George Porter Dillman was troubled by the speed of events. Having been given so little in the way of evidence, he now felt that he had far too much and it was causing confusion. In that confusion, he decided, he had missed something crucial. It was time to go back to the crime that set all the others in motion. Lying in his bath, he reflected on the motives that might have led Henry Barcroft to steal the technical diagrams from the chief engineer’s cabin. Was it simply a case of the obsessive curiosity of a journalist or were there more sinister implications? Could the theft be connected in some way with the publisher’s letter in Barcroft’s wallet? The more Dillman thought about it, the more convinced he became that a vital clue had eluded him and it might be lying a few mere yards away.
Clambering out of the bath, he dried himself with a towel and pulled on a dressing gown. In a drawer in his cabin was an envelope containing the journalist’s effects. He took out the wallet and spread its contents on his desk. Money, a photograph, a membership card of a London club, the enigmatic letter, and a series of visiting cards with Barcroft’s name and address printed in black type. The young woman in the photograph was beautiful, standing in a garden and smiling happily at the camera. Was it Barcroft’s wife? Mistress? Or some stray conquest? The fact that he carried the photograph suggested its importance. And whoever the young woman was, she would be shattered by the news that Henry Barcroft had been murdered in a particularly gruesome way.
That raised the question of next of kin. They were entitled to be informed of his death, yet that would break the blanket of silence in which the dead body was wrapped. The easiest way to identify and make contact with Barcroft’s family was to send a wireless to the Times, one of his known employers, but that would lead to the most adverse publicity for the Lusitania and, eventually, have every journalist aboard hampering the murder inquiry as they competed for the inside story. For the time being, Henry Barcroft had to be kept alive in the minds of his family, friends, and colleagues.
It was when Dillman picked up the visiting cards that he made a new discovery. There were a dozen in all and he had assumed that they all bore the journalist’s name and his address in Chelsea. Yet when he sifted idly through them, he saw that there were a number of business cards in the pile, obviously collected from passengers aboard the ship. One came from Lord Carradine, a second from Robert Balfour, MP, a third from a member of the Christian Science delegation. Four other business cards had been kept in the wallet and it was the last one that interested Dillman the most. It was from Jeremiah Erskine, whose business address was in the City. When Dillman turned the card over, however, he saw that the address of a Manhattan hotel had been written on the back. Had the journalist arranged to make contact with Erskine in New York?
A pounding on the door forced him to suspend his meditations. Fearing that it would be the purser with more dire news, he moved swiftly to open the door and found himself staring instead at the bulky frame of the chief engineer. Fergus Rourke had no time for civilities.
“We need to speak,” he said, brushing Dillman aside and stepping into the cabin. “Maybe you can give me some straight answers.”
Dillman shut the door. “About what, Mr. Rourke?”
“These,” explained the other, holding up the brown envelope in which the stolen diagrams had been found. “Where did you get this?”
“Didn’t Mr. Halliday tell you?”
“All I heard from Charlie was some cock-and-bull story about a linen cupboard in a storeroom.”
“That’s more or less right,” said Dillman, calm and impassive.
“Can’t anyone around here tell me the truth?”
“We carried out a methodical search, Mr. Rourke, and the envelope eventually turned up.”
“Just waiting to be found, eh? How very convenient!”
“There was a bit of luck involved, I must admit.”
“More than luck, Mr. Dillman.” He waved the envelope. “Looking for something this small in a ship this size! It’s not just a case of searching for a needle in a haystack but for a needle in a hundred haystacks. A thousand, a million. The whole of British bloody agriculture!”
“There’s no need to bellow.”
“As long as you take my point.”
“I do, Mr. Rourke, but I can’t add anything to what the purser told you. Not at this stage, anyway. I’m just grateful we were able to return your property to you.”
“So was I—at first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you see what was inside this envelope?”
“Of course. The missing diagrams.”
“All safely back where they belong,” said the other, taking them out and unfolding each one to lay them on the desk. “I was so pleased to get them that I didn’t notice the difference.”
“What difference?”
“These little holes, Mr. Dillman. Look.”
