Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

  “A denial of your guilt,” said Redfern.

  Heritage leaped to his feet. “I’ve had enough of this!” he yelled. “Take me back to my cabin. It’s cruel to torment us like this. I’m saying nothing more until we go to court, and Carrie will do the same.”

  “Will you, Miss Peterson?” asked Genevieve.

  “Don’t listen to them,” Heritage warned. “They’re trying to trick us.”

  “Sit down,” said Redfern.

  “They’ve got no real evidence.”

  The inspector forced him down into the chair. “Sit down and stay there!”

  Carrie Peterson glanced around as if noticing something for the first time.

  “Where’s Sergeant Mulcaster?” she asked quietly.

  “Never mind about him,” said Redfern.

  “But I want to know. He enjoys trying to frighten me. Where is he?”

  Heritage blurted out the truth. “He’s dead, Carrie. The sergeant was murdered and thrown overboard. You won’t have to put up with him again.”

  Her manner changed in a flash. Heritage had shown some compassion when he discovered the news, but she had none. A smile of joy lit up her face then she began to snigger. Carrie Peterson seemed unable to control herself. Throwing back her head, she laughed wildly until she was on the verge of hysteria. Genevieve moved across to hold her by the shoulders, trying to calm her down, but the cachinnation went on. It was the vengeful laughter of someone whose enemy has been vanquished. Redfern was taken aback but Heritage was utterly appalled. He had never seen her behave like this.

  Dillman waited until Carrie finally managed to regain her composure.

  “You killed her, didn’t you?” he said. “You poisoned Mrs. Heritage.”

  “Yes!” she exulted. “I killed her on my own. And I enjoyed it!”

  Wes Odell knew he was facing the biggest crisis of his career. Theodore Wright had threatened to sever all ties between them. As the cyclist started to pack his bag, the coach implored him to reconsider his decision.

  “I’m sorry, Theo,” he said. “I only did it for your benefit.”

  “Keep away from me, Wes.”

  “Let’s talk this over. It’s the only way to sort out our differences.”

  “No,” said Wright, tossing clothes into his bag. “The time for talking is over. I’ve listened to you for far too long.”

  “But look where I got you.”

  “It was my legs on those pedals.”

  “But who was coaching you, guiding you, building you up?”

  “I thought that you were, until last night.”

  Odell touched his shoulder. “Theo!”

  “Keep away from me,” warned Wright, shrugging him off. “You’ll never touch me again, Wes. You’re through. Get it? We’re finished.”

  “Well, you certainly are,” sneered Odell.

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Where will you be without me in your corner?”

  “Standing a much better chance of winning my races, I expect.”

  “Listen to me, son—”

  “No, you listen to me,” shouted Wright, rounding on him. “Ever since we got on this ship, you’ve been on my back. ‘Eat this.’ ‘Don’t drink that.’ ‘Run here.’ ‘Cycle there.’ ‘Stand up.’ ‘Sit down.’ ‘Keep away from her.’ Who the hell do you think you are, Wes?” Wright demanded. “Two really nice things have happened to me since we boarded the Caronia. Do you know what they are? I met Genevieve Masefield and I gave some riding lessons to Izzy Singleton. You tried to put the evil eye on both of them.”

  “I had to, Theo. Don’t you understand?”

  “No.”

  “I had to protect you from any distractions.”

  “You were just jealous,” said Wright. “Because you can’t make new friends, you try to stop me from doing it. You can’t bear to share me, Wes, can you? You weren’t trying to protect me. You were protecting yourself.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “I’m the only person on the ship who’ll even talk to you.”

  “We don’t need anyone else!”

  “I do. I need people I can relax with once in a while.”

  “Rest has been built into your training schedule.”

  “How can I rest with you standing over me like a mother hen?” Wright went back to his packing. “I’ll speak to the chief steward and get a cabin of my own. And I’ll work out my own training program from now on.”

