Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

  “No, Mr. Dillman,” said Redfern.

  “But you did bring weapons aboard.”

  “Yes. They were issued before we left England.”

  “Sergeant Mulcaster had a shotgun.”

  “That’s right. And I had a revolver.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Locked away in the wardrobe.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Dillman. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

  “I’ll do so myself,” said Redfern, struggling out of his chair. He put a hand to his head as the pain surged; Dillman held his arm. “I’m fine,” he went on, moving unsteadily across to the wardrobe. “The sooner I get on my feet again, the better.”

  He opened the door of the wardrobe and started to rummage inside.

  “Well?” said Dillman.

  Redfern was alarmed. “They’re not here. Both weapons are gone.”

  “Would you like me to see?”

  “There’s no point, Mr. Dillman. The cupboard is bare.”

  “Could they be anywhere else in the cabin?”

  “Where?” asked Redfern, looking around balefully. “We kept the shotgun and the revolver in there with a supply of ammunition. Is that what he was after?” he wondered. “Our weapons? This could be more dangerous than I thought.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” said Dillman. “If someone was that keen to acquire weapons, he’d have raided the store kept by the master-at-arms. No, I think your attacker was just trying to disable you even more, Inspector. He was drawing your teeth.”

  “Why would he do that, George?” said Genevieve.

  “I don’t know, but he must have had a good reason.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. As you pointed out, the master-at-arms has a supply of weapons. In an emergency, he could always issue replacements to the inspector and the sergeant. Why take such risks to get the weapons from this cabin?” She glanced at the inspector as he sat gingerly back down on his chair. “Besides, the man already has a revolver, doesn’t he?”

  “No question of that,” agreed Redfern.

  “We can’t be certain it was loaded,” Dillman reasoned. “Or that it was a genuine handgun. Some fake weapons can look exactly like the real thing.”

  Redfern was rueful. “It certainly felt like the real thing.”

  “I just don’t understand the motive for the attack,” said Genevieve.

  “Neither do I, at this stage,” Dillman admitted.

  “Did someone have a personal grudge against you, Inspector?”

  “Yes,” replied Redfern. “Two people. John Heritage and Carrie Peterson.”

  “Perhaps they have friends aboard.”

  “I think that’s unlikely.”

  “There was no attempt to rescue them, Genevieve. I don’t believe the prisoners are implicated in any way here. Though the latest development does raise a question.”

  “What’s that, George?”

  “What will happen to Mr. Heritage and Miss Peterson?” said Dillman. “If the sergeant has disappeared or been permanently disabled in some way, who will look after them? It’s not something you could easily do on your own, Inspector.”

  “I realize that,” Redfern conceded.

  “Then perhaps you’ll reconsider our offer of assistance.”

  “No, Mr. Dillman.”

  “If you concentrate on Mr. Heritage, then you could leave Miss Peterson to Genevieve. I still feel that a woman’s touch is needed there.”

  Redfern asserted himself. “Thank you for the suggestion but I must ask you not to repeat it. Who knows where Sergeant Mulcaster is? I have every hope that he will be found and be able to resume his duties. If that’s not the case,” he continued, “then I do have contingency plans. I’ll hand Mr. Heritage over to the master-at-arms and keep an eye on Miss Peterson myself.”

  “As you wish, Inspector.”

  “I do, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Then we’ll leave you to it.”

  “I’d be grateful for that,” said Redfern, with some asperity. “I know you mean well but your interference is rather annoying.”

  “We’re not interfering.”

  “What else would you call it? Please stop crowding me. I was knocked unconscious in my cabin, Sergeant Mulcaster has mysteriously disappeared, and our weapons have been stolen. I would have thought those crimes were quite enough to keep you occupied.”

  Dillman traded a glance with Genevieve. She lifted a meaningful eyebrow.

  “That’s a fair point, Inspector,” said Dillman. “Please excuse us.”

