Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  “We’ve had some crucial help at last, George,” she said, “and it came from the most unlikely person.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Hilda Farrant. She was befriended by Ethan and Rosalie Boyd so that they could keep track of how our investigation was going.”

  “Why would they want to do that?”

  “Why else? I thought that Mrs. Farrant had simply blurted out her troubles to them but that was not the case at all. They sought her out, George, and they could only have done that if they knew that she was the victim of theft.”

  “Quite,” said Dillman, realizing the importance of the clue. “And if they knew about the crime, one of them must have committed it.”

  “That was the wife. You remember she said her purse was stolen?”

  “Yes, she left it by mistake in the library.”

  “It was no mistake,” said Genevieve. “I spoke to the steward who found that purse. He had tidied up in the library at midnight and there was no sign of any purse then. It only appeared the following morning.”

  “Put there, no doubt, by Ethan Boyd.”

  “It has to be them, George.”

  He was cautious. “Let’s go over it all very slowly.”

  They examined the evidence with meticulous care and decided that they had finally identified the true culprits. Dillman told her about the arrests that he had made, and how he was able to return at least part of the stolen property to J. P. Morgan. “It’s easy to gain entry to a cabin by making a replica key.”

  “Do you think that that’s what the Boyds did?” said Genevieve.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where could they have hidden everything?”

  “Some of it may be in their cabin,” he said. “It will have to be searched. Lester told me that you landed yourself in hot water when you went into Jonathan Killick’s cabin, and he’s loath to sanction another search. But it’s imperative.” He saw the anguish in her eyes. “What’s the matter, darling?”

  “There’s something I didn’t tell the purser,” she admitted.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I couldn’t bear to.”

  “Well, you can tell me,” he said, taking her in his arms to give her a reassuring hug. “What exactly happened when he caught you in his cabin? Did he threaten you?”

  “It was worse than that, George.”

  Genevieve told him what had occurred and he pulsed with anger. She had to hold on to her husband to stop him from charging off to confront Killick. She had never seen Dillman so furious.

  “It can wait, George,” she said. “The Boyds come first.”

  “You’re right.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Search their cabin, for a start. This time, we do it properly.”

  “I’ll act as your lookout.”

  He kissed her. “Then I’ll close with that offer, Mrs. Dillman.”

  Ethan and Rosalie Boyd were circling the promenade deck when they encountered Hilda Farrant. At first, they didn’t recognize her. The old lady wore a fur hat, pulled down over her forehead, and a fur stole that covered her chin. She greeted the couple with a nod.

  “Are you enjoying the fresh air?” said Rosalie.

  “No,” replied Mrs. Farrant. “I feel the cold.”

  “The breeze has stiffened since we’ve been out here.”

  “But it’s much healthier to be out here than stuck inside,” said Boyd. “I love the smell of the sea. It’s invigorating.”

  Hilda Farrant pulled a face. “Not at my age.”

  “There must be something you enjoy about this voyage.”

  “I wish there were, Mr. Boyd.”

  “No news about the theft of your earrings?” asked Rosalie.

  “None at all. I spoke to Miss Masefield earlier and she’s still obviously in the dark. Though she was pleased at something I told her,” recalled Mrs. Farrant. “It was when we talked about you, as it happens.”

  “Us?” Rosalie glanced nervously at her husband.

  “What exactly did you say?” pressed Boyd.

  “Only that you’d approached me to offer your sympathy about what had happened,” said Mrs. Farrant. “I thought it was very kind of you both to console me. Miss Masefield couldn’t thank me enough for helping her but I still don’t know why.”

  “Excuse us, Mrs. Farrant,” said Boyd, taking his wife by the arm. “I’ve just remembered an urgent appointment.”

  Moving brusquely away, he and Rosalie broke into a trot.

