Murder on the Salsette

by Conrad Allen

  “Did he?”

  “Yes,” said Tabitha. “When he wheeled Mother around the deck this afternoon, he made some very improper remarks to her.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Paulo.”

  “I can only tell you what Mother said to me. She’s still simmering with rage. I think you’ve seen the last of Paulo Morelli.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes, Genevieve. Mother has sent a note of complaint to the chief steward. It was very explicit. After today, she doesn’t want Paulo anywhere near her.”

  NINE

  His visit to the second-class dining saloon was a productive one. While he was still mystified by Lois Greenwood’s apparent rebuff, Dillman was glad that he had decided to forsake an evening meal in first class once more. At least he did not have to pose as a steward and tramp the corridors on this occasion. Instead he was extremely well fed in congenial company. Dining in second class not only gave him a chance to get to know Guljar Singh better, it enabled him to watch Sylvester Greenwood. Nothing about the man’s behavior suggested that he was capable of committing a serious crime. To all outward appearances, Greenwood was essentially a family man, affectionate toward his wife, attentive to the needs of his daughter, and clearly taking pride in both. Dillman also noted the ease with which Greenwood was able to hold a conversation with the people around him.

  Looking at him now, it seemed incredible that the Englishman had stabbed a man to death, and Dillman had to remind himself that Greenwood had lied to him earlier. He was also the same man whose eyes had burned with hatred when they fell on Dudley Nevin, inducing visible fear in the civil servant. Dillman was determined to find out the true nature of the relationship between them.

  Guljar Singh broke off from his meal to lean across to his friend.

  “The other day,” he said, “you ask me about Gurkhas.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Dillman. “Why?”

  “You are dining with some of them, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. Look at the far end of the other table.”

  Guljar Singh used a bony finger to point at three men, who, like him, were eating food that met with the rules of their religion. All three of them were young men in their twenties, bearded, wearing turbans and tribal dress, and having the weathered look of mountain warriors. There were other Indians in the room, and several Arabs, but the trio stood out because of the intensity with which they were discussing something, and the way in which they were excluding everyone close to them from the debate. Their faces were serious, their gestures emphatic. The detective was bound to wonder if one of the men was missing his kukri.

  “Never pick a fight with a Gurkha,” advised Guljar Singh.

  “I’ve no intention of doing so.”

  “They are fearsome soldiers. They fight to the death.”

  “I know of their reputation in the British Army.”

  “They are a loyal people.”

  “Loyal to whom, Mr. Singh?”

  “Whoever they pledge themselves to,” said the old man.

  Dillman’s eyes flicked back to Greenwood. Unlike his daughter, he had not even glanced in Dillman’s direction and appeared to be unaware of his presence. What he did do, however, was to keep Lois under close scrutiny, showing a fatherly concern that the detective took for a means of control. Greenwood had the look of a man who would react badly if he knew that his daughter had been roller-skating at night under the stars. Dillman realized how brave Lois must be to defy her father.

  When the meal was over, most people drifted off to the lounge or to the smoking room. Others went out on deck; a few returned to their cabins. Greenwood and his family were among the first to leave, making their way to the lounge for a last drink before they took to their bunks. Dillman saw no value in pursuing them. In the smaller confines of the lounge, Greenwood might become aware that he was under surveillance. The detective did not wish to put him on his guard.

  Instead, therefore, Dillman decided to shift his interest briefly to the other crimes that had been committed. Since the major theft had occurred in second class, he assumed that the thief would also be traveling in that part of the ship, looking for further opportunities to steal. Accordingly, he chose to patrol the corridors for a while, ambling slowly along and checking once again to see if all the doors were locked. He was about to turn the doorknob on one cabin when a voice cried out behind him.

  “Arretez-vous!”

  Dillman swung round to see Madame Roussel, brandishing a fan and bustling toward him in a beautiful cream-colored gown of lace, velvet, and chiffon. When she recognized him, her hostile manner changed at once. The anger drained out of her face.

