Charles Halliday was so jolted by the latest development that he felt the need of a restorative whiskey. Dillman declined the offer to join him, and Roland Tomkins was needed elsewhere so the purser had to drink alone. He poured a generous measure into a glass, taking a first desperate gulp. Dillman waited until the assistant surgeon had left before he spoke.
“It proves one thing, anyway,” he said.
“Yes,” moaned Halliday, staring into his whiskey. “He’s running rings round us. It’s maddening! The sod is toying with us!”
“No, he’s just showing off a little, that’s all. That was a mistake.”
“Mistake?”
“He’s given the game away, Mr. Halliday.” He pointed to the case. “My theory was right. The murderer and the thief are one and the same man. Instead of keeping us guessing about that, he’s admitted it.”
“That gets us no nearer to catching him.”
“Perhaps not, but it gives us a little insight into the way his mind works. That will be helpful. But let’s come back to the body. I thought that it was locked away in a refrigerator.”
“It was.”
“Who had the key?”
“I did, Mr. Dillman. I took it from the kitchen staff. When we put Barcroft in there, I gave the key to Lionel Osborne in case he and Roland wanted to take another look at the body for some reason.”
“Just as well they did. Is there only one key?”
“As far as I know.”
“Then our man is something of a locksmith, obviously.”
“He seems to be able to go anywhere he wants on this ship.”
“Let’s go back to the cabins,” suggested Dillman. “The housekeeping staff must have keys to them, surely? How else could they get into the cabins to change the beds?”
“They only have keys to the cabins they service and each key is different. Only a master key will open every cabin and none of our master keys have been touched. I made sure of that.” He sipped more whiskey. “How does he do it? How could he get into Fergus Rourke’s cabin so easily? Or the Anstruthers’? Or Itzak Weiss’s?”
“We might need to put another cabin on that list, sir.”
“Another?”
“Henry Barcroft’s,” explained Dillman. “When there was no sign of forced entry, I assumed that the murderer had been a friend invited in to have a drink with him. But supposing he let himself into the cabin with a master key and took Barcroft unawares.”
Halliday pulled a face. “He’s certainly taken me unawares!”
“Look on the bright side.”
“What bright side?”
“Stolen property has been recovered,” said Dillman, looking at the objects in the case. “And not for the first time. You were able to give the chief engineer his diagrams back and you can now win plaudits from the lady who had her purse taken and from the Anstruthers. No harm seems to have come to their property.” He picked up the clock and held it his ear. “Still working. When you give this back to the Anstruthers, you’ll get a hero’s welcome.”
“But I didn’t find the case. It was left in the fridge to taunt us.”
“They don’t know that, Mr. Halliday. I think you should take what credit you can. It will help to calm the other passengers’ nerves if they think they’ve got Sherlock Holmes as their purser. And it’ll put a stop to all the rumors flying around.” He put the clock into the case. “This absolves Cyril Weekes of any guilt. A man who loves clocks the way he does would never subject it to severe cold in case it caused damage. We can cross him off the list of suspects.”
“What about this Jeremiah Erskine?”
“I need to check up on him.”
“Search his cabin. By force, if necessary.”
“No,” replied Dillman firmly. “By stealth. I’d like to take charge of that little operation, if I may. He could still be innocent, remember. Charge in there to accuse him and Mr. Erskine could well turn nasty. You don’t want to face litigation, do you? Erskine’s a rich man. With some very powerful friends.”
“J. P. Morgan among them!”
“I’m not sure that we should attach too much importance to that.”
“We have to, Mr. Dillman!”
“Why?”
“Because J. P. Morgan has a controlling interest in our main rivals, the White Star Line. Morgan wants a complete monopoly. He’d gobble up Cunard if they didn’t keep him at bay. The link with Morgan is the best evidence yet of Erskine’s involvement.”
“I wonder,” said Dillman reflectively. “To start with, we don’t know how close the two men are. They might just be business acquaintances. And J. P. Morgan is not just a shipping magnate. He has a vast empire to run. I don’t think a man in his position would have time to worry about the day-to-day operation of his ocean liners.”
“He’s one of our chief enemies. That’s enough for me.”
“You’d know more about that than I do, Mr. Halliday.”
“I feel it it in my gut.”
“That may just be fatigue. You look very tired.”
“I’m exhausted, Mr. Dillman. It’s no fun trying to keep the lid on murder, theft, espionage, and who knows what else? I won’t sleep a wink until this devil is caught.”
“Then we’d better catch him soon or you'll drop in your tracks.”
“Easier said than done.”
“We get closer all the time.”
