Against his better judgment, Dillman agreed to share a table with the Rymers that evening. They ventured out of their suite to sample the fare in the dining saloon and to allow Sylvia Rymer to display her new hairstyle, a mass of tight curls devoid of any parting and reminiscent of the style favored by Queen Alexandra. When he arrived at the saloon, Dillman got his first real sighting of Mildred, the Rymers’ maidservant, a plump woman in her forties with dark brown hair brushed back severely into a bun to reveal a pleasant, homely face. During the supper in their suite on the first night, Dillman had caught only the merest glimpse of the maidservant, so he was interested to see her more clearly, especially as she was one of the designated watchers of Violet Rymer.
Mildred wore a white apron over a light gray dress. A small white cap sat on her head. She had been dispatched to the hairdressing salon to retrieve an item that Sylvia Rymer had inadvertently left there during her visit that afternoon. Dillman could not quite make out what it was but he saw Mildred hand it over and collect a nod of thanks before heading back to the regal suite. He followed the Rymers into the dining saloon and joined a table that included a honeymoon couple, a Spanish artist, a rural dean with his wife, a retired barrister, and an elderly couple from Scotland. Dillman found himself seated between the female members of the Rymer family, both of whom seemed to be in excellent spirits, Sylvia, because of the compliments that her hairstyle and dress were eliciting, and Violet, for a reason that Dillman alone knew about.
Matthew Rymer was the revelation. He was positively buoyant, initiating conversation, retailing anecdotes, and generally acting as the focal point of the table. Gone was his earlier pomposity and, in spite of the presence of an American and a Spaniard, he refrained from any disparaging remarks about their respective countries. In appearance and manner, he still embodied British superiority but he no longer trumpeted it so loudly. Dillman was astounded by the improvement in the man and put it down to his daughter’s apparent change of heart. Now that Violet had started to enjoy the voyage, both parents were filled with relief, confident that she had at last accepted the banishment of Philip Garrow and was ready to face a future without him.
Dillman wondered how jovial Matthew Rymer would be if he knew that their daughter’s unwanted suitor was on board the same ship, and he doubted whether a new hairstyle and a silk evening gown would be enough to sustain Sylvia Rymer through the discovery. Violet herself was bubbling with suppressed excitement, taking an interest in each subject under discussion while savoring the thought that a tryst with her lover had been arranged for the following day. When relaying Garrow’s reply to her, Dillman had tactfully omitted any mention of his own reservations about the man. Messengers carried messages. Comment was outside their remit. He just hoped that Garrow was truly worthy of her.
The menu was printed on a beautifully embossed card with an elaborate design framing the actual bill of fare, turning the card itself into a cherished souvenir. The main course consisted of sirloin and ribs of beef served with green peas; rice; cauliflower à la crème; boiled, mashed, and château potatoes. They were in the middle of eating it when Sylvia Rymer finally found a moment to explain how the table had been put together. Adjusting her silver tiara, she leaned across to him.
“I sat next to Mrs. Mackintosh in the hairdressing salon,” she said, indicating the elderly Scotswoman. “Her husband owns five thousand acres in the Highlands. I knew that they’d be our sort. They bought some of Miguel’s paintings when they visited Spain last year and became good friends of his. He’s taking some of his work to New York in the hope of selling it there. In his own country, Mrs. Mackintosh tells me, Miguel is very famous.” Her eyes moved to the rural dean’s wife. “I also met Janet Palgrave in the salon. A delightful person. Her husband’s diocese is in Warwickshire somewhere. Ordinarily, of course, a man of the cloth like him would not be able to afford to travel first-class but it turns out that he has private wealth. He also owns a number of properties in the Midlands, so I simply had to get him together with Matthew.” She gave a complacent smile. “Don’t you think it’s a splendid table, Mr. Dillman?”
“Yes, Mrs. Rymer,” he agreed, looking around. “Your visit to the hairdressing salon was productive.”
“I met two other charming ladies there as well and put their names in my notebook for another time. And then—silly me!—I went and left my notebook in the salon by mistake.”
“Is that what your maidservant gave to you earlier?”
“Yes, thank heaven for Mildred! I’m always forgetting something or other. Mildred is my faithful retriever.”
“What about the Latimers?” he asked, glancing at the honeymoon couple. “I don’t imagine that you met the two of them in the salon.”
