Murder on the Celtic (28 page)

Thoda was insulted. “I'm not a fortune-teller in a booth at a funfair,” she said haughtily. “I'm an acknowledged medium. I do not predict people's marital arrangements.”

“Would you at least agree to meet Mr. Dillman?”

“No, Mrs. Trouncer. What I will tell you is this, however. If you do marry again, I can promise you that it will not be to anyone who is sailing on this ship.” She swept off. “Good day to you!”

When the steward brought him the note, Frank Spurrier was still in the lounge. Genevieve Masefield wanted to see him in her cabin as soon as possible. Leaping up, he went off to obey the request at once, convinced that his subtle wooing was at last about to pay dividends. The feeling of elation lasted all the way to her cabin door. It was then dispersed by the arrival of Joshua Cleves.

“What the devil are
you
doing here?” Spurrier challenged.

“I was about to ask you the same question, Frank.”

“Genevieve sent me a note.”

“I had one as well,” said Cleves, taking it from his pocket. “She wanted to see me here. Ah, I think I know what's going on,” he continued smugly. “The day of decision has come. Genevieve is going to choose between the two of us and that means you'll be ousted.”

“You're the one to be rejected, Josh.”

Before they could debate the issue the door suddenly opened and Genevieve beckoned them in. Cleves went boldly over the threshold but his confidence faltered when he saw that George Dillman was already in the cabin. Spurrier followed him in. After shutting the door, Genevieve went to stand beside her husband.

“I believe that you've both met George Dillman,” she said, taking his hand. “What he forgot to mention is that we're married.”

Cleves spluttered and Spurrier goggled. Both were crestfallen. Two men who prided themselves on their instinctive knowledge of women had been completely fooled.

“You're married to a ship's detective?” said Cleves, agog.

“It's worse than that,” explained Dillman. “Genevieve is both wife and partner. She, too, is employed by the White Star Line as a detective.”

Spurrier was fuming. “Then why didn't she have the grace to tell us?” he said vehemently. “And why drag us here to watch this absurd little charade?”

“It's no charade, Mr. Spurrier. You were invited for a specific reason and Mr. Cleves is here as an observer.”

“And what am I supposed to observe?” said Cleves grumpily.

“The arrest of your friend.”

“Frank Spurrier,” said Genevieve, taking over, “it's my duty to arrest you on a charge of receiving stolen goods. A copy of a book that was taken from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was found in your cabin. As a result you'll have to spend the rest of the voyage in the custody of the sergeant-at-arms.”

Cleves was rocked. “Is this true, Frank?”

“No,” retorted the other. “There's been some grotesque mistake here. I know nothing about a stolen book.”

“Then why was it found by my husband,” said Genevieve, “hidden in a box that bore your name?”

“It must have been planted there by someone.”

“And I'm looking at the person who planted it.”

“Frank — a crook!” said Cleves with a guffaw. “This is priceless! I'm so glad I was here to witness the arrest.”

“Shut up, Josh!” snarled Spurrier.

“Yes,” said Dillman, “I think we can dispense with your presence now, Mr. Cleves.” He shepherded him out of the cabin. “Good-bye.”

Dillman shut the door but they could still hear Cleves's laughter as he walked off down the corridor. Frank Spurrier's humiliation was intensified. As he stared at Genevieve, his eyes blazed.

“You'll need a lot more evidence to convict me,” he said.

“We'll have it when we arrest your accomplice.”

“I
have
no accomplice, Mr. Dillman.”

“Do you confess to the theft of Sir Arthur's book?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then you worked in league with a professional criminal,” said Dillman. “The disappearance of
A Study in Scarlet
was only one of a number of thefts on board this ship, and the spate of crimes culminated in murder.”

“Murder!” yelled Spurrier. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“What about the other thefts?”

“All I did was to buy one item that was offered to me and I did so in good faith. I didn't ask where it came from and was quite unaware that any crime had taken place.”