“Do we?”
“Of course,” Dillman reassured him. “Have you forgotten what you said when Mr. Barcroft was murdered? You told me that almost everyone on the ship was a suspect.”
“Well over two thousand people.”
“We’ve narrowed it right down now. We know he’s male, strong and fit, and registered as a first-class passenger or he wouldn’t be able to monitor the movements of people like Mr. Weiss and the Anstruthers. We also know,” he added, tapping the suitcase, “that he has a weird sense of humor. I'd say that we had a pretty accurate profile of him. All we need now is to find his name.”
“Jeremiah Erskine.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“When will you search his cabin?”
“At the opportune moment. Can you get me a master key?”
“Leave it to me.”
“Make it soon, please.” He watched Halliday drain his glass. “Now, why don’t you cheer yourself up, sir?”
“I’m just about to—with another drop of scotch.”
“There’s a better way than that. I think you should restore this property to its rightful owners and bask in their gratitude. They needn’t know where it was found.”
“You’re right,” agreed Halliday, putting the bottle away. “This will solve nothing. And it will cheer me up to be able to give some good news for once. I just wish we’d found the Stradivarius in this case as well.”
“No chance of that, sir.”
“Why not?”
“He’d never hand back anything that valuable or risk leaving it in a refrigerator where it could suffer untold damage. No, Mr. Halliday, I’m fairly sure that our man has other plans for the Stradivarius.”
Itzak Weiss was slumped in a chair with his head in his hands. Unable to console him, his wife busied herself in the cabin, tidying things that had no need to be tidied, opening and shutting drawers and cupboards that could just as easily have been left closed. Ruth Weiss was a woman who devoted herself to her husband and to his career. She had shared triumphs with him all over the world and been there to revive him during the odd moments of setback and disappointment. But she had never seen him so close to utter despair before. Nothing she could do or say could lift his spirits. While he brooded, she tried to keep busy in the vain hope that activity might take her mind off the tragedy they faced.
The violinist eventually looked up at her.
“Stop it, Ruth!” he complained.
“Stop what?”
“Pacing around, making noises.”
“I have to do something, Itzak.”
“It’s getting on my nerves!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sit down!”
“Yes, Itzak.”
“And just be quiet. Please!”
She touched his shoulder apologetically and brushed the top of his head with a kiss. Then she sat opposite him. Weiss heaved a sigh, sat back in his chair, and closed his eyes. His wife watched him with growing concern. She knew better than anyone what he was suffering. Having his beloved violin stolen was like losing a child. He was bereft.
A faint noise roused her and she turned round. Something had just been pushed under the door of the cabin. When she rose from her seat, she saw a small white envelope lying on the carpet. She went over to snatch it up then opened the door to see who had delivered it. Nobody was in sight. Closing the door, she rushed out to her husband.
“Itzak! Itzak!” she said. “It’s for you!”
He opened his eyes. “What? Why are you shouting, Ruth?”
“This letter was just pushed under the door. It may be good news. It may be something to do with your violin.” She thrust it at him. “Here.”
His gloom suddenly vanished and he tore open the envelope but the relief was only temporary. When he read the note, his face crumpled and tears began to stream down his face.
“What is it, Itzak?” asked his wife anxiously. “What does it say?”
Dillman needed thinking time. Instead of returning to the lounge, he went out on to the promenade deck where he found the stiff breeze stimulating. He walked slowly toward the stern, turning over in his mind everything that had happened since the theft from the chief engineer’s cabin. Convinced that all the crimes were related, he sought to establish the connecting motive behind them. His contemplation was short-lived. As he walked past a pillar, he caught sight of a huddled figure on a bench in the shadows. She looked vaguely familiar.
“Miss Masefield?” he asked tentatively.
She came out of her reverie. “Oh, hello, Mr. Dillman.”
“Isn’t it rather cold to be sitting out here with no coat?”
“I have my stole.”
“That won’t keep out this wind.” He began to take off his coat. “Why not put this around your shoulders?”
“No, no,” she protested, getting up. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She gave a sudden shiver. “It is rather chilly, now that you mention it. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t noticed it before. I was miles away.”
“Could I tempt you into a drink in the lounge?”
“Yes, please,” she said, her teeth chattering slightly. “I think I need something to warm me up. Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“What were you doing out here on your own?”
“Escaping.”
“From what?”
Genevieve gave a rueful smile. “Let’s have that drink.”
Dillman took her to the lounge and found two chairs in a corner. Drinks were ordered, brought, and sipped. Genevieve kept both hands closed around her glass.
“I needed that. Thank you.”