  It had seemed like the perfect spot. Stationed near a corner, Genevieve could look down the long corridor that led to the main staircase. If either Ethan or Rosalie Boyd came down the steps, she simply had to hurry to the cabin that Dillman was searching and bang on the door. Both of them could then escape unseen down a nearby companionway. There was a flaw to the plan. It worked only if the Boyds were unaware of the fact that they were now under suspicion.

  Instead of descending the steps at a leisurely pace, they came down it as fast as they could. Ethan Boyd then ran along the corridor with his wife behind him. Genevieve was dismayed. There was no time for her to warn Dillman and for the two of them to get safely away. She had to employ some diversionary tactics. Coming into view, she pretended to be seeing them for the first time. She held up a hand to stop them.

  “I’ve just been to your cabin, looking for you,” she said.

  “Why?” asked Boyd suspiciously.

  “The purser sends his compliments and requests that you call at his office immediately. He wants to discuss something of importance with you both.”

  “Something of importance?” repeated Rosalie.

  “She’s stalling us,” said Boyd.

  He pushed Genevieve roughly aside and ran to the corner before rounding it. Unable to stop him, Genevieve could at least detain his wife. As Rosalie tried to get past, she was firmly grabbed.

  “Let go of me, Miss Masefield!” she cried.

  “Not until the purser has heard a few answers from you first.”

  George Dillman had searched so many cabins during his time as a detective that he knew exactly where to look for hiding places. Swift and thorough, he took only a few minutes to complete his search. When he heard the key in the lock, he realized that one of its occupants was coming back to the cabin. He stood with his back against a wall.

  “Mr. Dillman!” cried Boyd, bursting in. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just looking around,” said Dillman, calmly.

  “How did you get in?”

  “The purser loaned me a master key. I’m sure you can guess why.”

  Boyd blenched. “You’re a detective?”

  “Miss Masefield and I work together. I was rather hoping that she might forewarn me of your arrival, but that was not possible, it seems. Since you’re here, Mr. Boyd,” he said, “perhaps you could help me.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you’re searching for.”

  “Stolen property, sir.”

  “Belonging to whom?”

  “A number of people — Mr. J. P. Morgan, principally.”

  “And did you find any?”

  “No,” said Dillman, “but then I wasn’t able to look inside that.” He pointed to the large cabin trunk in the corner. “Perhaps you could oblige me by opening it?”

  “Of course,” replied Boyd, reaching in his pocket for the key. “I think you’ll find that your visit has been a waste of time, Mr. Dillman.” He unlocked the trunk and lifted the lid. “Go ahead — look inside.”

  The detective peered at a pile of clothing, neatly folded, then reached in to feel the bottom of the trunk. He stood back to appraise the piece of luggage from the side.

  “You see,” said Boyd, coolly. “Everything in there belongs to us.”

  “Everything visible, perhaps. But there’s the small matter of the false bottom to the trunk. That’s why I felt inside. At a guess,” said Dillman, “the secret compartment is six to eight inches deep. Yo
u could hide a lot of things in an area that big.”

  “You’re mistaken, Mr. Dillman. There’s no false bottom.”

  “Prove it, sir.”

  “With pleasure.”

  He bent over the trunk as if about to tap the bottom of it. Instead, he released a catch that opened an aperture and grabbed something that was inside. When he stood upright, Boyd held a gun on Dillman. The detective seemed remarkably unperturbed.

  “I presume that that once belonged to Howard Riedel,” he said. “You took it from him after you’d cut his throat.”

  “It was no more than he deserved.”

  “Why?”

  “The man was an animal. When he was a captain in the New York Police Department, he once clubbed a friend of mine to death with the butt of his gun. It was a case of overzealous questioning,” said Boyd with bitterness, “but that’s not how it was reported in the press. They said that the prisoner tried to escape and died resisting arrest.”

  “So that’s what this is all about,” said Dillman. “Revenge.”

  “I’ve waited a long time to exact it, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Even to the extent of trailing your enemy to Paris.”