A huge finger jabbed at the four corners of each diagram. Every corner was punctuated by a tiny hole. Inside the envelope, the diagrams had been folded over. Dillman saw that the holes could not have been caused by the drawing pins used to secure the envelope beneath Henry Barcroft’s desk. Only one conclusion could be drawn.
“Someone pinned these up in order to copy them!” said Rourke.
“That’s what it looks like.”
“I’d put my life on it. See what it means?”
“Yes, Mr. Rourke.”
“We’ve got a spy aboard. He’s taken copies of the diagrams, then allowed the originals to be found again so that we’ll call off the chase.” The chief engineer was fuming. “I still think that journalist is at the bottom of this. The nosy one, Barcroft! He’s probably got copies of these stashed away somewhere. Challenge the bastard! Search his cabin.”
“We already have.”
Rourke was checked. “Oh! When?”
“When you first reported the theft.”
“Search it again.”
“There’s no point.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’ve eliminated him from our inquiries.”
“He’s not involved, then?” said Rourke with disappointment.
“There’s nothing Mr. Barcroft can tell us, I promise you.”
“Then who can?”
“We don’t know yet, Mr. Rourke. But I’m very grateful to you for bringing this to my attention. I think you’re right. Copies of these diagrams may well be in existence.”
“Somebody pinned them up and drew exact copies.”
“Don’t put your life on it,” advised the other.
“Why not?”
“There’s a quicker way.”
“Quicker?”
“They may have been photographed instead.”
Dillman thought about a book he had seen earlier in the lounge.
* * *
When the party reached the dining saloon, Genevieve Masefield excused herself so that she could visit the ladies’ room to check her appearance and have a moment alone to gather her thoughts. Though she would not be at the captain’s table, she would be sitting beside Lord Carradine again and she wanted to reflect on what he had told her over a drink in his suite. Genevieve also wanted to decide whether his interest in her was serious or temporary. His manner toward her was markedly more confidential and he kept asking where she would be staying in New York. Seated beside him again, she might be able to move the relationship along that much further.
She was powdering her nose when a face appeared in the mirror.
“Hello,” said Ellen Tolley. “Miss Masefield, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Ellen Tolley. No need to tell you which side of the Atlantic I live on, is there? Mind if I join you?” she said, lowering herself on to the velvet-topped stool beside Genevieve. “I need a few repairs before I put myself back on show again. No fun being a woman, is it?”
“I wouldn’t have thought any repairs were necessary,” said Genevieve, noting how little makeup her companion wore. “Could I ask how you happen to know my name?”
“Everybody in that saloon knows it, Miss Masefield. One way or another, you’ve created quite a stir, but I don’t need to tell you that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on,” said Ellen, brushing her hair. “You know how gorgeous you are and you make the most of it. Why not? I’d do the same in your position. Whenever you come into a room, every man under the age of ninety gets a crick in his neck.” She laughed. “My father’s one of them. Can’t take his eyes off you.”
“Your father?”
“Don’t worry. You're safe from him. He’s one of the walking wounded. Besides, you’ve got someone a lot more appealing than my father to dance attendance on you. Your beau with the monocle.”
“Lord Carradine.”
“A real English blue blood, eh?”
“The genuine article.”
“Even I could tell that.” Putting the brush into her purse, she turned to Genevieve. “But that isn’t the reason I followed you in here. Look, Miss Masefield, can I ask you a personal question?”
Genevieve smiled. “Is there any way I can stop you?”
“Probably not.”
“Ask away, then.”
“Since you and the aristocracy seem to be getting along so well, does that mean Mr. Dillman is free and available?”
“Mr. Dillman?”
“You must remember him. You and he had breakfast together.”
“I didn’t realize I was being watched,” said Genevieve, bridling slightly. “What exactly is your interest in Mr. Dillman?”
“That depends on you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, come on, Miss Masefield. We're two of a kind. Sisters under the skin. What nicer way is there to brighten up a voyage than by enjoying a little dalliance?” She grinned amiably. “Except that I’m not stupid enough to compete with you. I mean, what English lord would look twice at some nobody from the murky depths of New Jersey? Besides,” she added, “Lord Carradine is not my type, but George Porter Dillman most definitely is. I just wanted to make sure that I wasn’t treading on your toes, that’s all.”
