by Conrad Allen
“I wouldn’t know about that. I just thought he was a gentleman.”
“Who’s this other person you’ve invited?”
“Pamela Clyne.”
“Another rich American widow?”
“Far from it,” said Kitty. “She’s English. Miss Clyne is a friend of Iris Cooney’s. I had tea with them this afternoon. It was one of those awkward situations, Frank. I couldn’t invite the one without the other.”
“All the more, the merrier.”
“The truth is that I felt sorry for Pamela Clyne. Apart from Mrs. Cooney, she doesn’t seem to know anyone else on board. She’s one of those very shy women from down south.”
“Wouldn’t last two minutes in Yorkshire, then,” he said briskly. “If you don’t speak up for yourself there, you’re nowt. Pamela Clyne, eh? What’s her story?”
“I’m not sure that she has one.”
“Every woman has a story.”
She clicked her tongue. “You always say that.”
“It’s true, Kitty.”
“Not in Miss Clyne’s case,” said his wife. “She doesn’t seem to have done anything or been anywhere. The trip to America was obviously the biggest thing in her life and she’s still a bit overwhelmed. Just like me after my first trip.”
“You’ve made a few since then.”
“Thanks to you, Frank.”
“Stick with me and I’ll show you the world. That’s what I said.”
“You’ve been as good as your word.”
“I always am.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Right, then. All we have to do is to add your names to my list and we’re done.”
“Who have you invited?”
“All kinds of interesting people.”
“Such as?”
“A bank manager from London, and his wife.”
She smiled indulgently. “Trust you!”
“He could come in useful. You never know.”
“Who else?”
“The finest professional cyclist in America.”
“I didn’t know there were such things.”
“Well, there are and he makes a very decent living out of it. According to his coach, Mr. Odell, the lad is more or less certain to win a famous race in France and pick up a large check for his pains. Odell will make a tidy packet as well.”
“Will he? How?”
“Betting, Kitty. He’s going to back his lad heavily and make a killing.”
“I’ve never seen the point of riding a bicycle round and round a track,” she said. “It’s a bit like those white mice you see turning a wheel.”
“Theo Wright is a road racer,” he explained. “He’s going to cycle from Bordeaux to Paris. Take him the best part of a day, that will. Bound to be saddlesore after that.”
She was taken aback. “Can anyone cycle for that long?”
“The lad has won six day-races before now, love.”
“Well, I never!”
“Anyway, I invited him and his coach this evening—but I told them to leave the bicycle behind. Theo had one stipulation, though.”
“What was that?”
“He took me aside to whisper it,” said Openshaw, lowering his voice. “Wanted me to invite a certain young lass as well.”
“Why?”
He nudged her softly. “Why do you think, Kitty?”
“Is he sweet on her?”
“As sweet as I was on you at his age.”
“And have you invited her?”
“That was the funny thing,” he said with a ripe chuckle. “I’d already penciled her name in. Met the lass in question earlier on. Stanley Chase introduced me to her. I can see why Theo Wright is so keen to chat with her over a glass of champagne.”
“Oh?”
“She’s right gorgeous, Kitty.”
“What’s her name?”
“Miss Masefield,” he said. “Miss Genevieve Masefield.”
Genevieve arrived at the purser’s office to find both Dillman and Paul Taggart there. The moment she saw Dillman, she knew he had not sent the bouquet to her. He was too preoccupied. His expression was solemn, his mind focused wholly on his work. Involved in a murder investigation, he would have had neither time nor inclination to pick out the flowers. Though he had a strong romantic streak in his nature, she had to accept that it had been subordinated to other things. Hiding her disappointment, she crossed his name off her mental list.
“I got your note, George,” she said. “What’s happened?”
“Quite a lot. We’ve got a job for you.”
“Well?”
“I’d like you to speak to Carrie Peterson.”
“But Inspector Redfern was against the idea.”
“That was before he lost Sergeant Mulcaster,” said the purser. “The blow the inspector took to the head has left him with a concussion. The doctor insisted on rest. Inspector Redfern is sleeping in his cabin right now.”
“Before he nodded off,” added Dillman, “he gave us his blessing.”
She was pleased. “We can interview the prisoners?”
“Yes, Genevieve. I’ve already spoken to John Heritage.”
“How did he seem?”
“Grateful to talk to someone who didn’t hassle him.”
“Sergeant Mulcaster didn’t believe in the kid-glove approach,” observed Taggart.
“What did you find out, George?” she asked.
Dillman told them the salient facts about his visit to John Heritage but admitted he was no nearer deciding if the man was guilty or innocent of the crime with which he was charged. He picked out one significant piece of information.
“Sergeant Mulcaster boasted about his rough treatment of suspects,” he said. “I’d like you to find out what Carrie Peterson has to say about him. Apparently he was less than courteous when they arrested her.”
“Did you tell Mr. Heritage what has happened to the sergeant?” asked Genevieve.
“No. The inspector wants that information suppressed.”
