by Conrad Allen
“Perfectly.”
Her accent was thick but her speech intelligible. As they sat opposite each other in the cabin, Genevieve observed how much jewelry the other woman was wearing. Apart from half a dozen rings, she had a gold watch, a gold bracelet on each wrist, a gold necklace, and a large gold brooch in the shape of a cockerel pinned on her dressing gown. An elaborate gold slide glistened in her hair.
“Is all I have left,” explained Madame Roussel, touching the brooch and the necklace. “I wear them for the safety.”
“And you had them on last night, presumably?”
“Yes, Miss Masefield.”
“When did you last see the items that you kept in your hatbox?”
“Maybe, I think, yesterday at five o’clock.”
“And you left your cabin soon after?”
“I meet with a friend to share the drink before dinner.”
“May I have the friend’s name?” asked Genevieve, taking a pencil and pad from her purse. The Frenchwoman hesitated. “Well?”
“Is necessary?”
“I think so, madame.”
“But this theft, it is nothing to do with him, no?”
“Perhaps not,” said Genevieve, “but he might be able to confirm the time when you actually met.”
“I will ask him.”
“Why not let me do that?”
“Just find my jewelry for me, mademoiselle.”
“I’ll do my best,” promised Genevieve, wondering why she was so unwilling to give the man’s name. “What I simply must have, however, is a list of the items stolen and the amount of money taken.”
“I have this here,” said Madame Roussel, picking up a sheet of paper from the table and handing it over. “As you see, for some things, I do the little drawing for you.”
“That will be very helpful.”
“Is the diamond pendant I miss most, you see. My husband, he give it to me for my birthday. Six weeks later, he die.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Madame Roussel.”
“This pendant, it is very special to me.”
“Sentimental value.”
“Is right.”
“What time did you return to your cabin?”
“It was late,” said the other. “Maybe eleven o’clock.”
“And were you alone?”
Madame Roussel flashed her eyes. “Bien entendu,” she said with a touch of annoyance. “I would not let anyone else in, mademoiselle. I always travel in the first class, but it was full up when I book the cabin, so they put me in here. Ha!” she snapped with a dismissive gesture of her hand. “Is not good enough for me.”
“You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Cannadine.”
“I tell him last night. I blame the P and O. In first class, my jewelry would have been very safe, no?”
“Not if you kept it in your hatbox, Madame Roussel. It’s standard practice for passengers to leave their valuables under lock and key. They should have been in the ship’s safe.”
“I sail many times with P and O and nothing is ever stolen.”
“Then you’ve been fortunate. As you know, it’s company policy to advise passengers about the safety of their personal belongings. They can be insured, of course, but you really should have handed them over to the purser for safekeeping.”
“Do not tell me what to do!” said the other, rising to her feet in anger. “What do you say—that this crime is my fault?”
“No, of course not.”
“I think you come to help me, not to give the insults.”
“I’m sorry,” said Genevieve. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I am the victim, mademoiselle. Remember that.”
“I will. Thanks to this list of yours, I now know what we’re looking for, and I’m fairly certain that we’ll be able to recover the items. One way or another, we usually do.”
“We?”
“I have a partner, Madame Roussel.”
“Next time, I think, I prefer to talk to this other lady.”
“It’s a man, actually.”
“Then you can send him, please. Maybe he will be on my side.”
“We’re all on your side,” said Genevieve, earnestly, “and we’ll do out utmost to solve this crime quickly.” She got up from her chair. “I’ll make sure that you’re kept in touch with any developments—and I apologize again for upsetting you.”
Madame Roussel folded her arms defiantly to show that she was not appeased. Sunlight slanted through the porthole and made her jewelry gleam even more brightly.
“Good-bye, mademoiselle,” she said flatly.
“One last question.”
“Do not ask for any names. I not give them.”
“I just need to be certain of one thing,” said Genevieve softly. “What puzzles me is that the thief was able to get into your cabin so easily. There’s no sign of forced entry—so how did he open the door?” She took a deep breath before speaking again. “I take it that you did lock the cabin?”
Madame Roussel glared at her for a moment and seemed to be on the point of exploding. Genevieve braced herself for an attack that never came. Instead, the Frenchwoman swung round abruptly and went off into her bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
Genevieve had her answer.
George Dillman listened to the details of the crime with interest. He had been on the point of leaving his cabin when his partner called on him. Like Genevieve, he wanted to know the name of the friend with whom Madame Roussel had spent time the previous evening.
“I’ll speak to the head waiter in the second-class dining saloon,” he said. “This lady sounds as if she’d attract attention. One of the catering staff may have noticed the man with whom she dined.”
“Thank you, George.”
“It’s the least I can do. Mind you, if I do track him down, Madame Roussel is going to be angry with you when she hears about it.”
“That depends on how you put it to her.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” Genevieve said sweetly. “She and I got off on the wrong foot, I’m afraid. I’ll leave the diplomacy to you from now on.”