  “I’d have followed that man to the ends of the earth in order to make him pay,” said Boyd. “It’s what I do to people who upset me, Mr. Dillman, and that’s what you’ve just done.”

  “Killing me won’t help you to escape.”

  “No, but it will give me intense satisfaction.”

  “Then be my guest,” invited Dillman, unbuttoning his coat and holding it open. “Choose your target. Before you do, however, let me make a small confession. I lied to you about the trunk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I opened it myself and found the false bottom. I also found these,” he went on, taking some bullets from his pockets. “I think you’ll find that a Smith and Wesson revolver works much better with them.”

  Ethan Boyd pulled the trigger time and again but the chambers were all empty. He howled in frustration then held the gun by the barrel.

  “This is the weapon that killed my friend,” he said. “I’ll show you exactly how it was done, Mr. Dillman.”

  He lunged at the detective but Dillman was ready for him, tossing the bullets into his face to confuse him before grabbing the wrist that held the gun. Boyd was frantic, grappling with Dillman, biting, kicking, and doing everything he could to get free. But he had neither strength nor skill enough. Pushing him against the door, Dillman banged the man’s hand repeatedly against the timber until he was forced to drop the gun. Before he was able to defend himself, Boyd was hit with a fierce relay of punches then thrown bodily across the cabin, completely dazed when his head made sharp contact with the trunk.

  Dillman recovered the gun and slipped a few bullets into it before holding it on his prisoner. With his other hand, he took out his penknife.

  “Let me give you a piece of advice,” he said.

  Boyd was still groggy. “What’s that?”

  “You don’t need a key to open that cabin trunk of yours, Mr. Boyd. A penknife like this can do the job just as well.”

  J. P. Morgan was so delighted to have his art treasures and Book of Hours returned, and to know that Howard Riedel’s killer was finally behind bars, that he insisted on dining with George Dillman and Genevieve Masefield. The financier was in his stateroom with the purser when Genevieve arrived. Both men complimented her on her stylish evening gown of aquamarine blue velvet.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said. “Oskar Halberg may have been right all along. Blue does become me.”

  “Every color becomes you, Miss Masefield,” said Morgan with gruff courtesy. “But you’ve come at the ideal time. Mr. Hembrow is just telling me how the killer got in to my stateroom that night.”

  “The simplest way of all,” explained Hembrow. “He was brought in here by the murder victim — not that Mr. Riedel knew that he was marked to die, of course. Ethan Boyd got to know him as a result of the robbery at his bank in New York. In fact, he had set up the robbery himself and was incensed when it went wrong. He was even more incensed when his accomplice was beaten to death in police custody. They said that the prisoner tried to escape but how far can a man who broke his ankle during the robbery actually run?”

  “Didn’t the police realize that Boyd was involved?”

  “No, Mr. Morgan. They knew that inside help had been given but Boyd was clever enough to frame an associate of his. When the man fled, it seemed like a confession of guilt. No suspicion fell on Boyd himself.”

  “He took me in completely,” said Genevieve.

  “And me,” admitted the purser. “The reason that Captain Riedel, as he then was, clubbed the prisoner to death was that he wouldn’t name the employee who had fed him information about bank security. Since his accomplice had protected him to the last, Ethan Boyd wanted to avenge his death. It took him three years to achieve his aim.”

  “And rob me in the process,” said Morgan.

  “Almost everything he took was concealed in the false bottom of his cabin trunk,” said Genevieve. “George found it there along with the items that he and his wife had stolen from other passengers.”

  “They had such audacity,” said Hembrow with a dry laugh. “What could not be hidden in their cabin trunk was put into a bag and given to me to lock in a safe. In that sense, Mr. Morgan, I was a receiver of stolen goods. Where better to hide loot than in the ship’s safe?”

  “Ethan Boyd has such a convincing disguise,” observed Genevieve. “If you’re looking for a thief, who would suspect a successful banker?”

  “I would,” said Morgan, stroking his mustache. “But, then, I deal with bankers all the time. If they’re that successful, I want to know how they contrived that success. It’s not always by honest means.”

