Murder on the Lusitania (6 page)

“Shall I fetch your husband, Mrs. Erskine?” volunteered Dillman.

“No, thank you. Let him smoke on. Mrs. Weekes?”

“I’ll come with you,” said Ada Weekes, getting up from her chair. “It looks as if Cyril will be in there for some time yet. If you do see him, Mr. Dillman, please tell him that I’ve gone back to the cabin.”

The other two couples also elected to leave and it gave Dillman the opportunity to break away from the stray banker. The lounge was still quite full. As he made his way to the exit, Dillman reflected on how tolerant both Ada Weekes and Dorothea Erskine seemed to be. Neither had complained about their respective husbands’ long absence in the smoking room, and they left without recrimination. It was almost as if they had willingly licensed the departure of their spouses. Dillman did not believe that all the wives aboard would be quite so indulgent.

When he first entered the smoking room, he could not find them. It was only when his eyes grew accustomed to the fug that he was able to pick them out, and he saw at once what had detained them. Instead of withdrawing to enjoy a postprandial cigar, Cyril Weekes and Jeremiah Erskine were seated at a table with four other men and playing cards. Evidently they were not novices. Though both were relaxed and urbane, they studied the cards with the intense concentration of men who took the game seriously enough to play for high stakes.

Dillman now understood why they were drawn together. Judging by the amount of money beside him, Erskine was not faring too well but Weekes appeared to be holding his own. There was a whisper of a smile on his lips. Dillman remembered the annual visit that his friend made to the Grand National and surmised that it must be only one of many race meetings attended in the course of a year. Cyril Weekes was an inveterate gambler. It was more than likely that he had first met Erskine across the card table on the previous evening. They were birds of a feather, flying side by side.

After watching them for a few minutes, Dillman let his eye travel around the rest of the table. Two of the other men were smoking cigars and a third was puffing at a cigarette through a long holder.
It was the fourth man who intrigued Dillman. As one game concluded, he shuffled the pack with expert ease, then dealt the cards out. He was a big sleek man in his early sixties with a silver beard and a gleaming bald head. A prominent nose separated two small, watchful blue eyes that glinted in the light of the table lamp. Dillman knew him from Purser Halliday’s description. The man who looked like an art dealer was the notorious Edward Collins. Weekes and Erskine were up against a professional.

It was an education to watch them in action. Dillman enjoyed a game of poker himself but it was an article of faith with him that he never played for money. These men would never play without it. It was fascinating to watch the nuances of behavior as they indulged in bluff and counterbluff, or tried to lure their companions into a trap. Edward Collins was supremely in control. He did not win every round but he usually managed to claim the pot when it had the most money in it. By comparison, Weekes had only small successes. Erskine lost heavily.

Collins was careful to apply no undue pressure. He did not wish to frighten the others away by emptying their wallets too greedily at one sitting. It was important to leave them with the feeling that they might recoup their losses on other nights. Accordingly, he lost the last few games, surrendering the final one to Erskine when his bluff was called.

“My luck’s run out,” decided Collins. “Time to quit, I think.”

“Only until tomorrow,” said Weekes.

“Count me in,” said Erskine, pocketing his money.

“What about you other gentlemen?” asked Collins.

One shook his head but the other two were eager to rejoin battle. Edward Collins thanked them before rising to his feet and reaching for his silver-topped cane. As he went past Dillman, the latter got a closer look at him. Edward Collins seemed to be so cultured and dignified. Decency shone out of him. He inspired trust. Dillman would have bought an Old Master off him without a tremor but he would never sit at a card table with him.

Weekes spotted the American for the first time and came over.

“Did my wife send you after me?” he said.

“No, sir. Mrs. Weekes decided to go back to the cabin.”

“Oh, dear! Is it that late?” He consulted his watch. “By Jove! So it is. I rather lost track of time in here. Why didn’t you join us, Mr. Dillman?”

