by Conrad Allen
Odell watched them sullenly, trying to gauge what was being said by their stance and gestures. He saw Waldo Singleton bring a hand to his mouth as he cleared his throat. Wright looked relaxed and unworried,
“I’m sure you know what this is about,” said Singleton.
“Not really, sir.”
“I understand you’ve been teaching our daughter to ride.”
“Is that what Izzy told you?”
Waldo frowned. “Her name is Isadora.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Singleton.”
“And she told us nothing at first, which is alarming enough in itself because we brought her up to speak the truth. We noticed an oil stain on her dress.”
“From the bicycle chain,” said Wright. “I did warn her.”
“So you don’t deny that you were giving her instruction?”
“Hell no! I’m pleased to introduce anyone to the joys of cycling. There’s nothing to touch it. I can’t think why Izzy—Isadora—didn’t learn years ago.”
“That was our decision and we stand by it.”
“Your daughter missed out on a whole lot of fun, then.”
“That’s beside the point,” Singleton said sharply. “I’m here to tell you that my wife and I take a dim view of what’s been going on. You had no right to conspire with Isadora behind our backs. It was deplorable behavior. In view of that fact, Mr. Wright, I must ask you to leave our daughter alone in future.”
“But I like her, Mr. Singleton.”
“Your relationship with Isadora is herewith terminated.”
Wright blinked in annoyance. “What is this?” he said. “First Wes. Now you. As soon as I get close to a woman on this ship, someone pops up to warn me off.”
“Have I made my feelings clear?”
“Very clear.”
“Good.”
“What you didn’t realize, though, is that I have feelings as well. And I don’t like to be shoved around by anyone. I want to know what Isadora thinks about this,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “From where I stand, Mr. Singleton, she looks old enough to make her own decisions.”
“That’s a family matter.”
“But I’m involved here.”
“Not anymore, Mr. Wright.”
“Why not?” demanded the cyclist. “All I did was to give her a riding lesson or two. It’s not as if I’m try to elope with her.”
“Heaven forbid!”
“We’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Singleton. Judge for yourself. Why don’t you and you wife come and watch us practicing together?”
“That’s a monstrous suggestion!”
“Why?”
“Listen, young man,” said Waldo, raising his voice a little. “I tried to put it as politely as I could but you persist in being obstinate. Let me be more blunt. Without saying a word to us, Isadora formed an attachment with someone whom we consider to be highly unsuitable. If it were not for the unique situation of being on this vessel together, your paths would never even have crossed.”
“I’m glad they did.”
“Well, we most certainly are not.”
“What about Izzy?”
Waldo smarted. “Her name is Isadora.”
“Does she think I’m highly unsuitable?”
“That’s immaterial.”
“Let me speak to her.”
“No, Mr. Wright.”
“If she wants me to scram,” said Wright, “then I will, but I have to hear it from Izzy’s—sorry, from Isadora’s—own lips. It’s only fair.”
“You obviously haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”
“Oh, I heard it, sir. What you’re telling me is that I’m not good enough for your daughter. Yet I was simply trying to teach her to ride. You talk as if I’m a prospective son-in-law.”
“Over my dead body!” exclaimed Singleton.
Wright grinned. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re such an exasperating young man.”
“That’s what all the other cyclists say. But then, all they get to see in a race is the back of my jersey.” He gave a shrug. “Look,” he said amiably, “I don’t mean to be brash, and I’m not looking for a fight with you or with Mrs. Singleton. I like your daughter. She’s a great girl. What harm is done if she has a bit of enjoyment on this trip?”
“A great deal of harm, Mr. Wright.”
“I’m not a leper, you know.”
“Socially, that’s exactly what you are. We will treat you as such.” Turning on his heel, Waldo Singleton walked off with the utmost dignity.
Odell came scurrying anxiously across to see what the argument had been about. “What did he want, Theo?”