“Oh, no. They’re friends of the Palgraves. Stuart Latimer comes from a landed family in Warwickshire, I’m told. His young bride is so pretty, isn’t she? There’s such a bloom on her. This is the first time they’ve been coaxed into the dining saloon. Shyness, I expect. Being on honeymoon makes you so self-conscious. It did in my case, anyway.” She gave a breathy laugh. “But they seem to be getting on well with everybody. There’s nothing quite so romantic as a society wedding. When I look at someone like Anna Latimer, I see Violet in a year or two’s time.”
“That only leaves our barrister.”
“My husband collected him this morning when he went for a stroll on the promenade deck. Geoffrey Unsworth and he got into conversation. My husband took to him. That so rarely happens.”
“Does it?” said Dillman, keeping sarcasm out of his voice.
The rural dean suddenly took control of the conversation and adopted his pulpit manner as he described an unfortunate incident with a warming pan during his own honeymoon. The memoir stayed well within the bounds of decency but it still brought a blush from his wife. While the clergyman held the rest of them in thrall, Dillman surveyed the room with more than usual curiosity. His gaze went first to Genevieve Masefield, seated at the captain’s table between Lord Carradine and Itzak Weiss, clearly entrancing the aristocrat and the violinist simultaneously and making the other ladies in the group fade into invisibility. Dillman noted how much Genevieve was enjoying her position as cynosure.
Her erstwhile companions, the Hubermanns, were at a nearby table so top-heavy with elderly diners that it made Carlotta Hubermann seem relatively young. Dillman searched for Cyril and Ada Weekes and eventually spotted them among the potted palms, sharing a table with, among others, the Erskines. Not far away, at another table, was Edward Collins, looking supremely distinguished in his evening dress and chatting affably to his neighbor. Dillman was certain that another poker game would later reunite the card-playing fraternity and he reminded himself to look in on it when it was fully established.
There were dozens of other passengers whom Dillman recognized but the one on whom his eye finally settled was Ellen Tolley. Even though she was on the far side of the room, he could see enough of her to be impressed once again by the winning simplicity of her beauty. She wore little makeup, no jewelry, and had felt no need of a visit to the hairdressing salon in order to prepare herself for dinner. She was dressed in a plain but well-cut gown made of a cream-colored material that caught the lights and gave off a muted glow. Dillman surmised that her figure needed none of the corsetry so vital to most of the women present as they sought to reduce bulging midriffs into a fashionable slimness around the waist.
Ellen Tolley’s natural vivacity made her a lively dinner companion but her father also appeared to have come out of his shell. As Dillman watched, it was the latter who was holding forth and drawing laughter from everyone else at the table. He cut an almost dashing figure in his evening dress, looking very different from the man who had hobbled along the deck with the aid of a walking stick. There was a faintly military air about him now and Dillman wondered if his disability had been the result of a war wound. His real interest, however, was not in the father but in the daughter, and his gaze soon returned to Ellen Tolley.
To his surprise, she was now looking in his direction and their eyes locked for an instant. Ellen gave him a broad smile. Dillman answered with a grin of pleasure as he felt a bargain being sealed. There was a tacit agreement to meet later. He turned back to his dinner companions.
“Who were you smiling at?” wondered Violet Rymer.
“Oh, a friend, that’s all,” he said.
“Anyone I know?”
“No, Miss Rymer.”
“You seem to have made so many friends on board.”
“Acquaintances more than friends,” he corrected quietly, “but I do like to mingle with my fellow passengers. It’s one of the joys of travel.”
“You do it so well. I noticed that on the train.”
“Thank you.”
She became serious. “I was thinking about what you told us on that first night. Did you really leave the family business?”
“Oh, yes.”
“It must have been a big decision for you.”
“It was. I turned my back on security and tradition.”
“Was your father very upset?”
“That’s an understatement, Miss Rymer. He almost went berserk. It was what was expected of me, you see. To be the next in line as keeper of the flame. The politest things my father accused me of were desertion and betrayal. After that, his language became a little more hysterical.”
“Yet you still held out against him?”
Dillman shrugged. “It was a case of acting for myself rather than against him. It may look strange from the outside, but the truth is that I wanted to strike out on my own. To forge my own destiny. Not to have it decided in advance by inheritance.”
