by Jack Treby
Finch’s eyes widened in horror as I outlined my doomed scheme to dope Walter Kendall and my disastrous second journey to the American’s cabin in the middle of the night. I left out nothing, except the unfortunate business with the night shirt.
‘So the sleeping draught didn’t belong to Walter Kendall at all?’ he breathed at last, when I had finished my story.
‘I’m afraid not.’
Finch was aghast. ‘But I assumed that Mrs Koenig had crept in and doctored the bottle, sometime during the day.’
I shook my head. ‘No. That was Maurice. He placed the bottle in Kendall’s cabin, after the American had been killed.’
‘With the rat poison?’
‘Yes. But I now believe someone got hold of the sleeping draught and introduced the poison to the bottle while it was still in my cabin.’
Finch lifted his hands to his face. ‘But that’s appalling!’ he exclaimed. ‘And you have no idea who did it?’
‘No. But I don’t think it was Adelina Koenig. And I’m certain she didn’t break into Walter Kendall’s cabin last night. She had other things on her mind.’ I had already mentioned the noises I had heard coming from her room. ‘If someone did spike that sleeping draught, they must have slipped into my cabin earlier in the day.’ I explained about the faulty lock. ‘And broke into Gerhard Schulz’s room before that. But how they knew I had the sleeping draught in the first place, I have no idea. And they couldn’t have known what I was intending to do with Kendall. Only Charles Lazenby, myself and Maurice knew about that. And Lazenby’s not on board.’
I could almost see the smoke coming out of the policeman’s ears as his brain struggled to cope with all the possibilities. ‘So you think you might have been the intended victim, rather than Mr Kendall?’
‘It’s a possibility, I suppose.’ I didn’t want to dwell on that idea. ‘But I don’t think so. To be honest, I don’t know what to think. I still haven’t worked out how they managed to get into Schulz’s cabin in broad daylight. Maurice said the room was locked up. So whoever we’re looking for, they must be a pretty good lock pick.’
‘It might be a member of the crew,’ Finch suggested. ‘They would have access to the keys.’
I blinked. I had not considered that possibility. ‘It could be, I suppose.’
‘What about Mrs Koenig’s nephew?’ Even now, despite everything I had told him, Finch was not willing to let go of the idea that the German woman was involved.
‘Possibly. But he’s a crewman, not a steward. Members of the crew aren’t usually allowed on the passenger decks. And anyone who saw him creeping about would be sure to remember it.’ The poor fellow’s lazy eye did rather draw attention. ‘No, in my opinion, it’s far more likely to be one of the passengers.’
Jacob Finch slumped back into his seat. ‘This is an unmitigated disaster.’ The information I had given him had completely undermined every one of his theories. And it didn’t exactly paint a rosy picture of my own behaviour on board.
‘Special Branch isn’t the only one who makes mistakes,’ I admitted ruefully.
He closed his eyes for a moment, his hands gripping tightly onto the padded sofa. ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?’
‘Maurice only discovered the rat poison this morning, after I’d first spoken to you.’
‘In Gerhard Schultz’s room?’
‘Yes. Maurice thinks the Austrian may have been intending to use it to kill himself.’
Finch bunched his hands into a ball. ‘I assumed Herr Schulz had taken the poison with him when he left the ship.’
It was my turn to be surprised. ‘You knew about the rat poison?’
The other man nodded. ‘But only second hand. That tin belonged to Herr Kaufmann.’
‘Kaufmann? Josef Kaufmann?’ The tubby German.
‘Yes. He told the captain about it when he heard Herr Schulz had committed suicide. He had the tin in his cabin, but it went missing during the time they were in Seville. He didn’t notice it until yesterday afternoon. And he told the captain straight away, so that they could pass the information on to the police in Seville.’
No wonder Kaufmann had been so certain Gerhard Schulz had committed suicide.
‘But why would Kaufmann be carrying rat poison to South America?’
Finch shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me to explain it. It was a gift of some kind, apparently. Herr Lindt is tendering for a business contract in Sao Paulo. There’s some kind of conference taking place, with lots of deals being negotiated.’