“What’s all this about escape?”
“A personal matter. Forget all about it. Well,” she said, making an effort to compose herself, “If anyone had to find me, I’m so glad that it was you. If it had been someone like that odious journalist, I think I’d probably have turned tail and run. By the way, what’s happened to Henry Barcroft? I haven’t seen him all day.”
“Probably working his way through the second-class passengers.”
“The female ones, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“It seems that I wasn’t the only one he favored with the number of his cabin. He tried to lure Lady Carlyle’s seventeen-year-old daughter there as well, apparently. And two other women complained about his attentions. Mr. Barcroft obviously worked on the principle that, if he asked us all, he would eventually find a volunteer. Well, he failed in first-class. I daresay he’s issuing invitations left, right, and center to the young ladies elsewhere. Who knows? He might be in his cabin with one of them right now. It’s on the shelter deck, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Dillman, thinking about two glasses beside an unopened bottle of Champagne. “You were very wise to reject his overtures.”
“I never want to see the man again.” She studied him quizzically. “But I’m surprised to see you on your own, Mr. Dillman. I thought you might have been spoken for by now.”
“Spoken for?”
“Yes,” she said, wondering if it was possible to embarrass him. “You’ve been setting someone’s heart alight. I had the most extraordinary conversation with her earlier. She wanted to make sure that I had no predatory intentions with regard to you so that she could have what she called a clear field.”
Dillman sighed. “Miss Ellen Tolley, by any chance?”
“Attractive girl. I liked her.”
“I like her myself, Miss Masefield. I had a drink with Ellen and her father after dinner. Nice people. Ellen is a little excitable, that’s all.”
“I blame you for that. You're the one who excited her.”
“Not deliberately.”
“No?” She gave him a shrewd look. “Ellen Tolley is not the only young lady aboard this ship who wants to solve the riddle.”
“What riddle?”
“The one called George Porter Dillman.”
“Am I such an enigma?” he said with a laugh.
“You trade on it.”
“That goes for both of us. There’s no more teasing riddle aboard this ship than Miss Genevieve Masefield. She goes out of her way to mystify and enthrall.”
“Not with unqualified success,” she muttered.
“So why were you sitting up there on deck like that?”
“For the same reason that you were strolling along it, Mr. Dillman. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to preserve my mystery. Just like you. Ellen Tolley tried to make me believe that she and I were soul mates but the truth is that we are worlds apart.” She gave a half smile. “The only person aboard this ship with whom I have a real affinity is you.”
“What about the Hubermann sisters?”
“Please!” she protested.
“They adore you.”
“And I love them. In small doses.”
“That leaves Lord Carradine.”
Dillman thought he detected a slight wince. She took a second drink, then scrutinised him with interest. He felt a prickle of excitement.
“Why did you really do it?” she aked. “Why did you walk out on your family and the profession that went with it? You told me that you'd had enough of building yachts in Boston Harbor but I’m not sure that I believe that. You’ve got too much sense of purpose about you.”
“Is that what you think?”
“My guess is that you didn’t run from something, Mr. Dillman, you ran to it. You left Boston to go after something. Or somebody.”
“Both,” he conceded quietly. “The something I went after was the most precarious profession in existence. Acting. I’ve been stagestruck since the moment I paid my first visit to the theater. It was like a fire, smoldering inside me. Eventually it got too hot to ignore. That was the something I went off after. The theater.”
“There was a somebody as well.”
“George Porter, actor. I ran off in search of him. That was what my father could never pardon. I not only left him in the lurch to seek my fortune on the boards, I even dropped the family name of Dillman. My stage name was George Porter. Juvenile lead.”
“You’ve certainly got the voice and appearance for it.”
“But not the temperament, alas.”
“Temperament?”
“I didn’t realize that I’d spend most of my time out of work. That can be very galling, Miss Masefield. It’s not simply unemployment. It’s downright rejection. It means someone else is getting all the parts you think you ought to be playing.” He hunched his shoulders. “I didn’t have the temperament to cope with that. So I retired. After a couple of years as George Porter, the actor who never was, I’ve come back to being George Porter Dillman, the enigma.”
“There’s a lot of acting involved in being an enigma.”
“I think we both know that.”
Their eyes locked and they held their gaze, fascinated, tempted, enlarged with a new vision of each other. It was Genevieve who broke away. She finished her drink and got up, offering her hand.
“Thank you, again,” she said as he covered her palm in a gentle handshake. “You saved me from freezing to death up there on deck. I’ve thawed out now but I still think I need a hot bath. Do excuse me.”
