by Conrad Allen
“He mumbled something about problems at work but I didn’t catch what he said. The worst of it was that he didn’t even apologize to Mrs. Ackroyd. When we’d finished,” recalled Constance, “he simply jumped up from the table and scurried off. Good riddance, I say!” She slapped the arm of the Bath chair. “Full speed, Paulo. I need some fresh air.”
Genevieve stood aside so that they could get past her.
Dillman was perplexed. The man he was after was nowhere to be seen on any of the decks, yet he had to be on the vessel somewhere. The only explanation was that he was still in his cabin. The detective resigned himself to the fact that he might have to wait until luncheon before he caught up with the bearded man who had given Dudley Nevin such a jolt. Deciding to make one last circuit, Dillman went up the steps to the main deck. Footsteps echoed on the steel steps as someone came hurrying down toward him, and he all but collided with her. When he saw that it was Lois Greenwood, he laughed.
“I’ll have to start wearing protective clothing,” he said. “I think that you’re determined to knock me over.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dillman. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“At least you weren’t on roller skates this time.”
“I only put those on at night,” said Lois. “But if you think I play a strange sport, you should see that man up on the main deck.”
“Why—what’s he doing?”
“Playing golf without any golf balls. He’s swinging his driver as if he means to send the ball ten miles, but the only thing he’s hitting is fresh air. He looks ridiculous.”
“That’s the mark of a true fanatic, Miss Greenwood. In pursuit of their sport, they never mind looking ridiculous. You can’t expect him to hit golf balls. He’d lose them in the sea.”
“I suppose not,” she admitted. “Listen, have you seen that wonderful old Indian gentleman with the white beard—the one that predicts the future?”
“Yes, his name if Gulgar Singh. He’s a mystic.”
“I watched him earlier. People were giving him one rupee to hear him tell their fortunes. He went off into this trance for a long time. When he came out of it, he seemed to know exactly what was going to happen to people.”
“He has a gift,” affirmed Dillman, conscious that the Sikh had predicted a dreadful event aboard. “No doubt about that.”
“Oh, I believed every word he told me, Mr. Dillman.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“Yes,” she said. “When he saw me watching him, he said that he’d tell me my fortune for nothing. All that he did was to stare deep into my eyes—he didn’t look at my palm, or examine my tea leaves, or anything like that.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That something very pleasant would happen to me.”
“And it was true,” noted Dillman. “You ran into me again.”
“This was at school,” she explained. “How did he even know that I was still there? Mr. Singh told me that I would go back to a very nice surprise.” She giggled. “That’ll make a change. I’m usually in trouble with Miss Carisbroke—she’s our house mistress.”
“Did Guljar Singh say anything else to you?”
“Only that I’d do something very special on this voyage, something that I could be proud of—and I don’t think he meant roller-skating.”
“What did he mean? Have you any idea?”
“None at all, Mr. Dillman. I’ll just have to wait until I do it.”
“It sounds as if you had nothing but good news from Mr. Singh.”
“And it didn’t cost me a penny. Oh,” she said, looking over his shoulder. “I’ll have to go, I’m afraid. Daddy is looking for me.”
Dillman turned round and scanned the deck behind him.
“Which one is your father, Miss Greenwood?” he said.
“The one with the beard. He’s just coming past that life belt.”
Dillman was startled. The thickset individual in a white suit, who was picking his way along the crowded deck, was none other than the man whose presence on the ship had upset Dudley Nevin so much.
SEVEN
It was ironic. Dillman had spent well over an hour looking in vain for the man, yet the moment he abandoned his search, the person he most wanted to speak to actually came up to him. The fact that he was Lois Greenwood’s father, however, posed a problem. Dillman was very fond of the girl and enjoyed his conversations with her. Unlike some English passengers, she was neither reserved nor condescending. He hated to think that her father might somehow be involved in the murder of Dudley Nevin. If true—and he had no firm evidence as yet—it would be a terrible shock for Lois to absorb.
The approach of a parent put her on her best behavior. Coming to the bottom of the steps, she stood there demurely until her father reached her, then performed the introductions with great composure. Dillman shook hands with Sylvester Greenwood, whose grip was firm and whose sharp eyes searched the American’s face.
“How do you do, Mr. Dillman?” he said.
“Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Mr. Dillman is an explorer,” declared Lois. “He’s been everywhere.”
“That’s not strictly true,” said Dillman.
“Yes, it is. You’ve even been to Australia.”
“Your mother is looking for you, Lois,” said her father. “You always disappear when she needs you. Now go back to the cabin and see what she wants, will you?”
“I prefer to be out on deck where all the fun happens.”
“Do as you’re told, please.”
“In a minute.”
“Now,” insisted her father.
Lois gave up. “Yes, Daddy,” she said, obediently. “Good-bye, Mr. Dillman. I hope to see you later on.”
“I look forward to that,” said Dillman. As the girl scampered off, he turned to her father. “You have a charming daughter, Mr. Greenwood.”
“We think so,” said Greenwood. “How did you meet Lois?”
“Out here on deck.”
“I trust that she hasn’t been annoying you.”