  * * *

  Isadora Singleton looked in vain for her friend. She had paid three separate visits to Genevieve’s cabin but each journey was futile. Disappointed and bored, she sat alone in the first-class lounge and leafed through a magazine with fitful interest. A shadow fell across her. When she looked up, she saw that it had been cast by a fresh-faced young man with tousled hair. He gave her a disarming grin.

  “Good morning,” he said politely. “My name is Theo Wright.”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied warmly. “Genevieve mentioned you. You’re a cyclist. I’m Isadora Singleton, by the way, and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “The pleasure’s mutual, Miss Singleton.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you happen to know where Genevieve is?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “You seem to be her closest friend on board,” he said with a touch of envy. “I’ve seen the pair of you together a number of times and you were deep in conversation over dinner last night.”

  “We were. We had a lovely, long talk.”

  “So where is she now? I haven’t seen her all morning.”

  “Neither have I, Mr. Wright.”

  “You can call me Theo. Any friend of Genevieve’s is a friend of mine.”

  Isadora beamed. “That’s what I think. Call me Isadora, if you like. I hate being known as ‘Miss Singleton.’ It makes me sound like a maiden aunt.”

  He laughed. “You’re anything but that, Isadora.”

  “Is it true that you’re a champion cyclist?”

  “So they tell me.”

  “According to Genevieve, you ride around the deck twice a day.”

  “I do,” he said. “I was in the saddle at six o’clock this morning.”

  “Gosh! I was fast asleep then.”

  “I wish I’d been able to lie in bed as well.”

  “Where did you cycle, Theo?”

  “Well, I usually keep to the boat deck but I couldn’t do that today. The rain made it far too slippery for my tires. I went up and down the shelter deck instead. That wasn’t quite so bad.”

  “Isn’t the boat deck a little cluttered?”

  “That’s why Wes chose it.”

  “Wes?”

  “My coach, Wes Odell,” he explained. “It’s important for me to have to ride around various obstructions, Isadora, since that’s what happens in a race, you see.”

  “But I don’t see, I’m afraid.”

  “You’ve obviously never watched cyclists in action. Let’s just say that they’re not the most courteous people on this planet. To start with,” he said, using his hands to draw pictures in the air, “there may be a hundred or more other guys in a race. Think of the problems that can give me. I have to dodge and weave all the way.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “If someone comes to grief—and you can bet your bottom dollar that there’s always one idiot who comes off his machine—the rest of us have to be careful not to crash into him or we’re suddenly out of the reckoning as well. But the real trouble,” he confided, “comes from the cheats.”

  “Cheats?”

  “That’s what I call them, Isadora, though they’d probably tell you they were acting within the rules. I’m a lone wolf but some guys hunt in packs. They decide which of them is going to win, then impede anyone who’s seen as a threat. Namely, me.”

  “How could they do that?”r />
  “All too easily,” he said. “If four guys box you in, it’s difficult to break clear. Or they may just fan out across the road and block your way through. At least,” he went on with a chuckle, “that’s what they try to do. But I’m always too fast and too clever for them. Especially on hill climbs. Nobody can keep up with me there.”

  “I had no idea there was any cheating in the sport.”

  “You’d be surprised, Isadora. I’ve even had people trying to push me off my cycle when we were out of sight of the officials. It’s war out there, believe me.”

  “Then you must be very brave,” she said with admiration.

  He struck a pose. “Bloody but unbowed.”

  “What about this big race in France?”

  “Oh, there’ll be all kinds of funny business in that, Isadora.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the French are past masters at it,” he said blithely. “I’ve spoken to guys who cycled there. You should hear their horror stories. Barging, blocking, forcing you off the road. French cyclists will stop at nothing to win. They taunt you as well. They call you so many nasty names that you’re grateful you don’t understand the language.”

  “I’ve always been taught that the French are such a civilized race.”

  “Not when it comes to cycling.”