‘Yes, I heard about that. That’s why he’s so upset about the change of course.’
‘Apparently, he heard that one of the factories over there had a problem with rats. He asked Herr Kaufmann to bring along some rat poison. I understand it was intended as a joke. A means of establishing a rapport with the chairman of the company.’
‘It all sounds a bit dubious to me.’
‘I know, I didn’t give it much credence. But the poison was there and it went missing. I thought it was possible that Herr Schulz had taken it. Affairs of the heart and all that.’
‘But how would he have got into Kaufmann’s room? To steal it?’
‘He was given the key. He’d run out of film for his camera, shortly before we arrived in Seville, and Kaufmann told him to take a couple of rolls from his case. Schulz must have gone in there and stolen the powder at the same time. That’s what we thought, anyway. But if you say you’ve found the tin in the Austrian’s cabin...?’
‘Yes. Well, Maurice did anyway. Do you know if Schulz used poison to kill himself?’
Finch shook his head. ‘I didn’t think to check. I can cable London to find out. I’ll get onto it later today.’
‘This gets more and more confusing by the minute.’
‘It’s dreadful,’ the policeman agreed. ‘I thought I had Mrs Koenig banged to rights. She crept out of her room, doctored Mr Kendall’s sleeping draught and then killed him. But if she had a man in her cabin last night and you administered the poison, then there’s no evidence against her at all. Apart from a few impressions on a notepad. Well, and these rolls of film. And, as you say, they could just be holiday snaps. This is a disaster. Do you...do you know who Mrs Koenig was entertaining?’
‘No, I don’t. My first thought was Captain Rüdiger. She was very chatty with him yesterday afternoon. And I heard them talking about Gerhard Schulz, down in the control cabin.’
Finch nodded. ‘Yes, she was telling him about Miss Hurst and Herr Schulz. She’d noticed how friendly the two of them were. It was information for the police in Seville. I saw the telegrams they sent out. But you say she was particularly friendly with the first officer?’
‘I thought so at the time. But she’s a lot more friendly with Sir George. If I had to put money on it, I’d say he was more likely to be her gentleman caller.’
‘Perhaps they’re in cahoots.’
‘Maybe,’ I said, thinking the matter over carefully. ‘Sir George wasn’t on the Croydon flight, but he certainly needs the money, from what I hear. But it’s the getting in and out of Schulz’s room that bothers me. How could anyone get away with that without being seen?’ I had made a pigs ear of it and bumped into Miss Hurst into the bargain; and I was supposed to know what I was doing. ‘It’s difficult enough in the dead of night, but during the day...’
‘That brings us back to the staff,’ the policeman thought. ‘And Mrs Koenig’s nephew.’
I shook my head. ‘One of the stewards, more likely. Slipped a fiver to look the other way, or to lend them their keys. You can never rule out the servants.’ I had learnt that from bitter experience.
As if on cue, a white coated steward appeared with a metal tray. ‘There you are, Mr Finch. I have been looking for you.’ At the sound of his voice, the policeman sprang away from me, as if the two of us had been caught in an illicit embrace. How the damned fellow had ever reached the rank of detective was beyond me. The steward didn’t bat an eyelid, of course. ‘Anot
her telegram for you, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ Finch said, pulling the message off the tray. He waited until Stefan had gone before opening the folded paper. ‘More bad news, I expect. I wonder what they want this time.’ He looked down at the message and frowned.
‘Encrypted?’ I asked.
Finch nodded and sighed. The usual unreadable gibberish. ‘It takes forever to decode. I’ll have to pop back to my cabin. I really don’t have time for this.’
‘It might be important.’
‘It’s always important,’ he agreed anxiously. ‘That’s what I’m worried about. Look, can you take care of the negatives?’ He gestured to the rolls of film in my hands.
‘Certainly. What do you want me to do with them?’
Finch was unequivocal. ‘Destroy them, any way you can.’
I grimaced. ‘You’re sure?’ This was the only real evidence we had.
