Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  “I couldn’t stop you.”

  “No,” he said, “but you could have returned them.”

  “That would have been petty. Besides, as you well know, I like flowers and I adore chocolates.”

  “What about the cards? Did you keep them?”

  “For a time.”

  “You’d only have done that if they meant something to you.”

  “I was flattered at first,” she confessed, “but the effect soon wore off. And as soon as Mark came on the scene, I burned everything you ever sent me. It was time to start afresh.”

  “And what about Bossingham? Did he start afresh as well?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Come on, Blanche,” he teased. “Even you can’t be that innocent. You surely don’t believe that he was a vestal virgin before he took an interest in you. I knew him vaguely at Oxford, remember.”

  “Until you were sent down.”

  Killick laughed. “Yes, that was inevitable — but I had the time of my life while I was there. Two terms of complete abandon.”

  “You were supposed to be there to study.”

  “And that’s exactly what I did. I studied female anatomy.”

  “Mark got a first in Greats.”

  “He didn’t keep his nose in books all the time,” said Killick with a knowing grin. “Nor, for that matter, did your brother. Dickon knew how to celebrate. I helped to carry him back to college after a club dinner on more than one occasion.”

  “Dickon was never very good at holding his drink.”

  “Nor was Bossingham.”

  “Mark is very abstemious.”

  “Only since he met you, Blanche. When he was an undergraduate, he knew every pub in the city — especially the ones where you’d find the prettiest girls.”

  “You’re making this up, Johnny,” she said reprovingly, “and I don’t like it. Mark has told me everything about his four years at Balliol so you don’t need you to invent spiteful tales.”

  “Did he tell you about Alicia Tremaine?”

  “Who?”

  “Alicia Tremaine — the pride of Henley. Except that she spent most of her time at Oxford, going from party to party. Does the name ring a bell?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. And I bet that Dickon didn’t mention her either. It was your brother who passed her on to Bossingham when he’d had his fill of her charms. I saw the two of them at a college ball — Bossingham and Alicia, that is. They drank enough bubbly to float a battleship. And when Alicia was sloshed, she was also very compliant.”

  “I don’t believe a word of this.”

  “It’s the gospel truth.”

  “Mark is above the kind of thing you’re suggesting.”

  “Then ask him — here he comes.”

  Blanche was relieved to see her fiancé approaching. Though she had pretended to discount it, she was upset by what Killick had told her. It had planted a seed of doubt in her mind and she needed immediate reassurance. Mark Bossingham was not pleased to see the other man.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, inhospitably.

  Killick got up. “I was just leaving.”

  “Good.”

  “What have you brought for Blanche?”

  “Trollope,” said Bossingham, holding up the book. “The Warden. I’m taking Blanche’s reading in hand.”

  “Thank you, Mark,” she said, receiving the book from him. “I’ll enjoy reading this.”

  “It’s about the only thing you will enjoy on this voyage,” said Killick with a smirk. “Bossingham will make sure of that.”

  “Be quiet, Johnny.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Good-bye,” said Bossingham pointedly.

  Killick laughed in his face, blew a kiss to Blanche then sauntered off. Seething with exasperation, Bossingham sat beside his fiancée and watched the departing figure.

  “What did he want?”

  “He was only trying to stir up trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Yes, Mark,” she said. “You know what he’s like. First, he tells you downright lies about me in order to upset you. And now, he makes all sorts of ridiculous claims about you.”

  “What sorts of claims?”

  “It was about your time as an undergraduate.”

  “I hardly knew Killick at Oxford.”

  “You were in the same dining club for a couple of terms. Johnny remembers my brother having so much to drink that he had to be carried back to his room — that much I can believe. Dickon was like that. But,” she went on, “I refuse to believe that you were like that as well.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes — but it’s not true, is it?”

  “No,” he asserted hotly. “Not at all.”

  “And I don’t think that she ever existed.”

  “Who?”

  “Some girl he said you took to a college ball. Johnny even had the nerve to suggest that my brother had passed her on to you.”

  “Dickon did no such thing.”

  “You’d never behave in the way that Johnny implied.”

  “The man is incorrigible.”

  “My only worry was that he did seem so sure of his facts.”

  Bossingham looked uneasy. “What was the name he gave you?”

  “Alicia Tremaine.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “She came from Henley, apparently.”

  “Did she?”

  “I bet you’ve never even heard of her, have you?”

  “No, Blanche,” he said, shifting uneasily in his seat. “I don’t know anyone of that name and I never did.”

  Dillman was coming down the main staircase when he caught sight of Manny Ellway. He was grateful for a chance meeting with his steward. Ever since he had seen the man peering into an empty stateroom not far from J. P. Morgan’s, his suspicions had been aroused. Ellway’s manner was as open and plausible as ever but the detective no longer placed full trust in him.

  “Are you keeping busy, Manny?” he asked.

  “No time for slacking in this job, sir, or I’ll have the chief steward on my tail. He’s a real martinet.”

  “How many ships have you worked on?”

  “Several,” said the other, “but this is my favorite.”