  “Oh,” she said. “Is you, monsieur.”

  “Good evening, Madame Roussel. I was just keeping an eye on these cabins to make sure that they have no unwelcome visitors.” Dillman indicated her door. “I’m pleased to see that it is now locked.”

  “Is too late now.”

  “What do you mean.”

  “I might as well leave the door wide open,” she said, waving an arm. “Is nothing left to take.”

  Madame Roussel was clearly wearing all her surviving jewelry. He had glimpsed her from a distance in the dining saloon. Close to, Dillman saw how imposing she was. The long, flowing, elaborate frock was an ideal choice for such a full-bodied woman, and she had used cosmetics very subtly to enhance an already striking face. She, in turn, was clearly impressed by his appearance. It was the first time that she had seen him in formal wear and his elegance brought a smile to her lips.

  “I see you are no Englishman, monsieur.”

  “Do you?”

  “They are never really smart,” she said contemptuously. “They do not look after their bodies and do not know how to dress. But you are different. You might almost pass for the Frenchman.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Needless to say,” he replied, sensing that she expected a compliment in return, “you put most of the other ladies in the dining saloon to shame. I could see the envy in their eyes.”

  She laughed lightly. “Merci.”

  “French fashion always seems to be in advance of everyone else.”

  “It is not the clothes, monsieur,” she said, striking a pose. “It is the way that a lady wears them.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. However,” he went on, “I’m glad that our paths have crossed again. I feel that I owe you an apology.”

  “Why?”

  “When we last met, I made an unfortunate remark.”

  “Pah! No more of that,” she said with a flick of her wrist. “All I wish is to get my jewelry back.”

  “Miss Masefield and I are working on the case.”

  “I speak to her earlier,” said the other. “She tell me that you always solve crimes on other ships. Is true?”

  “Yes, Madame Roussel. We do have a good record.”

  “Is correct that you deal with murders, as well?”

  “Not too often, luckily.”

  “But such things happen on P and O ships?”

  “Regrettably, they do.”

  She shuddered. “I hope it will not happen on the Salsette.”

  “You can rest easy on that score,” he said, forcing a smile. “Still, I won’t delay you, madam. I can see that you wish to retire for the night.”

  “As long as you do not forget your promise.”

  “Promise?”

  “To find my jewelry before we reach Aden,” she reminded him. Her voice softened. “And when you have it, I want you to return it, monsieur, not your partner. You must promise that as well.”

  “Very well.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment and Dillman saw more than a flicker of interest. He thought that Madame Roussel was about to say something else, but she changed her mind. After bidding him farewell, she let herself into her cabin and locked it behind her. It was a strange encounter. Relieved to find her i
n such a mellow mood, he wondered what had brought it on, but unless they recovered her possessions, he knew that it would not last.

  When he came to a companionway, he went down the steps and walked along another corridor. The lighting was dim and his mind was still very much on his exchange with Madame Roussel. As he walked past an alcove, therefore, he did not even glance into it. It was only when he was yards past it that he had the feeling that someone had been lurking in the shadows. The sound of hasty footsteps confirmed his instinct. He turned round but he was too late. Whoever had been hiding in the alcove had disappeared around a corner.

  Dillman gave chase, covering the ground in long strides, hoping that he might at least catch sight of the person he had put to flight. But he was too late. When he reached the corner, he saw that the corridor ahead of him was completely deserted. Dillman blamed himself for his lapse in concentration. He felt certain of one thing.

  The thief was on the prowl again.

  Paulo Morelli was on the verge of tears. Standing in the purser’s office, he was pleading for help but Max Cannadine was unable to give it.

  “This is a matter between you and the chief steward,” he said.

  “But you are the senior man, sir.”

  “My duties are circumscribed, Paulo. They do not include sorting out the mess that you seem to have got yourself into.”

  “That is what I come to tell you, Mr. Cannadine. Is not my fault.”