“I have no skill at cards.”

“Not a question of skill, old chap.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Luck. That’s the secret.”

“I prefer other pleasures.”

Weekes gave him a sly wink. “So did I at your age. And why not? Every dog and all that. What?” He turned to Erskine. “My wife has gone off to bed. So has yours, probably.”

“She usually does,” said Erskine. “I’ve got her well trained.”

“What did you use? Lumps of sugar?”

“A diamond necklace.”

The two men chuckled aloud and ambled out unsteadily together.

Dillman was glad to get out of the smoking room. His eyes were stinging and the fug was catching in his throat. He made his way to the promenade deck and stood at the rail. It was quite chilly and there were few people about. There was enough moonlight to show how choppy the waves were but the ship rode them with impressive grace and stability. Dillman reviewed the evening. It had been instructive. He had met new friends and learned more about the relationships between existing ones. A visit to the smoking room had also introduced him to Edward Collins. A collective pattern of behavior was beginning to emerge among the first-class passengers, but he saw nothing that might cause any real alarm. Jeremiah Erskine had sensed disaster in the air. Dillman smiled as he considered the possibility that the fellow had merely anticipated his own drubbing at the card table.

The cold wind was encouraging the other passengers to return to their cabins, but Dillman strolled the length of the deck before he was ready to leave. He turned a mariner’s eye upward to identify the stars and would probably have stayed there for some time had he not been disturbed by a sudden noise. He looked along
the deck in time to see the figure of a man, descending some steps at speed. Dillman only saw him in shadowy outline but he recognized him at once. It was Henry Barcroft. Without quite knowing why, Dillman set off in pursuit of him.

It was a long and bewildering chase, though he was not sure if the journalist even realized that he was being followed. At all events, Barcroft managed to stay too far ahead of him to be caught. Each time Dillman got within sight of him, the man seemed to vanish around a corner or plunge down another staircase, showing a remarkable knowledge of the ship’s labyrinthine passages. Eventually, Barcroft vanished altogether and Dillman was left staring in dismay up and down a long empty corridor, wondering which direction his quarry had taken. A decision had to be made. Turning to the right, he broke into a trot and headed for some double doors, pushing them firmly open and surging through, only to find himself colliding with someone.

The young woman let out a cry of surprise and stumbled back. Dillman managed to save her from falling by embracing her in penitential arms. He released her at once and took a step back.

“I do beg your pardon! I had no idea anyone was there.”

“Nor more did I,” she said, still shaken. “But I suppose I should be grateful that, if I had to bump into anyone, I picked a fellow American.”

“George Porter Dillman.”

“You were in one heck of a rush, Mr. Dillman.”

“I was looking for someone.”

“But hit me instead. Amidships. Literally.”

“Are you all right?” he said with concern.

“I’ll live. Just about. But who were you after?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. “Nobody else came this way.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. My name is Ellen Tolley, by the way.” They shook hands. “I like to think I’m pretty tough but you’re a big guy to stop.”

“I can’t apologize enough, Miss Tolley.”

“Ellen, please. Why stand on ceremonies? We’ve just been introduced in the most direct way.”

“That was my fault. I can’t apologize enough.”

“Does that mean you’ll insist on Mr. Dillman?”

“Not at all,” he said with a grin. “Call me George, please. It will be nice to hear my Christian name again after all this time.”

“It’s a deal, George.”

Ellen Tolley was a bright-eyed, fresh-faced woman in her early twenties with short dark hair that curled naturally and full lips that parted to reveal a perfect set of teeth. Her green striped dress was smart without being arresting and there was a noticeable absence of jewelry. There was a girlish ebullience about her that made her seem younger than her years. While he was appraising her, she was taking the measure of him and she liked what she saw.

“You must be the tall, dark, handsome man that the fortuneteller said I would meet. Trouble is, she forgot to mention you’d be traveling at a hundred miles an hour when our paths crossed.”

