by Conrad Allen
“Fenby,” said the other. “Edgar Fenby.”
Harvey Denning was at his most trenchant. When he joined them in the lounge, he kept them amused with a series of cutting remarks about the other passengers, singling out Walter Wymark for particular scorn. Ruth sometimes added her own caustic observations, but it was Denning who was in full flow.
Genevieve let them bicker on. She was far more interested in keeping Walter Wymark under surveillance than in participating. In view of Ruth’s earlier comments about the Wymarks she would have preferred to see husband and wife together, but Katherine Wymark had not come into the lounge at all. Walter Wymark talked briefly to Orvill Delaney, then to another man, and finally to Edgar Fenby. Taking a seat beside him, Fenby was soon locked in an intense discussion with Wymark. Genevieve was mesmerized. The two men were less like business associates than conspirators plotting a coup d’état. Incongruous as they might at first look, they were somehow harmonized by a mutual interest in something of vital interest to both.
When a suggestion was made by Wymark, the other man nodded and looked at his watch. Wymark then handed him something, and Fenby slipped it into one of the pockets of his waistcoat. Genevieve could not see what the tiny object was. Wymark soon rose, shook hands with Fenby, then went quickly out. Fenby immediately checked his watch again and sat back with controlled impatience. Harvey Denning was lampooning all and sundry, but only Ruth heard him; Genevieve was too busy watching Edgar Fenby. Ten minutes after Wymark’s departure, he consulted his watch for the third time, got up and strode slowly out of the room.
Genevieve felt impelled to follow him. She sensed that it might pay dividends. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, standing up.
Denning was peeved to lose half his audience. “Deserting us already?”
“I’m afraid I have to, Harvey.”
“Shall we see you for dinner?” asked Ruth.
“Probably. Good-bye.”
She turned away as they waved her off. Heading for the grand staircase, she was just in time to see Fenby’s distinctive figure ascending the steps. Wherever he was going, it was not to his own cabin on the promenade deck. Instead, he went up to the deck above and followed the route he had taken on the previous night. Guessing his destination, Genevieve was able to stay well back in order to avoid discovery. When he reached the junction at the end of the passageway, he turned to the left. She scurried forward. Keeping close to the wall, she peered cautiously around the corner. Edgar Fenby did not need to search for a number this time. He reached the cabin he wanted, took a key from his waistcoat pocket and let himself in.
Genevieve was mystified. A hazy idea began to form at the back of her mind, but it had no time to take on shape or substance. She heard footsteps coming and turned around to see Patrick Skelton walking in her direction. Her mouth went dry.
“Good afternoon, Miss Masefield,” he said calmly.
“Good afternoon.”
“We haven’t seen much of you today.”
“Is that a complaint?” she asked.
“Take it as you wish.”
“To be honest, I’m surprised that you even noticed I wasn’t there.”
“Oh, I noticed, believe me.”
“I didn’t know that you had a cabin on the boat deck, Mr. Skelton.”
He gave her a cold smile. “I don’t.”
He walked past her and turned to the right. Halfway along the passageway, he paused outside her own cabin just to let her see that he knew where it was. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he continued on and turned the next corner. Genevieve shuddered.
Dillman stayed long enough in the second-class lounge to learn as much as he could about Edgar Fenby and his role at the Bank of England. Oliver Jarvis was glad to have such an attentive listener. He waxed lyrical about the joys of working in a bank and talked about his relationship over the years with Fenby. It was clear that the latter’s career had accelerated with far more speed than Jarvis’s own, a fact that drew a frown of disapproval from his loyal wife. When he had heard enough, Dillman thanked the bank manager for his help, proffered his excuses, and withdrew. He was making his way up the grand staircase when he met Genevieve descending it.
“Thank heavens!” she said. “I was coming to look for you.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
Genevieve was concise, abbreviating her suspicions into a few telling sentences. Dillman needed no time to absorb the information. Matching it with his own discovery, he decided it was time for action. They went back up the stairs together.