  “It never is,” the purser observed dryly.

  “I swear it,” said Morelli. “This time, I am innocent.”

  “So you admit that you were guilty on the other occasions, do you? That’s a step forward, anyway. You’ve always denied it in the past. Look,” he went on, adopting a more sympathetic tone. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what exactly happened?” He looked at his watch. “Only make it quick, Paulo. It’s late.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Morelli, lowering himself onto the chair in front of the desk. “Is Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter.”

  “I thought you were getting on well with them.”

  “So did I, Mr. Cannadine. Both of them, they like what I do. Then today, when I take Mrs. Simcoe out in the chair with wheels, she turn on me like the wildcat. All I do was to say that her daughter, she would be married at her age if she was an Italian girl.”

  “Are you sure that was all you said, Paulo?”

  “I get no chance to say anything else. I am told to take her back to her cabin. From then on,” said the steward, “Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter, they treat me badly. While they play the cards, they make me fetch things but they never thank me. Then this evening, Mrs. Simcoe do something very cruel.”

  “What was that?”

  “She let me push her to dinner, then she tell me that she has reported me to the chief steward for insolence.” He spread his arms. “I not insolent, Mr. Cannadine. I like ladies. I am always the gentleman.”

  “Too much so at times.”

  “Is not fair. I lose my job.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.”

  “But I not do it, sir,” insisted Morelli. “I make the comment about her daughter and that was that. Now I am not even allowed to work in first class. The chief steward, he put me in second class from now on.”

  Tears began to course down his cheeks. Cannadine could see how upset he was. Working in first class was a matter of pride to someone like Morelli. Demotion was a bitter blow. It would mean a reduction in an already low wage. There had been complaints from ladies about the steward before, but never for insolence. Much as he liked the man, the purser did not see what he could do for him.

  “Will you speak up for me, please?” begged Morelli.

  “I can’t get involved in a dispute like this.”

  “But you know that I always treat ladies with respect.”

  “I’m sorry, Paulo,” said Cannadine. “If it’s a case of the passenger’s word against yours, the chief steward has to side with the passenger.”

  “Even when she tell the lie?”

  “Mrs. Simcoe must have had some cause for complaint.”

  “Yes,” grumbled the other. “She and her daughter, they lose at the card game this morning. That make her spiky. She in bad mood so I very careful what I say to her.”

  “Not careful enough, it seems.”

  “Is not right that I should work in second class.”

  “Perhaps not. But it may be the answer in the short term.”

  “The answer?”

  “It keeps you and Mrs. Simcoe apart,” explained Cannadine. “She and her daughter will disembark at Aden. When that happens, you may be restored to first class.”

  “No, sir. The chief steward, he say he never put me back there. That’s why I need you on my side. In my country, even the worst criminal, he allowed someone to defend him.”

  “I can’t interfere with the chief steward’s decisions, Paulo.”

  “Ask to see the note,” implored Morelli. “Find out what Mrs. Simcoe say about me. Please, sir. This means a lot to me.”

  Cannadine sat back in his chair and scratched his head. With three thefts and a murder to worry about, he did not have time to concern himself with something as trivial as a dispute between a passenger and a steward. To Morelli, of course, it was far from trivial and his dejection was painful to watch. The purser took pity on him.

  “I’ll speak to the chief steward in the morning,” he consented.

  “Grazie, grazie!”

  “But I make no promises,” warned Cannadine. “If he’s been given good cause to demote you, then I’ll support his decision to the hilt.”

  Genevieve Masefield waited so long for him to come that she began to believe he might not turn up that night. Eventually, however, she heard the familiar tap on her door and she let Dillman in. When she had kissed and hugged him, she sounded a note of reproach.

  “Why did you keep me waiting?”

  “I’m sorry. I was delayed in second class.”

  “Eating and drinking to your heart’s content, I suppose.”

  “No, Genevieve,” he said. “Chasing the thief, among other things.”