  “Then you’re done for.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’re a good cyclist, Theo, and you could have been a great one with me to help you. On your own, you’ll never be a champ. Pull out of that race against Vannier while you can. That French guy was right,” he taunted. “Vannier will crucify you.”

  Wright confronted him. “At least I’ll have ridden an honest race.”

  Odell was about to fling a spiteful retort at him, but the glint in Wright's eye deterred him. The coach contented himself with a contemptuous curl of his lip before leaving the cabin and slamming the door behind him. Wright finished his packing. He was about to close the lid of his suitcase when he remembered something. Crossing to the little cupboard that had been used by Odell, he took out a tin of ointment and tossed it into the case. With a feeling of great relief, he let himself out of the cabin and stalked off.

  When he turned a corner, he saw Genevieve Masefield coming toward him.

  “You’re not leaving already, are you, Theo?” she said, noting the luggage. “I know that you’re a miracle worker in the cycling world, but even Theo Wright can’t walk on waves, surely.”

  “I’m moving to another cabin, Genevieve.”

  “Why?”

  “I finally saw the light. Wes and I have split up.”

  “For good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over what?”

  “Over you, among other things,” he said. “I’ll never forgive him for the way he tried to scare you off. Then there was Izzy. Imagine the rage he’d have got into if he’d known I was teaching her to ride. But the main reason is this,” he explained, opening his case to take out the ointment. “He’s been rubbing this into my legs.”

  “What is it, Theo?”

  “That’s what I want to find out. It felt good at first and it loosened the muscles up. After last night, though, I got to thinking.”

  “Last night?”

  “I was tired. My times were way below the targets I set myself. So Wes slips these flakes on my tongue and suddenly I get a rush of power. It was only after we’d done that I realized it must have been a drug of some sort.”

  Genevieve’s curiosity was sparked. “A drug? What kind?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I promise you this. I’ve never used drugs to win races before. It’s cheating, Genevieve. I’ve never needed to do that. There are some cyclists who use strychnine tablets to give themselves a boost and there’s all kinds of other things they can take. But not me.”

  “Didn’t Wes tell you what he was giving you?”

  “No. It’s one of the reasons we fell out. He said we were only experimenting in case we could use this ointment in the race. It would give us an advantage, he said, and that would enable me to beat Vannier. But I tell you this, Genevieve,” he said earnestly, “I’d rather lose to the guy than cheat.”

  “I’m sure. Where are you taking that ointment?”

  “To the ship’s doctor. I’m hoping he can tell me what’s in it.”

  “We’ve got someone better than the doctor aboard, Theo.”

  “Have we?”

  “Yes,” she said. “A trained pharmacist.”

  John Heritage was in tears when they went into his cabin. Slumped in his chair, he looked desolate as he contemplated the end of his relationship with Carrie Peterson. Confident of his own innocence, he had never dared to question hers. The fact that she had committed murder by using the poison bought by him had left Heritage in despair. He was left with nothing.
Inspector Redfern and Dillman had to wait a few minutes while he pulled himself together.

  “We’ve come to ask you a favor,” said Redfern.

  Heritage looked up. “I’m not in the mood for company, I’m afraid.”

  “We appreciate how you feel, Mr. Heritage,” said Dillman, “and we wouldn’t trouble you unless it was very important.” He held up the tin of ointment. “This was given to me by Miss Masefield. We believe it may contain a drug and we’d like to know what it is. It could turn out to be a vital clue in our search for someone who is smuggling narcotics on this vessel.”

  “Why should I help you, Mr. Dillman?”

  “No reason, sir.”

  “Then I’d be glad if you’d leave me alone.”

  “Of course. I just thought that, as a pharmacist, you’d take an interest. Nobody understands the perils of addiction as much as someone in your profession. There are opium dens in London as there are in New York,” said Dillman, “and other strong drugs are being used to destroy lives all over the world.” He moved to the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Heritage. We’ll have to ask the doctor instead.”

  “Wait!” said Heritage. He snapped his fingers. “Give it here.”