“There’s a clear connection between them,” he explained. “Hirsch knew the Wymarks. Mrs. Cameron told me that. And this Edgar Fenby turns out to work at the Bank of England. Mr. Jarvis thinks the man is traveling in an unofficial capacity to hand over that gold bullion in New York. I think he may have had other designs on our cargo. Three links in the same chain—a known thief, an employee at the bank who could furnish vital details about the bullion, and Walter Wymark.”
“What’s his role?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
They retraced Genevieve’s footsteps and came to the passageway on the boat deck to which she had trailed Fenby. She pointed out the cabin he had entered.
“Leave this to me,” Dillman insisted.
“Are you sure, George?”
“Go back to your own cabin. If you leave the door slightly ajar, you’ll be able to observe this end of the passageway.” He checked his watch. “Give me five minutes. If I’m not out by then, go to the purser and raise the alarm.”
“Why not get more support first?”
“There’s no point in charging in there with a small army until we have more proof, and I think I have a better chance of getting that on my own.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “By stealth.”
“Suppose they’re armed.”
“Suppose you stop worrying and do as you’re told.”
She nodded, brushed his cheek with a kiss, then hurried off to her cabin. When she was safely inside, Dillman went to the cabin into which Edgar Fenby had let himself with the key. He knocked hard on the door. There was no response. He rapped again with his knuckles. A door opened this time, but it belonged to the cabin directly behind him. The burly figure of Walter Wymark confronted him.
“What do you want?”
“To talk to the people inside.”
“There’s nobody in there.” Wymark squinted. “Say, don’t I know you?”
“Yes, Mr. Wymark. I’m George Dillman. I was told someone was in there.”
“Then you were told wrong.”
“Let’s see, shall we?”
Dillman raised his fist to knock again, but Wymark grabbed his wrist.
“Excuse me,” said Dillman coolly, “but you seem to have hold of my wrist. Perhaps I should tell you that I’m a private detective employed by the Cunard Line. Unless you wish me to arrest you for impeding an investigation, I suggest that you release me right now. Otherwise, I might start to get annoyed.”
Wymark saw the determined look in his eye. Dillman was younger, taller, and fitter than he was. He could not be frightened away. Letting him go, Wymark forced an apologetic smile and took a step back.
“Sorry, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get in your way. Truth is, I get a lot of guys trying to pester my wife. I thought you were one more of them.”
“I need to talk to her and Mr. Fenby.”
“Who?”
“Edgar Fenby. He’s your business associate, I understand.”
“Yeah, he’s a banker. Helped to arrange a couple of loans for me.”
“To be honest, I expected to find you in there with them.”
“Hell, no,” said Wymark, thinking fast. “You’ve got it all mixed up. Mr. Fenby did call by to pick up my wife, but only to take her off to that concert in the music room. That’s where you’ll probably find them, Mr. Dillman.” He raised his voice slightly. “If you want a word with me, step inside. We ha
ve two cabins so that I can use one as my office. Come and see for yourself.”
Dillman knew that a signal was being given, but he also knew that Genevieve was still watching the proceedings. He accepted the invitation and stepped into Wymark’s cabin. A full minute elapsed before Katherine Wymark opened the door of her own cabin and peered out. She was wearing a silk dressing gown. Believing that the coast was clear, she disappeared again. When the door opened once more, a flustered Edgar Fenby came out and walked away hurriedly. Genevieve Masefield watched it all. The idea that had earlier danced at the back of her mind now pirouetted to the forefront.
_____
Alexandra Jarvis was thrilled to be reunited with Bobo, and the cat expressed his own pleasure freely. When he finished his meal, he leaped up into her arms and let her stroke him again. Lily Pomeroy gave a sentimental sigh and turned to the officer.
“Oh, isn’t that nice!” she cooed.
“Bobo is very fond of your granddaughter.”