Dillman was on his feet. “Good night, Miss Masefield.”
“I can see what Ellen Tolley means about you.”
“I can see why Lord Carradine is so attentive to you.”
The wince was unmistakable this time. Genevieve hurried away. Dillman watched her go. Some sort of rift had clearly occurred with her aristocratic admirer but he had no time to speculate on her private life. Duty called. He had noticed Dorothea Erksine when they came into the lounge. She was sitting with Ada Weekes and two other ladies. Dillman strode across to them and exchanged greetings with the quartet.
“We missed you at dinner, Mrs. Erskine,” he observed.
“Yes, we dined in private this evening,” she said.
He looked around. “Is your husband not with you?”
“You’ll find him in the smoking room, Mr. Dillman. At least, that’s where he said he’d be. Jeremiah had somewhere to go immediately after dinner but he won’t have stayed away from that card table for long.”
“Cyril is the same,” said Ada Weekes. “He’s in there as well.”
The ladies were enjoying a gossip over coffee and looked as if they might be there for some time. If Jeremiah Erskine was trapped at the card table, it would be an ideal opportunity to search their cabin. Dillman took his leave, adjourned to the smoking room to confirm that Erskine was there before going in search of Charles Halliday. The purser was already on his way to find Dillman. They met in a long corridor.
“I’m glad I found you!” said Halliday.
“Do you have that master key for me?”
“Yes, but I’ve got something else for you as well.”
“What is it?”
“This,” said the other, holding up an envelope. “It was put under Itzak Weiss’s door. A ransom note. He can have his violin back at a price. An enormous price at that.”
“Let me see it, Mr. Halliday.”
“You may not be able to make head or tail of it.”
“Why not?” said Dillman, taking the envelope.
“It’s written in German.”
When they got back to their suite, Violet Rymer announced that she wanted an early night, and fled to her own room. She wanted to escape her mother’s incessant enquiries about her health and to have time alone to reflect once more on her relationship with Philip Garrow. Doubts still assailed her. The meeting in his cabin seemed to have created more problems than it solved and left both of them feeling unsatisfied. She loved him desperately and could not understand why their reunion had fallen so far short of what she hoped it would be. He had done the right thing, that was what she kept telling herself. In coming on the voyage, he had displayed love, loyalty, and bravery. Most young men in his position would have taken the money and deserted the young ladies to whom they had made such ardent promises. Not Philip Garrow. He was hers.
Still in her evening gown, she sat on the edge of the bed and gave an involuntary grin. Horrified when he first told her about her father’s attempt to buy him off, she was slowly coming to appreciate the irony of the situation. Matthew Rymer was subsidizing their reunion. There was a poetic justice in that. The father who had treated her so harshly in the past was now unwittingly securing her future happiness. Yet there were still many obstacles to overcome. Philip would advise her. She promised herself that she would be more forthcoming when they met next day, more willing to let him dictate everything. He was much shrewder than she, more experienced, more mature.
Yet Violet was still uncertain about how fully she should yield herself. They were pledged to each other and would one day marry. In her opinion, that was the time to surrender her virtue, when their union had been blessed by God. His impatience was worrying. Though the idea of lying in his arms was exhilarating, it was also rather frightening to a young woman like Violet Rymer with a natural modesty reinforced by a sheltered upbringing. The studied absence of any physical contact between her parents had also helped to shape her perceptions.
Everything would become clear on the next day. Both of them would have been able to think over what had happened in his cabin. They would come to their second meeting with more realistic hopes and all doubts would vanish. Violet smiled wistfully. She missed Philip Garrow so much. While she languished in her cabin, she was comforted by the thought that he would be alone on his own bed, pining for her and planning for their future together.
“It’s beautiful out here at night, isn’t it?” said Philip Garrow.
“Beautiful but rather cold,” she said.
“Look at those stars, Rosemary. Have you ever seen the like?”
“Not from the deck of an ocean liner.”
“That’s one new experience I’ve given you, anyway.”
She gave an encouraging laugh and he slipped an arm around her shoulders. Rosemary Hilliard did not resist. Both of them had taken the precaution of putting on coats and hats before they came out on the boat deck. The sea was volatile but the Lusitania was undaunted by the angry waves, cutting its way across the ocean with a confidence that bordered on outright arrogance. Other couples had ventured on deck and the two lookouts in the crows’ nest shared a quiet snigger when they turned their binoculars away from the sea ahead to snatch a glimpse at some of the budding romances taking place immediately below them.
“I’m sorry about last night,” said Philip softly.
“Don’t keep apologizing.”