“You’re so brave!” she said.
“It didn’t feel like bravery at the time,” he admitted. “And I had several qualms about it, believe me. But I stuck by my decision. The fact of the matter is that it was time to outgrow my family. Be myself.”
Violet nodded solemnly, then brooded in silence. Dillman sensed that she was contemplating a break with her own parents. It was odd that she should choose a moment when they were revealing themselves to be normal human beings. Sylvia Rymer emerged from her chrysalis as an engaging social butterfly and her husband, affable to a fault, was showing a gregariousness hitherto hidden beneath his stern Victorian exterior. At a time when they were more amenable, Violet Rymer was trying to advance her own interests. Dillman hoped that she would not involve him again in her private act of rebellion.
“And what do you intend to do when you get to New York?” she asked.
“Make contact with our business associates.”
“Where will you be staying?”
“At a hotel in Manhattan. It’s all been arranged for me.”
“It must be wonderful to have minions who’ll do that sort of thing for you. My husband always took care of accommodation whenever we traveled. Now I have to arrange everything myself.”
“Well, I’m so glad that you chose to sail on the Lusitania.”
“Do you mean that, Philip?”
“Of course. Meeting you has been the highlight of this voyage.”
“Thank you.”
“No,” he said, raising his glass in tribute, “Thank you, Rosemary.”
They were sharing a table in the second-class dining saloon with eight other people but spent most of the time conversing with each other. Philip Garrow felt no guilt about befriending another woman. Rosemary Hilliard helped the time to pass in the most pleasurable way. He found it easy to impress her and was led on from one lie to another as he built up a false picture of himself for her benefit. For all her worldliness, there was a gullible streak in her and he instinctively exploited it. Violet Rymer was the person who brought him aboard in the first place but Rosemary Hilliard was the one who was turning a long voyage into a real treat.
“Do you have any plans to settle down?” she probed.
“I’m far too young for that, Rosemary.”
“So there’s no young lady on the immediate horizon?”
“None in particular,” he said dismissively.
“But plenty in general, I daresay.” She gave him a smile and spoke in a whisper. “And why not? Every young man is entitled to sow a few wild oats. I just wish that privilege had been extended in my day to young women. We were so fettered by convention.”
“I can’t imagine you being fettered by anything.”
“It’s true.”
“People should be able to do exactly what they want.”
“That’s something I’m only just learning, Philip.”
“Never too late.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am,” he said, gently squeezing her arm. “I know that I am.”
“How long will you be in New York?” she asked.
“Two or three weeks, probably. It depends.”
“On what?”
“How much there is to detain me.”
“I’ll be in Manhattan for a little while myself,” she said tentatively. “Perhaps we can get together at some point, Philip.”
“Perhaps.”
“You sound uncertain.”
“I’m not completely sure what my plans are, Rosemary.”
“If they rule me out, I won’t be offended.”
Garrow was suddenly put on the spot, being asked to make a commitment that was quite out of the question. Violet Rymer took priority and eliminated Rosemary Hilliard. Yet he was loath to discard his new friend and did not wish to hurt her feelings in any way. The relationship with Violet brought nothing but tension and frustration whereas he could be completely at ease with Rosemary. His mind was racing as he searched for a way to appease his companion without making a commitment that he knew he could not honor. Violet had to be pushed firmly to the back of his mind until the next day. A more immediate pleasure beckoned.
“Be honest,” she prodded. “You don’t wish to see me in New York.”
“That isn’t true at all.”
“Then why did you look so doubtful just now?”
“Listen,” he said, his confidence surging once more. “Why talk about New York when it’s still such a long way away? America will wait. I think you’re a marvelous woman and I’m so glad we met. And yes, maybe we will get together in Manhattan. Who knows? Fact is, Rosemary, I don’t want to look too far ahead. I’d rather take it one day at a time.” It was his turn to whisper. “One day at a time, one night at a time.”
She hesitated for a full minute, playing nostalgically with her wedding ring under the table while she did so and keeping him on tenterhooks. He could not believe he had made such a bold suggestion, but he did not regret it. When she reached a decision, Rosemary gave a little nod of approval. Philip Garrow was utterly delighted. It had all been so easy. As he sipped his Champagne once more, the thrill of conquest shot through his whole body.