  “There’s not much left in the tin, I’m afraid,” said Dillman, handing it over.

  “Will you need anything from your bag to analyze it?” asked Redfern.

  “I don’t know,” said Heritage.

  He used a finger to scoop out most of the ointment, then he sniffed it with care. Spreading it onto the palm of his other hand, he examined it more carefully before licking it with the tip of his tongue.

  “Well?” asked Dillman.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “From a professional cyclist called Theo Wright. His coach was using it on him to massage his legs. He also gave Theo a strange substance last night to boost his energy. When he realized he was being given drugs, Theo drew the line.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  “Why not, Mr. Heritage?” said Dillman.

  “What’s in the ointment?” asked Redfern.

  “Basically, it’s a compound of cocoa butter spiced with something else.”

  “Go on,” said Dillman.

  “Cocaine.”

  Smoking a cigarette, Cecilia Robart was relaxing in her cabin. When there was a tap on her door, she looked up in surprise. She was expecting no visitors. She opened the door and saw Genevieve Masefield standing there.

  “Forgive this intrusion, Mrs. Robart,” said Genevieve, “but I wondered if I could have a quiet word with you. It’s about your earrings.”

  “But you found them for me.”

  “I know, but there’s something I forgot to mention. May I come in?”

  Mrs. Robart was guarded. “Well,” she said, “only for a minute. I have to meet a friend shortly.”

  Genevieve stepped into the cabin and the door was closed.

  “Now, then. What’s all this about, Miss Masefield?”

  “You and me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have this strange feeling you didn’t mislay those earrings at all,” Genevieve said pointedly. “If they meant so much to you, the last place you’d leave them was in a shared bathroom.”

  “I told you. I can be very empty-headed at times.”

  “You seem to be a little more organized now,” Genevieve observed, noting the tidiness of the cabin. “Now that you don’t have to put on an act, that is.”

  “What on earth are you implying?”

  “I’ve just talked with Sir Harry Fox-Holroyd. It turns out you’re not the duffer at cards you claim to be, Mrs. Robart. He says that you have a brain as sharp as a razor. It was you who carried him through that game of bridge.”

  The other woman shrugged. “I was lucky, that’s all.”

  “Well, your luck has run out, I’m afraid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The purser would like to interview you about some crimes that have taken place.”

  “ ‘Crimes’?”

  “I think you know what we’re talking about, Mrs. Robart.”

  “I wish I did,” said the other woman, “and I’ll certainly accompany you to the purser. It will give me the chance to complain about your impudence, Miss Masefield.”

  She picked up her purse and took out a key. Moving to the door, she opened it as if to leave. Genevieve went after her. At the last moment, Mrs. Robart swung round and pushed Genevieve so hard that she stumbled back. Before Genevieve could get to her feet, she heard the key being turned in the lock to imprison her but she was not disconcerted. Anticipating resistance, she had brought some support with her. There were sounds of a scuffle outside the door then it was unlocked again. Two members of the crew were holding Cecilia Robart in a firm grip.

  Genevieve smiled. “Now I realize why you pretended to be upset about the presence of two murder suspects on board. You wanted the names of the Scotland Yard detectives, didn’t you?”

  Mrs. Robart struggled to escape, but to no avail.

  “No need to rush off to warn your accomplice,” said Genevieve. “My colleague is on his way to arrest him at this very moment. I have an apology to make, you see. When I told you that I worked alone, I was lying to you.” Her smiled broadened. “There are two of us.”

  It took Dillman some time to find him. When the man was not in his cabin, the detective scoured the public rooms in search of him. Most of the first-class passengers were attending a concert in the lounge. Stanley Chase was not among them. When Dillman eventually tracked him down, he was reclining in a chair with his head in a magazine about antiques. He was smoking a cigarette. The detective strolled across to him, pleased there were so few passengers about. They could converse in private.