  “Is that because I’m on it?”

  Ellway chuckled. “That’s part of the reason.”

  “What about Abednego Thomas?”

  “Yes, it’s a treat to look after him as well, Mr. Dillman. Though he does make a mess in his cabin. He’s in there painting most of the day with that French lady.”

  “I believe that Mrs. Thomas has been working in there with them.”

  “That’s right,” said Ellway. “She’s a very talented woman. As well as painting, she designs jewelry and clothing. She showed me some of her drawings.”

  “I’m told that she’s going to exhibit her jewelry in New York so it must be of the highest quality. By the way,” said Dillman, casually, “how is that friend of yours getting on with Mr. Morgan?”

  “Sid? Not very well, from what I hear.”

  “Mr. Morgan isn’t known for being friendly.”

  “He’s been very unfriendly to Sid,” said Ellway. “Still, there’s been two improvements. The stateroom was filled with things that Mr. Morgan had bought in Paris and Sid wasn’t allowed in there without someone standing over him. That really upset him. He’d never touch anyone’s property. Anyway, it’s all gone now. That’s made Sid feel a lot happier.”

  “Where has it gone to?”

  “Been locked away properly, it seems. High time as well.”

  “You said that there were two improvements.”

  “Yes. The other one is to do with Mr. Riedel.”

  “Oh, I met him,” said Dillman. “He works for Mr. Morgan.”

  “He used to make Sid’s life a misery whenever he went in there. But he’s been taken ill so Sid doesn’t even get to see him. Deal
ing with Mr. Morgan is bad enough,” said Ellway, “but this Mr. Riedel was even worse. He treated Sid like dirt.”

  “There’s no need for that. Your friend is doing an important job.”

  “Somebody has to look after the cabins.”

  “A vital service.”

  “Passengers expect their accommodation to be clean and tidy.”

  “Talking of cabins,” said Dillman, watching him carefully, “have you been back to take a second peep at that empty one near Mr. Morgan’s stateroom?”

  “No, no.”

  “You wouldn’t have seen much through a keyhole, anyway.”

  Ellway gave a nervous laugh. “That’s true, sir.”

  “But, then, it’s a standard design — very similar to some of the cabins that you go into every day.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Wouldn’t your master key have fitted the door?”

  “No, Mr. Dillman. It only fits the cabins on the deck where I’m assigned. It’s a question of security, you see. It stops people from going into places where they’ve no right to be.”

  “Even stewards?”

  “Even us, sir. We’re under strict supervision.”

  “What about the passengers?”

  “There’s no way that they could get into someone else’s cabin.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  “It’s the reason we have such a good security record on the White Star Line. There’s very little crime on board our ships.”

  “None at all, I hope.”

  There was a telltale pause and Manny Ellway’s eyelids flickered.

  “None at all, sir. Especially on the Oceanic.”

  The first thing that Genevieve Masefield noticed when she went into his cabin was the smell of perfume. She surmised that Oskar Halberg had already had one female guest in there since luncheon. Conscious of the fact that she was somewhat taller than he, Halberg waved her to a chair and remained on his feet. The wig seemed to have moved half an inch forward on his head, giving him a more sinister appearance. He stood back with a hand on his hip.

  “I trust that this won’t take too much time.”

  “I just need a few details, Mr. Halberg,” said Genevieve, notepad at the ready. “The purser has given me the basic facts but I require more than that to work on.”

  “My billfold was stolen. What else do you need to know?”

  “Where and with whom you spent the evening.”

  “I had dinner with friends.”

  “Could you give me their names, please?”

  He struck a pose. “You surely don’t suspect any of them?”

  “I have to look at every possibility.”

  “Well, you can exclude my dinner companions,” he said, fussily. “I’ve known most of them for years. We’re all in the same business and, though we might steal each other’s designs, we’d never stoop to lifting someone’s billfold from his back pocket.”

  “Is that where it was kept, Mr. Halberg?”

  He slapped his hip. “Right here.”

  “What did you do after dinner?”

  “I went for a smoke. I always have a cigar after dinner.”

  “Were you on your own?”

  “No,” he replied. “I was part of a circle that included J. P. Morgan. And there’s no need to write down his name either. Whoever else stole my billfold, it was not him.”

  “I assume that you were drinking during this time?”

  “Do you have any objection to that?”

  “None at all,” said Genevieve with an emollient smile, “but alcohol does tend to blur our sensibilities. It means that we lower our guard.”

  “You don’t expect to need a guard on a ship like the Oceanic.”

  “Pickpockets take advantage of the fact.”

  “Well, I want this man caught and punished.”

  “Was there much money in your billfold?”

  “That’s immaterial,” he said. “The fact is that I’m a victim of a crime and I’m disgusted that it took place on the White Star Line.”

  “I share that disgust.”

  “Then why aren’t you searching for the man right now?”

  “Because I’m not even sure that it was a man,” she explained. “Two female passengers have also had things stolen and, in one case, the thief was certainly a woman. It’s not impossible that she was responsible for all three crimes.”