“I’m all in favor of that,” Taggart said seriously. “If the rest of the passengers knew that a Scotland Yard detective was thrown overboard last night, there’d be general hysteria. That kind of thing gives them the shakes.”
“Inspector Redfern had another reason for keeping it from the prisoners,” said Dillman “and I agree with him. Tread carefully, Genevieve. You’re not there to trick a confession out of her. Just listen to what she has to say, especially about the sergeant.”
“When can I see her?” she asked.
“As soon as you like.”
“I’ll go there at once.”
“Not before you’ve read this,” said Dillman, handing her a dossier.
“What is it, George?”
“The inspector kindly loaned this to me. It will explain why he’s so adamant that he has two cold-blooded murderers in custody. It’s also got some background material about Carrie Peterson that you need to know.”
“Thanks.”
Dillman looked at her properly for the first time and smiled.
“What have you been up to since we last met, Genevieve?” he asked.
“Routine patrol, for the most part.”
“Has anything come to light?”
“Not as yet. I’m slowly widening my field of contacts. They include a man whose name you’ve already mentioned to me, George.”
“Oh, who’s that?”
“Frank Openshaw.”
“ ‘Frank by name, and frank by nature,’ ” he recalled.
“That’s the one.”
“I know Mr. Openshaw,” said Taggart. “He and his wife have sailed on the Caronia before. He’s a wealthy financier. Very popular with the stewards because he gives such handsome tips.”
“He’s certainly a generous host,” said Genevieve. “When I slipped back to my cabin, I found an invitation to join them for drinks before dinner this evening. And I know for a fact that the Openshaws had a similar party yesterday.”
“They�
�ll have one every evening. They have in the past, anyway.”
Dillman nodded. “Frank Openshaw is a man who likes an audience.”
“Well, I’ll be part of it this evening,” said Genevieve. “It’s the sort of occasion when you can pick up useful information. Anyway,” she went on, holding up the dossier, “I’ll study this before going to see Carrie Peterson. How do you think she’ll react?”
“Positively, I hope,” said Dillman. “If she asks about the bandaging around the inspector’s head, tell her he had an accident but that you don’t know the details.”
“She’s bound to wonder about Mr. Heritage.”
“Assure her that he’s fine.”
“Right.”
“Do all you can to win her confidence.”
“I will, George. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get on with it.”
After an exchange of farewells, she slipped out of the office.
“What do you expect to get out of Carrie Peterson?” asked Taggart.
“I don’t know,” replied Dillman. “From what the inspector told me, she’s a rather strange young lady. That’s why I think Genevieve ought to handle her.”
“Any special reason why you want her to ask about Sergeant Mulcaster?”
“Yes, Mr. Taggart. Something that John Heritage told me rang a tiny bell at the back of my mind. The late Sergeant Mulcaster had many virtues but patience was not one of them. You could see the aggression bubbling away below the surface.”
“I noticed that.”
“Unhappily, it was not always held in check. According to Mr. Heritage, one of the men the sergeant arrested took a dreadful beating and finished up in hospital. That sort of thing gets a detective a bad name.”
“It could have been an isolated incident.”
“I doubt it somehow.”
“And if it wasn’t?”
“Then it might provide us with a motive for his murder,” said Dillman. “The sergeant clearly enjoyed the reputation he’d gained for robust policing. People on the other side of the law might not be so impressed.”
“Only if they’d come across him.”
“Oh, I suspect that Sergeant Mulcaster’s name was known far and wide. He’s like Frank Openshaw in that respect. He likes to draw attention to himself.” He pursed his lips for a moment. “It’s only a theory, of course, but the more we know about the sergeant, the closer we’ll get to understanding why he was killed.”
“Sounds sensible.”
“It’s a starting point, Mr. Taggart.”
“I agree.” Taggart remembered something. “What about our pickpocket?”
“I’ve had too much to do to give him my full attention,” confessed Dillman, “but I haven’t forgotten him. He’s obviously a pro and that means he doesn’t rush things. He’s targeted two men and relieved them of their wallets so skillfully that they didn’t feel a thing. My guess is that he’ll wait to see the response before he dips his hand in someone’s pocket again. Guys like that have a sixth sense about ship’s detectives.”
“How do you hope to catch him?”
“You’ll see.” He moved to the door. “I’ll get out of your way, Mr. Taggart.”
“No, hold on a minute,” said the purser, sorting through some papers on his desk. “I’ve been doing a little detective work on my own account.”
“Good for you!”
“I could be barking up the wrong tree, of course.”
“We all do that from time to time. What have you found?”
“Well,” said Taggart, “I was checking through the manifest. The obvious way to smuggle drugs is to conceal them inside freight. That’s why it’s examined so carefully before it’s allowed on board. The vast bulk of it is patently legitimate. You only have to look at the names of the people involved. But one or two items in the cargo hold did catch my eye.”
“For instance?”
“This one here,” Taggart pointed a finger at the manifest. “It’s such an unusual item for us to carry. Empty, that is. We’ve had a few occupied ones aboard before now. Someone being returned to his own country and so on.”