  “That looks like an absorbing read, Mr. Chase,” he said pleasantly.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Dillman,” said Chase, looking up. “Yes, I never tire of admiring antiques. There’s some French Empire furniture in here that’s making my mouth water.”

  “Do you have a special interest in France?”

  “Yes. I have a cottage near Castres. I spend all my free time there.”

  “Do you smoke a French brand of cigarettes, by any chance?”

  “I do, actually,” said Chase, taking a last pull on the cigarette before snuffing it out between his fingers and dropping it to the deck. “I like them.”

  “I understand that you’re going to watch the Bordeaux-to-Paris cycle race this year. Is there any reason for that?”

  “Of course. I’ve put a bet on Theo Wright.”

  “You expect him to win?”

  “I need him to win, Mr. Dillman. It’s a sizable bet.”

  “Is that why you’re trying to safeguard your investment?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You supplied cocaine to Theo’s coach, didn’t you?”

  “Is that what Mr. Odell says?”

  “No,” replied Dillman, “but it’s what Theo himself says, and what a pharmacist confirms. Mr. Odell was using a mixture of cocoa butter and cocaine to massage Theo’s legs. It’s also probable that he put cocaine flakes on his tongue.”

  Chase put his magazine aside. “What’s your interest in this, Mr. Dillman?”

  “A professional one.”

  “I thought you built yachts.”

  “I did at one time but I work for Cunard now. As a detective.”

  “You do surprise me,” said Chase, quite unperturbed.

  “I believe you’ve met my partner, Genevieve Masfield.”

  “Yes, a charming young lady.”

  “She’s presently interviewing your partner, Mr. Chase.”

  “Oh—and who might that be?”

  “Mrs. Cecilia Robart.”

  Dillman saw the first flicker of an eyelid and knew that Chase was worried. The other man reached over to lift up a small case, putting it across his knees and opening it so that he could slip the magazine back into it.


  “What have you come to do, Mr. Dillman?” he teased. “Are you going to slap me on the wrist and tell me not to be a naughty boy? Drugs are used in all sports. I wanted to make sure Theo Wright had his share of them, that’s all. It’s a subject on which I’ve done a little research, you see.”

  “Oh?”

  “Boxers, runners, cyclists—they’re all the same, all striving for the extra edge that will mean the difference between success and failure. In France, for instance, trainers give their athletes Caffeine Houdes, a commercial preparation that you can buy across the counter. The Belgians suck sugar cubes dipped in ether. Some people prefer nitroglycerine; others opt for concoctions that contain digitalis, camphor, or atropine. What Theo really needs for endurance is a mixture of cocaine and heroin.”

  “No doubt you could provide both from your stock.”

  “Need we get so upset about something that’s common practice in sport?”

  “But we’re not talking about that, Mr. Chase, are we? What we’re discussing is the illegal import of drugs into England and the murder of Sergeant Ronald Mulcaster. I believe that you and Mrs. Robart can help us on both counts.”

  “I’ve never even heard of this Sergeant Mulcaster.”

  “No,” said Dillman. “I suppose he didn’t have time to introduce himself properly while you were tipping him over the rail on the boat deck.”

  Chase’s mouth hardened.

  “We have a witness, you see. He actually saw you club the sergeant to death with a revolver. Shall we go and find the weapon in your cabin, sir?”

  “No need,” Chase snapped, lifting the lid of his case to pull out the gun and hold it on Dillman. “It’s right here. I always keep it near me.”

  “Like Mrs. Robart and her gold earrings.”

  Chase rose to his feet. “Shut up!”

  “It wasn’t the antiques that paid for those earrings or for your cottage in the south of France. The big profits are in drug trafficking. Along with the worst kind of human beings. Sergeant Mulcaster knew that.”

  “He was no better than us,” said Chase. “Everyone in the trade knew about Ronnie Mulcaster. He was an animal, hiding behind his police badge. He crippled one man for life and sent a couple more to hospital. Yet he always got away with it. I was doing everyone a favor by getting rid of him!”