“I feel such an idiot.”
“We were both to blame, Philip.”
“I suppose so.”
“Let’s try to put it behind us.”
“Yes,” he said, tightening his grip. “I’m so glad you gave me a second chance. It will make up for everything.”
“We’ll see about that.” She gave shudder. “The wind is getting up. I think I’m ready to go inside now.”
“So am I.”
He escorted her to the nearest door and they stepped through it.
“You can take your arm away now,” she said pleasantly. “I’m fine now we’re out of that wind. Well, thank you, Philip, it was a lovely idea of yours to go out on deck but standing out there has rather tired me.”
“Let me walk you back to your cabin,” he said with a grin.
“I can find it on my own.”
“Oh.” The grin vanished. “All right, Rosemary.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps.”
She kissed him on the cheek and walked away. Garrow grinned afresh. It was a firm promise. He would hold her to it.
Dillman moved swiftly. Charles Halliday had been stationed at the end of the corridor to keep watch in case the Erskines returned sooner than expected. Dillman did not wish to be caught in their cabin. There could be awkward repercussions. Letting himself in with the master key, he switched on the light and looked around. It was a large and luxurious cabin on the promenade deck with two portholes. Books, papers, and a box of cigars lay on the table. He checked each item, opened every drawer then searched the wardrobe. Dorothea Erskine had a large number of extremely expensive dresses but it was her husband’s clothing that interested the visitor. Dillman went through the pockets of every jacket and pair of trousers. Then he found the tails.
He surmised that Erskine must have brought a second set because he would not be seen in the first-class public rooms in a suit during the evening. The coat and trousers that he pulled out of the wardrobe must have been the ones he was wearing on the night when he blundered out of the smoking room after heavy losses at the card table. Dorothea Erskine had spoken of soiled clothing on his return. Dillman saw what she meant. One arm of the coat was smudged with what seemed to be grease and both cuffs had been stained with something. Dillman wondered if it was the blood of Henry Barcroft. Exposed shirt cuffs would also have been stained but he could find no dress shirt with blood on it. He decided that Erksine could have disposed of a shirt that might be beyond recall, whereas the coat could be cleaned more effectively.
When he replaced the items in the wardrobe, he saw something poked away in a corner. It was a large camera, complete with its own tripod. Taking both out to inspect them, he saw that the tripod was made of stout wood. Folded up and wielded with force, it would be more than capable of crushing a man’s skull. Dillman put camera and tripod back where he found them and crossed over to the bathroom. Expecting to find nothing incriminating there, he was startled when he put on the light. A large metal tray stood on a shelf beside bottles of chemicals. More equipment rested on the floor. Jeremiah Erskine did not simply possess a camera. He had the means of developing his own photographs.
After a troubled night, Genevieve Masefield rose early to take a bath. It was time to reevaluate her situation. Lord Carradine had called her bluff and brought a premature end to the relationship. Though she had shown enough righteous indignation to cover her departure from his suite, she knew that she would never be invited into it again. Nor would she grace the captain’s table in the company of the tobacco millionaire. It was a bitter disappointment but she had the resilience to overcome it. Instead of crying over spilled milk, she would simply look for another jug of it.
When she went off to have breakfast, her spirits were partially restored and there was no hint in her face or manner of the crippling blow dealt to her by Lord Carradine. She floated into the dining saloon with all of her usual aplomb. Only a scattering of passengers were there, but one of them spotted her instantly and signaled a greeting.
“Hello!” said Ellen Tolley. “Care to join us, Miss Masefield?”
Genevieve had hoped to be left alone but it was difficult to refuse the invitation. When she was introduced to Caleb Tolley, she sat down and studied the breakfast menu. Ellen began to recommend some items.
“What’s the purpose of your visit, Miss Masefield?” Mr. Tolley asked. “Vacation? Visiting friends?”
“Both, Mr. Tolley. I’ll be staying in New York for the first few couple of weeks, then I’ll be going to Virginia to stay with the Hubermanns. Have you come across them yet?”
“The two sisters who are usually trailing you?”
“I see that you’ve been watching.”
“Oh, I’m only part of a large and appreciative audience.”
“What did I tell you, Miss Masefield?” said Ellen with a grin. “But what about Lord Carradine? He’s done everything so far but fall to his knee and beg you to marry him. Will you be seeing him in America?”
“It’s possible,” said Genevieve, hiding her discomfort.
“Hey,” Ellen said, winking at Genevieve, “do you reckon an English aristocrat would take his monocle out when he has a bath? Or goes to bed?”
“You’re being very impertinent, Ellen!”