“Ally is something of a cat herself. One minute she’ll purr quietly in your lap and the next minute she’s tearing off somewhere as if you never existed.”
Reynolds could not resist the pun. “She’s a real alley cat, you mean?”
The old woman went off into such peals of laughter that Bobo jumped from the girl’s arms in fear and fled along the passageway. Alexandra went after him pleading with him not to run away again. Reynolds stepped out of the cabin with Mrs. Pomeroy to watch the two of them. Bobo relented. Stopping at the end of the passageway, he began to groom himself as if waiting for Alexandra to join him. She walked slowly up to him and reached out, but he was in a playful mood and darted between her feet. When the girl giggled and went after him, he eluded her with ease. The spectators gave indulgent smiles.
“He wants to play games,” said Alexandra excitedly.
“Well, he’ll have to play on his own,” said her grandmother, “because we have to be getting back soon.”
“Oh, not just yet. Please, Granny. Five minutes more, that’s all.”
“I’m not sure.” She winked at the officer. “What do you think, Mr. Reynolds?”
“I think we can allow them five minutes together,” he decided, producing a whoop of joy from the girl. “Bobo’s missed her.”
“He has,” confirmed Alexandra, kneeling down so the cat could rub himself against her thigh. “And I’ve missed him. Haven’t I, Bobo?”
“Can I offer you anything while we wait, Mrs. Pomeroy?” asked Reynolds.
“Don’t bother on my account,” she said, almost simpering.
“It’s no trouble. I can rustle up a cup of tea in no time. Unless, of course.” he added, raising an eyebrow. “you’d prefer something a little stronger?”
“Mr. Reynolds!”
“I’ll get you a tot straightaway,” he said, going into the cabin. “I’d love to join you, but my watch starts soon and I can’t be tipsy on the bridge. Come on in for a moment, Mrs. Pomeroy.”
“Thank you,” she said, tickled at the notion of being offered a drink of rum by an attractive officer. “Perhaps we should make that ten minutes.”
Bobo wanted more fun. As soon as the adults disappeared, he turned tail and fled in the opposite direction, pausing at the corner to give his friend a teasing look before he vanished. Alexandra sprinted after him at top speed, ready for any game he chose.
“Bobo!” she shouted happily. “Come back here! Bobo!”
The chat with Walter Wymark was brief, but revealing. Dillman quickly realized that the man was not involved in the gold-bullion theft and that the verbal charade he was putting up was meant to mask a different crime altogether. Giving Wymark the impression that he believed what he was being told, he took his leave and walked down to Genevieve’s cabin. When she told him what she had seen from her vantage point, it confirmed his suspicion.
“I think you should take over now, Genevieve,” he suggested.
“It will have to be handled with care.”
“That’s why I’m bowing out.”
She grinned. “What you mean is that under the circumstances, you’re frightened to be left alone with Mrs. Wymark.”
“Let’s just say that this is a job for a woman, Genevieve.”
He gave her a kiss, let himself out and headed for the grand staircase. Dillman was disappointed that his assumptions about Wymark and the others had been proved wrong. At the same time, he was grateful that he had chosen to make the call alone instead of forcing his way into Katherine Wymark’s cabin with armed men in support. That, he now saw, would have been highly embarrassing for all concerned. Intending to report to the purser and apologize for his earlier abrupt departure, Dillman was disconcerted to approach the man’s cabin and see Hester Littlejohn coming out of it. Her expression changed from irritation to pleasure in a flash.
“Hello, Mr. Dillman,” she said. “You’re just the man I want.”
“That sounds ominous, Mrs. Littlejohn.”
“I’ve had the most frustrating interview with Mr. Buxton. I thought the function of the purser was to help passengers, not to keep them at arm’s length.”
“What happened?”
“He refused to give me the information I need.”
“And what’s that?” asked Dillman warily.
“Well,” she said, moving him away from the door, “one of the British journalists—I think it was the correspondent from The Times, actually—overheard a lady in first class saying that her gold watch went astray but a woman detective found it for her within a day. I didn’t know there were such things as female detectives.”