“Not in the least.”
“Lois is inclined to be a little forward and impetuous at times.”
“We were all like that at her age,” observed Dillman.
“I wasn’t,” Greenwood said sternly. “I wasn’t allowed to be.”
“Well, I think your daughter is a credit to you. It’s a pleasure to meet her. She tells me that you’re a politician.”
“I have the honor to be a member of Parliament.”
“May I ask on which side of the House of Commons you sit?”
“On the government benches, Mr. Dillman. I’m a Liberal.”
“Your party seems to have a very radical agenda, Mr. Greenwood.”
“Of necessity.”
“I don’t know enough about British politics to make a comment, but I do admire your determination. You have to be courageous to take on entrenched attitudes.”
“Change must come if we’re to have a more equitable society.”
“England has always been so conservative by nature.”
“It’s our major national defect, Mr. Dillman.”
“How does your daughter like having an M.P. in the family?”
“I think she’s rather embarrassed about it,” said Greenwood with a smile. “Or at least she pretends to be. I suspect that she has a hard time of it at her boarding school. The parents of the other girls tend to support the Conservative Party. Lois has to endure a lot of teasing.”
“She strikes me as a resilient young lady.”
“She handles it very well.”
If he had met Greenwood under other circumstances, Dillman felt that he would have liked the man. The politician was intense, but he was also pleasant, intelligent, and committed to his work. His affection for his daughter came through whenever he talked about her. Greenwood had a round face and a high domed forehead. The dark beard made him look like an Old Testament prophet. He seemed to exude inte
grity.
“Actually,” said Dillman, “I’m very glad that I’ve met you like this.”
“Why is that?”
“I believe that you know a friend of mine.”
“And who might that be, Mr. Dillman?”
“Dudley Nevin.”
“I can’t really claim to know him,” Greenwood said evasively. “I only met the man on one occasion.”
“When was that?”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Nevin.”
“Did you know that he was onboard this ship?”
“I believe that I did glimpse him briefly. Why do you ask?”
“No particular reason,” said Dillman, watching him carefully. “It was just that Mr. Nevin mentioned your name.”
“I’m not sure that I’d have recalled his name if you hadn’t told me what it was. Politics is a hectic business, Mr. Dillman. I meet dozens of people every day. It’s impossible to keep track of them all. What I can tell you about Mr. Nevin is this,” he continued. “He belongs to my past. I’ve no reason to seek his company ever again.”
When the Ackroyds arrived at the cabin, Constance Simcoe was already seated at the table with the playing cards in front of her. Tabitha let the visitors in and exchanged niceties with them. Gerald Ackroyd had brought his ear trumpet with him. His wife had a competitive glint in her eye. They moved across to take their seats at the table.
“I hope to have a better morning this time,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “I was handicapped by my partner yesterday.”
“We’ll not be inviting Mr. Nevin back, I assure you,” said Constance.
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
“Your husband will be our honorary male today.”
“What’s that?” asked Ackroyd, trumpet to his ear.
“You’re an honorary male, dear,” said his wife.
“Am I? That’s nice.”
“As long as you don’t mind being outnumbered by us.”
“Good lord—no!” he said. “A dream come true, what? Spent a whole lifetime dealing with other men. Quite a treat to be surrounded by the fairer sex.”
“Would anyone like refreshments?” asked Tabitha, still on her feet.
Ackroyd was hopeful. “Alcohol, you mean?”
“Too early for that, Gerald,” said his wife.
“Pity.”
“I’d like some tea, please.”
“Then you shall have some, Mrs. Ackroyd,” said Constance, “and so will I. Paulo will be here directly. He knows that we’re playing bridge.”
“You have a very obliging steward, Mrs. Simcoe.”
“Yes, Paulo is a gem.”
“Mother always knows how to handle stewards,” said Tabitha.
“It’s something I’ve worked hard on over the years,” said Constance.
“Like your skill at the card table,” noted Mrs. Ackroyd.
“That’s largely a combination of luck and guesswork.”
“I wonder.”
“You’ll probably beat us easily this morning.”
“We intend to,” said the other woman, grimly. “Don’t we, Gerald?”
Ackroyd blinked. “Didn’t quite catch what you said, Phoebe.”
“We’re here to win, dear.”
“Oh, yes. We want revenge. No prisoners taken, eh?”
He chortled merrily to himself as Tabitha took her seat opposite her mother. When Constance reached for the cards, Phoebe Ackroyd put a hand on them and smiled sweetly.
“I wonder if we might play with our cards today,” she said, opening her purse. “Unlike Mr. Nevin, they never let us down.” She put her own playing cards on the table. “Do you have any objection?”
“None at all,” said Constance.
“Nor me,” added Tabitha.
“And I have no objection either,” announced Ackroyd, laughing. “I mean to say, it’s not as if the cards are marked, is it?”
______
They met in her cabin to review the case and to discuss the way forward. Dillman gave her a more detailed account of the murder, and showed her the two photographs he had found in Nevin’s billfold. He also told her about his suspicion of Sylvester Greenwood. Listening to the evidence, Genevieve was uncertain.