  “Genevieve said the race lasts almost twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s right,” he confirmed. “We start on Saturday, cycle all through the night, then reach Paris sometime the following afternoon. Those of us who survive, that is.”

  “What happens if you get cramp?”

  “You hop off your bicycle and let your coach massage your legs. If he’s managed to keep up with you, that is. Wes always hires a motorcycle.”

  “Supposing that breaks down?”

  “Don’t tempt Providence,” he said, sitting beside her. “Anyway, if you keep yourself fit, you shouldn’t have cramp. After all, you don’t have to pedal every inch of the way. There may be some steep hills to climb but you have a breather when you coast down the other side. The secret is being able to pace yourself.”

  “My parents never let me have a bicycle. They said it was too dangerous.”

  “It is if you ride it in the Bordeaux-to-Paris race.”

  “I’ve always wanted to learn.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “How can I, Theo?”

  “Easily,” he said. “I’ve got two bicycles aboard. You can borrow one of those, if you like. We’ll have to lower the saddle for you, of course.”

  Isadora was excited. “Do you mean it?”

  “Why not?”

  “Taught by a champion!”

  “I’m always ready to introduce someone to the joys of cycling.”

  “I’ll pay you,” she said. “I don’t expect you to do this for nothing.”

  He held up a palm. “Keep your money. I wouldn’t dream of taking a cent from you.” He became thoughtful. “Mind you, there is one reward I’d like.”

  “Just name it, Theo.”

  “Put in a good word for me with Genevieve.”

  Isadora giggled. She felt that she had acquired another friend.

  The search was thorough and systematic. Beginning in the second-class areas of the Caronia, it went up to first class, then all the way down to the orlop deck. Dillman took an active part in it all, looking into every nook and cranny of the vessel. Stewards were pressed into service. Since the linen had to be changed on every bed in the second- and first-class cabins, they were able to carry out a discreet search at the same time. It was all to no avail. Not the slightest trace of Sergeant Mulcaster was found. Dillman did not give up. He went through some of the cabins in third class and steerage himself, even though it was highly unlikely the missing detective would be found in a place that housed four, six, or even more passengers. Alerted by the purser, the entire crew kept an eye open for any signs of Mulcaster. None came to light.

  After the first sweep of the ship, Dillman adjourned to Paul Taggart’s office. The purser tried to hide his anxiety. The implications of what had happened were worrying and he feared that there might be unfortunate repercussions.

  “Nothing like this has ever occured on the Caronia before,” he said.

  “I’m sure, Mr. Taggart.”

  “Someone as solid as the sergeant can’t just disappear into thin air.”

  Dillman sighed. “He could have vanished into deep water.”

  “It doesn’t bear thinking about, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Nevertheless, we may have to confront that possibility.”

  “Push him overboard?” said Taggart, shaking his head in disbelief. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “The same man who knocked Inspector Redfern senseless.”

  “How did he know the inspector would be alone?”

  “Because he watched the cabin, in all probability.”

  “But how did he know where to find the cabin in the first place?” asked the purser. “Most people on board aren’t even aware we have Scotland Yard detectives on our passenger list.”

  “I suspect that they are, though,” said Dillman. “Especially in first and second class. Tongues were wagging over dinner on the first night. I blame Sergeant Mulcaster for that. He insisted on drawing attention to himself with that shotgun. They should have slipped on board quietly, without that police escort.”

  “It’s too late to do anything about that now.”

  “I know.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Intensify the search. It may just be that they keep one step ahead of us.”

  “ ‘They’?”

  “Yes,” said Dillman. “My guess is that the man who attacked the inspector may well have an accomplice. If the sergeant is being held hostage somewhere, he could be moved between two cabins before any stewards arrive to change the bedding. Unlikely, I agree, but we can’t rule it out.”

  “You think that he’s being held hostage, Mr. Dillman?”

