Murder on the Minnesota (10 page)

“I like to make an early start, Maxine.”

“So do I. As a matter of fact, I’ve just taken a turn around the deck to work up an appetite. I’m famished.”

“What about your husband?” asked Genevieve.

“Oh, Rance sleeps until midmorning, and I don’t want to lie there and listen to him snoring. But I’m so glad that I caught you, Jenny. By the way,” she added, “you don’t mind me calling you that, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“Rance said you were more of a Genevieve, but that’s a real mouthful for me.”

“I answer to both names, Maxine.”

“That’s what I thought. You English are always so obliging. Anyway,” she plunged on, “I’ve got some good news. The song recital is a certainty.”

Genevieve quailed inwardly. “It’s been arranged already?”

“No, but Rance promised to fix it. When he does that, things always happen.”

“I see.”

“It’s wonderful to have a husband who can wave a magic wand for you. And I so want to give this performance, Jenny. We’ll have a captive audience. It’s going to be a great occasion.” She saw the doubt in the other’s eye. “What’s the trouble?”

“I’d hate to let you down, Maxine.”

“There’s no chance of that.”

“You’re a professional and I’m just a floundering amateur.”

“Don’t be so modest,” said Maxine, patting her on the back. “You’ve got a great touch on that piano. I heard you, remember. You played all those pieces without a note of music in front of you.”

“I’d be much more nervous with a big audience.”

“Not with me beside you. I got enough confidence for the pair of us.”

“That’s true,” said Genevieve with a smile. “And they’ll be too busy enjoying your songs to pay much attention to me. Well,” she decided with obvious reluctance, “if you’re willing to take a chance with me, then I’ll try my best.”

“You’ll be a star!”

“That’s your role, Maxine. I’m the invisible pianist.”

“With looks like yours? Not a hope. You’ll be as invisible as Niagara Falls.”

“What about your repertoire?”

“I’ve already started working on that,” said Maxine. “We know we’ve got the music for Stephen Foster’s songs, so we’ll include two or three of those. I have some old favorites that I want to work in and, as a tribute to you, I’d very much like to include something from England.”

“We don’t have any music.”

“We’ll rustle it up from somewhere. The orchestra will lend us what we need. I wasn’t listening all that keenly last night but I thought I heard them playing ‘Greensleeves’ at one point. Was I right?”

“Yes, Maxine.”

“There you are, then. We have our English folk song.”

The waiter arrived with Genevieve’s breakfast and took Maxine’s order. Other people were starting to drift into the room, but the women were too absorbed in their plans to notice any of them. Maxine’s enthusiasm helped to steady Genevieve’s nerve. The latter actually began to look forward to the event.

“What about rehearsals?” she asked.

“We need half a dozen,” said Maxine. “I’m out of practice.”

“We can’t just take over the piano in the Ladies’ Boudoir.”

“Not while the others are around, anyway, that’s for sure. Apart from anything else, we don’t want to give anything away. When they turn up for the concert, I want them to be surprised by the choice of songs.”

“So when do we rehearse?”

“When nobody else is in there,” said Maxine. “Before breakfast and last thing at night. We’d have the place to ourselves then. Also,” she went on, “there’s a piano in the room where the orchestra plays. We can rehearse there sometimes. Rance will speak to the conductor. He’ll sort everything out.”

“You have a very supportive husband.”

Maxine grinned. “He comes in useful sometimes.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Only a month, Jenny, but we’ve known each other for a long time. It was always on the cards. I didn’t want to go on singing my heart out in saloons, and Rance needed someone to look after him. So here we are.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm. “This is a sort of delayed honeymoon.”

“Where are you going?”

“Tokyo and Shanghai. Rance wants to mix business with pleasure.”

“What sort of business is he involved in?”

“Any kind that makes money.”

“I see.”

“That’s what really drives him, whereas I have no head at all for business. Rance will have one kind of honeymoon, I’ll have another.”

“I hope you enjoy it, Maxine.”

“I will now. I know it.”