“I didn’t expect anyone else to be there.”

“I gathered that.”

“Most people have gone off to bed.”

“That’s where I’d be, George, if only I could find my cabin. I’m lost. I’ve been wandering around for ages and getting nowhere. Some of these signs are so confusing.”

“Allow me to guide you back, Ellen.”

“Just point me in the direction of the dining saloon and I’ll be okay. That’s where I went wrong. I turned left instead of right. All that Champagne. My father would go crazy, if he knew.”

“Your father?”

“Yes,” she explained. “We’re traveling together. He had a headache and went off to his cabin early. I assured him I’d be able to find my own way back. I daren’t tell him I went astray. Daddy has always been very protective. It’s got worse since Mom died.” She adjusted her dress. “You traveling alone, George?”

“Completely alone.”

“Where you from?”

“Boston.”

“Civilization! We live in New Jersey. I hate it.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you about it another time,” she promised. “Right now, I’d appreciate a few directions to the dining saloon.”

“I insist on escorting you there.”

“What about the person you were chasing?”

“Forget him.”

“Who was he, anyway?”

“Nobody.”

He walked back down the corridor and she fell in beside him. It was refreshing to be with someone so friendly and unrestrained by convention. Ellen Tolley had great charm and an easy confidence. He could almost feel the zest buzzing out of her. He found himself comparing her with Violet Rymer and wishing that the latter had some of her vitality, but he knew it was a forlorn hope.

“Have you been on vacation, Ellen?”

“Six weeks.”

“What did you see?”

“Real history for once. England is dripping with it.”

“Sorry to leave?”

“Yes and no,” she admitted. “I wanted to stay but, then again, I was not going to pass up the chance of sailing on the maiden voyage of the
Lusitania
. It really is everything it’s cracked up to be.” She gave a rueful laugh. “If only they’d supply us with a route map.”

“Even the stewards haven’t got all their bearings yet.”

“You seem to be doing pretty well, though.”

“Mixture of guesswork and luck.”

But he knew exactly where he was going now. Dillman took her up a flight of steps and along a corridor before turning a corner. Ahead of them lay the first-class dining saloon, its lights now largely extinguished.

“At least let me see you to your cabin,” he said.

“Kind of you, George, but I guess not.”

“Another time, maybe.”

A long pause. “Maybe,” she said at length. “Aren’t you going off to your own bed?”

“I’m on the deck above this.”

“Then this is where we separate.” She offered her hand again. “Thanks for being my pathfinder. I could have been lost for hours.”

“Good night, Ellen,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Sweet dreams.”

“I hope the bruises don’t show in the morning.”

“If they do,” she joked, “I may sue.”

She gave him a cheery wave and Dillman set off up the staircase. He might have lost Henry Barcroft but he had found Ellen Tolley. It was a fair exchange. It was only when he got back to his cabin that it occurred to him to ask himself where the journalist had been going at that time of night and why he had taken such pains to cover his tracks. Barcroft replaced Edward Collins at the top of his mental list for surveillance.

Ellen Tolley edged her way into first position on a different list.

SIX

H
e had just finished shaving when he received the call. Dillman opened his cabin door to find a junior officer standing outside in the corridor.

“Mr. Halliday’s compliments, sir—would you please join him in his cabin as soon as possible?”

“I’ll be with him directly,” said Dillman, starting to undo the belt around his dressing gown. “Tell him I’m on the way.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Minutes later, Dillman was inspecting himself in the mirror as he hauled on his jacket. He straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. Normally he would dress at a more leisurely pace but the summons betokened urgency. He was soon hurrying off down the passageway toward the staircase, making the last few adjustments to his clothing as he did so and wondering what emergency had prompted the purser to send for him.

Charles Halliday had left the door of the cabin open for him.

“Thanks for coming so quickly, Mr. Dillman.”

“It sounded important.”