  Halberg was shaken. “I was robbed by a woman?” he gasped.

  “I can’t say for certain but it’s something we must consider. For that reason, I have to ask you a personal question.”

  “I have nothing to hide, Miss Masefield.”

  “Did you embrace any ladies in the course of the evening?”

  “Dozens of them,” he said, airily. “They expect it of me. I have my own method. Hands on both shoulders, a kiss on each cheek — that’s how I always greet my friends.”

  “What about new acquaintances you may have made?”

  “I would have given any lady a farewell kiss.”

  “Even if she were a complete stranger?”

  “Miss Masefield,” he replied with condescension, “I can see that you are not familiar with the world of fashion. Designers are artists. We’re not hidebound by convention. We express our affection freely.”

  “That being the case, I’d like a list of all the female passengers with whom you came into contact last night — as well as the men.”

  “It will be a long list.”

  “I’ll be able to eliminate most names on it very quickly.”

  “I’m not even sure if I can remember everyone.”

  “Take it in stages,” she advised. “Begin with the people at your table, then we’ll move on to the smoking room. Where did you go after that — to the lounge?”

  “Yes.”

  “With another group of people altogether?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after that?”

  “I had a drink with friends.”

  “Where?”

  “In their cabin.”

  “How many of you were there?”

  “That’s of no consequence,” he said, evasively. “The one thing I can guarantee is that my billfold was not taken there. The theft must have occurred in one of the public rooms.”

  “Did anyone brush up against you at any point?”

  “Only when we were leaving the dining room.”

  “Pickpockets love crowds. They have an excuse to touch you.”

  “You think that it happened there?”

  “It may have done,” said Genevieve, “but I’ve no means of knowing yet.” She lifted her pencil. “The important thing is to stop this pickpocket before he strikes again. Now, Mr. Halberg, give me those names, please.”

  The lounge was busier than ever when they got there. Unable to find a corner on their own, Florence and Vane Stiller had to ask an American couple if they might join them. They introduced themselves and learned that they were talking to Ethan and Rosalie Boyd.

  “We live in the nation’s capital,” said Boyd. “I run a bank there. I used to work in New York but I wanted something less hectic.”

  “If you’re involved in banking,” observed Florence, “then you must know Mr. Morgan,”

  “Everyone knows J. P. Morgan.”

  “He has so much money that he doesn’t know what to do with it.”

  “I think that he does, Miss Stiller — every last cent of it.”

  “Do you regard him as the ogre he’s sometimes portrayed?”

  “Not at all,” said Boyd, pleasantly. “I take my hat off to him. Even during a depression, J. P. Morgan somehow knows how to turn a profit. I wish that I had his business acumen.”

  “You do have it, Ethan,” said his wife loyally.

  “We tried to get an interview with Mr. Morgan for our magazine,” said Vane, “but he refused. He obviously doesn’t think much of the Ladies’ Home Journal.”

  Rosalie was interested. “Do you write for t
hat?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Boyd. We both do.”

  “I have a subscription to your magazine. I love it.”

  “I’m so glad. Among other things, I’m the travel correspondent. Florence writes feature articles of all kinds. She’s doing one on Abednego Thomas at the moment.”

  “It’s a joint venture, really,” said Florence.

  “Is he that mad Welsh artist?” asked Boyd.

  “He’s very controversial, if that’s what you mean.”

  “He paints female nudes or something.”

  “Is that true?” said Rosalie, mildly shocked.

  “Very true,” replied Vane. “And they’re strikingly lifelike. He uses them to illustrate the myths of Ancient Rome. Also, of course, he does have a highly irregular private life.”

  “Three wives to date,” said Florence with a titter, “quite apart from other liaisons along the way. The world of art is so liberated.”

  “That kind of thing doesn’t happen in banking,” said Boyd.

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” said Rosalie.

  “Three wives? Think of the expense.”

  “And the scandal.”

  “That’s what attracted us to him, Mrs. Boyd,” said Vane. “There’s something so untamed and delightfully louche about him. Our readers will adore hearing about Abednego Thomas.”

  Boyd was skeptical. “I would have thought him too raw a subject for a women’s magazine.”

  “Then you’ve obviously never read the Ladies’ Home Journal. It’s not solely made up of recipes and knitting patterns. We always respect the intelligence of our readers — well, Mrs. Boyd is one of them. We tackle serious subjects in every walk of life, and we’re not afraid to launch major campaigns on issues of the day.”

  “Stop it, Vane,” reproached her sister. “You’re starting to sound like an advertisement and Mr. Boyd already has one of those. His wife has a subscription. What better advertisement could there be than that?”

  “I read it from cover to cover,” said Rosalie.

  “Look out for our article on Mr. Thomas.”

  “I shall — and I hope to meet him in person before the voyage is over. He sounds like a fascinating man.”

  “I doubt if you’ll come across his like in banking circles.”

  “That’s a relief!” said Boyd with a grin.

  All four of them laughed. By the time that tea arrived, they were firm friends. Rosalie talked at length about her stepson, and the sisters explained how they had chosen journalism instead of marriage.