“Then why did you feel it necessary to hide the book?” asked Genevieve. “If there was nothing improper in the transaction, you had no reason to go to such lengths to conceal it.” Spurrier looked uneasy. “I think you knew that you were being offered stolen property.”

“I deny that.”

“You can do so again in court,” said Dillman. “The point is this, Mr. Spurrier. One man is responsible for all the crimes committed on the
Celtic,
but he needed a confederate.”

“Well, it was not me — I swear it!”

“You accepted stolen goods from him.”

“That was a foolish error.”

“How many other foolish errors did you make?”

“None!” howled Spurrier. “I was involved in one small deal with him, that's all. I'm not his confederate. I don't even like the man.”

“What man?” asked Dillman.

“David Lowbury.”

Luncheon in steerage was the same clamorous event to which they had all become accustomed. Saul Pinnick, however, noticed that it had a different feature this time. Armed with sheaves of paper, members of the crew were working their way along the tables.

“It looks as if they're doing a head count, Mirry,” he said.

“What?”

“They seem to be checking off names.”

“I can't see anybody,” said his wife, screwing up her eyes. “Unless something is happening right in front of me, I can't see it.”

“That's why you've got me, my love. I'm your eyesight.”

She popped a chunk of bread into her mouth and chewed it hungrily. A man soon came level with them. He consulted his list.

“Names, please?” he invited.

“Saul and Mirry Pinnick,” said Pinnick. “Mirry as in Miriam.”

The man put ticks on his list. “Thank you.”

“What's going on?” said Miriam.

“We think someone may be missing.”

“It'll be
him,
Saul. I know it.”

“My wife means Len Rush,” said Pinnick. “He lost his wife on the voyage to America, then got turned back. He was in despair. He was talking about throwing himself overboard.”

“What was that name, sir?” asked the man.

“Len Rush — that's Len as in Leonard.”

After working his way down the list, the man flicked over the page to study the next one. Pinnick was saddened by the thought that Rush might have committed suicide and he reproached himself for not doing more to revive the man's spirits. Rush had not been seen all morning. It looked as if he had finally fulfilled his threat.

“No,” said the man, tapping the page. “Leonard Rush is here. I met him on deck only five minutes ago. He's not the missing man.”

“That's good news,” declared Pinnick.

Miriam was contentious. “Is it?” she said through a mouthful of food. “I don't see why.”

She knocked hard on the cabin door and waited. When it was heard, Jane Lowbury's voice sounded timid and cautious.

“Who's there?” she said.

“It's Genevieve Masefield.”

“Has something happened?”

“I need to speak to you, Mrs. Lowbury.”

The door was unlocked and Jane opened it. Her expression of suffering changed to one of surprise when she saw that Dillman was standing there as well. Without waiting for an invitation, they went into the cabin and closed the door behind them.

“We're going to move you from here,” said Genevieve.

“But I'd rather stay,” insisted Jane.

“This is not for your safety, Mrs. Lowbury, it's for
ours
.”

“Yes,” said Dillman pointedly. “As long as your husband is on the loose, we're both in danger.”

“On the loose?” Jane's face registered puzzlement. “What are you talking about? David was murdered. You told me so yourself. He was pushed over the side of the ship.”

“That's what you both wanted us to believe, Mrs. Lowbury, and the trick worked very well at first. But there were always worrying aspects to your story.”

“I don't understand.”

“Oh, I think you do,” said Dillman. “Take that nonsense about your pills, for instance. I don't believe they ever existed. If you really needed important medication, you'd be certain to carry it with you.”

“You'd also have asked for some replacement pills from the doctor,” Genevieve pointed out, “yet you refused to take anything at all. We know why now — your husband was still alive.”

“Except that we don't believe he was your husband. The man with whom you've been sharing your cabin is known to the police as Edward Hammond.” Dillman loomed over her. “He's wanted for the murder of Horace Pooley and for that of a steerage passenger who died in his place. Mr. Hammond deliberately left his coat in that lifeboat to deceive us. It was a clever ruse but it had some fatal flaws.” He gave her a cold smile. “That's why we're here.”