“It is,” said Halliday, indicating his other visitor. “I believe you’ve met our chief engineer before.”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “Good morning, Mr. Rourke.”

Fergus Rourke gave him a noncommittal grunt. He was clearly simmering with anger. The purser closed the cabin door and kept his back to it when he spoke.

“We have a thief aboard the ship,” he disclosed.

“Not what I’d call the bleeder!” said Rourke vengefully.

“He may just be a souvenir hunter but somehow I don’t think so. We could be up against something rather more serious. I’ll let Mr. Rourke explain. He’s the injured party.”

“Yes,” said the chief engineer, bristling. “But my injuries are nothing to the ones he’ll suffer when I catch up with the bugger!”

“What exactly happened?” asked Dillman.

“Some items were taken from my cabin.”

“Items?”

“Diagrams. Charts. Highly confidential.”

“When was this, Mr. Rourke?”

“Who knows? I only discovered the theft this morning when I had to check something on one of the diagrams. It just wasn’t there in the folder. Nor were some of the others.”

“But they were there yesterday?”

“Definitely.”

“Someone must have got into the cabin last night,” decided Halliday. “What time did you turn in, Mr. Rourke?”

“Late.”

“How late?”

“Late,” repeated the other. “Can’t put an exact time on it.”

“And the cabin was locked while you were away?” said Dillman.

“Of course. It’s always locked.”

“Who else has a key?”

“Nobody.”

“There must be a master key somewhere.”

“There is,” said Halliday. “First thing I checked. It was locked away in a cupboard all night. The thief got in by some other means.”

“I want him caught,” demanded Rourke. “Quick!”

“That may not be easy,” admitted Dillman, “with the vast number
of people aboard. We don’t even know if we’re looking for a light-fingered passenger or a member of the crew.”

“No member of the crew would dare go near my cabin, Mr. Dillman. They know me too well to risk it. No,” said the chief engineer, stroking the red beard, “I’m sure this burglar’s name is on our passenger list.”

“That’s why I sent for you, Mr. Dillman,” said Halliday seriously. “We can institute inquiries among the crew. The rest is up to you.”

“The first thing to establish is motive. From what Mr. Rourke says, I gather that these are highly sensitive documents. Relating to the engine room, presumably? I think that rules out the theory about the souvenir hunter,” he concluded. “Since the Cunard emblem has been put on just about everything on the
Lusitania
, you might lose a few towels and bath mats. Even the odd blanket. And the ashtrays will be an obvious target. But not technical diagrams. They’d be meaningless to the vast majority of passengers. No, gentlemen, I have an uneasy feeling that this man is rather more than a thief. He’s also a spy of some sort.”

“Wait till I get my hands on the bastard!” said Rourke with a menacing gesture. “I’ll tear his heart and liver out and sling ’em into one of the furnaces! Nobody steals from me!”

“Calm down, Fergus,” advised the purser.

“I’ll slaughter him, so help me!”

“Making wild threats will get us nowhere. We have to catch him first and, as Mr. Dillman says, that could be tricky.”

“Are there any possible suspects?” asked the American.

“Not as far as we know.”

“What about you, Mr. Rourke? Anyone spring to mind?”

“No. I been too busy doing my job to notice.”

“But you must have had lots of visitors to the engine room. Some people love the thrill of peeping in there to see those pistons clanking away. All part of the experience. Then there’s the press, of course,” he said. “I daresay you had to give them the guided tour.”

“Pain in the arse, they were!”

“Did any of them show an exceptional interest in what went on?”

“No,” said Rourke. “Most of them couldn’t stand the noise and the heat. Once they’d got the basic details from me, they scarpered. They’re more concerned with enjoying their free trip across the Atlantic to worry too much about the men who actually get them there.” His chest inflated as a memory nudged. “Wait a minute, though! There was one journalist who came back on his own. Inquisitive little sod!”

“What did he want?”