Violet Rymer might have been a thousand miles away.
* * *
Dinner was an occasion of unrelieved joy for Genevieve Masefield. The meal was delicious, the company interesting, and her impact on them was undeniable. Itzak Weiss insisted on kissing her gloved hand before he retired to his cabin with his wife and Lord Carradine was now besotted with her, encouraging Genevieve to ignore his title and call him by his Christian name. The crowning moment of the dinner was when the captain invited her and a few others to join him on a tour of the bridge.
It was only when she picked up her purse that Genevieve recalled the article she had stuffed into it. Since she wanted to avoid Henry Barcroft, she cast around for a means of returning his article without actually having to meet him in person, and her eye alighted on Dillman. As she walked across the saloon in the wake of the captain, the idea that had formed became ever more appealing. Genevieve acted on it.
“Good evening, Mr. Dillman!” she said pleasantly.
“Oh, hello there, Miss Masefield.”
“I’m glad I bumped into you. I wonder if I might ask a favor?”
“By all means,” he said, spreading his hands.
Dillman had just risen from his seat with the rest of his table. A chance meeting with Genevieve was an unexpected treat. She looked even more ravishing at close quarters and was wearing that beguiling perfume. She held out some sheets of paper, folded over.
“That journalist we met this morning,” she began.
“Henry Barcroft?”
“I’m sure you’ll run into him again at some point. He seems to have a thing about you, Mr. Dillman. You’re his mystery man.” She thrust the papers into his hand. “Could you possibly give this article back to him for me, please? Tell him that I have no objection to the way he’s quoted me even though I don’t actually remember saying that. Thank you so much.”
“I’ll see that he gets it, Miss Masefield.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all.”
“To tell the truth, I’d rather not have to speak to the man again. I find him rather obnoxious.” She gave him a token smile. “Do excuse me. Captain Watt is going to take us up to the bridge.”
Dillman waved her off, then glanced at the article in his hand. He was a little peeved to be used as a messenger boy once more, but saw an immediate advantage, quite apart from incurring Genevieve’s gratitude. The article gave him an excuse to track down Barcroft and find out how the journalist had spent the evening. Though no proof of guilt had yet been found, the man was still the prime suspect concerning the theft from the chief engineer’s cabin. Dillman stowed the article away in his pocket and joined the general exodus.
The Rymers tried to shepherd everyone from their table into the lounge but the Latimers felt that their honeymoon was best continued alone and they excused themselves. The rural dean was inebriated enough to start voicing some trenchant opinions about the future of the Anglican Church, and Nairn Mackintosh countered by waving the banner of Presbyterianism at him. Their respective wives joined in the good-humored discussion and Matthew Rymer was not excluded for long. His appetite for debate sharpened by brandy, he took a delight in provoking both the rural dean and the elderly Scotsman. Sylvia and Violet Rymer were amused spectators.
Before he could take a seat beside them, Dillman felt a tug at his elbow and swung round to see the friendly face of Ellen Tolley.
“I just came over to say hello,” she began.
“I’m glad you did, Ellen. Lovely to see you.”
“What a meal!”
“The food gets better and better.”
“Did you try the gateau Mexicaine?”
“No, I opted for the petits fours.”
“You missed a treat, George.”
“I’ll remember that next time the gateau is on the menu,” he said, looking around. “But I was hoping for a chance to meet your father.”
“He’s just limped off, I’m afraid. That leg of his gives him so much pain. Daddy went off to change the dressing.”
“It’s a recent wound, then?”
“Yes,” she explained. “Daddy had an accident in England. All his own fault. He does tend to be a bit clumsy at times. But he’s a real stoic. Hates to show any discomfort in public. That’s why he’s slipped off quietly to the cabin.”
“Does that mean you’re free to join us?” he invited.
“No, thanks, George. Not this evening. I’m very tired. If I sit down, I’ll probably go straight off to sleep.” Her tone became confidential. “Made a pig of myself in the dining saloon and rich food always makes me feel drowsy.” She touched his arm. “Go back to your friends.”
“Unless you need a pathfinder again.”
“What?” She laughed. “Oh, last night. No, I think I’ve mastered the way back to the cabin now. Just about.”
“If you get lost, send up a distress flare and I’ll come running.”
“I bet you would at that!”
“I’m always ready to help a lady.”