He nodded firmly. ‘As soon as possible. Get rid of the dreadful things before they do any more harm.’
‘All right,’ I agreed, lifting up one of the films and gently easing out the tab with my fingernail. ‘If these are just holiday snaps, Mrs Koenig is not going to be at all happy.’ I grabbed the tab with my fingers and kept pulling until the entire film had been exposed to the light. Then I did the same with the other roll. I glanced across the promenade, to make sure there were no stewards about, then bundled up the jumble of exposed celluloid and lifted the window.
‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,’ Finch said. ‘The engine cars...’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I assured him. The engines were higher up than the windows on either side of the Zeppelin. I had just had a good look at them from the outside. I tossed the bundle of film into the air. It shot backwards but down and was soon lost to sight. I closed the window firmly behind them. ‘Good riddance,’ I said, flashing a grin at Jacob Finch. ‘Well, that’s the monarchy taken care of. Now we just need to find our murderer.’
Chapter Fourteen
Thomas McGilton was hunched over a telegraph slip, pencil in hand, his brownish green eyes half closed. He was considering his words carefully before he transcribed them. It was the first time I had seen him writing anything.
‘You not coming for a drink?’ I called out, through the reading room window. Everyone with an ounce of sense was already down in the bar. ‘Oh no, you don’t, do you?’
He looked up from the central table. ‘No, but I’ll be down in a minute. Just want to finish off this telegram.’
I stepped into the room. ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, observing the slip of paper in front of him. ‘“Having a lovely time on the airship. Haven’t died yet. Love Thomas.”’
McGilton laughed. ‘You’re not far wrong.’ He glanced down at his stubby pencil and grabbed a sharpener from the table. ‘I’m going to write to Lucy’s parents. Let them know we’ll be arriving in New York a few day’s early. I want to get it sent off this afternoon. The press are going to have a field day when they hear we’ve been diverted.’
‘Lord, yes.’ I hadn’t thought of that. A damaged Zeppelin would be headline news. ‘I had hoped to slip away quietly at the end of this trip.’
‘No chance of that,’ the Irishman asserted. ‘Two people dead and a damaged tail fin. The newspapers will lap it up. Was that our Mr Finch I saw heading off downstairs?’
Finch and I had been sat at the far end of the promenade. McGilton must have seen him heading for the lounge room door. ‘Er...yes, that’s right.’ I perched myself on a chair.
‘He’s an odd fellow, that one.’ McGilton finished sharpening his pencil and placed the sharpener back down on the table top. 'What do you make of him?’
‘Finch?’ I shrugged, not quite sure why I was being asked. ‘He’s amiable enough, I suppose. A bit highly strung.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed that.’ McGilton frowned. He had not written anything on the telegraph slip as yet, beyond the address. ‘Never stops fidgeting. But, you know, it’s an odd thing. I heard somebody say a little while ago that he was a policeman.’
‘A policeman?’ I did my best to sound surprised. It was no great stretch for me just now. ‘I thought he was a stockbroker.’
‘So did I. But apparently he’s from Scotland Yard.’ McGilton emphasised these last two words, as if he were talking about a man from Mars.
‘Good lord. First I’ve heard of it. Who told you that?’ I was curious to know who had rumbled him.
‘Oh, one of the Germans, after we got off the dinghy. Just something I overheard. Probably got the wrong end of the stick. German’s not my strong point. I can barely string a sentence together.’
‘That’s more than I can manage.’
‘Lucy’s better at it than I am. She speaks it like a native.’
‘I remember you saying. Where is she now? Down at the bar?’
‘No, she’s in her room. Writing an obituary.’
‘An obituary?’ I blinked in bemusement. ‘Oh, for Mr Kendall, you mean?’
‘Yes. Always has to keep busy. She thinks it’s the least she can do. It’s hit her really hard, him dying like that.’
‘It was quite a shock for all of us.’
‘That it was,’ McGilton agreed. ‘But she knew him better than anyone.’