“To wander around, talk to the men. Ha!” snorted the chief engineer. “Wish I’d let him now. Stokers work hard. They don’t like to be put on show like animals in a zoo. They’d have sent him packing with a flea in his ear.” He scratched his head. “Now, what was his name?”

Dillman supplied it. “Henry Barcroft, by any chance?”

“That was him! Nosy devil! You know him?”

“Yes.” Halliday sighed. “Mr. Barcroft has come to our notice already.”

“Fetch him here!” suggested Rourke. “I’ll beat the truth out of him!”

“Take it easy, Fergus.”

“But he’s the obvious person, Mr. Halliday.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s the culprit,” argued Dillman. “Obvious suspects often turn out to be completely innocent. And we can hardly have you assaulting a member of the British press. That would lead to the most adverse publicity, Mr. Rourke. I can’t imagine you’d get any thanks from the Cunard Line. We must proceed with caution.”

“I agree,” said Halliday, turning to the chief engineer. “Leave this to us, Mr. Rourke. I know that you’re anxious to get back to your post. We’ll keep you fully informed of any developments.”

“If it does turn out to be this turd Barcroft—”

“Then we’ll take the appropriate action,” the purser assured him, opening the door to let him out. “Thanks for your help. At least we know where to start now.”

The chief engineer looked grimly from one to the other, then ducked his head as he took his huge frame out. Closing the door behind him, Charles Halliday gave an apologetic shrug.

“You’ll have to forgive him sounding off like that. Fergus is a proud man. Guards his territory very carefully. This has been a real blow to him. He takes it personally”

“I can see that.”

“Not unnaturally, the captain is disturbed as well. He wants the matter cleared up quickly but discreetly. So, where do we begin?”

“With Mr. Barcroft. I didn’t want to say this in front of the chief engineer because he’s inflamed enough already, but I fancy that I saw our journalist behaving rather suspiciously last night. On the prowl after everyone else had gone off to bed.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t be certain that it was him, mark you, and I never got close enough to confirm it. But if it was not Barcroft, it was his double.”

“Where did you see him?”

“On the promenade deck,” said Dillman. “I tried to follow him but he led me all over the ship and eventually shook me off when we got to the main deck.”

“Why go down there? His cabin is on the shelter deck.”

“He didn’t stop to tell me, Mr. Halliday.”

“Did he know he was being stalked?”

“I’m not sure.”

Halliday pondered. “What do you suggest we do?”

“Firstly, we must search his cabin. Thoroughly. Whoever you assign to the task must leave the place exactly as he found it.”

“Unless they actually find the stolen documents.”

“Slim chance of that,” said Dillman. “We have to be realistic. A man who’s clever enough to steal the documents will know where to hide them. I doubt very much if he’d leave them hanging around his own cabin. He might already have passed them on to an accomplice.”

“It’s still worth a try.”

“Definitely. We may not reclaim what was taken but we might
find other clues to Mr. Barcroft’s real purpose for being on board. But let’s not rush to judgment. He could still be innocent.”

“What happens then, Mr. Dillman?”

“We start looking elsewhere.”

“Right.”

“Will you organize the search of his cabin?”

“Yes. Do you wish to be involved?”

“No,” said Dillman. “I’d prefer to speak to Henry Barcroft myself and sound him out. It will also keep him occupied while your men go through his things. I take it that Barcroft is
on
your list of accredited journalists?”

“No doubt about that.”

“Yet he’s not representing any specific newspaper.”

“He’s a freelance.”

Dillman lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “A freelance what, though?”

Genevieve Masefield agreed to meet him, more out of gratitude than out of any desire to spend time alone in his company. Henry Barcroft had introduced her to Lord Carradine, who in turn had introduced her to his circle of friends. Genevieve had made progress. Unfortunately it was in spite of Abigail and Carlotta Hubermann rather than because of them. Kind and well meaning though the two sisters were, they had been something of a hindrance during the visit to Lord Carradine’s private lounge on the previous evening. Genevieve needed to distance herself from them. When she headed for the Veranda Café that morning, she made sure that the Hubermanns did not know where she was going or with whom she intended to pass an idle hour.