“You’re a sweet guy,” she said fondly. “See you around, George.”
Ellen touched his arm again and gave him a farewell grin. Dillman watched until she was out of sight. He then realized that Violet Rymer was standing beside him.
“That was she, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“Who?”
“The person you were looking at during dinner. Who is she?”
“A friend.”
“She seemed to be more than that, Mr. Dillman.”
“I’m afraid that you’re jumping to conclusions, Miss Rymer. We only met yesterday. And that was only for a matter of minutes.”
“But you’re both Americans!” said Violet as if it were conclusive proof of a deep relationship. “I just caught that drawl in her accent.”
Dillman was amused. “Believe it or not, we Americans are just as conservative as you when it comes to certain social conventions. The young lady is a friend and I was pleased to see her. But that’s where the story ends. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m sorry on your behalf, Mr. Dillman. I sort of hoped that—”
“Forget about me,” he said firmly, cutting her off. “All you need to think about is yourself, Miss Rymer. My advice is that you should have an early night. There’s an important day ahead of you tomorrow.”
She trembled visibly. “I know! I can’t wait!”
Second thoughts had set in well before the end of the meal, but they did not find expression until she was walking along the corridor with him. Rosemary Hilliard came to an abrupt halt then waited for another couple to go past before she spoke.
“I’m not at all sure about this, Philip,” she said uneasily.
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know that I should be going into a man’s cabin.”
“We can go to your cabin, if you prefer.”
“That’s not the answer.”
“Then what is?” he said, starting to get cold feet himself. “All we need do is to have a drink together and chat. Get to know each other a little better. I thought that’s what you wanted to do.”
“It is.”
“Then why hold back now?”
“I don’t know.”
There was a long pause during which Philip Garrow’s own doubts began to make themselves felt. He foresaw complications. His readiness to betray Violet had surprised him and he did not feel the slightest twinge of guilt but had agreed to meet her in the very cabin into which he was trying to entice Rosemary Hilliard. Whatever happened, the two women had to be kept far apart. If he took Rosemary into his cabin, he would be taking a dangerous step, setting up expectations that might rebound on him. What if she called on him when he was alone in the cabin with Violet? The very thought of it made him shudder.
“Are you cold?” asked Rosemary, seeing him shake.
“A little.”
“So am I, Philip. I should have brought a wrap.”
“Shall we go to your cabin to fetch one?” he suggested, seeing a way to shift the location from his own territory. “Where exactly is it?”
“Never you mind!” she teased.
“Is it a state secret?”
“As far as you’re concerned, yes.”
“Is it an inside cabin?”
“Mind your own business, Mr. Garrow,” she said playfully.
“I’ve got a porthole in mine. I can see the ocean through it.”
“I’ve seen enough ocean to last me a lifetime. There’s a limit to the amount of pleasure you can get simply from watching waves.”
“Much more fun to create your own waves,” he said with more bravado than he felt. “What would you like to do, Rosemary?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’ve come this far. Why turn back?”
“Instinct, I suppose.”
“About me?”
“Oh, no, Philip. About me. I don’t think I’m quite ready for this yet.”
Garrow saw the hesitation in her face. At the same time, he sensed that it would not take much persuasion to dispel her fears. All that she wanted was reassurance and flattery. If he made the effort, he was sure that the words would trip off his tongue as easily as they had done so far. But his own reservations were gaining in strength. He looked down the corridor toward his cabin and turned back to Rosemary. Potential problems loomed ahead larger than ever. He became tongue-tied.
“I’ve never done this sort of thing before,” she confessed quietly. “To tell you the truth, I’ve rather shocked myself. That’s not meant as a criticism of you, Philip,” she added quickly. “I don’t blame you in any way. I’m old enough to take responsibility for my own actions. But the truth is that I’ve never looked at a man since my husband died, let alone spoken to one in the way that you and I have spoken. It’s all happened so fast. That frightens me. On the other hand,” she continued, brushing her hair back from her face, “I don’t want to let you down. I’d hate you to think of me as a … well, as a woman who leads men on, because I’m not like that at all. And, as you say, having come this far …” She took a deep breath. “Tell me what to do, Philip. I’ll leave the decision to you.”