“You certainly aren’t, Miss Tolley.”
“Ellen, please.”
“The field is clear, Ellen.”
“You’re a pal!”
“I’m not sure about that,” said Genevieve, warming to her but still having reservations. “And I’d dispute that we’re two of a kind. It seems to me that you’re quite unique. I’ve never met anyone so direct.”
“Daddy is always warning me about it.”
“It doesn’t seem to have made any difference.”
“Of course not,” said Ellen with a conspiratorial giggle. “Where would any of us girls get if we listened to our fathers?”
As soon as he walked into the room, Dillman realized that word of the thefts had got out. Ada Weekes accosted him to pass on the rumor before intercepting the Rymers to tell them as well. Dillman was glad that only the loss of a purse, a French Empire clock, and a few other items were mentioned. Acting on his advice and in response to the earnest plea from Charles Halliday, the other victim had agreed to keep silent for the time being. Itzak Weiss did not broadcast news of the missing violin. He and his wife were so mortified that they had locked themselves away in their cabin and were taking it in turns to console each other. Dillman was relieved. Minor thefts were almost inevitable on a voyage and would cause no more than a flutter of anxiety among the other passengers. The loss of a Stradivarius was quite another matter. It would make headlines in every way.
“Hello, Mr. Dillman,” said a voice at his elbow.
“Good evening, Miss Rymer.”
She was standing too close to her parents to risk anything more than a few passing remarks but her face was eloquent. Dillman knew that she had kept her tryst that afternoon but he now saw that it may not have delivered all that Violet Rymer hoped. She was tense and preoccupied as if caught in the grip of ambivalence. Matthew Rymer, by contrast, was in unusually high spirits again and gave Dillman a cordial greeting before ushering his wife and daughter to their table, where they settled down with a group of friends including Nairn Mackintosh and the Latimers.
Dillman had accepted an invitation to join Cyril and Ada Weekes again. On his way to their table, he encountered someone he had already seen a number of times on the voyage. Using his walking stick, Ellen Tolley’s father was moving slowly across the room. When he saw Dillman behind him, he stepped aside to wave him on.
“You go on ahead, sir,” he suggested. “I’d hate to hold you up.”
“Mr. Tolley, isn’t it?” said Dillman.
“That’s right.
“George Porter Dillman.”
“Ah!” said the other, face brightening. “That’s a name I’ve heard before. My daughter keeps mentioning it.” They exchanged a firm handshake. “Pleased to meet you, young man. I’m Caleb Tolley.”
“Are you enjoying the voyage, sir?”
“Very much. Though I’d enjoy it far more if I was mobile. This bad leg of mine is proving a real handicap.”
“You daughter said that you had an accident.”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman. Just before we left England. Damn nuisance. Ellen tell you how it happened?”
“No, Mr. Tolley.”
“We went riding one afternoon and I got the horse with a grudge against humanity. Crazy animal bolted on me. Charged into some trees,” He patted his thigh. “Got this from an old English oak. The horse scraped me against it so hard that it opened up a gash. My riding breeches were soaked with blood.”
“Ellen said that you had to keep dressing the wound.”
“The knee is the real problem. Doctor thinks I’ll need an operation when I get back. Something to do with cartilages.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But you don’t want to hear all that stuff. Water under the bridge. I’ll live. Say, look, why don’t you join Ellen and me for a drink later on? Do you have any plans?”
“Yes and no.”
“The offer stays on the table.”
“If I get the chance, I’ll be glad to take it up, Mr. Tolley. Thanks.”
“Hope to see you later, then. I’m glad I’ve put your name to your face at last.” He stepped back as a group of people went past. “We’re holding up the traffic here. Off you go, Mr. Dillman.”
“Right.”
“We must look like the tortoise and the hare.”