Henry Barcroft was in an expansive mood, behaving more like a first-class passenger than a journalist on an assignment. The bright sunshine encouraged him to wear a striped blazer, white trousers, and a straw boater. He lacked only a cricket bat to turn him into a symbol of the English summer. For her part, Genevieve chose a two-piece dress carefully cut to display her figure. The long, narrow patterned skirt reached to her ankles and was matched by a Zoave jacket, which covered her white silk blouse.
Her hat, trimmed with velvet bows, had a low crown and wide brim, and was set at just the right angle to show off her face to its best effect.

Elsewhere in the café, Norfolk jackets were popular among the men though there were a few lounge coats among the more elderly travelers who still seemed to feel that they were relaxing at their London clubs. It was left to the ladies to supply any color, style, or variety. One woman, in a mustard dress and a voluminous hat, sat alone and caressed the tiny dog lying somnolently in her lap. Another, anticipating much colder weather, was huddled in a furtrimmed coat with a muff at the ready.

Henry Barcroft summoned the waiter and ordered a pot of tea.

“How did you get on with Lord Carradine?” he asked Genevieve.

“He was extremely nice.”

“One of the old school. Odd thing is, although he’s made millions out of tobacco, he doesn’t smoke himself.” He gave a laugh. “Not exactly a good advertisement for his cigarettes, is it?”

“I hadn’t realized he was such a sportsman.”

“Oh, yes. He’s a regular on the house party circuit. Quite a shot, by all accounts. And a celebrated horseman. Of course, there’s another reason why he gets so many invitations for weekends in the country.”

“Is there?”

“Come, Miss Masefield. I don’t believe you’re that naive.”

“Ah,” she said, understanding. “Lord Carradine is a bachelor.”

“A highly eligible bachelor. I daresay he has an endless array of pretty daughters pushed at him for inspection but none have managed to ensnare him yet. He’s too fond of his freedom.”

“Yet he did talk about wanting to father children.”

“My guess is that he’s probably done that already!” said Barcroft with a smirk. “Without even knowing it. Well, if he wants the Carradine dynasty to continue, he’ll have to walk down the aisle with someone sooner or later. Do you think he’d make good husband material?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Barcroft,” she said, resenting his familiar
tone and not wishing to be drawn into speculation. “Lord Carradine is a real gentleman, that’s all I know. But what happened to you last night?” she went on, moving the conversation in another direction. “You seemed to disappear from the dining saloon.”

“I had to, Miss Masefield. I have no dining privileges in first class. We minions of the press are second-class citizens. We have access to the whole ship during the day but the toffs draw the line at actually breaking bread with us.” He beamed at her. “Present company excepted, that is. I only turned up yesterday because I’d promised to make that introduction and I always honor my promises.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barcroft. It was appreciated.”

The journalist was about to pay her some fulsome compliments on her appearance when he caught sight of a familiar face coming into the café. He rose to his feet and extended his arms in a welcome.

“Here comes our mystery man again!”

“Good morning, Mr. Barcroft. How are you today?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Dillman.”

Dillman was checked. “You know my name?”

“I told you that I was well informed. Oh,” he said, indicating his companion. “Allow me to introduce Miss Genevieve Masefield.”

Dillman took the proffered hand and gave her a little bow.

“George Dillman. Delighted to meet you, Miss Masefield.”

She gave a polite smile of acknowledgment but it lacked warmth.

“Would you care to join us?” invited Barcroft.

“I don’t wish to intrude on a private conversation,” said Dillman.

“But you might be able to help us.” He turned to Genevieve. “Mr. Dillman has a maritime background. He designs and builds yachts. A true sailor in every way.”