Philip Garrow was caught on the horns of a dilemma. Before he could extricate himself, someone came along the corridor and walked between them, forcing them to step guiltily apart. It was Albert. As he passed Garrow, the steward shot him a look that made him squirm with embarrassment. It robbed him of the last few shards of his confidence.
“Well?” asked Rosemary. “What are we going to do?”
“Go up on deck for a walk,” he said. “I need some fresh air.”
“Six longcloth nightdresses trimmed and embroidered with tucks, four silk chemises with trimmed edging and four with insertion tucks, six slipped bodices with trimmed edging, six flannel petticoats embroidered with silk, two silk petticoats, two plain skirts, one pair of white corsets, three evening gowns, two fancy underskirts, one twill dressing gown ...”
Janet Palgrave’s memory was phenomenal. Allowed a privileged glimpse at Anna Latimer’s bridal trousseau, the rural dean’s wife had memorized each item and was retailing them in turn to Sylvia Rymer and her daughter. Without wanting to, Dillman also heard the droning recital while trying at the same time to contribute to a debate among the men about salmon fishing. There were limits even to his civility and Dillman felt that they might be reached if he remained trapped in the lounge indefinitely with the Rymer party. Issuing thanks and apologies, he rose from his chair and moved away in time to escape the Palgrave litany about knickers, handkerchiefs, and black hose. At that point in the evening, he suspected, the bride was probably dispensing with every item in her trousseau.
Retreating to the smoking room, he found two games of cards in progress. Edward Collins had found new victims for his nimble fingers. Cyril Weekes and Jeremiah Erskine were at a separate table with four other men, both faring better without the professional skills of Collins to hamper them. Weekes peered at his cards through his pince-nez as if puzzling over a conundrum. Erskine, by contrast, glared fiercely at his hand, breathing heavily through his nose as if working up his anger for a charge across the room. Dillman watched them for a while until the cigar smoke became too troublesome. As soon as he left, he was confronted by Charles Halliday. The purser gave him a nod of recognition and drew him behind some potted palms so that they could talk in private.
“Well met, Mr. Dillman!”
“Were you looking for me, Mr. Halliday?”
“Not especially,” said the other, “but now that I’ve bumped into you, I might be able to use your help. Before I do that, of course, I’d like to hear how your inquiries have been going.”
“Slowly,” admitted the other.
“No glimmer of light in the darkness yet?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What have you found out?”
Dillman described his research among the other journalists and his visit to the wireless room. He also mentioned his surveillance of Edward Collins, who was winning too consistently to be relying entirely on luck but who somehow convinced his playing partners that he was a relative novice at the poker table.
“Anyone losing a large amount of money to him?” said Halliday.
“Not yet. He’s too cunning for that.”
“Taking a bit from here and a bit from there.”
“He won’t make a real killing until the last night on board,” guessed Dillman. “Otherwise, he’ll scare everyone off. What would you like me to do, Mr. Halliday? Spread the warning?”
“No, just keep a friendly eye on him. If he cheats, of course, that’s another matter. We simply can’t have that sort of thing on board.”
“Collins doesn’t need to cheat. He outplays the rest of them with ease. He was collecting IOUs from three of them when I left.” Dillman gave a sigh. “Lambs to the slaughter. But you said a minute ago that you might be able to use my help.”
“That’s right. More complaints have been coming in.”
“Henry Barcroft again?”
“How did you guess?”
“He’s managing to upset almost everybody.”
“Barcroft really went too far this time,” said the purser. “Apparently, he cornered Itzak Weiss and his wife on deck today. They thought they were just exchanging a few pleasant words with a fellow passenger. Mr. Weiss was mortified when Barcroft had the gall to go to his cabin later to show him the text of an article he’d written. ‘Music on the Lucy’, I think it was called, or something equally abhorrent to Mr. Weiss. He’s notorious for not giving interviews. You can imagine what his reaction was.”
“Did he slam the cabin door in Barcroft’s face?”
“He’s far too civilized to do that. He came to me instead. I was in the middle of another chat with Fergus Rourke so it wasn’t the best time to hear a complaint from Itzak Weiss. It would be such a pleasant change if someone actually brought me good news for once instead of endless protests and whinges.”
“I’ll bring you good news soon,” vowed Dillman.
“Can I hold you to that?”
“It’s only a question of time, Mr. Halliday.”