Caleb Tolley gave a ripe chuckle and limped slowly away. Dillman was pleased to have met him at last. He was an interesting man with a face full of character and a deep, melodious voice. He was impeccably dressed and had an air of quiet prosperity. There was none of Ellen’s exuberance about him but that might be explained by the injury. A drink with the two of them might give Dillman a brief interval of pleasure. For the rest, he was very much on duty.
When he got to his table, he was given three different versions of the thefts and saw once again the insidious nature of rumor. Doing his best to play down the crimes, he joined in the small talk while letting his gaze traverse the whole room. Dillman knew nobody else at the table apart from Cyril and Ada Weekes. For two people with typical English reserve, they had a remarkable ability for widening the circle of their acquaintances. Dillman was sorry that the Erskines were not there but, when the opportunity arose, he brought them into the conversation.
“I don’t see Mr. and Mrs. Erskine here,” he said to Cyril Weekes.
“They’re dining in a private suite this evening.”
“I see.”
“Erskine is still licking his wounds over last night.”
“How heavily did he lose at cards?”
“Oh, I don’t think it was the money that worried him,” said Weekes, spearing a potato with his fork. “He could afford to lose ten times that every night for a year. No, what upset Jeremiah Erskine was that he played so recklessly. He’s a businessman. Used to winning every time, whatever the stakes. He can’t cope with the idea that others have more skill at the poker table.”
“More skill and more luck.”
“They go together, Mr. Dillman.”
“What exactly does he do?”
“Erskine? Just about everything. Imports this, exports that, buys and sells whatever he chooses, by the sound of it. He seems to have a finger in several pies. Certainly moves among the rich and famous.”
“Does he?”
“Yes, he was boasting about the fact that he’ll be dining with Mr. Morgan when he gets to New York.”
Dillman was impressed. “J. P. Morgan?”
“John Pierpont, of that name. Even I’ve heard of him.”
“They don’t come any richer than J. P. Morgan.”
“I know that,” said Weekes, popping the potato into his mouth and chewing. “I teased Erskine about him.”
“Teased him?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman. I warned him that I’d let out his dirty secret. Sailing on the Lusitania. The Cunard Line is about the only one that isn’t owned, at least in part, by J. P. Morgan. How would he feel if he knew that Erskine didn’t sail on one of his steamers?”
Dillman said nothing but he found the comment intriguing. The conversation turned to the subject of royalty and it was some time before Cyril Weekes was free for a more private exchange. Dillman picked at his sorbet and leaned in close to him.
“I understand that Mr. Erskine was at the concert this afternoon.”
“Only for the second half, according to Ada.”
“Didn’t you see him arrive?” asked Dillman. “Mrs. Weekes said that you were there yourself.”
“I was but I sneaked out at the interval.”
“Oh?”
“In effect, Erskine and I changed places.”
“Weren’t you enjoying the music?”
“Very much, old chap. But I had something on my mind.” He made sure that his wife was not listening. “I told Ada that I had an upset tummy but the person who got me out of there was Catullus.”
“Catullus?”
“Remember that competition I mentioned on the train? The one that involved a Shakespearean sonnet?”
“Yes. 'When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes.’ Right?”
“Well remembered, sir. The truth is that I’m something of a dab hand at Latin elegiacs so I’ve been working on my own version. Not to send in to the Westminster Gazette, mark you. Just to keep my hand in.”
“I knew that you’re a scholar, Mr. Weekes.”
“I was.” The other sighed. “One loses so much with the passage of time. When I left Oxford, I taught Classics for some years at a public school. In our country, public schools are actually private schools. Don’t ask me to explain the idiosyncrasies of the English language or I’ll be here all night. Anyway, that was my first job. It was also where I met Ada. Her father was the headmaster.” His eyes twinkled. “But that’s another story and, besides, the poor chap is dead.”
“I thought you said that you were in business, Mr. Weekes?”
“Yes, I was. When I retired from the groves of academe.”
“What sort of business?”
“The only sort that appealed to a person who prefers to live in the past rather than the present. I became an antiques dealer. As I’m sure you noticed, England is one huge antique shop, so one is never short of things to sell. I did specialize, of course.”
“In what?”
“Clocks and musical instruments.”
Dillman masked his surprise between a smile of interest.