Genevieve felt a sudden lurch. She wished that she did not like the woman so much. Maxine Gilpatrick was investing a great deal of expectation in the concert and Genevieve did not want her to be let down. At the same time, she knew that she was there to quiz Gilpatrick’s wife and gain as much information from her as possible. Having met Gilpatrick, she had no qualms about deceiving him, but Maxine was different. She was offering sincere friendship. Sooner or later, Genevieve would have to betray her. Doubt flickered briefly across her face.

“What’s wrong?” asked Maxine.

“Nothing,” replied Genevieve, forcing a smile.

“You look worried.”

“I’ll be fine when I’ve had more time to practice. Until yesterday, I hadn’t played a piano for months.”

“So what?” said Maxine. “You won’t have to play a Beethoven piano concerto. All you have to do is to tinkle away while I sing. You’ve heard me in action, Jenny. When I turn on the full power, nobody will even hear the piano.”

Genevieve shared in her laughter, but her reservations did not disappear. Though she would do her utmost to ensnare Rance Gilpatrick by means of his wife, she did not relish the experience. There could be severe discomfort ahead.

Breakfast with Rutherford Blaine was an excellent way to start the day. Dillman shared a table with him in a corner where he could keep the whole room under observation. Blaine was singing the praises of the
Minnesota.

“To be frank, Mr. Dillman,” he said, sipping his coffee, “I hadn’t expected this degree of luxury.”

“It can hold its own with most liners afloat.”

“The designer is obviously a man of great experience.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Dillman knowledgeably. “This vessel was designed by someone with very little practical experience of maritime architecture.”

“Oh?”

“His name is William Fairburn. He left school at fourteen to work in an ironworks. He’s a remarkable young man. That’s why I’ve taken such an interest in his career. I think that my father had hopes that I might turn out to be like Fairburn, but I went off in another direction.” He gave a self-effacing shrug. “I knew my limitations. I could never design a ship of this size.”

“Tell me more about Fairburn.”

“He went to Scotland to enroll at Glasgow University. It was no random choice. He wanted to study under a professor named J. Harvard Biles. My father used to idolize him. He claimed that Biles was the best naval architect in the world.”

“Fairburn obviously profited from his teaching.”

“He did more than that, Mr. Blaine,” said Dillman, spooning sugar into his cup. “Fairburn saw an advertisement for a competition to design the two largest ships ever to be constructed in an American yard. The
Minnesota
and the
Dakota.
Until that time, the biggest vessel we’d ever built was the
Manchuria
.”

“I sailed on the
Manchuria
once,” said Blaine. “It doesn’t compare with this. But I interrupted you, Mr. Dillman,” he added with an apologetic smile. “You were telling me about this contest. Fairburn obviously won it.”

“He certainly did. He beat off fierce competition, including an entry from his old tutor, Professor Biles. What an achievement for someone who was still in his twenties!” Dillman tasted his own coffee. “William Fairburn is a genius.”

“He designed a fine vessel.”

“No doubt about that, Mr. Blaine.”

“It’s a pity that he couldn’t bring his skills to bear on the
passenger list,” said the other, lifting an ironic eyebrow. “That’s the one area where the
Minnesota
has grave shortcomings.”

“When you book a passage, you have to take your chances.”

“I learned that the hard way, Mr. Dillman.”

“What did you make of Mrs. Van Bergen?”

Blaine was discreet. “I’ve had quieter dinner companions.”

“What about Mr. Kincaid?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to see if your estimate of him matched mine,” said Dillman.

“How honest would you like me to be?”

“Completely honest.”

“Then the only thing I can say in Mr. Kincaid’s favor is that I’d prefer his company to that of a certain Catholic priest. It’s a marginal decision,” he stressed. “Father Slattery has many defects, but I take him to be a sincere man. I can’t say the same of Mr. Willoughby Kincaid.”

“Nor me.”

“I don’t think the word ‘sincerity’ appears in his lexicon.”

“Did you believe that he was educated at Eton?”

“I’m not sure. What about you?”

“Oh, I think he went there,” said Dillman, “but I had a strong feeling that he may have left before his time. My guess is that it’s not the only occasion when Mr. Kincaid has been expelled. Rolling stones are not always people with wanderlust. They sometimes have good reason to move on.”