“Coming back to Barcroft …”
“Have you rapped him over the knuckles yet?”
“I was going to but he’s been a bit elusive this evening. Besides, I’m not quite sure that I’m the ideal person to wag a finger at him. It makes it too official and that might be used against us. Journalists always have more ink than we do. I can’t have him traducing Cunard in print to get his own back because a purser gave him a roasting.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“You can have a word with him.”
“In what capacity? I don’t want to lose my cover.”
“You won’t have to, Mr. Dillman. Make it sound casual. Say that you met Itzak Weiss in the dining saloon and heard him complaining about an inquisitive British journalist. Give Barcroft a friendly warning,” he urged. “A nod is as good as a wink.”
“Not where Henry Barcroft is concerned.”
“I just think it might be better coming from you. After all, you know the rogue. You can get in under his guard.”
Dillman thought it over. “Very well, sir. If that’s what you want.” He checked his watch. “It’s not too late to find him now. My guess is that Barcroft will be in the lounge bar, crowing over the other journalists. I might just take a stroll along there.”
“Do that. And thanks.”
“As it happens, I have another reason to see him,” said Dillman, patting the pocket containing the article. “I can kill two birds with one stone. I’ll report back to you first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll be there. As for that good news you promised …”
“Be patient, Mr. Halliday.”
“Make it sooner rather than later, old chap. It’s no fun having the chief engineer breathing fire down my neck. Anyone would think that I stole those things from his cabin.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Dillman nodded a farewell, then headed for the second-class lounge. It was still quite full, but there was no sign of Henry Barcroft. Other members of the press were enjoying complimentary drinks from the bar, but none of them could tell him where their colleague was. Barcroft had left the second-class dining saloon fairly early and had not been seen since. Someone suggested that he might be unwell and that produced a spontaneous cheer from the others.
A tour of the other public rooms yielded nothing, so Dillman began to explore the various decks, working upward until he reached the boat deck. A blustery wind was raking the ship and making the tarpaulins flap on the lifeboats. Only a couple of people braved the elements and they were swaddled in greatcoats, hats, and scarves. Dillman gave a shiver and went below again, venturing this time into the third-class areas and feeling rather conspicuous in his evening dress. Those who lolled on wooden benches in the public rooms looked up with a mixture of curiosity and resentment. Once again the search was fruitless.
Only one possibility now remained. Dillman consulted his watch again and saw that it was getting late, but he could not believe that the journalist would have gone to bed. The likelihood was that the man was in his cabin, drafting one of his articles, pulling together comments gleaned from the dozens of interviews he had done among passengers and crew. The press had been assigned to a block of cabins in second class but Dillman did not have to guess which one belonged to Barcroft. When he took out the article given to him by Genevieve Masefield, he saw that the number of the cabin was written in large numerals at the top of the first sheet. That was obviously for her benefit. He was not surprised that Genevieve had felt able to resist the covert invitation.
The cabin was on the shelter deck at the end of a long corridor. Dillman moved silently over the thick carpet and glanced at the series of nautical paintings adorning the walls. Though it lacked the unstinting luxury of first class, there was still an appreciable degree of comfort and taste. Dillman reached the door, then paused to rehearse what he would say. It was not only Itzak Weiss who found the journalist so objectionable. Genevieve Masefield’s complaint could also be passed on and that would probably carry more weight even than the protests of a celebrated violinist. All Barcroft wanted from the latter was an unauthorized interview. Having seen them together, Dillman sensed that he had more serious designs on Genevieve.
He tapped on the door and waited. No sound came from within. He knocked again with more force but there was still no response. Dillman was about to move away when it occurred to him to try the door. It was unlocked. He opened it cautiously and peered into the darkness.
“Mr. Barcroft?” he called. “Are you there?”
There was no answer yet he had a strong feeling that someone was in the cabin. Light from the corridor was spilling into the room, enabling him to see the ornate pattern on the carpet. Dillman stiffened. He saw a figure in shadowy outline. An ugly stain disfigured the carpet. Reaching for the switch, he turned on the light. The cabin was, after all, occupied by the guest assigned to it, but he would not be able to enjoy its facilities again. Henry Barcroft lay facedown on the floor with a gaping wound in the back of his head. Blood had seeped onto the carpet. It took Dillman a matter of seconds to establish that the journalist was dead.