“Oh, I meant to ask you,” continued Weekes quietly. “How well have you got to know the Rymers?”
“Not well at all, I’m afraid. Why?”
“That tomfoolery I quoted from the Westminster Gazette.”
“How a young man induces his fiancée to break an engagement?”
“You have got a memory, Mr. Dillman!”
“It amused me.”
“But it didn’t amuse the Rymers, did it?” said Weekes. “I wonder if I stumbled on something when I read that piece out. Broken engagement, what? Is that why Violet Rymer looks so desperately unhappy? And why her parents watch her so carefully?” He nudged Dillman. “There’s a young man in the story somewhere. I’d bet on it. What do you think?”
* * *
Philip Garrow was in a rueful mood. As he sat in the corner of the second-class lounge, he nursed a drink and reviewed the events of the afternoon with considerable misgivings. Violet Rymer had actually been alone with him in his cabin yet none of the expected intimacies took place. Instead of advancing their relationship, their meeting had set it back slightly and he could not fully understand why. She had changed. When he first met Violet in an art gallery, he had been struck by her aura of innocence. It had made it difficult to strike up a conversation with her because she immediately went on the defensive. Garrow had been extremely patient. It took three separate meetings to talk his way past her guard. Once that was done, he encountered no further resistance. Until now.
What had changed her attitude toward him? She still loved him but her love was no longer so endearingly uncritical. Violet had raised doubts, expressed fears, put up barriers. The money had done the real damage and he cursed himself for being stupid enough to mention it to her. It would have been much easier to tell her one more lie, to say that he had inherited the money from a relative or earned it in some way. To admit that he had been bought off by her father had been a gross tactical error. In her eyes, the money was tainted. It upset her that Garrow drew so much satisfaction from being able to use it against her parents. What thrilled him had only appalled her.
Draining his glass, he sought for some positives. Violet had, after all, come to him. She had agreed to see him again the next day, albeit under different circumstances. Their relationship was solid enough to overcome the temporary setback. Garrow’s mistake was in looking at their reunion from his point of view. He expected to appear before her once again as her savior, a knight in shining armor who had come to rescue his fair damsel in distress. But his new suit was rather tarnished armor and the fair damsel had no wish to be saved in the way he had envisaged. Instead of thinking of his own gratification, he should have to tried to put himself in her position.
Violet Rymer was a shy, nervous, immature young woman who had been through a domestic crisis. Having met her parents, Garrow knew the kinds of severe pressures they could exert on their daughter. Violet’s suffering had been exacerbated by the fact that she thought she had lost her lover altogether. It was unrealistic to expect her to move from despair to ecstasy in one great leap. Garrow conceded that freely. He was to blame. He had tried to take far more from her than she was yet ready to give and that had damaged the trust between them. It would need careful rebuilding in the few days that remained.
His confession about the money had shaken her but it had also had one good effect. It deepened her resentment of her father. Garrow could see the disgust in her eyes. She would never look at either of her parents in quite the same way again. The more she hated them, the more she would turn to him. All he had to do was bide his time and refrain from any more false moves. The future was still bright for him. The mistakes and misjudgments of the afternoon could be retrieved.
“Hello, stranger,” said a gentle voice.
He looked up. “Rosemary!”
“I didn’t see you in the dining saloon.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Pity. You missed another excellent meal.” She regarded him closely. “Are you sure that you’re all right, Philip?”
“Fine, fine,” he said, rising to his feet.
“You were brooding on something when I came in.”
“Was I?”
“Her name didn’t happen to be Rosemary Hilliard, did it?”
He rallied at once. “Why? Would you object?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then I won’t come clean.”
“Not even if I buy you a drink?”
Her manner was pleasant but still a trifle guarded. On the other hand, it was she who had sought him out. Rosemary was offering an olive branch and he reached out to take it.
“Be my guest,” he offered.
“I asked you first, Philip. What would you like?”
“Another glass of whiskey, please.”
“What kind?”
“The only kind. Irish whiskey.”