“Miss Masefield doesn’t mind.”
“Well, I do, young lady. Now act your age and show some manners.” He turned to Genevieve. “Ellen should have gone to a finishing school in England. That might have knocked the rough edges off her.”
“I rather like rough edges, Mr. Tolley,” said Genevieve.
“That depends how close you have to get to them. Let’s come back to this vacation of yours. How long is it due to last and where exactly do you intend to go?”
“Wherever I can.”
Caleb Tolley moved his arm and accidentally knocked over the walking stick balanced against the table. Genevieve instinctively reached down for it at the same time as Caleb Tolley bent over from his chair. Their faces were only inches away from each other. Genevieve saw the curious look in his eye. She was not sure whether to be flattered or offended. Her hand closed on the stick and she gave it back to him.
“Thank you, Miss Masefield, he said, pulling himself back up into his chair. “I’m lost without that. Now, what were you saying?”
* * *
“What did I tell you?” said Dillman cheerily. “A trouble-free night.”
“The calm before the storm.”
“He’s got what he wants. No need for anything else.”
“There’s still a lot of unfinished business for us, though.”
“That’s why we must have a hearty breakfast.”
Charles Halliday had gone early to Dillman’s cabin and they were discussing their tactics over the first meal of the day. A quiet night had done little to still the demons that haunted the purser.
“I still believe that we should challenge Erskine,” he said.
“Not enough evidence.”
“You found that photographic equipment in his cabin. You saw what might have been bloodstains on the jacket he wore the night of the murder. What more do you want?”
“A stolen violin, for a start.”
“He may have stashed that away somewhere else.”
“Along with the photographic copies of those diagrams? There was no sign of them either. That worries me. So does his wife.”
“His wife?”
“Yes, Mr. Halliday. I think that Erskine is a very likely suspect. He certainly has strength and brutality enough to kill another man. And he has a strangely critical attitude toward the Cunard Line for a man who’s used it so much. He was sounding off about disasters aboard your ships when I first met him.”
“He’s created the ones aboard the Lusitania.”
“Has he? Could he keep such a series of crimes from his wife?”
“Mrs. Erskine must be an accomplice.”
“Then she’s a far better actress than I took her for,” said Dillman, “and I do know a little about acting. Dorothea Erskine is not putting on a performance. She’s perfectly innocent, I’m sure of it.”
“That doesn’t put her husband in the clear.”
“No, but it introduces enough doubt to make us hold our horses. Why not leave Erskine to me?” he suggested. “I won’t let him off the hook, I promise you. But I have other lines in the water as well. Coffee?”
“Black, please. Lots of it.”
Dillman poured two cups. “That’s how I feel this morning.”
“I need sustenance before I face Mr. Weiss again.”
“At least we know that his violin has not been destroyed. That must have given him some crumbs of comfort.”
“Not when he has to stump up all that money to reclaim it. Besides,” he said, fearing the worst, “how do we know that the thief will return it unharmed? We can’t trust him to hand over the Stradivarius. It may just be a ruse to get the cash.”
“I don’t think that for one moment.”
“Why not?”
“You translated the note for me. If your German is correct, what the thief is demanding is payment in U.S. dollars with notes of large denomination. But there are two very telling conditions.”
“Yes,” said Halliday, spooning sugar into his cup. “Weiss must get us to call off the search for the violin or it may no longer be there to be found. That really threw him into a panic.”
“It was the second condition that interested me.”
“The exchange will take place early on Friday morning.”
“The day we arrive in New York. That minimizes the amount of time we'd have to organize a cabin-by-cabin search. And we can hardly frisk every male passenger from first-class as he disembarks.”
“I told you, he’s toying with us.”
“No, Mr. Halliday, there’s something else behind this. I still believe that the theft of the violin is a diversionary measure.”
“A bloody expensive one, Mr. Dillman. Especially if we have to cough up the money. That’s what Mr. Weiss is demanding. I can’t see Captain Watt agreeing to pay for a violin we never owned in the first place. Though he may agree to loan the five thousand dollars.”
“That’s ridiculously cheap for a Stradivarius.”
“Not if you’ve already paid out vastly more than that, as Mr. Weiss must have done in Vienna. He must wish he had never traveled on this ship. And the story is bound to get out once we reach New York.”
“Only if he’s forced to pay the ransom. Retrieve the violin ourselves and Itzak Weiss will do anything we ask. You'd better finish that coffee and get off to see him.” He drank some of his own. “No more problems with Henry Barcroft, I hope.”
“I had a man on guard all night outside that refrigerator.”
