by Conrad Allen
Veronica Thomas was alone in the cabin when George Dillman called. She was thrilled to see him. He was given a cordial welcome but she made no attempt to kiss or embrace him. He was glad that there was no sense of embarrassment between them after their last meeting.
“I hope that I’m not interrupting you,” he said.
“No, George. I was working on some designs for jewelry,” she said, moving to the table. “I suddenly had an inspiration.” She turned some sheets of paper over so that he could not see them. “I’m sure that you didn’t come to look at my sketches.”
“I’m interested to see any of your work, Veronica.”
“Thank you.”
“Most of the time, you work in gold and silver, don’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“But you could work with base metal as well, presumably.”
“What are you suggesting?” she said with a laugh. “That I make the pieces out of lead and simply cover them with paint? That would be cheating, George. I could never do that.”
“Making intricate jewelry must take immense skill.”
“It’s something I’ve developed over the years.”
“So it would be child’s play for you to make something simpler.”
“Such as?” she asked. “Do you want to commission something?”
“That depends,” he said, keen to see her reaction. “Could you, for instance, make a key to fit one of the cabins?”
Veronica went pale. “A key?”
“A master key. It wouldn’t be too difficult. All you’d need would be a wax impression of an existing key. But I’m sure that you know that.”
“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Then let’s start with the reason you wanted to hide these from me,” said Dillman, turning over the sheets of paper on the table. A series of elaborate dress designs were revealed. “This is strange jewelry indeed! Are the gowns going to be encrusted with diamonds or something?”
“That’s nothing to do with you, George,” she said, snatching up the designs from the table.
“I’m afraid that it is. The time has come to tell you that I’m working on the Oceanic as a detective, and I’m investigating a string of crimes that have been committed.”
Veronica stared at him. “I thought you were our friend.”
“I don’t befriend criminals. It’s against my religion.”
“We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I think you have, Veronica,” he said, indicating the drawings. “These are not your designs at all. They have the initials O.H. on them. Unless I’m much mistaken, they stand for Oskar Halberg, the famous couturier. Instead of creating your own designs, you’re blatantly copying someone else’s.”
“That happens all the time in the fashion world,” she said airily. “Each of us borrows from the other. There’s no copyright on ideas. We pick them up wherever we find them.”
“And where did you find those particular ideas? I can’t imagine that Mr. Halberg gave you his exclusive designs out of the goodness of his heart. Could they have disappeared from his cabin somehow?”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Why don’t we go and ask him right now?”
“No, no.” A hunted look came into her eyes. “There’s no need to do that. Mr. Halberg will get his designs back. We only borrowed them.”
“Borrowed?”
“To be more exact, Dominique was given them on loan. She was going to return them to him today.”
“After you’d had plenty of time to plagiarize his ideas,” remarked Dillman. “You say that Dominique was given them?”
“Oskar Halberg saw her at the party in Mr. Morgan’s stateroom. Ever since then, he’s been trying to persuade her to work for him as a mannequin. He’s a grotesque little fellow,” said Veronica, wrinkling her nose. “If she got involved with him. Dominique would spend as much time taking dresses off as putting them on. In any case, she’d never agree to leave Abednego. She loves him.”
“So she’d rather pose naked for your husband than wear the latest creations of Oskar Halberg. I admire her dedication,” said Dillman, “but I have to point out that the designs were obtained under false pretenses.”
“Dominique had to endure being ogled by that lecher. She told him that she’d consider his offer if he’d let her study a selection of the dresses that she’d be wearing at fashion shows.” She put the sketches on the table. “That’s the truth, George.”
“Does Abednego know about this?”
“No, he’d be upset if he did. He can be very moral at times.”
“So can I, Veronica,” warned Dillman. “Now that we’ve established that you and Dominique are involved in a deception, let’s move on to the real reason that I’m here.”
“And what’s that?”
“To find out if you still have that master key.”
“No!” she protested.
“You got rid of it, then?”
“There was nothing to get rid of, George.”
“Let me refresh your memory,” he said patiently. “On the first night we dined together, a robbery took place in J. P. Morgan’s stateroom, the very place where Dominique Cadine had earlier visited. We had a clear idea of what time the crime occurred so I remind you of two salient facts. After dinner, Dominique complained of a headache and went back to her cabin to get some tablets.”
“She often suffers from headaches.”
“It was more than a coincidence that this one came when it did. As soon as she went, Veronica, you left the table for a while as well. I put it to you,” he went on, watching her closely, “that the pair of you went to Mr. Morgan’s stateroom and gained entry by means of a key that you had made earlier.” Her cheek muscles tightened involuntarily. “I also suggest that some of the stolen items are concealed in this cabin.”
“Then see for yourself,” she challenged.
“I will.”
“You won’t find a thing, George.”