  Her interest was sparked. “You saw him?”

  “Not exactly. But I was aware of his presence.”

  When he told her about his futile chase, Genevieve pondered. “What makes you so certain that it was our thief?” she asked.

  “Who else would hide in the shadows like that?”

  “Someone who didn’t want to be seen. A man going off to a rendezvous in a lady’s cabin, perhaps. Yes, that might have been it,” she decided. “Perhaps he was sneaking off to see Madame Roussel.”

  “I can absolve her of that charge,” he said. “I spoke to her only moments before and she didn’t look like a woman who was expecting a lover to call. If she had been, she wouldn’t have talked to me for so long.”

  “Did she threaten you, as well, George?”

  “No, she was quite pleasant.”

  “Pleasant?” repeated Genevieve in surprise. “Madame Roussel?”

  “Yes.”

  “I refuse to believe it.”

  “At one point, she was almost coquettish.”

  “You’re spoken for, Mr. Dillman,” she warned.

  “And glad to be so,” he said, kissing her gently. “When she caught me trying the door of her cabin, I thought she’d rant and rave, but Madame Roussel was in a more forgiving mood. She even complimented me on my appearance.”

  “I could have done that.”

  “The only awkward moment was when she said that she hoped we wouldn’t have a murder on the Salsette. Apparently you told her about some of the crimes we’d solved in the past.”

  “Only because she challenged me, George. It was time to put her in her place. Madame Roussel was treating me as if I were a complete amateur, and I wasn’t standing for that.”

  “Good for you!”

  “It didn’t stop her from threatening to report us to the captain, mind you
,” said Genevieve. “We must stop her doing that.” A memory nudged her. “But she did come up with one interesting fact. Did you know that she sailed to Bombay on the Salsette?”

  “No,” he replied. “Why did she go to India in the first place?”

  “When I asked her that, I was told to mind my own business.”

  “She’s a lady who likes to speak her mind.”

  “Yet Madame Roussel spared you the lash of her tongue this evening,” Genevieve said enviously. “What’s your secret, George?”

  “Flattery. I told her how wonderful she looked.”

  “And did she?”

  “Yes—compared to the other women in second class. No disrespect to your nation, Genevieve, but most of the English ladies there were either too conventional or simply dowdy. In fairness, Mrs. Greenwood was an exception to that,” he recalled, “and so was her daughter. Lois looked quite grown-up.”

  “Did you learn anything from watching Sylvester Greenwood?”

  Dillman told her what had transpired during dinner and how pleased he was to have sat with Guljar Singh. When he described the old Sikh, Genevieve identified him at once.

  “That’s the man who stole Mrs. Verney’s purse,” she said.

  “Impossible. He’s no thief.”

  “Mrs. Verney thinks he is. Her purse was taken on deck while she slept in her deck chair. This friend of yours—Guljar Singh—was standing nearby at the time.”

  “That’s hardly convincing evidence,” argued Dillman.

  “It was convincing enough for Mrs. Verney. She pointed him out to me. He was sitting on deck, earning money by fortune-telling.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “He was preying on gullible people, George.”

  “Only if he was tricking them, and I don’t believe that he was. Guljar Singh has genuine powers of foresight, Genevieve. He gave me a solemn warning that something terrible would happen on board and—lo and behold—Mr. Nevin was murdered.”

  “That could have been a lucky guess.”

  “It wasn’t very lucky for Dudley Nevin.”

  “None of this rules him out as a suspect for the theft.”

  “It’s a ludicrous idea,” he said with feeling. “The chances are that all three crimes are the work of the same person, and it certainly wasn’t Guljar Singh. He’s a frail old man. He’d never have outrun me in the corridor like that. Besides,” he added, “he has no interest in money as such. He makes enough for his own immediate needs and that’s all that concerns him. As it happens, I watched him win a bet of ten rupees from an officer who was foolish enough to mock him. Yes, and he told me that he had another unexpected sum of money today.”