“Wise move.”
“I’ve increased security throughout the whole ship.”
“Discreetly, I trust.”
“Very discreetly. What’s your next move?”
“I need to question Erskine.”
“To get a confession out of him?”
“To see if he can speak German.”
The purser rose to leave. “I’ll be off.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Halliday?”
“What? Oh, yes,” he said, thrusting a hand into the pocket of his uniform. “Those lists you asked me to get.” He passed them over. “The two table plans are complete but I’ve probably only got about three-quarters of the people who attended the music concert.”
“That may be enough.”
“Report back if you get a breakthrough.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Dillman with a mock salute.
When his guest departed, he looked at the first list, which contained the names of those who had dined with the Anstruthers on the eve of the thefts. Dillman knew none of the names. When he saw the list of those at the Anstruther table during luncheon on the day of the theft itself, however, he recognized several of them. One leaped up at him. Jeremiah Erskine.
“You’re late,” he complained. “I began to think that you weren’t coming.”
“I got held up in the hairdressing salon.”
“What were you doing in there?”
“Pretending to have my hair done. It was the only way I could shake off my mother. Unfortunately, they were running late. That’s why I was delayed. I only had my hair trimmed so that I could be out of there in as short a time of possible.”
“You’re here now, anyway,” he said, squeezing her arm.
“Yes. You must’ve known that I’d come.”
“I’d have waited all day.”
They were sitting side by side on a wooden bench in the third-class lounge. It was not the ideal place to meet, but Violet Rymer had balked at the idea of going to his cabin again and selected neutral ground. Nobody would think of looking for them there. In the swirling crowd, they could be quietly anonymous.
“Did you think over what I said?” he asked.
“Yes, Philip, and I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“Misjudging you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I was rather shocked when you told me about the money that Father gave you. Shocked that he should try to get rid of you like an unwanted beggar, and even more shocked that you’d used the money to pay for this voyage.”
“I did it to be near you, Violet!”
“I see that now.”
“So you don’t think I’m simply being mercenary?”
“Far from it.”
“Good.”
“How much was it, exactly?”
“Enough to fund this trip and to pay for my accommodation in New York. All that I have to do is to keep my head down until the great day.”
“What great day?”
Philip Garrow chuckled. “Your twenty-first birthday.”
“I’d almost forgotten that.”
“Well, I haven’t,” he said, fondling her arm. “I’ve thought about nothing else for months. That’s the day when our lives will change forever. They won’t be able to stop us then.”
“No,” she said.
“You might sound a little more pleased about it, Violet.”
“I feel so inhibited in here,” she said, glancing around.
“Would you rather go to my cabin?”
“I don’t know.”
“We could at least talk properly there. Without this din.”
Violet wanted to acquiesce but something was stopping her. It worried her that she still had reservations about Philip Garrow. She felt so proud to be with him, so happy to feel him beside her. Yet she could not bring herself to move to the privacy of his cabin again.
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
“Of course not, Philip.”
“This is so public. Thank heaven I didn’t travel third-class.”
“It’s like a cattle shed down here. All these people. The smell!”
“Your snobbery is showing, Miss Rymer!” he said with a mocking smile. “What happened to the young woman who once boasted that she’d live in abject poverty with me if only we could be together?”
“And I still would!” she said effusively.
“But it won’t be necessary now, Violet. Don’t you see?”
“Not exactly.”
“Your twenty-first birthday. You come of age.”
She beamed. “Yes! That means they can’t stop me from marrying you.”
“And they can’t prevent you from coming into that money.” Her face went blank. “The trust fund your father set up for you, Violet,” he said. “On your twenty-first birthday, you come into a large amount of money and that will set me up in business and buy us our first house. How on earth could you have forgotten it?”
“I hadn’t, Philip.”
“So what’s the problem? The trust fund has got the protection of the law around it. Your father signed and sealed that document. When you're twenty-one, you get the money whatever he says. And you can do anything you like with it.”
“But I can’t, Philip. I thought you’d guess that.”
His smirk evaporated. “Guess what?”
“Father was so vengeful about you, it was terrifying. He altered the terms of the trust fund. A codicil was attached to it.”
“Codicil? What are you talking about?”
“I only come into that money on condition that I never have anything to do with you.” She saw his dismay and clutched at him. “But it doesn’t make any difference, surely. If I have to choose between you and the trust fund, I’d choose you every time. We’ll manage somehow, Philip. We’ll be together. What more do we want?”
“Nothing,” he muttered uneasily.
She clung to him. “Say something nice. Tell me you love me.”
“You know I do, Violet.”