  “Frankly, no. There’s no apparent motive for that. But it’s a more reassuring supposition than the thought that he was dumped overboard during the night.”

  Taggart nodded. Sitting at his desk, he reached for the passenger list on the desk in front of him. He thumbed through the pages and peered at the endless names. Casting the list aside, he shook his head in dismay.

  “It’s hopeless. We have almost two and a half thousand suspects.”

  “A lot more than that,” remarked Dillman, “if you count the crew.”

  “The crew?”

  “Sergeant Mulcaster did like to throw his weight around. I can well imagine him getting on the wrong side of someone in the crew. On the other hand, the inspector was attacked as well and he’s been much more courteous.” He picked up the list. “It’s not as daunting as it looks, Mr. Taggart.”

  “It is, from where I’m sitting.”

  “We can eliminate female passengers,” argued Dillman. “The person who forced his way into that cabin was an able-bodied man. He’d have to be, if he tackled Sergeant Mulcaster as well. Go through this list and I daresay you can exclude the vast majority of names. That would narrow the field considerably.”

  “What do we do then, Mr. Dillman?”

  “Take a closer look at everyone who is left.”

  “There might still be a sizable number.”

  “We’re not due in Liverpool until the end of the week. That gives us plenty of time.” He replaced the passenger list. “The culprit can’t go anywhere.”

  “That’s true. Neither can his accomplice—if he has one.”

  “My suspicion is that he does. I have this hunch.”

  “Then I’ll put my trust in it.” Taggart sat back with his hands behind his head. “This is the last thing we wanted,” he said. “When I spoke to the captain last night, he told me that we might get some good publicity out of the fact that the Caronia was the vessel that helped to bring two murderers back to face justice. W
hat will he say when he hears that one of the detectives was attacked and that the other has vanished completely?”

  “Perhaps he’ll be philosophical about it.”

  “You don’t know the skipper!”

  “Tell him that worse things happen at sea.”

  Taggart gave a brittle laugh.

  “Still, I know you’ve dozens of other things to get on with,” said Dillman, “so I’ll get back to continuing with the search.”

  “Keep me posted at regular intervals.”

  “I will, Mr. Taggart.”

  “And remember,” said the purser, getting to his feet. “Finding out what happened to Sergeant Mulcaster is very important, of course, but I don’t want you to be deflected entirely from the search for those narcotics we believe may be aboard.”

  “I won’t forget,” said Dillman.

  “Theft, drug smuggling, violence against policemen, a possible murder.” Taggart pulled a face. “What is the Caronia coming to?”

  “You missed one crime out.”

  “Did I?”

  “Mrs. Anstruther. And her stalker.”

  Taggart groaned. “Keep her away from me today—please!”

  After a late breakfast, Daniel Webb cadged a drink off another passenger then went back to his cabin to rest. Ordinarily he shared it with three other people but, since they were traveling together, he was very much the outsider. They had shown little interest in his plight and refused to lend him any money. Since the cabin was now deserted, he took the opportunity to go quickly through their belongings to see if there was anything worth stealing. Finding no cash, and nothing that he could barter with, he lay on a bunk and drifted off into a reverie. The arrival of a steward jerked him out of it. The man had a list in his hand. He bent down to peer at Webb.

  “Could I have your name, please, sir?”

  “Why?” retorted the old man.

  “Just for our records. Are you Tom Carver?”

  “No, he’s in the bunk above me and his brother is directly opposite. Then there’s this noisy Yank from New Jersey who keeps me awake all night. Ben Miller.”

  The steward checked his list. “Then you must be Daniel Webb.”

  “I am,” agreed the other, “and I have been for all of sixty-five years.”

  “In that case, I won’t trouble you any further, sir.”

  “No, wait a minute, my friend.” Webb struggled to sit up. “There’s something behind this, isn’t there? Nobody ever bothers about us, here in steerage. They just pack us away in these garden sheds they call cabins and forget all about us. What’s going on?”