Blaine was pleased. “I see that we’re entirely in agreement here.”

“His nonchalance was a little too studied for my liking.”

“I found it rather more appealing than Mrs. Van Bergen’s life story.”

“So did I.”

“Her self-concern was worthy of Narcissus. I do hope the lady will inflict herself on another table today. She was very trying.”

Dillman’s respect for the man deepened every time they met.
While he had a genuine interest in other people, he was highly selective about those whom he allowed close to him. Sufficient trust had developed between them for Blaine to be more open in his comments. Dillman appreciated that. In the same way that Genevieve had found a confidante in Fay Brinkley, he had discovered a sounding board in the older man. Time alone with Blaine was refreshing. He gave nothing away about himself, but his judgment of fellow passengers was astute. Blaine let his gaze wander around the saloon.

“It’s very quiet in here this morning,” he observed.

“That’s surprising when there are so many people here,” said Dillman.

“There’s an obvious explanation.”

“Is there?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman. That clamorous priest hasn’t come in yet. Father Slattery has spared us his boisterous presence. We must be thankful for large mercies. That voice of his could shout down the walls of Jericho.” His eyes twinkled. “If only he’d stay in his cabin for the rest of the voyage.”

The steward wheeled his trolley along the corridor, then came to a halt. After selecting some white cotton sheets, he put them over his arm and tapped on the cabin door with his free hand. There was no reply. When he knocked harder, there was still no response, so he felt in his pocket for the master key. Light was streaming in through the portholes as he let himself into the cabin. Intending to change the bed, he was startled to see that the bunk was still occupied even though it was noon. He took a step backward.

“Excuse, sir,” he mumbled. “I not know you still here.”

He was about to leave when he noticed the cord dangling from the pillow.

“Shit!” he exclaimed.

George Porter Dillman responded at once to the summons from the purser. The moment he walked into his office, he could
see that a serious crisis had occurred. Mike Roebuck’s face was grim. A hollow-eyed Chinese steward was trembling in a seat beside the desk.

“What’s happened?” asked Dillman.

“We have a murder on our hands,” said Roebuck.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. This is Soong,” he went on, indicating the steward. “He found the body about fifteen minutes ago. I’ve seen it myself, George. He was garroted.”

“Who was?” He turned to the steward. “Was this in a first-class cabin?”

“Yes, sir,” said Soong. “Number twenty-five.”

Dillman was stunned. “Father Slattery?”

“Yes, sir. I sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Soong,” said Roebuck with a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You were right to come straight to me. Stay here until we get back.”

“But I do other cabins, sir.”

“Forget those. I’ll speak to the chief steward. You’ve had a nasty shock. You need time to get over it.” He turned to Dillman. “Ready, George?”

“Let’s go.”

While Dillman led the way to the upper deck, Roebuck described how and when the steward had found the body. He saw no point in asking Soong to repeat his story for the benefit of the detective. The steward was still dazed by the experience of stumbling upon a murder victim. When they reached the cabin, Roebuck produced a key.

“I didn’t want to leave anyone outside in case it drew attention,” he explained as they stepped into the cabin. “The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

“I agree,” said Dillman. “Apart from us and the steward, who does know?”

“Captain Piercey was the first person I told. And Dr. Ramirez, of course. He established the cause of death.” He stared
down at the bunk. “Not that it needed a ship’s doctor to tell us that.”

“Quite.”

Still in his pajamas, Father Slattery lay facedown on his bunk with a length of cord trailing down from beneath his throat. Around his neck was an ugly red weal that shaded into bruising. The sheets were in disarray, suggesting a struggle. On the floor lay the priest’s Bible with a leather bookmark protruding from it.

“Poor devil!” said Roebuck. “He didn’t stand a chance.”

“No, Mike. He was up against a professional assassin. First-time killers don’t use a garrote as a rule. It’s a weapon that needs expertise. The only consolation is that it was not a protracted death. Suffering would have been intense but fairly short-lived.” He looked around. “Has anything in here been moved?”

“I made sure everything stayed exactly as Soong found it.”

“What about the body?”

“Dr. Ramirez turned him over to examine him, then laid him back on his face.”