Once again, a meal in the first-class dining saloon had been an educative experience for Dillman. What he had learned about Jeremiah Erskine had only deepened his suspicions, but he had begun to have doubts about Cyril Weekes as well. The man’s proficiency at the card table sat uneasily beside his declared passion for Latin elegiacs. One thing was now certain. There was an antiques dealer aboard who would know the exact price of a French Empire clock and the approximate value of a Stradivarius. By a strange coincidence, that expert walked out of a music concert that he claimed he was enjoying and was absent during the time when both objects were stolen. Dillman wondered if Catullus had really exercised that much attraction for his companion. Weekes was a deep man.
He was also alert and attentive. His comments on the Rymers had been very apt though Dillman did not tell him that, preferring instead to adopt a neutral stance on the subject. When he looked at the Rymer table now, he saw that Violet Rymer was almost as uncomfortable as she had been on the first night. While her father was in a humorous vein and her mother was reveling in the social niceties, Violet sat bolt upright and wrestled with her thoughts.
Genevieve Masefield had no inner torments to spoil her meal. Throughout the evening, Dillman had noticed how happy and relaxed she was, mixing easily with the titled dinner guests who surrounded Lord Carradine and charming her host once again. When he gazed over at her table, he saw that she was in fact watching him this time with an intensity she had never shown before. For a second, he was oddly disconcerted.
When the meal was over, Dillman wanted to slip away to speak to the purser but Ellen Tolley descended on him and took him by the arm. She insisted that he join them in the lounge for a drink and he gave way under her persuasion. The three of them reclined in chairs, Caleb Tolley using a footstool on which to rest his leg. Ellen was bursting with gossip and her father seemed content to let her hog the conversation.
“I don’t believe her,” she said.
“Who?” asked Dillman.
“Your admirer. Miss Genevieve Masefield.”
“I wouldn’t call her an admirer.”
“You didn’t see how often she glanced across at you during the meal. That was more than curiosity, believe me. You fascinate her, George. I think she’s fallen for your Bostonian sophistication.”
Dillman grinned. “I didn’t know that I had any, Ellen. In any case, Miss Masefield is rather more interested in the sophistication of the English aristocracy. My charm can’t compete with that. Whenever I looked at her, she was absorbed in a conversation with Lord Carradine.”
“That’s a smoke screen. She’s only toying with him.”
“I don’t know that I'd agree with you there, Ellen,” said Caleb Tolley. “And I don’t think you should embarrass Mr. Dillman by raising this subject in the first place. I invited him to a drink, not to listen to an analysis of his private life. Now, you behave yourself, young lady.”
“George doesn’t mind, do you, George?”
“Not at all.”
“There!”
“Back off, Ellen,” warned the older man.
“But I haven’t told him what Genevieve said.”
“Mr. Dillman doesn’t want to hear it.”
“Every man wants to hear praise of himself.” She beamed at Dillman and gabbled the information before she could be stopped. “We were in the ladies’ room together and I asked her if she had serious intentions with regard to you because, if she didn’t, well, it meant that you were sort of available, whereas if she did, there’d be no point in nursing vain hopes because nobody would stand an earthly chance against her. And Genevieve denied—”
“That’s enough!” interrupted her father.
“—that she was interested in you,” continued Ellen unchecked. “But I think she was lying. I know admiration when I see it. That lady was all but drooling over you, George.”
“English ladies don’t drool,” said Caleb Tolley, quelling her with a look, “and we’re drawing a line under this topic. I’m sorry, Mr. Dillman,” he said, turning to him, “but Ellen gets a little excited at times. She’s always been rather headstrong. As I’m sure you've noticed.”
Dillman gave her a forgiving smile but made no comment.
Tolley appraised him. “What’s your line, Mr. Dillman?”
“I don’t exactly have one at the moment. I’m on my way home to get my future sorted. I started in the family business in Boston. We design and build luxury yachts. Somehow, I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life doing that so I opted out.”
“How did your parents feel about that?”
“If my father’d had a rope handy, he’d have lynched me. Dillmans don’t give up on the family business. They carry on the tradition.”
“You see?” said Ellen. “He’s a rebel. Just like me.”