‘Knew him? But I...I thought they’d only just met.’ It was probably best to play dumb on that point. I didn’t know how much the Irishman had been told.
‘That’s what she said to me. But apparently he was a friend of her fathers. I didn’t have a clue until this afternoon. She swore blind she’d never met him before.’ McGilton grimaced. ‘Said she just admired his work’
‘That’s a bit off,’ I suggested.
‘It’s not like her to lie to me like that. But she’s known him since she was a girl. She says the relationship was platonic – she thought of him as an uncle figure – but I think there may have been more to it than that.’
‘Perhaps she was worried you might be jealous. With him being on board ship.’
‘I suppose so. As if I would be.’ McGilton had certainly turned a blind eye to some outrageous flirting since we had left Seville.
‘Did Miss Tanner book the tickets?’ I enquired, now the subject had been broached. ‘On the Richthofen, I mean?’ Had it really been a coincidence that she was on the same flight as Walter Kendall?
‘No, that was me. Lucy was visiting an old school friend in Andalucía. We were going to catch a boat to America when she got back. But when I heard the Richthofen was stopping in Seville at around the same time, I couldn’t resist it. I’ve always wanted to go on an airship.’
I remembered the schoolboy gleam in his eye the first time I had met him. ‘You must be regretting it now.’
He chuckled. ‘Not a bit of it. She’s a fine ship. Herr Lindt is right about that, if nothing else. You couldn’t ask for a better way to travel.’
‘There I think we may have to disagree. So her meeting Mr Kendall really was just a matter of chance?’
‘That it was. All of us heading to the States. Lucy should have told me about it, though. What he’d meant to her. I wouldn’t have minded.’ He shrugged. ‘Even if they were old flames. We’ve all got our histories. I never expected to marry a saint.’
‘That’s very broad minded of you. Most men expect their brides to come to the marriage bed ignorant of everything.’
McGilton laughed. ‘Now where would be the fun in that? But I have to be honest, Mr Bland, I am worried about her. She was feeling guilty enough about Herr Schulz. This business with Mr Kendall might finish her off.’
‘Why would she feel guilty about Schulz?’
‘She feels responsible for what happened to him.’
I didn’t understand. ‘How can she be responsible? She never met him, did she?’
‘Only the once.’ The Irishman put down his pencil. ‘You know Herr Schulz had a bit of a thing for Miss Hurst?’
‘Yes, I’d heard that.’
‘Well, apparently,
he booked a ticket on the Richthofen just to be with her. He wanted to persuade her not to go and live in America. But he could only afford to come as far as Seville. And on Sunday morning, after breakfast, he proposed to her. He asked her to marry him.’
‘Good lord.’ That I had not heard. ‘And she turned him down?’
‘Not straight away. She agreed to have a think about it. I only know all this because of Lucy, by the way. She has a way of worming information out from people.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed that.’
‘Well, anyway, they arrived in Seville and Herr Schulz suggested they meet up later that afternoon. She was going to tell him no, of course, but she wanted to do it in person.’
‘Quite right too.’
‘But when she got to the hotel, the Alfonso, she couldn’t go through with it. Lucy has a way of picking up on things, even with people she’s only just met. Miss Hurst burst into tears as soon as she walked into the room and Lucy got the whole story out of her. And when she said she couldn’t bear to give Herr Schulz the bad news, Lucy volunteered to go in her place. She met up with him in town and told him Miss Hurst didn’t want to see him again.’
‘At the Torre del Oro?’
‘I think so, yes. How did you know that?’
‘I...bumped into her there. On the stairs.’ So that was why she had been rushing around. It had nothing to do with Walter Kendall.
‘Did you now? Well, anyway, she delivered the news and the next thing we know the fellow’s topped himself. Lucy can’t help holding herself responsible.’
‘Hardly her fault. She was just the messenger.’
‘She knows that. But it’s human nature to blame yourself. And Miss Hurst feels even more responsible; with some reason, I suppose. Lucy was too busy comforting her yesterday to dwell too much on her own part in it, but now with Mr Kendall as well...it’s all been too much for her.’