you had a collection of art treasures on display. A thief would have had a perfect opportunity to see what there was and exactly where it was kept.”

  “There were no thieves there, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Nevertheless, I would like that list, please.”

  There was a long pause. “You’ll get it,” said Morgan.

  “When the party was over,” resumed Dillman, “you and some of your guests came into the first-class dining room. I saw you take a table in the corner. Mr. Riedel was not with you at that point.”

  “No,” said Morgan gruffly. “Howard stayed behind to supervise the steward who came in to clear away all the glasses and so on. The man was never allowed in there on his own. Howard knew how long it had taken me to track down some of those items, and how dear to my heart they were. He sat over them like a mother hen.”

  “Is that why he kept leaving the table during the meal?”

  “You’re very observant, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Every half an hour, he got up and went out. I timed him.”

  “He slipped back to check that the collection was safe and that everything was in order. Howard was a creature of habit.”

  “Former policemen often are. It may have been his downfall.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the killer might have been aware of his routine as well. Mr. Riedel made regular visits to your stateroom throughout the evening and then, at ten o’clock, he quit your table for good.”

  “He went to stand guard over my collection until I got back myself.”

  “Would he have come in here first?”

  “Certainly. Howard never missed his glass of whiskey.”

  “Someone else realized that.”

  “I don’t see how,” said Morgan, getting to his feet. “We’ve only been on the ship for two days. Last night, I dined in my cabin. How could anybody have known Howard’s routine when he didn’t go through it until this evening? It’s impossible.”

  “On this voyage, perhaps,” said Dillman, “but not on the one to Europe. Were you traveling with anything of value on that occasion?”

  “I was, as it happens.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “A few paintings that I was going to loan to a French gallery.”

  “And you kept them in your cabin?”

  “Of course. Great art is there to be seen.”

  “I suspect that you and Mr. Riedel were also seen,” said Dillman, “and your routine studied carefully. The killer then bided his time until you sailed back to New York.”

  “You think someone would go to all that trouble?”

  “If the stakes were high enough and they clearly are.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, Mr. Dillman,” said Morgan, weighing up the evidence. “The paintings I took to Paris were very valuable. Why didn’t the thief make any attempt to steal those?”

  “Because he knew he’d have a far bigger haul when you’d been on your buying expedition. In any case, I don’t think his chief interest is in paintings. There were seven altogether in your stateroom and he only took three of them.”

  “Leaving the frames behind.”

  “It’s so much easier to smuggle a canvas out on its own.”

  “None of my property will leave this ship,” asserted Morgan, bunching his fists. “I’ll have the luggage of every first-class passenger searched before they’re allowed to disembark.”

  “That would be a lengthy and disruptive exercise, Mr. Morgan, and there’s no guarantee that it would work.”

  “It’s bound to work, man!”

  “Not if the killer has a confederate in second class to whom he’s passed on his loot. It could be taken ashore with impunity then.”

  “We search every second-class passenger as well.”

  “There are nearly three hundred of them,” Dillman pointed out, “and over four hundred in first class. It would take ages, cause great upset, and be a complete waste of time.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because a man who’s capable of stealing your property will surely have worked out in advance how to get it off the vessel. This is no random crime, Mr. Morgan. It was carefully planned over a period of time.”

  “Are you telling me that we’ll never catch the villain?”

  “Not at all,” replied Dillman. “Time is on our side and we know he’s still on board. We’ll find him by a process of elimination.”

  “We?”

  “I have a partner who’ll help me with the investigation. By sheer coincidence, she was invited to drinks in your stateroom and joined you for dinner afterward.”

  “A female detective?” Morgan was not impressed.

  “An extremely good one, sir. We’ve solved many crimes together, including murders. I worked for the Pinkerton agency for some time and their female operatives were highly efficient. That’s why I had no qualms whatsoever in choosing to work with a woman. I’ve complete confidence in Miss Masefield.”

  Morgan goggled. “Miss Genevieve Masefield?”

  “You showed her your Book of Hours.”

  “I’d never have guessed that she was a detective.”

  “That proves how clever she is at disguising her identity. We move unseen around the ship, gathering intelligence as we go. Anonymity is our major weapon.”

  “Yes,” said Morgan, flopping into his seat. “I can see that now.”

  He needed a few minutes to collect his thoughts. Dillman waited patiently, making some notes as he did so. At length, Morgan snatched up the sheet of stationery and handed it over to him.

  “This is a list of the items stolen,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.” Dillman studied it. “You’ve given me their market value as well. That’s very helpful. What I’m interested in, however, is the items that were not taken. Those paintings, for instance.”

  “Renaissance masterpieces. They’re so well known that they would be difficult to dispose of — unless the thief knew a private collector with more money than integrity.”

  “What about the three that were taken?”

  “French paintings. Minor works by major artists.”

  “Worth less than the ones that were left behind?”

  “Substantially less. The thief is no connoisseur.”

  “He spurned your Dutch porcelain as well,” observed Dillman. “I don’t wish to be impertinent, sir, but none of this would have happened if your collection had been kept in one of our safes.”

  “Don’t you think I realize that?” said Morgan sorrowfully. “Because of me, Howard Riedel lost his life. He died trying to protect my property. That will prey on my conscience for a long time. I want his killer brought to justice, Mr. Dillman.” He gnashed his teeth. “And I also want everything that was stolen returned to me in good condition.”

  “Naturally.” Dillman closed his notebook. “There is one immediate decision to be made, however.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where you’ll spend the night, sir. This place is hardly convenient but there’s an empty cabin at the end of the corridor. I’ll ask the purser to open it up and you could move in there temporarily.”

  “Why can’t I go back to my own bed?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Howard’s body is being moved, isn’t it?” said Morgan “And he had the decency to bleed onto a red carpet so it doesn’t show. I know that most people would run a mile at t
he thought of sleeping next door to a room where someone was murdered but I’m not so easily spooked.”

  “You have strong nerves, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Essential in business.”

  “And in my line,” said Dillman, crossing to the door. “Let me check to see if they’ve cleared up in there then you can go back in — though I would recommend that you let me lock the remaining items of your collection away in the safe.”

  “In the morning. I need them close to me tonight.”

  “As you wish. We’ve gone as far we can now but I’ll have to ask you some more questions tomorrow.”

  “Let me ask one of my own, Mr. Dillman. Your voice tells me that you hail from Boston. Am I right?”

  “I was born and brought up there.”

  “It’s a city I know very well,” said Morgan. “Are you, by any chance, related to an Alexander Dillman?”

  “He was my father, sir. Built the best yachts in Massachussets.”

  “Yes, some years ago he tried to sell one of them to me but I didn’t like the design one bit. I commissioned an Irish-born engineer, John Beavor-Webb, to build Corsair II instead. She was a beautiful steam yacht, over two hundred forty feet in length and weighing five hundred sixty tons. A joy to sail. Eight years later, the same designer built Corsair III for me.”

  “I remember reading about the specifications,” recalled Dillman. “She was over three hundred feet in length this time, stronger and faster but with the same gleaming black steel hull. She had a gilt clipper bow and a curved sheer, raked stack.”

  Morgan was stunned. “How did you know all that?”

  “My father always kept details of his rivals’ work.”

  “Did he ever build the yacht that he offered to me?”

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  “If I remember aright, she was called Medusa.”

  “A fine vessel. I sailed on her myself.”

  “Did she fulfill your expectations?”

  “Not really.”

  “I thought she wouldn’t.”

  “No,” said Dillman, enjoying the chance to praise his father’s expertise. “Medusa only came second in the America’s Cup.”