“Then why have you gone so distant all of a sudden?”
“I’m thinking, that’s all.” He chewed his lip. “There must be a way of getting around this somehow. Tell me again about this codicil.”
It was afternoon before Dillman finally cornered the Erskines. Elusive during the morning, they had not come into the saloon for luncheon. Both of them surfaced in the first-class lounge. Dorothea Erskine was part of a circle that included Matthew and Sylvia Rymer, Ada Weekes, Nairn Mackintosh and his wife, and Miguel, the Spanish artist. At a table in the corner, a card game was in progress. Edward Collins was dealing the cards to Cyril Weekes, Jeremiah Erskine, and three other men. Dillman wondered why they had shifted from the smoking room The move had clearly suited Erskine. He appeared to be winning for once.
Dillman strolled casually across to the group who were lounging in chairs. After an exchange of niceties, he saw a chance to use Miguel for his own purposes and plunged in with deliberate clumsiness.
“Buon giorno, Miguel. Come stai? Sono Americano. Parla inglese?”
The artist looked slightly baffled and the women were impressed.
Nairn Mackintosh laughed. “Faultless accent, Mr. Dillman, but you’ve got the wrong language, unfortunately. Miguel is Spanish and not Italian.” There was general hilarity. “Why not just talk in English to him?”
Dillman apologized profusely to the Spaniard, then gave a sigh.
“Languages were never my strong point,” he confessed. “I’ve got a smattering of French but I could never get to first base with German. It’s such a complicated language. Anyone here speak it?”
“Jeremiah does,” volunteered his wife obligingly. “He’s fluent.”
“He seems more interested in the card game at the moment,” said Ada Weekes, keeping one eye on the table. “So does Cyril. If they don’t finish soon, I’m going to break up that game. It’s so antisocial.”
Having learned what he wanted, Dillman only stayed a short while before finding an excuse to walk over to Caleb Tolley for a chat. Seated in an armchair, Tolley had his leg up on a footstool and was reading a book. Dillman talked to him for a few minutes, then his attention was taken back to the card table. Mild excitement was developing. A crucial game was in progress and the pot grew ever larger. Three players had opted out but Weekes, Erskine, and Collins were still raising the stakes in turn. Cyril Weekes removed his pince-nez and rubbed his temple with them while he stared at his hand. Jeremiah Erskine was glowing, as if certain that he could recoup all of his earlier losses in one glorious moment. Edward Collins was still the most relaxed man at the table.
Ada Weekes had taken enough. Tolerant of her husband’s gambling until now, she marched across the room and stood behind Collins to wave across at her husband.
“How much longer will you be, Cyril?” she protested. “We promised to meet the Hubermanns in the Veranda Café for tea.”
“All in good time, Ada. Give me five minutes.”
“You’ve had far too many of those already,” she said, going around to him and squeezing his shoulder. “Now, please. Make this the last game or I shall be cross. Very cross.” She turned to the others. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Ada Weekes flounced off to be greeted by words of praise from the other ladies, but Dillman’s eye stayed on the game. More money went into the pot and the three players displayed their respective hands. Erskine was horrified that he had lost and Collins was evidently surprised by his defeat. It was Cyril Weekes whose podgy hands closed on a pot worth the best part of two hundred pounds. When he left the room with his wife, she was still berating him. Caleb Tolley gave a chuckle.
“Just as well she didn’t stop him five minutes ago.”
“Yes,” said Dillman thoughtfully.
“Looks to me as if the game is over.”
Collins was trying to deal but one of the men was already rising from the table and Erskine was shaking with fury. Picking up his cards, he hurled them down with contempt, said something to Collins, and stalked out of the lounge. His wife knew better than to follow him.
Dillman had other ideas. Excusing himself, he set off in pursuit of Erskine but lost him at the first staircase. Before he could follow the man up it, Dillman saw Genevieve descending it with such a friendly smile that he was stopped in his tracks.
“Henry Barcroft was right about one thing,” she remarked.
“Was he?”
“Betting fever seems to be spreading. I’ve just had tea with two people who’ve each bet fifty pounds that we’re going to win the Blue Riband on this trip. Apparently we’re maintaining a steady twenty-five knots, which is faster than anything the German liners can manage.”
Dillman looked at her in absolute wonder as an idea dawned.
“People are betting on it?” he queried.
“Dozens of them, from what I can gather. British patriotism.”
“Thank you, Miss Masefield!” he said, reaching out to give her a kiss of gratitude on the cheek. “Thank you so much!”
Leaving her bemused, he went charging up the stairs past her.