“Nobody is just like you,” said Tolley with an indulgent smile. “Now, let Mr. Dillman finish.”
“That’s about it, really. Always wanted to visit England so I took a vacation there and managed to get on the Lusitania for the return voyage. Quite what will happen when I get home, I can’t say.”
“No chance of you going back into the family business?”
“No, Mr. Tolley. Not a hope.”
“You have to make a living somehow.”
“I’m not entirely without ideas.”
Ellen giggled. “I’ll bet you’re not.”
“But what about you, sir?” asked Dillman, reaching for his drink. “What line are you in? Ellen says that you come from New Jersey.”
Tolley nodded. “Trenton. And I can’t claim to do anything as interesting as building luxury yachts. I chose a dull profession, I fear. Dull, dutiful, but oddly lucrative.”
“And what’s that?”
“Insurance.”
When the other guests began to peel away, Genevieve Masefield knew that they were leaving Lord Carradine’s suite by prearranged signals but she pretended not to notice. Nine of them had returned there after dinner to enjoy a postprandial drink. While the men chose brandy, most of the ladies opted for hock and seltzer but none of them dallied too long. When the waiter withdrew as well, Genevieve was left alone with her host. Lord Carradine waved her to the sofa and sat beside her. He let his monocle fall from his eye and hang from its ribbon.
“I don’t really need the thing,” he confessed. “Bit of an affectation, really. I feel that it makes me look more the part.”
“What part?”
“The one out of Burke’s Peerage.”
“That’s not a part,” she’s said, “That’s the real you, Percy.”
“I wonder sometimes.”
“Nobody would mistake you for anything else.”
“Kind of you to say so.”
“Breeding always shows.”
“That’s what I think when I look at you,” he said, putting his glass down on the side table. “You really are the most bewitching creature, you know. When do I get a view of the real Genevieve Masefield?”
“You’re looking at her right now.”
“Am I?”
“Don’t you believe me?” she teased.
“I’m in a mood to believe anything you say, dear lady.”
“How sweet!”
“I’m a very sweet man when I take my monocle out.”
She let him kiss her hand and move in closer to her. Genevieve had grown fond of Lord Carradine. He allowed her to remain in control. He seemed content to let her set the pace, sedate as it had been until this point. Genevieve decided to accelerate it a little.
“Did you really mean what you said over dinner?” she asked.
“I said all sorts of wild things. I always do when I’m enjoying myself with friends. Which particular thing did you have in mind?”
“Your invitation, Percy.”
“Oh, that.”
“You haven’t forgotten it, have you?”
“On the contrary, I was waiting for you to put that glass down so that I could issue it again. In stronger terms.” She smiled and set her glass aside. “How would you like to stay with me for a while in New York?”
“I’d love to!”
“It will give us a chance to get better acquainted.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “What else were you hoping I’d say?” he purred, kissing her earlobe. “I’m very amenable to suggestions.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“If only I could, Genevieve!”
“You already have, believe me.”
It was a rather clammy kiss but she endured it easily and came out of it with a smile. Lord Carradine stroked the side of her cheek with a gentle finger and gazed into her eyes.
“There’s something I feel bound to tell you, though.”
“Can’t it wait, Percy?”
“Not really,” he said, restoring his monocle. “Never been much of a one for false pretences. Fact is, I happen to know Nigel Wilmshurst extremely well. I understand that he broke off his engagement to you because he had severe doubts about your motives. Is that true?” He smiled at her obvious discomfort. “The invitation still holds, of course. I just wanted you to understand the terms on which it’s based. Well?”
Covering her embarrassment with an excuse, Genevieve left.
Dillman enjoyed the chat with the Tolleys and stayed longer than he intended. When her father excused himself to leave, Ellen hoped that she would have Dillman to herself but he, too, elected to go and she was left looking rather crestfallen. He was sorry to disappoint her, but other priorities loomed. When he reached the purser’s cabin, Dillman found him in his shirtsleeves. Fatigue and apprehension had made even deeper inroads into Halliday’s already gaunt features.
“I had a visit from your chief engineer,” said Dillman.
“So did I. Fergus was rampant.”