“Nothing,” Wright said airily. “Nothing at all.”
Before he went to dinner that evening, Dillman paid a courtesy call on Inspector Redfern.
The Scotland Yard detective shook his hand warmly. “I understand congratulations are in order,” he said. “The purser tells me you arrested a pickpocket and his accomplice in the lounge.”
“A routine assignment, Inspector.”
“It proves you know your job.”
“That doesn’t stop me making mistakes,” Dillman said penitently. “Did Mr. Taggart tell you about the suspect we interviewed?”
Redfern smiled. “Yes. Mr. Leach, wasn’t it?” he said. “Easy to see why you got hold of the wrong end of the stick there. What a weird marriage those two must have!”
“It’s one of the reasons I came.”
“To discuss Mr. and Mrs. Leach?”
“No,” explained Dillman. “To talk about the false impression you can get when you meet only one person in a partnership. Ramsey Leach struck me as a lonely bachelor with no interest outside his work. Genevieve had a similar reaction to Pamela Clyne. She’d never met anyone so excruciatingly shy. Yet those two got together at midnight and enjoyed themselves so much that they scandalized the lady in the next cabin. In other words,” he continued, “it’s only when you put two halves of a partnership together that you understand their true character.”
“I think I can see what’s coming,” Redfern said carefully.
“It was Genevieve’s idea, really.”
“You want to speak to both the suspects together.”
“If possible, Inspector. I know you’ve kept them apart so that they can’t rehearse their lines together. But there could be real value in letting them be in the same room. They haven’t seen each other for days, remember.”
“Heritage and Miss Peterson remind me of that every time I speak to them.”
“Their emotions will be running high. They may well give themselves away.”
“I’m not so sure about this, Mr. Dillman.”
“It’s worth trying,” argued Dillman. “Naturally, you’d be there as well. But each of them would suddenly be confronted with an unknown quantity. Genevieve has spoken to Miss Peterson but it would be interesting to see what Mr. Heritage makes of her.”
“By the same token, you’d be a new face for Carrie Peterson. Well,” said Redfern, thinking it over, “it has its advantages, but it could also work against us. Heritage and his mistress would be able to exchange signals. That’s why I opted for divide and rule.”
“The interview would be rigidly controlled, Inspector. Sit them well apart and make sure you stand between them. Impress upon them that they’ll be sent straight back to their cabins if they disobey the rules, and we’ll have no trouble. What do you say, Inspector? They’d be extremely grateful.”
“I’m not here to do favors for murder suspects.”
“It’s their gratitude that might make them open up a little.”
“Let me think it over.”
“Genevieve and I are at your disposal at any time.”
“Thanks, Mr. Dillman.” He studied his visitor’s evening dress. “You make me feel very envious, looking like that. While you dine in style, I’ll have a meal on a tray.”
“Even at dinner, I’m s
till very much on duty.”
“Of course.” He took out his tobacco pouch and began to fill his pipe. “I took your advice about having a word with Daniel Webb. Evidence from fellow prisoners is notoriously unreliable but I wanted to hear what he said.”
“And?”
“He thinks Heritage is guilty.”
“That’s what he told me.”
“According to Webb, the important person is Carrie Peterson. He reckons that Heritage is lying to protect her. If he was in this on his own, says Webb, he’d come clean and take his punishment. But because he inveigled his mistress into the crime, he feels obliged to cover for her.”
“Interesting theory. What do you make of it, Inspector?”
“There may be a grain of truth in it.”
“All the more reason to question them together,” urged Dillman. “Webb is right about one thing. Miss Peterson is the key factor. But for her, Mr. Heritage would still be working at the pharmacy and going home to an unhappy marriage.”
“Love does strange things to a man,” Redfern said drily, slipping his pipe between his lips before putting his pouch away. “Look at Ramsey Leach.”
“I’d rather look at John Heritage—side by side with Carrie Peterson.”