“But you are one, Mrs. Littlejohn,” he pointed out.
“Not that kind. Who is she, Mr. Dillman?”
“I can’t help you there, I’m afraid.”
“Neither could the purser. He was quite infuriating.”
“Mr. Buxton was only protecting the lady’s identity.”
“But I want to do an interview with her.”
“That would be very unwise.”
“Unwise?”
“And unfair, Miss Littlejohn,” he argued. “You’d break the lady’s cover and that would make her far less effective in her work. In fact, she’d probably lose her job as a result and you, of all people, wouldn’t want to be responsible for that.”
“No, no, Mr. Dillman.”
“If the lady exists—and it’s only hearsay that she does—I’m quite sure she’d prefer to remain anonymous.”
“Like that man who helped secure the anchor in a gale?”
“Exactly like him.”
“That means I have to miss out on two exclusive stories,” she complained. “No female Sherlock Holmes and no courageous passenger. On top of that, the purser tells me that not only has the missing cat been found, but that those tools that were taken from the third-class galley turned up out of the blue.”
“I had a feeling they might.”
“What am I to do, Mr. Dillman? I need a theme for my articles.”
“I would have thought that you already have one.”
“Do I?”
“ ‘Unsung Heroines.’ This lady you mention might be one of them, except that you’d jeopardize her position by saying so. But there are other women on board whose work should be celebrated. The stewardesses, for instance.”
“I’ve spoken to all ten of them,” she said, warming to his suggestion. “And to the two matrons. They get the most pitiful wages.”
“Tell that to your readers.”
“Oh, I will. And I won’t pull any punches.”
“Don’t forget to say that none of those women are forced to work on the Cunard Line,” he warned. “They do it by choice, so there must be rewards of the heart that are not reflected in their wage packet.”
“They’re exploited, Mr. Dillman,” she insisted.
“Then sing their praises from the rooftops.”
“They do a remarkable job. Each and every one of them.”
“That includes th
e most important lady of all, Mrs. Littlejohn.”
“Who’s that?”
“The Mauretania herself, of course,” he explained. “She’s done wonders under trying conditions. Put her at the top of your list of ‘Unsung Heroines.’ ”
“I’d never have thought of that. Thank you, Mr. Dillman.”
“My pleasure—but I’ll let you go now.”
“Oh, yes. I’ll have to speak to all twelve women again.”
“Why?”
“To check my facts,” she said earnestly. “I always try to fit in a second interview, if at all possible. No matter how meticulous you are, there’s usually something you miss, some tiny but crucial detail that only comes out the second time.”
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s a good point.”
“And at least, they’ll cooperate. Unlike the purser. He wouldn’t tell me a thing. I still don’t know if that silver cutlery has been recovered yet.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Littlejohn. You already have your story.”
She nodded and bustled off. Dillman acted on her advice; a second interview was a wise precaution. Instead of going to see Buxton, he headed straight for the master-at-arms cabin. A few minutes later, a penitent Glyn Bowen was being unlocked from his cell. The prisoner was haggard with fear and anxiety. There was no Mansell Price to tell him what to do and say now. He was completely on his own.
“How are you getting on?” asked Dillman.
“It’s miserable in here.”
“You can hardly expect a first-class cabin after what you did.”
“That’s what Mansell reckoned we’d get. A big reward from the purser and a cabin among the toffs. Never thought we’d end up in a cell.”
“Are you sorry for what you did, Mr. Bowen?”
“We were so twp,” he admitted. “That means stupid.”
“What drove you to it?”
“Mansell.”
“But what put the idea in his head in the first place?”
“I told you, Mr. Dillman. He’s always been a bit wild.”
“Tell me again,” invited Dillman softly. “Step by step. Give me the details you left out last time. How you stole those tools, for example.”
“That was Mansell’s doing.”