There was a ring of certainty to her voice but Dillman was not deterred. A combination of his instinct and Manny Ellway’s vigilance had convinced him that he was on the right track. He went straight to the paintings that were stacked against the wall and sorted out those belonging to her. Ellway was right. The frames had decorated beading on them that varied slightly in size at the top and bottom. The frames matched each other exactly with one exception. The smallest of the paintings had a marginally larger pattern at the top of the frame.
Dillman lifted up the painting. Veronica darted forward at once.
“Leave that alone,” she cried, trying to wrest it from him. “That’s my property, George.”
“You allowed me to conduct a search.”
“Yes, but I don’t want my work damaged in any way.”
“I’ll handle it with great care,” he promised, easing her fingers off the painting before turning it over. “Ah,” he noted. “It looks as if someone has had the back off this recently. This seal is fresh.”
“I took the painting out to add some brushwork.”
“I wonder. Let’s find out, shall we?”
Veronica watched with growing anxiety as he produced a penknife from his pocket and slit the passe-partout that held the backing in place. Removing the piece of wood, Dillman took out the three paintings that had been hidden inside behind the one by Veronica Thomas. He looked down at the first of them with a smile of appreciation.
“Edgar Degas,” he observed. “You’re in good company, Veronica.”
———
It was Blanche Charlbury’s turn to approach Jonathan Killick and she did so on the arm of Mark Bossingham. The two of them were strolling contentedly around the promenade deck when they caught sight of Jonathan, brooding alone at the rail as he smoked a Turkish cigarette. They closed in on him.
“Well,” said Blanche, teasing him, “it’s not often that we see you without a young lady beside you, Johnny. You must be slipping.”
/> “I wanted to be alone,” he said.
“We’ve got news for you.”
“Oh?”
“In spite of your crafty attempts at pushing us apart, Mark and I have been drawn even closer together. He’s told me absolutely everything about Alicia Tremaine, so we need no more sly innuendoes from you.”
“Nor any more vile slander about my fiancée,” said Bossingham crisply. “Blanche has explained exactly what happened during her unfortunate association with you. For a hundred good reasons, I prefer to trust her account rather than yours.”
“But you’ve never really heard my account,” said Killick.
“I don’t wish to. From now on, we won’t even talk to you.”
“We’re cutting you dead, Johnny,” added Blanche. “I should have done that years ago, as so many other people had the sense to do.”
Killick smirked. “I’m to be treated as a leper, am I?”
“You are a leper,” said Bossingham, “a man with a terrible disease that’s a menace to civilized society.”
“I think that you’re just jealous of my charm, Bossingham.”
“Charm? You have the appeal of a venomous snake.”
“Then beware of my fangs.”
“Crawl off and find a stone under which to hide.”
“My goodness!” said Killick, amused. “He’s starting to sound like a human being at last. What have you done to him, Blanche?”
“Reaffirmed my love and commitment to Mark,” she said.
“A fatal mistake. You’ll soon learn.”
“Not from you.”
“I’m an excellent teacher.”
“Good-bye, Johnny. Please don’t speak to us again.”
“No,” said Bossingham sharply, “you don’t deserve to be in decent company. You’re a social outcast.”
“J. P. Morgan doesn’t think so. I’ve dined with him twice.”
“Only because Mr. Morgan isn’t aware of your depravity.”
“I have connections. That’s something you’ll never have.”
“I have Blanche,” retorted Bossingham, slipping an arm around her. “That’s something you’ll never have, whatever little plots you hatch.”
“And you won’t be spending any more time with Genevieve either,” said Blanche. “When I tell her of the cunning way you tried to break up our engagement, she won’t want to be within a mile of you.”
“Miss Masefield is a fine woman. Keep away from her, Killick.”
“Do something honorable for once in your life.”
Killick was on the defensive. The events that had taken place in his cabin earlier on had taught him something that he did not know. He had a conscience, after all. When he recalled the way he had tried to take advantage of Genevieve, he felt deeply ashamed. After inhaling once again, he blew out a last cloud of smoke before dropping his cigarette and grinding it into the deck with his heel.
“There’s one thing I can promise you,” he said ungraciously. “Miss Masefield and I won’t be seeing anything more of each other on this voyage. Good-bye.”
Touching the brim of his hat to them, he marched quickly away.
It was the first time that George Dillman had seen any sign of pleasure on his craggy face. When the three stolen paintings were returned to J. P. Morgan, he actually smiled. The smile did not remain in place for long.
“This is all you’ve recovered, Mr. Dillman?” he asked.
“It’s a start,” said Dillman.
“A very good start,” added Hembrow, glad that they finally had a way of appeasing their most important passenger. “Mr. Dillman has solved one crime and unmasked the ladies who committed it.”
They were in Morgan’s stateroom and the paintings were laid out side by side on the table. Dillman explained how a remark by a sharp-eyed steward had helped him recover them, and to unmask Veronica Thomas and Dominique Cadine as thieves.