“I think he may be on to something, Mr. Halliday. Someone may have copied diagrams from the originals. It might be worth having a more thorough search of Henry Barcroft’s cabin.”
“I’m one step ahead of you, Mr. Dillman. I’ve just come from there. Nothing. I even unscrewed the light fixtures and took off wall panels. No sign of any copies.” He scratched his head. The killer took them. It’s the only explanation. That must have been the motive for the murder. To get the diagrams he knew were in Barcroft’s possession.”
“But he didn’t get them,” Dillman reminded him. “All he got were the copies. The originals were concealed under the desk in that envelope. That’s what’s been puzzling me all evening, Mr. Halliday.
“What?”
“Why make copies when he already had one set of diagrams?”
“You tell me.”
“Barcroft never intended that envelope to be found.”
“Perhaps he was making doubly sure of his prize,” guessed the other. “Having a second set as backup. Like spares.”
“There was no camera in the room.”
“Camera?”
“Easiest way to copy anything. Drawing them by hand would have been very laborious and he didn’t have the implements for it. Barcroft had plenty of pencils—which journalist doesn’t?—but I didn’t notice any ruler or T-square. They’d have been vital.”
Halliday sighed. “This gets more baffling by the minute.”
“Any more outbursts from Itzak Weiss?”
“No, thank heaven. He’s still festering in his cabin.”
“Word of the other thefts has spread, I’m afraid.”
“We couldn’t stop that.” He slapped his thigh. “If only we’d made some progress. I feel so bloody impotent.”
“Perhaps we have made progress,” said Dillman, wanting to offer some encouragment, “though it must be treated with caution.”
“Go on.”
Dillman told him about his suspicions of Jeremiah Erskine and of Cyril Weekes’s expertise with antique clocks. Mention of the name of J. P. Morgan was enough for Halliday. It set him off on a theory of conspiracy against the Lusitania by a rival shipping line. By the time he finished, he was ready to place Erskine under arrest and conduct a search of his cabin. Dillman calmed him down.
“Supposition is not proof, Mr. Halliday.”
“Erskine sounds like our man.”
“Why should he steal a violin or a clock or lady’s purse? Weekes is much more likely to have done that, and I still find it difficult to believe that he’s thief. No, sir, both men need watching carefully before we move in. If either or both are guilty, I’ll be the first to jump on them.”
“Do you think they could be accomplices?”
“It’s crossed my mind. But I’d need a lot more convincing.”
“You haven’t been idle, anyway, Mr. Dillman. I can see that.”
“What about those lists I asked you to get for me?”
“That’s in hand. You’ll get them tomorrow.”
“Good. They may turn out to be crucial.”
“Until then,” said Halliday, suppressing a yawn, “I suppose that we'd both better try to get some sleep. We’ll need all our strength to face tomorrow’s batch of disasters.”
“There may not be any.”
“Pigs may fly!”
“How is Captain Watt taking it all?”
“Very well, considering. He gives nothing away. On the surface, he’s behaving as if everything is fine but when he gets his hands on the culprit, there’ll be hell to pay! The captain will make him walk the plank!” There was a tap on the door. “Not more problems, please! Who is it now?”
He opened to door to admit Roland Tomkins. Carrying a small case, the assistant surgeon moved to the center of the cabin and turned to face them. He gave a sheepish grin.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he warned.
“I’ll believe anything!” wailed the purser. “What now?”
“Lionel and I have been taking it in turns to check that everything’s in order in the freezer. Just to make sure that Mr. Barcroft is comfy, so to speak. We don’t want him turning into a human iceberg.”
“Don’t tell me he’s disappeared.”
“No, Charles. But I found this lying beside him.” He put the case on the desk. It was frosted with ice. “Brace yourselves,” he said as he opened the case. They were both agog. “Took my breath away as well.”
Inside the case was a lady’s purse, a French Empire clock, and a number of other small items. Part of the afternoon’s haul had been obligingly returned by the thief. Dillman’s mind immediately began to grapple with the implications but Charles Halliday was inconsolable.
“He’s laughing at us!” he howled. “The bastard is laughing at us!”