Redfern used a match to light his pipe then puffed away. He put his head to one side and looked at his visitor with great curiosity. He removed the pipe to exhale smoke.
“Why have you taken such an interest in this case, Mr. Dillman?”
“Because there’s something odd about it.”
“‘Odd’?”
“Yes,” said Dillman. “On the face of it, we have the classic love triangle. A husband who kills a nagging wife in order to be with his mistress. We’ve both seen that situation a number of times. What is odd here is that Mr. Heritage didn’t need to kill his wife. He and Miss Peterson had already made their escape to Ireland. I don’t think you’d have pursued him quite so vigorously if his only crime had been to filch from the pharmacy account. There wasn’t a large amount of money involved.”
“Too little to interest Scotland Yard. We’d have made routine inquiries then given up when we realized they’d left the country. Murder is the only reason my boss would authorize the kind of expenses we’ve run up. But I take your point, Mr. Dillman,” he said thoughtfully. “It is an odd case.”
Dillman looked at his watch. “I’ll have to hand it over to you for the time being. Duty calls. Genevieve and I have our own work to do.”
“Find the killer for me. It’s vital.”
“That’s exactly what we hope to do.”
“You have another suspect?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“What’s his name?”
“It’s a woman,” announced Dillman. “Mrs. Cecilia Robart.”
Since most people tended to forgather in the lounge before dinner, Genevieve Masefield got there early in order to take up a vantage point from which she could keep the room under surveillance. Theodore Wright was sitting with his coach. He gave her a friendly wave but made no attempt to go over to her. Genevieve took that as a good sign. Pamela Clyne was also there, talking in a corner with the indomitable Iris Cooney and looking like part of the furniture. Once again, she wore long gloves to conceal her rings. Mrs. Cooney was old and sagacious. Genevieve wondered if Pamela had confided her secret to her friend. It would explain why the American woman offered her almost continuous cover. Genevieve noticed that Stanley Chase was deep in conversation with Sir Harry Fox-Holroyd. Fresh from their latest bout of hospitality, the Openshaws led in the group who had just been served drinks in their cabin. Mrs. Anstruther stood in the doorway and scanned the room to make sure there was no sign of Mostyn Morris.
Genevieve soon found herself in conversation with Kitty Openshaw.
“You have a beautiful new dress each time I see you, Miss Masefield.”
“Actually, Mrs. Openshaw, my wardrobe is full of old friends.”
“Well, nobody would ever guess.”
“When it comes to beautiful dresses,” said Genevieve, admiring the older woman’s silk gown, “yours is very special. It was obviously made for you.”
“A birthday present from Frank. He spoils me.”
“That’s what you get for marrying a bricklayer.”
Kitty laughed. “I’ll tell him that!”
While they chatted away, Genevieve kept watch on the door and she was eventually rewarded with her first sight of Cecilia Robart. Walking between two other women, she looked composed and elegant. Her gold earrings dazzled in the light and she had reverted to the pearl necklace. The long black evening gown displayed her figure to advantage. Genevieve watched her carefully, uncertain whether such a refined woman could possibly be involved in the terrible crimes. She had never seen Mrs. Robart in the company of a man for any length of time, but that meant nothing. Pamela Clyne had proved that. Even the most perceptive eye could be deceived.
When dinner was announced, the guests began to drift out of the lounge. Dillman hovered near the door, talking to one of the stewards. Kitty Openshaw rejoined her husband, and Genevieve was free to move a little closer to Mrs. Robart. Genevieve waited until they were near the exit before she spoke, making sure that Dillman overheard her.
“Good evening, Mrs. Robart,” she said, moving up beside her.
“Hello, Miss Masefield.”
“I haven’t seen much of you today.”
“We spent the whole afternoon playing bridge.”
“Did you win?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Robart. “I was lucky enough to have Sir Harry as my partner. I’m a duffer at cards but he carried me along splendidly. What about you?”