“When they realized that the game was up,” he said, “they told me how they did it. The first task was to get hold of a key to this stateroom. They noticed that Sidney Browne, the steward, tended to leave his master key in the keyhole of each cabin he serviced. Dominique simply had to distract him for a short while so that Mrs. Thomas could take a wax impression of the key. From that, she was able to fashion a replica. That enabled them to steal the paintings that night and hide them in the one place I’d never have dreamed of looking — behind another painting.”
“Manny Ellway deserves a medal for this,” said the purser. “And I think that the steward has earned your thanks as well, Mr. Morgan.”
“He’ll get more than that,” promised Morgan, gazing at the three paintings. “This calls for a reward.” He turned to Dillman. “I did warn you that Dominique Cadine might be involved.”
“And you were right,” admitted the detective. “I dismissed her as a possible suspect because I thought that the thief and the killer had to be the same person, and I could not accept that Mademoiselle Cadine would commit a murder. She and her accomplice stole the paintings before the murder had taken place.”
“Abednego Thomas is behind all this.”
“That’s not true, sir.”
“He must be. The man hurled abuse at me for what he claims I’ve done to the world of art. He suborned his wife and his model to get his revenge against me.”
“Mr. Thomas was completely ignorant of what happened,” said Dillman. “He was not only shocked when I told him, he was extremely upset. The ladies were acting of their own volition.”
“What possible motive could they have had?”
“Patriotism, Mr. Morgan. Of a rather perverted kind, perhaps, but that’s how they accounted for what they did. They only stole your French paintings,” said Dillman, indicating them with a hand. “Minor works by Degas, Monet, and Renoir that were still part of the French artistic tradition. Mademoiselle Cadine felt that they should remain in France and, since Mrs. Thomas regards herself as a native of her adopted country, she was quick to agree. Monet is one of her favorite artists.”
“And mine,” said Morgan.
“Then you can enjoy this example of his genius,” said Hembrow.
“Where are the thieves now — locked up, I trust?”
“No, actually. There seemed no point in handing them over to the master-at-arms. They’re very contrite and it’s not as if they can go anywhere. Why put them behind bars for the rest of the voyage?”
“Because it’s where they belong.”
“They’ll be handed over to the authorities in New York,” said Dillman, “then it will be your decision as to whether or not you wish to prosecute them. The only things that they stole were the three paintings. We still have to find the major part of the haul.”
“Not to mention the man who killed Howard Riedel,” said Morgan.
“We’ll get him,” affirmed Hembrow.
“And his female accomplice,” said Dillman. “I’m absolutely convinced that we’re looking for a man and a woman.”
Genevieve Masefield saw the passenger too late to dodge her. She was going up the main staircase when Hilda Farrant began to descend it. The older woman hurried down the steps toward her.
“Well,” she demanded, “have you found my earrings yet?”
“Not yet, Mrs. Farrant.”
“Why not? You’ve had days.”
“I appreciate that but we have to move with great stealth. That, inevitably, takes time.”
“This is hopeless, Miss Masefield. I don’t believe that you’ll ever find my property. You haven’t made the slightest progress.”
“That’s not true at all,” said Genevieve. “You’re right to feel upset but the theft of your earrings is only one of a number of crimes that have occurred on board, and that we believe are linked together. We’re pitted against some very clever people, Mrs. Farrant.”
“They’re certainly much cleverer than you.”
“We can only do our best.”
“It’s patently not good enough.”
“And I kept my word,” said the other woman indignantly.
“Not according to Mr. and Mrs. Boyd. They told me that you even showed them a letter of complaint about the White Star Line.”
“Only because Mrs. Boyd had had something stolen as well — or, at least, she thought she had. Her purse had been mislaid in the library.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me.”
“Wait a moment,” said Genevieve, suddenly alert. “Do you mean that she approached you? I’d always assumed that you’d sounded off in front of them and had thereby gone back on our agreement to keep quiet about the whole thing. Rosalie Boyd came to you?”
“Yes, Miss Masefield. What’s so strange about that?”
“You’ll find out in due course. Thank you, Mrs. Farrant,” she said, pumping the other woman’s hand. “Thank you very much. You’ve no idea how much help you’ve just been.”
George Dillman had returned to his cabin to review the situation and decide on his next steps. He chided himself for believing that all the crimes were the work of the same people. It had never crossed his mind that two sets of thieves had visited J. P. Morgan’s stateroom on the night in question. He was sorry that he had had to apprehend Veronica Thomas and Dominique Cadine, both of whom he liked immensely. They were not professional criminals but two ladies driven by a misguided belief that they were serving the interests of France by reclaiming the work of three of its most celebrated artists. Dillman was also sad that he had had to break the news to Abednego Thomas. The Welshman had been devastated to learn that, as a result of their crime, both his wife and his model might be sent to prison.
All thought of the trio had to be swept from Dillman’s mind for the time being. Far more dangerous people were still at liberty and he had to concentrate on catching them. He was still wrestling with the problem when Genevieve arrived. As he let her into the cabin, he could see that she was in a state of high excitement.