Jane tried to brazen it out. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said with righteous indignation, “and I'll be certain to complain to the purser. I'll thank you both to leave my cabin at once.”

“You've nothing to hide, then?”

“Nothing at all, Mr. Dillman.”

“Then you won't object if I search the cabin, will you?”

“Wait!”

Jane lunged forward to stop him but she was grabbed from behind. Genevieve held her in a firm grip. Dillman did not have to look far. Opening a leather chest, he rummaged through some clothing and produced a sparkling gold cup. He read the inscription on it.

“When did you win a golf tournament, Mrs. Lowbury?” he asked.

Jane's scream of rage reverberated around the cabin.

Edward Hammond congratulated himself on his success. Having shed one false identity, he had acquired another in its place and it did not involve sustained pretense on his part. The man whom he had killed and pushed overboard had been a lone steerage passenger who preferred to sleep on deck. All that Hammond had had to do was to rob him of his clothing and his passport, and he had the perfect disguise for the remainder of the journey. He might have to endure days of boredom in steerage, but his nights were spent in the arms of his lover in first class. Posing as a heartbroken widow, Jane had been looking after the property he had stolen from various people. It was, Hammond reasoned, the last place that the ship's detectives would ever think of looking.

He had another cause for contentment. When the names of all passengers were being checked, he was able to give that of Ronald Coveney. In his ragged clothes and with his unshaven face, he easily passed for the man he had murdered nights before. Avoiding meals in the saloon, he subsisted on food that Jane saved for him. When he saw her that evening, he knew that a delicious meal would be waiting in the cabin. His return was carefully timed to coincide with dinner in first class. After changing into the steward's uniform he had stolen, he hid his clothing in steerage and went up the companionway reserved for the crew. By the time he reached the first-class areas, cabin stewards had finished turning down the beds. The coast was clear.

Hammond moved swiftly to his cabin and knocked three times. Two knocks came in reply to confirm that Jane was alone. Hammond tapped on the door once more to complete the
agreed code. As the door opened, he dived in and turned to embrace Jane. But she was no longer there. In her place was George Dillman.

“Good evening, Mr. Hammond,” he said. “Remember me?”

“Where's Jane?” demanded Hammond.

“Where she belongs — under lock and key.”

Hammond did not even try to talk himself out of the situation. The game was up and his only chance of escape lay in overpowering the detective. Launching himself at Dillman, he tried to grab him by the throat, but the latter was ready for him this time. He moved smartly sideways and delivered a left hook that caught Hammond on the ear and made his head ring. Hurt and enraged, Hammond swore and rushed in again. Dillman knew how strong he was and gave him no chance to grapple. With a well-aimed kick, he caught Hammond in the crotch and made him double up in agony. Hammond expelled a string of expletives like a blast of hot steam. Before the man could recover, Dillman felled him with an uppercut to the chin.

“Now, then, Mr. Hammond,” he said, standing over him with his revolver in his hand, “I think you have a little explaining to do.”

Nelson Rutherford was far too excited to sit down. He jumped around behind his desk as he congratulated Dillman and Genevieve.

“Now I know how the real Nelson felt when he won a battle,” he said happily. “It's exhilarating. Except that I didn't actually win this battle. You were kind enough to do it for me.”

“It was something of a Pyrrhic victory,” admitted Dillman, putting a gentle hand to the back of his head. “We had casualties. I still have the scars by way of testimony.”

“But you and Miss Masefield succeeded in the end.”

“We were determined to do so,” said Genevieve. “We knew that Hammond had to be on the ship somewhere.”

“It just never occurred to us that he was traveling under the name of David Lowbury,” said Dillman. “He and his partner were very convincing. Jane Lowbury has obviously had acting experience. That was how she met Horace Pooley, you see.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, Mr. Rutherford,” said Genevieve. “I got the whole story out of her. He saw her on the stage, contrived an introduction and showered her with gifts. She quickly became his mistress and enjoyed all the trappings that went with it. Then he found someone else and dropped her like a stone.”