“As you wish,” he said obligingly. “At least, I’ll be involved in helping to solve the crime. When you told me that the case had fallen into your lap, I must admit that I was envious. The only drama that I’ve found on the Salsette came in the shape of a pretty girl on roller skates.”
He told her about his meeting with Lois Greenwood, expecting her to be astonished by the news that women played football on roller skates. Genevieve showed no surprise at all.
“It’s been happening for years,” she said. “The last time we were in England, I saw a photograph in the Illustrated London News that showed women playing football on a roller-skating rink. When we put our minds to it, there’s very little we can’t do, you know.”
“You’ve proved that,” he said, slipping his arms around her. “Shall I see if Miss Greenwood has room for you on her team?”
“No, thank you. The only team I want to be on is yours.”
“In that case,” he said, kissing her, “let’s get out there and play.”
Leaving the cabin, they went off in different directions. Dillman made his way to the second-class dining saloon where the catering staff was cleaning everything away after breakfast. The waiter was a short, squat Welshman in his forties, with a bald pate and a walrus mustache so thick and luxuriant that it looked as if his hair had migrated from his head to take refuge on his upper lip. He was very helpful.
“I remember the lady well,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “There’s something about the French that sets them apart—and I don’t mean that strange lingo they speak. No, Madame Roussel had style. I always notice that kind of thing.”
“Do you happen to remember where she sat?” asked Dillman.
The waiter pointed. “On that table over there,” he said. “Directly under the chandelier so that the light fell on her. She knew how be the center of att
ention.”
“What about the man who was sitting next to her?”
“There wasn’t one, Mr. Dillman.”
“Then he must have been seated opposite.”
“No,” said the Welshman, “that was the funny thing. Madame Roussel was the most handsome woman in the room, yet she was surrounded by other ladies.”
Dillman was disappointed. The anonymous friend might be a little more difficult to track down. He wondered why she had not dined with the man. Did she not wish to be seen in public with him? Had the two of them fallen out? Was he, perhaps, traveling in first class? Or had he deliberately missed dinner in order to plunder her cabin? There was another possible explanation. The man was married and wished to keep his liaison with Madame Roussel secret from his wife. Dillman’s visit to the dining saloon gave him food for thought.
Still pondering, he came out on to the main deck and felt a welcome breeze coming off the sea. There were several passengers about, walking, reclining in deck chairs, or playing various games, but the two who caught his eye were no more than five yards away. Guljar Singh, the old Sikh, was listening to a small, waiflike Indian girl and nodding in sympathy. At first glance, Dillman took him to be her grandfather, but the only Sikh women he had seen in Bombay had worn a sari, and this child had on salwar kameez, baggy trousers, and a loose tunic. The girl’s oval face had a kind of sad beauty and her large, brown eyes were filled with gratitude that someone was taking her seriously.
Guljar Singh became aware that Dillman was watching them. He broke off and turned to the American with a welcoming smile. The girl was more cautious, stepping back and lowering her head deferentially.
“Come and meet my new friend,” said the old man. “This is Suki, who is going all the way to England. Isn’t she a brave girl, Mr. Dillman?”
“Very brave,” agreed Dillman. “Hello, Suki.”
She gave him a nod but said nothing. Guljar Singh chuckled.
“In Hindi, she can talk all day,” he explained, “but she is still shy of speaking in English. That will soon change when she gets to London.”
“Are you looking forward to it, Suki?” asked Dillman. She shook her head. “Why not?”
“She would rather stay in her own country,” said Singh.
“Then why is she going?”
“Her mother thinks that she will have a better life there.”
“Is she being sent against her will?”
“I am not sure, Mr. Dillman. Her story is a little confusing. I have not heard all of it yet. My only worry for her is the English climate. I think it will be too cold for her in winter.”
“Where does she come from?”
“Suki was born in the Punjab.”
“How old is she?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s very young to make such a long journey.”
“I know, Mr. Dillman.”
“Who is she traveling with?”
It was Matilda Kinnersley who provided the answer. Appearing on cue, she looked around, saw the girl, then pointed an accusing finger at her. Dillman saw the look of fear in the child’s eyes.
“Sukinder!” cried Mrs. Kinnersley. “What on earth are you doing out here when I need you? Get back to our cabin at once.”
“Yes, memsahib,” the girl mumbled before running off obediently.
Mrs. Kinnersley turned on Dillman. “Don’t believe a word she told you,” she said, ignoring Singh as if he were not there. “The girl is a congenital liar.”
FIVE
Tabitha Simcoe was very disappointed when they spoke outside the first-class lounge. She clearly had been banking on the fact that Genevieve Masefield would accept the invitation, but the latter had turned it down with her customary politeness. Tabitha was distressed.
“I was so hoping that you could join us,” she said.
“Under other circumstances, I would.”
“Mother specifically asked for you.”
“That’s nice,” said Genevieve, “But I’m rather busy this morning, and to tell you the truth, Tabby, I’m not very good at bridge.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment. You’re the sort of person who’s good at everything.”