  “Mr. Reidel was not as perceptive as you, sir. When Boyd treated him as a friend, he didn’t realize that he was, in fact, the man’s worst enemy. Boyd courted him assiduously during the voyage to Europe on this ship,” said the purser. “He got to know his habits, his likes and dislikes, his daily routine.”

  “So, on that night, he came down here with Howard.”

  “Yes, and he brought a bottle of whiskey with him — one that had been drugged beforehand. By the time that your bodyguard let him in here to show off your collection, Mr. Riedel must already have been woozy.”

  “Ethan Boyd seized his chance and cut his throat.”

  “Then he took what could be easily carried,” said Genevieve. “His wife, meanwhile, was standing outside as his lookout.”

  The purser nodded. “She’s an accessory to murder, Genevieve.”

  “The pair of them will be arrested,” boomed Morgan, “and I’ll not shed any tears over that. But I owe you an apology, Miss Masefield. I take back all I said about you and your partner. The pair of you handled this investigation with exemplary skill.”

  “Not quite,” she said, recalling her botched search of a particular cabin. “We just have to be grateful that Rosalie Boyd stole those diamond earrings. It was Mrs. Farrant who provided a vital clue.”

  “Yes, but you knew how to interpret it properly. You deserve my heartiest congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

  “So does Mr. Dillman.” He took out his fob watch and consulted it. “By the way, where is he? I said that we’d meet in here before dinner.”

  “Yes,” asked Hembrow. “He’s very late. Where can George be?”

  Genevieve smiled. “I think that he has some unfinished business.”

  The Honorable Jonathan Killick had lost something of his customary swagger, but he was determined to cut a dash in the dining room once more. Adjusting his bow tie in the mirror, he flicked out the tails of his coat and opened the cabin door. Before he could step outside, however, Killick was pushed firmly backward. George Dillman went into the cabin after him and shut the door.

  “What the blazes do you thinking you’re doing?�
� cried Killick.

  “We need to have a conversation, sir.”

  “I don’t know you from Adam. Who are you?”

  “A friend of Miss Genevieve Masefield. I believe that you and she are acquainted. Indeed,” said Dillman, squaring up to him, “I have it on impeccable authority that you tried to become more closely acquainted than Miss Masefield desired. Is that true?”

  “Get out of here!”

  “Did you try to force yourself on her?”

  “I’m not talking to you,” said Killick defiantly.

  “Then I’ll take silence as consent,” announced Dillman.

  “Miss Masefield sneaked in here behind my back.”

  “Is that any reason to molest her?”

  “The bitch is lying. I hardly touched her.”

  Dillman’s fist shot out and caught him in the eye, sending him sprawling to the floor. Killick was enraged and scrambled to his feet but a second punch caught him in the stomach and he doubled up in pain. Dillman delivered a fierce uppercut that sent him to the floor again.

  “Get up,” taunted Dillman. “I hardly touched you.”

  While preserving their anonymity as detectives, J. P. Morgan exuded gratitude toward them the whole evening. He was seated at the head of his table with Dillman and Genevieve on either side of him. The room was full but there were some notable absentees. Ethan and Rosalie Boyd had been locked up in separate cells by the master-at-arms. Abednego Thomas was too distraught to dine in public so he shared a meal in his cabin with his wife and his model. It seemed that Jonathan Killick, too, felt unable to put in an appearance.

  “Incidentally,” said Morgan, taking out his billfold, “what was the name of that steward who was so helpful to you, Mr. Dillman?”

  “Ellway, sir. Manny Ellway.”

  “Perhaps you’d be good enough to give him this.” He took a note from his billfold and handed it over. “Thank him on my behalf.”

  “Fifty pounds,” said Genevieve, recognizing the denomination. “That’s a huge amount for a steward.”

  “Yes,” agreed Dillman. “Manny will think he’s on his honeymoon.”