“What exactly are you talking about?”
“A funeral casket.”
“Now I’m with you.”
“I got to thinking how easy it’d be to hide drugs in that.”
“Very easy.”
“The guy who brought it on board is English, so I guess he’d call it a coffin.”
Dillman felt a shock of recognition. “I think I know who he is.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Ramsey Leach.”
“How did you guess?”
Wes Odell’s search led him eventually onto the promenade deck. Theodore Wright was leaning against the rail, chatting with a short, swarthy man of middle years with a neat mustache. Odell was glad that he had found the cyclist at last.
“Where have you been, Theo?” he complained.
“Talking to a supporter of my rival.”
“What rival?”
“Vannier, of course.”
“The best cyclist in the world,” said the other man, with a heavy French accent. He thrust out a hand. “Michel Fontaine,” he declared.
Odell shook his hand. “Wes Odell. I’m Theo’s coach.”
“He knows all about us, Wes,” Wright said with a grin. “Mr. Fontaine recognized me from a picture he’d seen in a French newspaper. We’re famous.”
“Before the race, maybe,” argued Fontaine. “Afterwards, you’ll be forgotten.”
“Not if I win.”
“Gaston Vannier will win. He always does.”
“Only because he hasn’t come up against Theo before,” said Odell.
“What chance does this boy have? Look at him. While you cross the ocean on a liner, Gaston will be training on the roads between Bordeaux and Paris. He knows them better than anybody.” He gave a smile of mock sympathy. “You have never even been to the country before.”
“One road is much like another,” said Wright.
“You have no chance, mon ami.”
Odell was getting angry. “Don’t listen to him, Theo.”
“All that he will see is the back of Gaston’s jersey.”
“Says who? What do you know about cycling?”
“Very little,” replied Fontaine genially, “but I read the papers. All the experts say the same thing. Gaston Vannier cannot lose. He has one big advantage.”
“What’s that?” asked Wright.
“He is French.”
Fontaine laughed merrily then strolled off down the deck. Odell wanted to go after him to continue the argument but Wright took no offense from the remarks.
“At least they know that we’re coming, Wes.”
“They’ll know you’ve been there when you win the race.”
“French guys are very patriotic. I won’t be popular.”
“You’ll have a name, Theo. And that will open doors for us. Anyway,” he said, “what have you been doing all afternoon? I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
Wright was evasive. “I was around.”
“You weren’t with that English dame, were you?”
“If only I had been!”
“Theo!”
“Genevieve is a friend.”
“You can’t afford to have friends—not that kind, anyway.”
“I’ll decide that.”
“Not as long as I’m your coach.” Odell saw Theo’s jaw tighten, and backed off. He tried a more relaxed approach. “How do you feel?”
“I felt great until you started to hassle me.”
“No stiffness in the legs?”
“Not after that massage you gave me.”
“Good.”
“What was in that stuff, Wes? It put a kind of zing into me.”
“Oh, it’s just an ointment I made. We’ll use it again.”
“That’s okay by me.” Wright shrugged his shoulders. “So why have you been chasing me this afternoon?”
“For a chat
, that’s all.”
“We never stop chatting, Wes.”
“I wanted a word about that guy with the loud voice.”
“Frank Openshaw?”
“Yes,” said Odell. “That’s him. I’m worried about that invitation to have a drink in his cabin this evening. Maybe we should give it a miss, Theo.”
“Not on your life!”
“We got nothing in common with guys like that.”
“There’ll be lots of other people there as well.”
“So? He won’t notice if we don’t turn up.”
“But I want to go, Wes. We can’t just stay away. What will Mr. Openshaw think?”
“We can send him an apology.”
“But we’ve already accepted his invitation.”
“You accepted it, Theo,” said Odell. “I just went along with the idea. The more I think about it, the more I worry. It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“All that booze floating around. You’re not supposed to touch alcohol.”
“They’ll have soft drinks as well,” reasoned the cyclist. “Besides, there’s plenty of booze floating around in the restaurant during lunch and dinner. Yet I haven’t been tempted to touch a drop. Come clean, Wes,” he advised. “What’s the real reason you don’t want to show up this evening?”
“I think we’d be out of place.”
“Not with a guy like Frank Openshaw. He’s as straight as they come. I took to him. He’s like me. Born at the bottom of the heap and dragged himself up by sheer hard work. I’d have thought you’d admire him for that.”
“I do. It’s the others I worry about.”
“What others?”
“Some of the stuffed shirts aboard. They’ll all be there.”
“Who cares? I’m not being scared off by anybody. I’m surprised at you, Wes,” he said. “You always tell me to hold my head up. We don’t need to kowtow to anyone, you say. Lost your nerve all of a sudden?”
“No, Theo.”
“Then why all this worry about a drink with friends?” He saw the look in the coach’s eye and understood. “Ah, now I get it!”
“She’ll be there, won’t she?”