“Not when it comes to card games.”
“The only way to improve at bridge is to play it.”
“Another time, maybe. You’ll have to find someone else.”
“Who?” said Tabitha.
“Well, you’ve already roped in this Mr. Nevin,” Genevieve reminded her. “How did you meet him?”
“Over breakfast.”
“Perhaps he can bring along a partner.”
“I thought it was going to be you,” sighed Tabitha. “It’s one of the reasons I had breakfast in the saloon. I expected to see you there. Mother had her breakfast in our cabin, while I went off in search of you.”
“And you found this Dudley Nevin instead.”
“It’s not a fair exchange, Genevieve.”
“Why—what’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing, I suppose. He’s pleasant enough in his own way and we had a very civilized breakfast together, but I’m not sure if Mother will like him. She’s very selective.”
“So I noticed.”
“With you at the table, we’d have had no problem.”
“I would have,” said Genevieve. “I’d have lost every game and let my partner down.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait a moment. I know the perfect substitute for me.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Why don’t you round up Mr. Rollins?”
“Oh, no, that wouldn’t do at all.”
“I thought you found him interesting.”
“I did, Genevieve. I could have listened to him all night. Mother took a different view, however,” she said, pulling a face. “She has a prejudice against Americans, I’m afraid. And she thought him far too earnest.”
“That still leaves scores of other people to choose from, Tabby,” said Genevieve, pointing to the lounge. “All you have to do is to go in there and ask if anyone would like a game of bridge. I daresay that you’ll have dozens of offers.”
Tabitha squeezed her arm. “But not the one I want.”
Genevieve did not wish to upset her but she had no choice. Now that she had a crime to solve, her time was mortgaged and she could not indulge in the kinds of pursuits that other passengers used to pass the time. Playing bridge could take hours that she could ill afford.
“How is your mother this morning?” she asked.
“Very well, thank you.”
“I was so worried when I heard about her fall.”
“It happens occasionally,” said Tabitha wearily. “It’s the reason that I can’t leave her on her own for too long. Last time, she bruised her leg badly. She was very lucky yesterday.”
“Yes,” agreed Genevieve. “Your mother had the good fortune to fall on that lovely thick carpet. P and O deserves credit for that. Well,” she went on, glancing at her watch, “I must be off. Enjoy your game.”
“Will I see you at lunch?”
“Probably.”
“I hope we can sit together again—and at dinner.”
“Perhaps.”
“I thought that we were friends.”
“We are, Tabby, but I don’t want to hold you back.”
“From what?”
“Meeting people,” said Genevieve, deciding it was time to be direct. “To be more exact, making a few male friends. It’s unfair that you should play nursemaid to your mother all the time when there are so many other people on board. You should enjoy their company.”
Tabitha was hurt. “It’s the other way around, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Be honest, Genevieve. You’re not holding me back at all. I’m the one who’s getting in your way.” Her eyes moistened. “At least I know where we stand now. You want more freedom onboard the ship.”
“That’s not what I meant at all, Tabby.”
“Wasn’t it?�
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“I was thinking of you.”
“What chance do I have of meeting a man?” said the other, bitterly.
“You befriended Mr. Nevin this morning.”
“Only to get someone to play bridge with us.”
“He must have been attracted to you.”
“But I wasn’t remotely attracted to him. And even if I had been, what would have been the point? I have Mother to look after and that’s a full-time job. The only person who could have made it bearable on this voyage is you, Genevieve,” she said, biting her lip, “and you don’t want us to be friends.”
“That’s not true, Tabby.”
“Well, if you wish me to keep out of your way, I will.”
“Don’t say that. Let me explain.”
But the words went unheard. Close to tears, Tabitha hurried away in the direction of the cabins, leaving Genevieve to squirm with guilt.
Dillman’s reasoning was sound. All he had heard about Madame Roussel suggested that she was a woman who enjoyed being seen in public, and who would sooner or later appear. He chose the second-class lounge as the most likely place she would head for, and he sat there patiently with his newspaper. Though he had never seen her before, he recognized her instantly when she did arrive. Genevieve’s description had been accurate. Wearing a blue-and-gold silk dress with a floral pattern on it, she swept into the room and took a seat from which she could watch the doorway. Her jewelry looked far too lavish for morning wear. Dillman hoped that she was waiting for the man with whom she had spent time on the previous day.
When someone did join her, however, it was a young couple, who spoke to her in French. They were soon sharing a pot of coffee with her. Dillman contented himself with watching Madame Roussel, noting her easy self-confidence, her aplomb, and her studied gestures. Glancing around, he saw that a number of other men in the room were also keeping an eye on her. One of them was Dudley Nevin. The civil servant excused himself from his companions, got up from his chair, and came across to Dillman.
“What are you doing in second class?” he wondered.
“Oh, meeting a friend for tea, Mr. Nevin. And you?”
“Same reason,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the elderly couple he had just left. “Except that they’re acquaintances rather than friends. They’re not allowed in first class so I had to come to them.”