“Oh, I’ve had a very restful day.”
“That’s the attraction of crossing the Atlantic. There’s no rush.”
When they got to the dining room, they went their separate ways. Genevieve looked around. Conscious that she had seen so little of Isadora, she wanted to sit close to the Singletons but they did not turn up. Instead she took a seat beside Michel Fontaine. The Frenchman was polite and attentive. After introductions had been made, Genevieve surprised him by mentioning the Bordeaux-to-Paris race.
“I understand that you made a wager with Mr. Chase,” she said.
“Why, yes.” He pulled a face. “I was so sorry about that.”
“ ‘Sorry’?”
“I like the man. It will hurt me to take his money from him.”
“Mr. Chase believes it will be the other way round.”
“Nobody can beat a French cyclist in France,” he said confidently. “I would bet anything on Gaston Vannier. He is a born winner.”
“So is Theo Wright.”
“Pah! He will not even finish the race.”
“He has tremendous stamina.”
“Vannier will—how do you say?—destroy him.”
Genevieve was about to defend the American when there was a tap on her shoulder. A steward had brought her a note. As soon as she sniffed the scented envelope, Genevieve knew it had come from Isadora Singleton. Making sure that nobody else could read its contents, she opened the missive. One word had been written in block capitals:
HELP!
______
When she had been identified for him, Dillman stayed long enough at the door to take a close look at Cecilia Robart. She did not strike him as the sort of person who would leave a pair of expensive earrings in a bathroom by accident. Like Genevieve, he sensed she simply had wanted to find out who the ship’s detective was so that she could be on her guard. He moved off swiftly and found his way to the suspect’s cabin, knocking first to make sure it was unoccupied, then let himself in. Eager to get to the dining room before too long, his search was swift but not perfunctory. He found nothing out of the ordinary. The cabin was surprisingly tidy, yet Genevieve had spoken of Cecilia Robart as a rather scatterbrained person. Dillman knew enough about fashion to estimate how costly her wardrobe was, and the other items indicated no shortage of money
. It was the wastepaper basket that interested him most. Lying in the bottom of it were a magazine and several discarded cigarette butts. He reached down to extract them and laid them out carefully on the table. There were over twelve in all and they had been smoked since the stewardess had cleaned the cabin that morning. Two different brands had been used. Four cigarettes of one brand had a smear of lipstick on them. The remaining eight had been thrown away when they were barely half an inch long.
Cecilia Robart had a friend who was a heavy smoker.
Michel Fontaine was a charming companion. He flirted gently with Genevieve without making her feel in any way threatened or offended. She was sorry she had to leave the table early but the cry for help from Isadora Singleton could not be ignored. Excusing herself from the table, she looked around for Cecilia Robart. Positioned between Sir Harry Fox-Holroyd and Frank Openshaw, looking completely at ease, she seemed to be keeping up simultaneous conversations with the two men. Genevieve walked past them. When she left the room, she saw Theodore Wright chatting to one of the stewards. He broke away when he saw her.
“You see?” he said with a grin. “I’ve got a fan, after all.”
“You’ve got lots of fans, Theo.”
“That guy has actually seen me race. Comes from Baltimore. He saw me win a big race down there last year and has been dying for the chance to speak to me. What about that, eh?” he asked. “I may not impress the passengers on the Caronia but I’m a hit with the stewards.”
“You impress us all, believe me.”
“No, I don’t, Genevieve.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Singleton thinks I’ve crawled out from under a stone. I don’t reckon that he’ll be in the crowd in Paris to cheer me past that winning line. He found out I’d been giving Izzy—Isadora—some riding lessons. Almost bit my ear off.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Why Isadora isn’t here this evening. I have to go, Theo,” she said. “Before I do, promise me you’ll definitely win that race in Paris.”
“It’s in the bag, Genevieve.”
“Good. That’s what I told Monsieur Fontaine. Don’t let me down.”