“A member of Parliament, involved in a murder?”
“Why not?”
“It seems so unlikely, George.”
“I’m not saying that he actually committed it,” said Dillman.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know yet. An associate of his, perhaps?”
“What was the motive?”
“Hatred. I saw it clearly in Greenwood’s eyes when he spotted Mr. Nevin in the second-class lounge. Nevin saw it, as well. That’s why he was so rattled.”
“There’s no question about that, George,” she said. “I spoke earlier to Constance Simcoe. According to her, Mr. Nevin was far too upset to play bridge properly. Yet, when he had breakfast with her daughter, he’d been in a very friendly mood. What happened in between?”
“The encounter with Sylvester Greenwood.”
“There might have been something else.”
“I don’t rule it out,” said Dillman, “but I intend to keep Lois’s father under scrutiny. For her sake, I hope that he turns out to be innocent.”
“When you searched the cabin, cash had been stolen.”
“Yes, Mr. Nevin’s billfold was empty.”
“Monetary gain is just as strong a motive as hatred,” she argued. “I wonder if all the crimes—the two thefts and the murder—can be the work of the same person.”
“I think that’s highly unlikely.”
“Is it? Supposing that the thief was caught in the act of stealing by Mr. Nevin? There may have been a struggle, and in the course of that a fatal wound was inflicted.”
“You’re forgetting something, Genevieve.”
“Am I?”
“Mr. Nevin was already in the cabin,” said Dillman. “Look at what he was wearing. He’d never be seen in public like that. And no matter how distracted he was, he wouldn’t have left his billfold unguarded for any thief to walk in and take. Mr. Nevin was killed by someone he knew.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he wouldn’t have let a stranger into his cabin. The door hadn’t been forced. The lock was sound. The only way that the killer could have got in was by invitation.”
“Unless he was already in there when Mr. Nevin returned.”
“In that case, he’d have been more likely to stab his victim in the back. No assassin gives his man a chance to defend himself. And what killer would wait for Nevin to take off his coat and tie before attacking him? No, Genevieve,” he said. “It had to be someone known to him.”
“Sylvester Greenwood?”
“He’s our only suspect at the moment.”
“But there was bad blood between him and Mr. Nevin.”
“Definitely. I could sense the antagonism between them.”
“Why would Mr. Nevin let an enemy into his cabin?”
“Good question.”
“What’s the answer?”
“I don’t know,” confessed Dillman. “I just have this strong feeling that Mr. Greenwood was lying to me. There’s a definite history between the two of them. I’m wondering if he went to Nevin’s cabin yesterday to resolve their quarrel, and talked his way in there.”
“Was the murder premeditated?”
“Somehow I don’t think so.”
“Whoever went into that cabin was carrying a weapon.”
“That doesn’t mean they intended to use it, Genevieve. We’ve had to deal with homicides before. As you know, killers very rarely oblige us by leaving a murder weapon behind for us to find.”
“No,” she agreed. “It’s such a valuable clue.”
“My guess is that an argument developed, the knife was drawn, and Mr. Nevin was killed in the ensuing struggle. Discarding the kukri, the murderer then grabbed the money in the billfold and vanished.”
“He’s a powerful man, Genevieve. Strong enough to get the better of someone like Nevin. I could see that.”
“But he has too much to lose.”
“Only if he’s caught,” said Dillman. “Mr. Greenwood doesn’t even know that there are detectives aboard—I was very careful not to break cover. If he is somehow implicated in the crime, he thinks he’s got away with it. I want to keep him in that frame of mind.”
“How will you go about stalking him?”
“I may have to use his daughter. It’s not something I want to do because I’d be deceiving her, but friendship goes by the board in a murder investigation.”
“What about me?”
“I fear that you’ll have to concentrate on the thefts, Genevieve. From now on, I’m going to have my hands full.” He gave an apologetic grin. “Madame Roussel is all yours.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“What about the lady whose purse was taken?”
“That was Mrs. Lundgren,” she said. “I’d much rather deal with her. She’s the first to admit that it was partly her own fault. She left her purse on a bench on deck while she stood at the rail. Mrs. Lundgren is not the problem. The one who’ll hound me is Madame Roussel.”
“It may be time to call on her neighbors,” he suggested. “See if anyone in the adjoining cabins saw anything on the evening when the crime was committed. It means that you lose your anonymity, but only in second class. Nobody in first is aware of your real reason for sailing on the Salsette.”
“It was to be close to my husband.”
“And to help him uphold the reputation of P and O.”
“That, too, of course.”
“So let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“What’s your next step?”
“To track down that elderly couple I saw talking to Mr. Nevin.”
“Were they friends of his?”
“He called them acquaintances,” said Dillman, “and I’ll settle for that. Right now, I’m ready to talk to anyone who can give me information of any kind about Mr. Dudley Nevin.”
Sylvester Greenwood was still strolling around the deck when his daughter rejoined him. Delighted to be back out in the fresh air again, Lois looked around to see if she recognized anyone. She gave a cheery wave to Guljar Singh, who responded with a dignified bow. Greenwood noted the exchange of greetings.